Just a little bit
, he'd told himself. A pint from each and every adult in the town. Even less from children, whose life-fluids nourished him well for demented reasoning. They were simply young, and had longer lives ahead of them than most. Such, it was second only to the blood of an immortal. Or a baby, whom he would not touch. What disgusted him most, is the reasoning behind it.
Power. The power to stand against what was to come. To get information. Answers. To be worthy of acknowledgement and of truth.
No more silence. No more lies.
Small towns like this often had fear lingering about them. Fear of the dark was common when their truly were things which lurked in the dark. We lived in a world with far too many exceptions to natural law. A world where monsters often would prey on places like this, where everyone knew each other and there was but a single sheriff. Where the people were far from things that would help them. It was a place for monsters to prey.
Gas was getting low, and he needed some for the return trip. Not many gas stations out here, further and further from society. The cold lacked cruelty to a Nosferatu, a creature who was of the dark and of the cold. Of things antithetical to energy. But he was drawn to the warmth of human bodies and to the lingering fear. To the vulnerability. To the weak.
Voracious trudged through the snow, now in full body armor beneath his trench coat, the shivering cold doing nothing to his body as it did what it always did as his body matched the temperature. But the blood did not freeze nor did his body ever at any time slow down when his mind had locked onto an objective. His rifle was slung loosely around his neck, hovering in front of his chest, ready to be shot immediately. His "Executioner"
Ceremonial Greatsword was tied to his back and could be drawn given time.
How long had he been walking? Running? A few hours with only some vague sense of where he was actually going. There was life here. A lingering dread which drew him. Almost hesitation. An unnaturalness which set him off and repelled most creatures. Competition was difficult when one was not an Apex predator. But then something happened.
"What's that smell?"
His eyes turned blood red. He'd caught wind of the smell before the wind even carried more than a molecule of the stuff over to him.
Such a sweet smell.
The sudden wind whipped through her clothing, snapping the buttons on her shirt, leaving the blood-filled hole in her chest open to the elements. The wind stirred the blood inside, or perhaps it was only the motion of her breathing. The crimson-irised eye floating within surfaced, keeping Watch through the storm through the dimensions.
He a walk turned into a steady run.
A storm. A Shards of Ice surrounding a great tower which did not belong here. Something new. The facility, looked oddly technological. High tech. But there were no doors. Fitting, for something meant to contain. But something had clearly gotten out.
I let this happen, didn't I?
His hand clenched his blade, and he began to unravel it from his body, leather strapsfapping loosely in the wind. "No. More. Talk."
He held the blade in one hand as he soon brought it to rest on his shoulder. He started to walk towards the eye of the storm.
A walk turned into a run. The run into a sprint.
They're flying to me.
He realized then he was in a fight. The storm itself, was sentient, the shards moving to converge in on him as they span.
SHINK SHINK SHINK
The Shards sinking into snow of where Septimus once was. Boots moved rapidly as the monstrous man moved lightly and ran on top of the snow with his feet barely having any oppertunity to sink into the ground. They were everywhere.
Shards of ice attempting to emb their way into his armor. A storm of ice.
Like a storm of bullets.
He began to simply this, thinking of it the same way as being in war. Only there was no target except for him. Like a firing squad in the distance, his tactics became similar. Small shards simply shattered against his armor. Larger shards, he saw coming. His head weaved. He would stop, and keep running. Jump and roll.
CHING CHING CHING
Shards clashed with steel, as he took his sword with two hands. He swung it fast, but such a large blade required momentum. A miss would means death, momentum too big. He made the air sing, as he twirled his blade and with skill beyond that of a beast and speed beyond that of a man. Ice shattering all around him, as his blood burned away inside until he found a gap. A single split second in which he wasn't about to be impaled six ways from sunday. His twirl tuned into a spin.
His hand let go and he tossed the blade. Sending it spinning through the air and impacting with enough force to crater crater into the side of the building as he pierced.
Boots trotted against the snow again. Bang Bang Bang Bang.
He sniped the shards straight of the air. Another clashed with his rifle, as he smacked it off course. Others missed as he ran forward, closer and closer to the building until he just jumped, putting almost everything his has into it.
He lands on the sword embed into the side of the building with Ninja like grace, before with explosive power, he jumps.
Shards follow him, shattering against the side of the building as he ascends and stops at his apex. He turns upside down, flipping through the air as he begins to flip in order to fall faster.
The shard comes straight for his head, a few feet away, and slices into his cheek as he spins. His landing is less the graceful as he falls into the hole and lands in the building crack
accompanying his rolling. Ice spikes followed his wake, stabbing into the ground where he once was until he finally ended up in the open door of the building.
He was in a hallway. Narrow corridor. Close Quarter encounter likely. He had no sword. Only his knife and the bayonet for dedicated Melee weapons. His Trenchgun was most well suited. Armor piercing slugs, to deal with bulletproof opponents.
The smell of blood.
He followed it, like he always did.