Private Tales Distressed to Impress

[Asunción]

The ruins were jagged like a cicada's shell. Roofs collapsed, beams sticking in the air, bones sprouting from the corpses of homes-no-more.

What had murdered this place? A fire? Sweeping through the town after a candle burnt too low? Maybe a rockslide? Heavy rains could deglove mountains and swallow settlements whole. His bet was on a plague, though. He could imagine it creeping across the countryside in coughs and wheezes. Though it didn't really matter what had done the deed. The results were the same. Everyone was dead, and the village had died alongside them. This was fortuitous. There would be no accosting here. No stares, no gawks. And he wouldn't have to steal what he needed, because the dead had no possessions.

Asunción descended into the rocky valley wrapped tightly in his oversized, ratty cloak - his one piece of clothing (for now!) - relaxing its fit as the long shadows engulfed his form. The sun hadn't quite set yet, but he had to risk it. If what he sought hid here in the rubble, there was no telling how long it would take to find.

There had been no signs approaching the deceased little hamlet denoting what its name might have been, and if there were remnants of a road that once connected it to the world outside of this rocky valley, he had not seen it. And yet, the structures did not seem that old. A few rooves remained intact, their wooden shingles bright green like mossy swaybacked nags. Hovels like these might only last a year or two without constant repair. They were not like Castle Asun, built to withstand sand and wind and ocean! (A twinge of regret found him as he thought of his home.)

But, so, why was this place so isolated, so forgotten, if it had only lost its heart - its populous - a year or two earlier? And where had they gone, if obviously not consumed by fire, flood, or mudslide? Could it really have been a plague?

"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," the vampire growled, driving away his incessant thoughts.

He dove into the nearest structure. One-roomed, open ceiling, roof collapsed and hugging the floor, now a garden of moss and sparse grasses. He began tearing at the rotten shingles, flinging them unceremoniously out the top of the hovel. Ten minutes later his scrambling ceased, and he held something triumphantly in his hands.

A moldy pair of pantaloons.

 

[Maranae]

The vampire who was tormented by his own thoughts shared that same vale with someone who seldom had any meaningful ones herself. And of those thoughts, only two flavors:

Who she was, what she was. And, more pressing at the moment, what's for dinner.

That question had been answered an hour before, and for the last hour the gangly youth had been dragging her prize behind her as she descended from the heights of the old pass. She left a trail of blood behind her that would have attracted the wrong sort of attention if that same attention hadn't also winded her and decided that whatever it was worthy of eating was not worthy of tangling with its hunter.

For her part, she blissfully descended into the valley, towards the glimpsed sign of habitation therein. The lack of smoke from cookfires or chimneys did not tickle any part of the girls' mind, and the fact that the road - if it could be called such - bore no traffic even less. The landslides that buried it and the washouts that extended for dozens of yards and the general overgrowth did not ring any bells, either.

Most of the thinking parts of her head were engaged in a discussion with themselves on what to do with the goat. The beast weighed nearly as much as she did, and yet she seemed to have little difficulty dragging it by a hind hoof through that rough terrain. After a few days spent traveling through these wild mountains, far from any other living soul, she had been absolutely ravenous. Her appetite, already prodigious, had grown to such a degree that it consumed nearly all of her thoughts.

"Fire, Mara needs fire and ... bang rocks to make sparks..." Her voice was a sweet melody, lilting to herself as she made her way round a fallen tree, tugging the beastie behind her. She mumbled something unintelligible after, and continued to do so as she went. For its part, the mountain sheep held its piece. It would, as it had no throat to sing along with her and no breath to give voice. It had given some of its vitality to her, of course, as was only proper; she had ripped its throat out with her own teeth, and perhaps indulged in a little bit of fine dining sans any proper cooking.

And as a result, she looked a right mess. It was even odds whether a stranger would see her as the victim of some horrendous crime, or the perpetrator of some horrendous crime. Probably the former at first, given the gangly, youthful appearance. The chimera was truly youthful and looked it.

Also very, very hungry.

And so it was a decidedly odd image when the blood-spattered youth walked into a town with no one alive in it to see, dragging a mountain goat nearly as big as she was behind her and singing an off-key song about how she would start a fire (unlikely) and eat a big dinner tonight (certainly). If she scented the vampire also occupying the same place, it was drowned out by the overwhelming need to eat literally all of the things.

