Lore
Every vrakhir was once mortal. Somewhere in the course of their mortal years, they were turned — a change that requires another vrakhir to drive a fang through the victim's heart. Vrakhiri hold themselves above mankind, finer than us, and in some ways they are right: they never age, their wounds close in moments, and they command a host of other unhuman gifts. Folk tales of crucifixes and garlic frightening them are false. Silver and sunlight alone threaten them, and both they have grown adept at shunning. Yet for all their scorn, they need us — for our blood, yes, but more than that, they feed upon our terror. Too savage and too proud to be commanded or cowed themselves, they drink deep satisfaction from our obedience.