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There is a certain thrill that comes with the effort of seeing one's plans come to fruition, one that Orlok has not felt for a long time. Too long.
Those first torturous decades as this deathless dead thing were tedious in their banality and limitations. Bound to his home as his bloodline ended, as wars raged on around him, as power struggles and mad grabs played out just beyond his reach, and his once great name faded into the shadows where he now dwelt.
What good did all his knowledge do him if he could not use it? What were his powers worth if he was a slave to the night? All that was left for him was the fear he instilled growing tenfold as he prowled the lands and gorged himself of living blood, the warmth of life from pretty faces and nubile bodies.
But gluttony was never his vice of choice. It all grew so old, so redundant. So lonely. Orlok would never admit as such, even to himself. His pride was all he had left of the man he'd once been. Pride and a crumbling castle and a lavish casket to sleep in. He could leave, of course. There were ways, means of doing. In fact, in the fine print of the contract he had not realized he was signing, to leave was encouraged.
To leave was to spread disease and decay. Rot away the lands, the people. He was a plague carrier, and it would follow him where'er he went. The rats that gnawed at his decrepit body would pass on his pestilence, their victims carrying it even farther beyond his reach. A tide of destruction rippling out farther and farther.
Some angry, bitter part of him rumbled a pained laugh at the thought, long ago, but the urge was not strong enough to draw him from the walls and earth that his blood belonged to.
And damn the cruel god that waited on his obedience, Orlok felt more stubborn desire to refuse and dig in deeper out of spite. So instead, he slept. He would not die - could not, not in so simple and mundane a manner - but he could sleep and sleep beyond the rise and fall of the moon, waste away his nights in the sanctuary of his sarcophagus.
In that deathlike slumber, his soul at least could roam. Slip into spiritual planes as easily as stepping into water. There was still much he could learn, observe, witness even if not experience. Though that lack of feeling, of physical stimulation and work felt like an insult, Orlok would not acknowledge it as such, and so preserved some of his dignity.
Until the voice. Crying, calling, reaching out into the darkness, into that realm that was lonelier than the ruins of his home. Another soul where so very few dared to tread.
Her presence there was a line tossed to him. Like a raven that spotted something shiny and new, Orlok grabbed that line and followed it to its home, to her waiting and desperate in her own loneliness. A creature of raw power that could match his, a slip of a girl that knew nothing of what she was capable of. And for the first time in decades - centuries - Orlok's senses came alive beyond sight.
Lilac. He could smell the fresh, powdery scent of lilacs. The scent of spring. Of rebirth. Rejuvenation.
At long last, Orlok makes the decision. He will leave. Spread his disease. Fulfill his purpose and claim that which reminds him of the sweetness of living. Every time he visits her in the night hours, he tastes a little more of the magic welled up inside of her. Every sweet moan and terrified scream makes his dead heart beat just a little more.
Ellen is vibrant. Too vibrant for this world. For mere humans. She is lightning in a bottle, crackling energy trapped in the constraints of mortal flesh. Her blood sings, and it sings ancient songs lost to time that he feels only he remembers. It taunts him every time he haunts her, pulsing fast beneath her skin, and he wants it to burst into his mouth like fresh berries.
So he plots and plans and reaches out in ways he hasn't in ages or never has before. Moving pieces into place. Setting foundations, machinations. Maneuvering the board in his favor. It feels like a life he left beyond so long ago, like putting on an old coat he thought he had hung up forever.
It is exhausting. His always dying undying body feels the exertion though it never truly takes effect. Yet in that expending of energy, of effort, there is satisfaction. A pleasure and pride in one's self, one's work. Dusting off old, treasured books, putting old skills to purpose once more.
Oh, yes, there is indeed a thrill that comes with seeing his plans come to fruition.