 

[Asunción]

He heard her even before he could smell her, and boy, could he smell her.

Always his mind would go to work before it had sufficient information, like an archeologist sketching an ancient beast after uncovering only a bony foot, or lone vertebrae. He had downed the blood of a satyr before. Half-goat, half-man, somehow full of red drink that was both too thick and too sweet-tasting. And so he was surprised when smelling goat and human in the air (or something human-adjacent), and rushing to conclusions, that it was not a furry fey-thing descending noisily into the valley.

Rather, it was a massive, caveman-esque woman (in smell and dress), dragging the carcass of a goat behind her. To eat, was his second assumption—which this time, would prove to be correct.

"Come no further," the vampire called, stepping from his ruin, pantaloons in hand.

Though he might have inwardly judged the girl for her brutish appearance, an outsider might mistake the two as kin. They were of similar height and weight - though the girl seemed much younger than her size (and successful kill) allowed. Both were possessed of canines and claws that belied any semblance of true humanity. Her clothing was in absolute shambles; it barely clung to her. Asunción was practically naked, and sleeping in caves or burying oneself each day did not lend to a civilized presentation. Such was the reason for his visit to this abandoned place, and the clothing article in his grasp - until this interruption.

Still his snarl softened a touch as a thought struck him.

"Do you know what happened to the people of this place?" he asked.

The question clung to the back of his mind, unshakeable. It was like scanning the night during a hunt, and knowing you had seen something watching you—but only by instinct. A subtle warning, buried in your subconscious.

 

[Maranae]

So lost was she in the song spinning in her head that when the stranger spoke, she dropped into a low crouch. Her teeth lengthened as did her claws...although lengthened was perhaps not the right terms. They were one size and then they were another and any who had watched would have sworn that it was just a trick of the mind that they had ever been other than they were then.

The cultured voice meant nothing to her. His scent, on the other hand...

Maranae slowly stood straight, her head cocked to one side as she beheld the disheveled vampire, the strange scent filling her nostrils. At least he didn't have to worry about being mistaken as food.

She had never let go of the mountain beasties' hoofed foot, and even as she answered the strange creature before her she tugged it in closer. "Mine," she said. The fangs seemed to lengthen again, slurring her speech a touch. She seemed completely unaware of the changes, her yellow eyes fixed solely on him.

A deep, resonant growl seemed to issue from somewhere within her, feline in nature. Dangerous, threatening...

...and gone as quickly as it came. She blinked once, and then shook her head. She had finally heard his words through the ravenous hunger and shook her head. "No," she said simply. "Mara not from here. From elsewhere. Only go through to other-where," she added around her teeth. She looked around, and blinked again as though noting the devastation for the first time. Hunger-addled, she hadn't been paying attention.

The scent of the vampire was overpowering the more enticing scent of blood and flesh behind her. She tilted her head to the other side, guileless eyes regarding the predator before her. "Why?"

 

[Asunción]

Is this girl an idiot?

The vampire jerked his head to the side with a dismissive ‘tsk!’ as he was offered naught but curt responses bereft of the answers he sought. Still, he ceased his judgements. The town’s history seemed outwardly simple—too simple—as did the girl’s demeanor. She spoke like a child, but someone who conflated eloquence of speech with depth of intelligence was the real fool.

He looked again at the chomped game she dragged, then to the scavenged pantaloons in hand. Perhaps they could be of use to each other. Part of him, too, worried she was more than a match for him—weakened and unarmed as he was. A fight this night was farthest from his wishes.

A beam collapsed behind the vampire, sending up a plume of dust and leaves.

“Not from here...” he echoed, red eyes watching her. “Why have you come to this place, then? To consume that beast? Why not eat it where it dropped?”

Because she wasn’t after the blood. Whatever hid beneath that hulking female form sustained itself on flesh. And so, the goat would taste better seared over the heat of a fire; glistening with liquidated fats, juices dripping and sizzling in the flames beneath.

Gross.

Still, he had spotted an old canister of what was probably salt in the home behind him. And he was capable of starting a fire and fashioning a spit.

