The moon's gaze might have lingered with envy upon the plains that night.
Only the orange glow of fire could pierce the twilight so easily. It swept across the plains—this wave of color, like translucent shades dancing in oil—sweeping up all in its path, orange and yellow reduced to ash.
Some spark of lightning must have done it, Asunción supposed. There probably weren't many mischievous firestarters so far out here in the wilderness, except those born of the wilderness herself. It had thundered during the day but the clouds were only teasing. They left the grasslands parched, and then burning.
Asunción sat atop his rocky perch in what he had decreed "New Castle Asun". Far from the beach and those cursed gulls, it was a small craggy hill, an anomaly in an otherwise flat and featureless savannah. A cave burrowed into its center. Cool, dry, dark - perfect. Every night he crawled from its depths, wearing little more than his ragged cloak, dried drops of blood sometimes on his chin, or chest.
He stared at the wave of fire in the distance. Black shapes fled from its slow advance, bounding blindly into the darkness.
Wordlessly, he leapt from his perch.
-
There was a misconception amongst the vampire's kind that the blood of a wild beast was strictly inferior to the blood of an intelligent, civilized biped. He had found the blood similar in taste, easier to acquire, and in much greater supply than what a human or elven body could muster. A healthy gazelle carried much more sustenance within its strong, wild body. And he required a lot of blood.
Running his mouth and chin across his forearm, satiated, the man's senses returned to him. It was a curious thing - having ones senses, and thoughts, and feelings all return at once, formerly obscured by one pounding desire to feed. He did not like it. He preferred to be focused on something. Anything but his thoughts.
The moon stared up at him through the gazelle's lifeless pupils. It was only then that he noticed something strange about the carcass—
A single, small hand print seared into the animal's hindquarters.
"A brand?" he murmured, startled by his own voice. Glancing closer, it looked like a perfect hand print, the size of a child's, soft around the edges - not like those harsh lines made by the hot iron of a branding iron.
Moments later he was back at his 'castle', scanning the nightscape. In the distance, past the wall of burning grass, he was sure he saw it—
A human figure dancing across the ashes of the savannah, its form wreathed in flame.
Only the orange glow of fire could pierce the twilight so easily. It swept across the plains—this wave of color, like translucent shades dancing in oil—sweeping up all in its path, orange and yellow reduced to ash.
Some spark of lightning must have done it, Asunción supposed. There probably weren't many mischievous firestarters so far out here in the wilderness, except those born of the wilderness herself. It had thundered during the day but the clouds were only teasing. They left the grasslands parched, and then burning.
Asunción sat atop his rocky perch in what he had decreed "New Castle Asun". Far from the beach and those cursed gulls, it was a small craggy hill, an anomaly in an otherwise flat and featureless savannah. A cave burrowed into its center. Cool, dry, dark - perfect. Every night he crawled from its depths, wearing little more than his ragged cloak, dried drops of blood sometimes on his chin, or chest.
He stared at the wave of fire in the distance. Black shapes fled from its slow advance, bounding blindly into the darkness.
Wordlessly, he leapt from his perch.
-
There was a misconception amongst the vampire's kind that the blood of a wild beast was strictly inferior to the blood of an intelligent, civilized biped. He had found the blood similar in taste, easier to acquire, and in much greater supply than what a human or elven body could muster. A healthy gazelle carried much more sustenance within its strong, wild body. And he required a lot of blood.
Running his mouth and chin across his forearm, satiated, the man's senses returned to him. It was a curious thing - having ones senses, and thoughts, and feelings all return at once, formerly obscured by one pounding desire to feed. He did not like it. He preferred to be focused on something. Anything but his thoughts.
The moon stared up at him through the gazelle's lifeless pupils. It was only then that he noticed something strange about the carcass—
A single, small hand print seared into the animal's hindquarters.
"A brand?" he murmured, startled by his own voice. Glancing closer, it looked like a perfect hand print, the size of a child's, soft around the edges - not like those harsh lines made by the hot iron of a branding iron.
Moments later he was back at his 'castle', scanning the nightscape. In the distance, past the wall of burning grass, he was sure he saw it—
A human figure dancing across the ashes of the savannah, its form wreathed in flame.
