Until Wren had fully removed her armor, the world had been an almost characterless concoction of fragrant grass and sea foam. The slight chill of the early morning with inclement creeping fog, not yet burned off by an absentee sun, gave an everlasting dank weight to the atmosphere - like a handmaid gingerly spritzing bourgeois perfume through the stony crevices of a castle understory, all to conceal the tones of the nearby privy. But that changed as soon as her breastplate was stripped off.
Rain's nostrils flared in response to the curse and to the smell. Milk. There was not a single biological context regarding this strain, to his knowledge, that could explain why Wren was...leaking. Of course, he had never been a female forced to drink bovine blood so soon after being thoroughly drained. Though, he thought, there was a desperate few days of living off a buck in rut. And lamenting the anti-vampiric guard that stood watch over a particular house of ill repute...
The Vedymin strained worked in mysterious ways.
He didn't have time to contemplate more on their predicament or how they were going to navigate the awkwardness of a lactating vampire. The speck of soot in the distance, previously turned into a stain, had made its presence decidely less ambiguous with a sudden solicitation for attention. It was close enough to make out entirely as a dark servant.
They came in many forms, all with varying strengths and pungency. This one wasn't elderly in that the body claimed by the higher being belonged to a man not yet breaching thirty. But the wear and tear on the skin, caused by the blessing of everlasting life without the gift for maintenance, had worn away the exterior. An eye was missing and in its stead, a black hole with strips of flesh torn away by claws at the socket and temple. The eye that remained was grey and utterly lifeless. Patches of hair on his crown marked canyons where the skull had softened, causing the head to cavitate and sink. Pieces of skin and muscle had separated from the bones, like meat cooked in a stew for two long. The calf clung to the mans left leg like a loose bow string, giving view of the clear gap between the tibia and fibula - and how the bones bowed with each step. The skin and muscles of his right arm had slumped forward like a snipped sleeve, congregating at the wrist as if an ambitious collection of tan bangles.
It wasn't damage that caused it; Rain was sure of it. But the lack of nourishment had worn away the ligaments and like a lute string plucked just a few too many times, things had evidently fallen apart. Despite that, the figure could walk without any noticeable impediment. His steps were purposeful and untaxed, resounding with the sound of a handfuls of beetle carcasses rubbed against each other in coarse strokes. And his shadow, brought to life by a sullen moon, seemed to move independently of him. It gave Rain pause for thought of unfortunate moments and methods of torture; a candle spun around a victim, casting their shadow in ever changing and chaotic angles.
He pulled the sword from his black, gripping the blade in a fool's guard. Both hands planted on the hilt, tip angled towards the ground.
He wasn't quite prepared to engage as each of these creatures came with their own mixture of strength and weaknesses. But as he began to circle the being, Rains intent was to force its back towards Wren. Either she could attack when an opportunity revealed itself or she could stay back and sort out the complexities of her current crisis.