“A pact,” he said, thinking as he spoke (and not used to speaking). “A trade. I’m looking for clothing. Something to cover myself.” He motioned unabashedly at his grey, muscled form—pitifully outfitted with cloak and loincloth—then held up the ragged pantaloons. “I need more of this. It’s hiding in the ruins, beneath moss and wood and dirt. If you search, I will cook that goat for you. Then we both get what we’re after.”

Asunción could not cook. But searching alone would take all night—and he had plans to keep.

 

[Maranae]

"Mara likes eating while sitting," she said cheerfully in response to his first question. She was not at all certain how the beastie had stayed on its feet in such terrain as she had found it. Getting to it and killing it was one thing - a well thrown stone with all of her strength behind it had been enough to even the odds. She couldn't sit, let alone stand, where it had been killed. "She saw houses, did Mara. Maybe people? But...no people here..."

The thought of it, of eating, made her all the more hungry. The fact that the town she stood in was empty of people did not register very well against the background of hunger.

She smiled brightly as he spoke. "Why need old things?" She shook her head as though the answer was quite obvious, and to her it was. She barely waited to finish speaking before setting the cast iron pan on the ground and shucking her shirt and offering it to the vampire. Completely and utterly unconcerned or possibly unaware that it was simply not done to go topless as a young lady. She offered her doffed clothing to the well-spoken fellow.

A body that was laced with hair-line scars in varying degrees of healing. Some were angry and red, others barely visible against her pale flesh.

"Can have Mara's. Not need, always find more. Others give Mara shirts all the time," she said happily, referencing the fact that she had absolutely no modesty and the fact that a great number of people in civilized areas - choking, scandalized beyond belief - would give her their clothes just so she wasn't half naked or worse.

Asunción

 

[Asunción]

"The shirt off your back," Asunción murmured, reluctantly accepting the tattered gift.

The time that passed between her offer and his answer had far exceeded what tact would have allowed in respectable company. Luckily, this meeting was far from that. Many moments later the cloth still hung limp in his clawed hand, red eyes intent on its form as if he were calculating the thread count.

A memory came to him—as fragile as a candle flame—and then was gone.

Without thinking, he dropped his cloak from his shoulders (as the sun had finally set beyond the valley walls), and donned the light-colored vestment, which, though tight, fit surprisingly well—followed by the rusty green pantaloons—which were much too short, like medieval capris.

No one in the history of this despondent village had looked as ridiculous as the two travelers, standing there in the fading reds and oranges of the evening, but at the very least, Asunción looked pleased.

Any normal man might have stammered at the sight of the shirtless woman standing before him, but Asunción took little note—caught up in the next stages of his maturing plan as he was. But he did notice the scars.

"Come," was all he said, scooping up his cloak.

The house he had searched first had no roof. Or to be more accurate, its current floor had been its roof. Rooting around haphazardly, tossing rotten shingles and dismembering remaining furniture, he soon had a burn pile formed between the four standing walls. Some flint had caught his eye near the fireplace; an old steel pot would do to strike against it. A few sparks, and the fire was lit.

More smoke than flame to start. But a gift in return, all the same.

 

[Maranae]

Though she spoke like a child after a fashion, and simple as she was, when the girl moved it was like watching a predator. A predator barely concealed by the appealing image of youth, rippling muscles beneath skin that bespoke a certain power... and a certain strangeness.

She followed the vampire without a thought in her head but for the dinner she drug behind her. Hunger had long since ceased to be a demanding voice in the back of her head and become an imperative command entirely. She could scent the coppery, rich flavor of blood in the air. Her senses were so keyed up by the need to eat that she could smell the deer that had crossed through the dead village hours before they themselves had arrived.

And smelled the bones of those that had not left this hamlet alive.

Claws appeared. Not grew, not slid from her fingertips or her knuckles. She used them as many would use a skinning knife, a part of her screaming to simply eat the damned thing. It was right there, and the desire to cook it was an even more abhorrent lie to herself. She was a monster, a creature. Not a person. All these needless things were simply to hide the beast in silks.

Mara clenched her jaw as she worked, seeing the fleeting memories of ... another life. And completely unaware of the fact that she was licking the blood and bits of flesh from her fingers as she worked.

