Lady Maedre walks along the damp cobblestones, wet from the mists that come in like tides.
Her fellow Nightwalkers part before her, pausing their blood feast to nod in respect.
Among the carnage, breaking the atmospheric sounds of teeth tearing through flesh,
a hero emerges from a wreckage, with a shaking hand pointing a broken blade.
"S-stay back, you f-fiend, or-or-or I'll cut you where you stand!"
Brave, but foolish.
Snarls of fangs and blood-soaked growls, hushed by the intensity of her gaze.
A hand on the hilt, slowly unsheathing, endless mists pouring from her scabbard
She's had her feast, but now there was a bloodlust of a different kind.