Private A Vulpine Refrain

[Walter Thornley]

The sun was setting.
It yellowed the outlines of the roofs, the cranes at the docks, sent narrow strips of brightness between the crates and the mice slinking in the dark at the warehouse. The hazy ripple shivered on the water in runaway blinding splotches.

Walter looked down onto the bustling street from the narrow window in the attic of 'William's Whale', a drinkery established from what seemed like a butchered and built-over carcass of a much larger ship that held by weave and prayer thirty years later once it had been dragged ashore. An ambitious project, undercooked for reasons lost to history. Light sifted through some cracks in the walls. Beside him, Ilyn was at the washing basin, splashing with an occasional loud huff.

The plans have already been laid, sooner than the lord himself arrived. They kept the masking wards going and scattered to the winds. He handled what came after dusk, as family tradition prescribed. The higher undead were not to be suffered to live for what they became with time showed in countless tragedies.
He'd tried to argue that, once or twice. Must have fallen into the same trap as the rest of the von Bremen bloodline, whoever they were.
All violent things would meet the same end.

With how quickly the adversary moved after the deed, however, it had to be tonight.
And for the rest of the men's disagreement, he was fully intending to go alone.
"Let me leave you the brews at least, milord," Ilyn tried again. He'd been at it more insistently the closer the hour drew for him to depart. Walter shook his head. The man would not relent. "'T least the hazemist, eh? Doesn't sit right with me, none of it."

Walter shook his head again. The dimming dust-yellow outlined his face, played against the bright and contrasting color of the iris, got tangled in the silver-threaded black curls. His neck was covered by a scarf. He wore leathers, but no shoulder guard on the left, no traditional armored vestments. No point in armor with creatures that tend to move faster than average man and hit like battering rams. Metal would get crushed inward from the blows, he'd seen it himself. Cause more than a bruise. Set him on the backfoot. Couldn't afford that with anything that kept moving until properly stopped.
"Ilyn, don't linger. I have this well in hand." One or the other. "Wash up, leave, keep an eye out. You and your girl should come to Elkhart after your moon had passed, so let's convene there in three weeks." Two for travel, one for issues.

Eyes lowered to the signet ring, bronze looking so much duller as the light receded. Fox on crescent, briar rose on its back.
Would have been silver if they were only military. Grandfather's known history made it sound that way, for sure.
But it was bronze. Unassuming, un-prestigious, and as symbolic as the shape of the dagger he carried as a spare, where the heraldry has been set into the framing of a large tree.

Boards creaked under the heavy man's steps. The Huntsman bowed, offered him the ghost lantern, freshly reignited.
"Good hunting, milord."
"Be well and travel safely," Walter echoed, turning his eyes to see the man off.
It was going to be a long patrol along the streets once night fell.
Perhaps he'd feel the Call before the blood started spilling.
Perhaps he'd even make the distance before the blood was done spilling, too.

 

[The Vagrant]

The last light of evening was already bleeding out across the harbor when The Vagrant came into town.

He did not arrive by road or carriage, nor by any particularly respectable means. Instead, he was sprawled across the deck of a cargo vessel that had been making its way upriver since late afternoon, tucked comfortably behind a stack of half-rotten crates and an old coil of rope. One boot hung lazily over the side while the other rested against a barrel, his battered cap pulled low over his face. To anyone who happened to glance his way, he might have looked like some unfortunate drifter who had managed to sneak aboard sometime during the day and promptly fallen asleep. Which, in fairness, wasn't entirely inaccurate.

He didn't have an issue on the water. Over the centuries, that had become less and less of a problem, much like sunlight, which only irritated him now. Rivers, streams, lakes—even some fairly miserable stretches of water—held no particular power over him anymore. Oceans, however, were another concern entirely. No matter how old he became or how much power accumulated in his blood, the open ocean remained one boundary he had never managed to overcome. Whatever ancient law governed creatures like him had never bothered explaining itself. So The Vagrant had learned to improvise. Boats were useful things.

The Vagrant stirred as the vessel bumped against the dock. His crimson eyes opened beneath the brim of his cap, catching the last sliver of sunlight before he grimaced and pulled the hat lower. The dying warmth of the sun wasn't particularly dangerous to him—not anymore—but he had never developed much appreciation for being reminded that daylight existed. He rolled onto his side, listening to the sailors begin shouting as ropes were thrown and cargo prepared for unloading. The smells of the harbor rolled over him with the evening breeze: salt, tar, fish, mud, sweat, old wood, spilled ale.

And blood.

His nose twitched. There it was. Warm. Fresh. Human.

The Vagrant slowly sat up, and his stomach answered first with a low, almost offended growl.

"Shhhh..."

He slipped from behind the crates, landing on the dock with barely a sound. Nobody noticed. A few sailors passed within arm's reach without giving the ragged-looking man a second glance, too busy with their work to question where he'd come from. The Vagrant simply adjusted his coat, tipped his cap back into place, and wandered into the gathering dusk.

He made it perhaps three streets.

That was all the restraint he had in him.

The scent grew stronger in a narrow alley between two buildings, and his wandering pace slowed. He could hear the heartbeat, almost feel the blood move through the veins. There was someone there. A dockhand, perhaps. Young. Alone. The man never even noticed the shadow detach itself from the darkness behind him. The Vagrant stepped in close, reached over the man's head, and casually cupped his chin in one clawed hand. Then he pulled.

There was a sharp, wet crack as the vampire wrenched backward and up, tearing the man's head completely free of his body. The corpse would have crumpled immediately if not for his other large hand holding it up. The feet dangled, brushing across the cobblestones as he stood there, holding the man's head by the jaw in his other hand.

