[We are going to save you. Alucard wants to laugh, but his throat is far too dry and his situation without anything that could prompt humor from him. There's nothing to save.

He doesn't flinch when the inquistor's hand reaches out. The only expression on his face is that of exhausted resignation, of knowing where this means to end. There's only one way it could end, and the only mercy available to him is speeding this along to that inevitable conclusion.]

I know the arcs of my family members. It is always fatal.

[If a church grabs a Tepes, it only ever ends this way.]

Consign me to the flames and expedite the work, or else exile me from Wallachia. Either way places me among devils.