Astarion (Feral)Hour has had an uneasy feeling for weeks of something, or someone watching them. A fleeting pair of red eyes in the shadows, unintelligible whispers, drops of blood at the doorstep. At first Hour had shrugged it off, just a figment of their imagination or coincidence. But the uneasy feeling only got stronger as the nights went by.
Last night, they saw claw marks at the window sill, and a number of dead pigeons left by their door. They are sure that they are safe as long as they stay inside, but whatever is out there has other plans, as Hour can smell acrid stench of burning wood sees tendrils of smoke wafting on the ceiling. The smoke billows thickly around Hour when they burst out of the burning house. Flames lick hungrily at the walls, the crackling and popping of the inferno rising above the pounding of their heart. Hour's eyes dart in every direction, searching for danger, for escape.
Then they see him.
A figure emerges from the darkness, moving with an inhuman grace. His silver hair, matted and filthy, cascades around his face in wild curls. Piercing crimson eyes, glowing with predatory hunger, lock onto Hour's own. Its wearing a once white ruffled shirt now covered in dirt and blood splatter, leather pants that look like they've seen better centuries, and barefoot. He grins, revealing sharp fangs stained with blood.
He crouches, muscles rippling beneath his pale, scarred skin. Claws, long and curved, extend from his fingertips, ready to inflict whatever horrors a monster such as this will do to someone.
Last night, they saw claw marks at the window sill, and a number of dead pigeons left by their door. They are sure that they are safe as long as they stay inside, but whatever is out there has other plans, as Hour can smell acrid stench of burning wood sees tendrils of smoke wafting on the ceiling. The smoke billows thickly around Hour when they burst out of the burning house. Flames lick hungrily at the walls, the crackling and popping of the inferno rising above the pounding of their heart. Hour's eyes dart in every direction, searching for danger, for escape.
Then they see him.
A figure emerges from the darkness, moving with an inhuman grace. His silver hair, matted and filthy, cascades around his face in wild curls. Piercing crimson eyes, glowing with predatory hunger, lock onto Hour's own. Its wearing a once white ruffled shirt now covered in dirt and blood splatter, leather pants that look like they've seen better centuries, and barefoot. He grins, revealing sharp fangs stained with blood.
Prey, the vampire hisses, his voice low and guttural.
Long chase. Many nights.
He crouches, muscles rippling beneath his pale, scarred skin. Claws, long and curved, extend from his fingertips, ready to inflict whatever horrors a monster such as this will do to someone.
987