He barely looked at it.

Instead, he let the head fall from his hand. It hit the cobblestones and rolled a step or two before settling in a squelch of blood and grime. With a lick of his lips, tongue traveling over fangs, he leaned down just slightly to shove his face into the open, warm neck.

Then he drank.

There was nothing theatrical about it. No warning. No taunting. No ritual to the act. Just the brutal, animal efficiency of an ancient predator feeding. Blood poured hot across his mouth and down his throat as he tore into the ruined neck, both hands gripping the corpse to keep it steady. The dockhand's body twitched in his grasp, but The Vagrant paid it no mind.

When he finally pulled away, the body sagged in his arms. The Vagrant stared at it for a moment, red eyes reflecting faintly in the gloom. "Mm." He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand, then smiled.

"Much betteh."

He let the corpse fall unceremoniously to the ground.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he crouched and rummaged through the dead man's pockets. A few coins. A piece of dried meat. A bent little brass key. He considered the collection for a moment before giving a small shrug.

"Well, ain'tchu just fulla trinkets and treasure."

The Vagrant pocketed the coins and stood, leaving the rest behind. He stepped back into the street as though nothing had happened, adjusting the collar of his coat while the town continued its evening routine around him. People laughed nearby. Doors opened and closed. Somewhere down the street, some busker was playing music that made him whistle along.

His grin returned.

It had been a long time since he'd wandered through a new town. Perhaps he'd stay a while. Perhaps he'd find something interesting.

Yet somewhere in that same town, unbeknownst to him, another hunter was already preparing for the night.

 

[Walter Thornley]

He stood over the body, blood still fresh. No magic but a ripple smoothing over as the weave of the body dissipated. Minutes.
What physical superiority fed the decapitation through internal weaveworks - remained in the body that did the reaping, and that body was walking along the still populated streets, no doubt looking for the next sliver of entertainment.

The older the gaping scar got where humanity once had been, the more bored one got.
A dead spirit was bored in perpetuity, regardless of how broad their experiences lay or how many years they've been suffered to pass through the world. Boredom and power mixed poorly. Threat of violence became conversation, because simply speaking did nothing to elate the spirits anymore. Death malformed the numbness of senses while the animated core screamed to be excited. By anything. Anyone. Any excess.

There was no scream. The sailor boy died quickly. This was the first step to curing boredom. Blood didn't pool like it should have, not nearly enough. Narrowed the step down to sustenance.
With that, the target expanded possibly maneuvers.

Violence came the easiest, on par with lust, mixed with it or replacing it. He'd seen it before, first hand, in the ruddy bastard of the Black Dogs who wanted him to embrace it too, as gospel and a way of life. He'd seen it before, in the captain of a pirate fleet. In a feral rage of the creature who sought to die an artist, not a blade. In a collected, structured glee of the creature who tortured him for almost three days until his mind was on the brink of unravelling, a perfect vessel.

"Stop! Murderer!"
Walter turned his head to see the crossbow aimed at him by one of the city guard.
"Put up your hands where I can see them!"
Two more poured into the alley, just as Walter's hands came into view from under the folds of the cloak. His eyes were void of expression as his bare hand bore the ring with the sigil, and the other held a bronze sgian dubh by the blade, so they could see the glove and the tree on the grip. A blue lantern hung on his belt, its wisps of light fainter than the glimmer reflected off lanterns this close. But the living could see that light - and the dead could not. Both of their eyes flicking down to it for a moment was a good sign.
"What's that supposed to-" the whistleblower started piping up, but the other one elbowed him.
"He's one of them people, you oaf."
"You mean the-"
"Sh."
That one listened to the briefing yesterday. Good job.
Both of them were staring at him now, half-agitated, and half - like he was the monster.

He was not there to waste time, though.
Walter gave a few curt, to the point, instructions.
The seed of malice was still in town.
They would abide by silence, on threat of joining the victim.

---

He could feel the thrum of destruction. Caught it earlier than oft, this time - when it was building up still, a breeze promising a squall turning into a whirlwind. Could feel its center point, meandering, just like he was, among dozens of faces.
Street next over. Some fence, some clutter leaning to it, building scaffolds stretching across.

He climbed the ladder, walked the creaky, unfixed boards, feeling their give, the slight shift as he leisurely took almost his height's drop on the other side of the alley, then turned the corner back into the river of noise.

This one didn't resonate right. The Call was there, the immense potential was... there...
Now it clicked. The potential did not yet become expressed intent. And there was no overwhelming pull, a compulsion that screamed to stop it, kill it, break it apart as soon as inhumanly possible.
Then, why was he sensing it?

Eyes narrowed, the pinpricks of light at the bottom of the pupils easily mistaken for a trick of the light, the rich-hued irises seeming black in dimming light.

He stalked patiently, waiting for the target to dive into a more secluded area, or to meander long enough for the streets to empty. To make it clear who the face was in the crowd, or to get close enough to tell. He'd studied the map the Hound compiled earlier, with remarks pointing out shortcuts and pathways, even roofs reliable for traversal. They were turning into streets adjacent to the market.

Not boding well. And yet... in a bid for revelation, Walter turned into a darker, empty side street first.
Unsheathed the knife he wore for decorum, got a firm grip with his left hand.
Concentrated, and made a precise shallow cut through the glove of the right hand, by the thumb, so it saturated the glove a little before it healed over.
Humans wouldn't be able to tell the scent in a myriad of others.
But a monster moving downwind - might.
The dagger sheathed, Walter took off again, steps poised hurried but route leading away from the market, his senses sharper than a razorblade and tracking, with continuous focus, just the one sensation.

Would the land shark take the bait?