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.
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.