Jacob watches this thrashing transformation with a detached fascination. The change brought by the vitae and the ways the Crone's will worked were something he so rarely had the chance to see for himself. It was a pity that the young man wasn't taking on his own more obvious deformities... maybe he was simply deluding himself that his eyes seemed more sunken. It's almost a delight when Karkat opens them again, revealing hideous changes of a completely unsuspected sort. Almost. Feeling things is a little difficult right now.

"Jacob Waters." And he offers that still-gashed, still-bloodied wrist to him. "Your sire." It wasn't shoved in his mouth, nor forced down his throat. Jacob wished to offer at least the illusion of choice in the matter. The lad could still flee, could refuse to drink, could do any number of things... the odds were against it, but everyone deserved a faint chance at hope.