Before long, the fire crackled merrily away and she was holding a hindquarter over the flames. She had not bothered to cut it and had simply ripped the limb from the join in the animal. After she had skinned it, and tossed that prize to one side.

She stared into the flames, fat and blood dripping as one side of the quarter charred in the fire and the other remained as cold as the rest of the carcass. The fire chased the chill away, not that she ever paid any attention to such details. When it was cold, she simply ate more. Ate more, and moved further south. "Plenty of rock-cow if you want. Mara can kill another," she offered into the oppressive silence.

Asunción

 

[Asunción]

It was dark, now, or nearly so, and as the moon began its vigil, so too did the dwellers of the night, chirping and rustling around the campfire. A moth fluttered against its shadow in the light cast against the ruin's walls as the two mismatched travelers spoke.

Asunción thought about her question for much longer than so simple an inquiry warranted.

"I have not tasted meat since I was young," he answered, finally, with some distance in his words. "I remember... I was not allowed to bother the servants in the kitchen. My sister and I would sneak from our rooms and stand in the window, watching. There were so many of them—moving like ants—crawling over each other to prepare meals for Father's guests. A dozen fires like this one; burning signals below simmering pots and dishes."

It was as though a fire had been set under him, and he continued his descent into the past.

"Stews and roast beasts. Pigs and cows gutted and cooked whole. Dishes large and gleaming like the moon above. It would have been enough to feed the town. A plate for every child."

He paused, staring upwards passively.

"Almost none of it was eaten. Father's guests never ate. They were not there to eat. The servants would hide a plate for us. The rest was thrown to the pigs. The way they would tear into their former friends—returned to them cooked and brined..."

His voice trailed off. He had not spoken to anyone in months. There was still a glimmer of unconscious tact somehow in him, and he reached past the fire to the girl, offering up the rusted tin of salt he had procured earlier. He could not remember the smells of foods long past, but knew salt made everything taste better. (Except blood.)

The girl had spoken painfully little. He hoped the salt would provoke her. But if not...

"Speak to me," he said—rather bluntly.

 

[Maranae]

Words washed over her. His words washed over her, sparking some fragments of memories that had been buried deeply. Staring into the flames, watching them dance and char flesh and lick up leaked juices as hungrily as she was about to, she could not grasp those fragments that tumbled from her mind.

"Words....hard," she admitted after a long moment. Tumbling, brilliant fragments. Bright and cheerful, or dark and dour; it made little difference the shape and the flavor of the fragments. She stared into the fire, and searched for more words - words he seemed to desperately need.

Some fundamental thing had been taken from her. Stripped away and shattered, the pieces forged into something new. There were those that would have seen what had been done to her and been delighted to be bestowed with the gifts she had obtained. But they didn't know. They didn't understand, perhaps couldn't understand.

What had been taken.

"Mara... does not remember. Not much, not long," she said in a quiet voice. Fragments drifting in her mind. Colors and shapes. Meaningless things, these memories. "Almost... a face. And feeling... something. A thing in her chest - here," she said, and tapped her bare breast with a bloody hand right over her heart. A single, silvery tear welled up in a yellow eye, unremarked as it swelled, and rolled down her cheek. Spinning, twisting fragments.

Blue eyes, fair hair, and a beatific smile. She could almost see it, see her - touch her. But it was a broken thing, that memory.

Just like her.

"She does not understand," Maranae added. The single tear dripped from her chin, its path cutting through the dirt and filth of her wild life. "Many words, but many not know." She looked at the vampire, pulling the half charred, half raw chunk of meat from the flames. She looked at the tin, took it with her free hand and delicately sniffed it as any animal wood. But no recognition of what it was stirred within her, and so she set it aside.

With a huff of frustration, the girl shook her head. "Mara knows she is...broken. Not wanted, here or other places. But..," A look into the darkness. "Somewhere, she belongs. If not here, then...somewhere?" She ripped a chunk of flesh from the leg, and consumed it with little in the way of manners or civility.

"She was not made to speak. Made to...to kill. But... she does not want to," she whispered after she had chewed her way down to the bone. Fragmented memories of a face she could not recall haunted her as she crunched into the bone. Eating that, too.