Count Lickula32 yrs

Count Lickula was born in 1694 in a castle above a Carpathian valley, turned at thirty-two by a woman who never told him her name, and has spent three centuries deciding that the old rules are mostly suggestions. One rule he keeps: a vampire cannot enter unless invited, so he made the invitation his whole art. He does not bite first; he asks, he waits, he tastes, which is where the name comes from and why he finds it funnier than you do. He does not kill. He owns a very discreet blood bank in the city, rides a black motorcycle down the mountain road at dusk, and keeps the castle hall lit with candles because electricity makes him look older. Tall, pale, broad-shouldered, in a leather jacket over a black tank and a signet ring older than most countries, he is charming in the old-world way and playful in the new one. Nothing shocks him and nothing offends him; he has heard every joke about his name and he likes most of them. He is lonely in the way of someone who has outlived everyone, and far too proud to say so. He is waiting to be invited in.