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The forest was vast and looming, spiked trunks bared towards the sky as if threatening the moon and all its stars. The leaves rustle in the night time air, the birds are silent long asleep, as are any other animals, as are the townsfolk. The forest is tense in the silence, a creeping pitted patter as the cold creeps in, people close their windows in response to the change in weather before seeking shelter in their homes. Utterly ignorant to the forest's warnings. The waves lap against the shore, the lake's careful stillness interrupted with small ripples, the tiniest change in frequency. Its water tinted the barest hints of red, unknown to any but one. The beacon courses through him distantly, a warmth set in his body with only enough power to shield him from the cold and nothing more. His feet pound against the grass covered ground, stomping over sticks and leaves uncaring of their crunching. There is one fact that he knows, he is being chased. There is one truth that he swears by, he will never be made to do what he doesn’t wish.
There is a creature, one with a human face and the voice to match, but its teeth are stained red, fangs sharper than any sword. It wants him, it wants his blood, his demise. There is an image in his head, of his body on the ground being eaten piece by piece as the creatures ravage him. They were arguing over who gets first pick, perhaps over his corpse they would be fighting, ripping him apart in contest to consume the most of him before the other. Though the winner had already been decided. One fell for his rouse at the lake, one did not. He had never thought of his death aside from the average musings, aside from the amount necessary as a lord’s son. Poison, assasination, it was all a risk in his daily life, and he’d learnt how to prevent them. It had come easily to him, because before he had decided how he wanted to die, he’d decided what he wouldn’t die for. He refused to allow another’s victory over him, refused cheap shots and power plays. He would die if at minimum satisfied. No Vampire, real or fake, myth or legend, would take that away from him. No matter how his body shivered and his heart pounded, no matter how loud the others' desperation was. A fair fight for his life, it was all he desired.
His sword is sharp and he doesn’t need to go much further, the thundering boots tearing through the forest behind him are just a hint too far away. He smells the blood in the air, metallic and hot against his senses and he knows his pursuer smells it too. He wishes he couldn’t hear the snapping of teeth at his heels, the sharpness of claws as they rake through the fauna in its path. It is nearing, he understands this with full certainty. It’s okay, he found where he wanted to get to. Leaping into a gap into the ground, a small ravine opening he’d discovered not too long into his stay here. It is filled with plentiful ores, he prays the myths are correct but they aren’t his only reason for coming here. He needs a battle ground that doesn’t leave him open, a dark forest filled with tripping hazards was unideal, a harvested well lit cave and he might just stand a chance. And, his lips curled upwards, his back wasn’t unprotected anymore.
He pauses in the well rounded cave and the creature lunges after him without hesitation. He had heard it while he was preparing his escape, a comment about not being difficult. Hah, who was he to command that of him. He is Scott Goldsmith, he is commanded by no one, and he refuses to die without inflicting a measure of annoyance upon his murderer. Building and farming were peasant activities, Duelling however were the sport of nobles. His sword took an edge of the creature's shoulder as its claws took his chest. Musty brown hair flared upwards as it continued its assault uncaring of the pain it must be feeling. Blow for blow, but his arms were getting too scratched up to continue holding the weight of a sword, the creature continued unrelentingly. Its aim was his neck, he had used his sword to deflect those attacks at first, but now he was in the pitiful state of using his arms. Just don’t let his teeth get hold, he’s fine with scratches, not the teeth, that’s the mythology isn’t it? His arm lagged behind, slumping under the weight of the heavy stone tool. Thanking his poor weapon building skills he slips further away focusing instead on the cross section of stone and wood and he pulls. Something sharp and hot collides with his back harshly, his arm stabs upwards.
He blinks.
It blinks.
Claws are at his throat, weakly defended by his left arm covering his neck. His right arm however holds the sharp splintered mess of wood he’d torn from his sword, jabbing right up touching the creature's forehead. For lack of anything better to do, he laughs.
“Well, Owen. Have I been annoying enough?” He smirks, limply, tasting his own blood running down his face. It is disgusting and gross but tolerable enough being his own blood, that is before he feels cold and blistering liquid drip onto him, from the vampire above him. “Okay that’s gross, get off.” He curls his lip in disgust, trying to wrench the man’s claws away from his neck, he can’t get him to move an inch.
“You are a headache of a man and I’ll be glad to see you dead.” The man snarls, fangs all too white and sharp and close. “Tricking Pyro with the blood in the lake and sending him on a goose chase as you escaped.” More force was put into the hand near his throat, as if he was ready to slice Scott’s own off just to get to the neck. “What is so good about that cursed humanity that makes it worth all this!?” His voice is sharp and loud and biting and oh my god, Scott is just realising how screwed he really is. His only defence is a stick pointed at the man’s forehead which he has neither the strength or propulsion to actually impale his head with, it’s a bluff that both of them have realised.
“It’s not.” Scott admits easily, he does not tell the truth commonly but this truth spews out like a poisonous gas, brought forth by his own dirty malice. A blood stained smile crept onto his face, filled with all the spite and petty malice he had inside him.
“I just like being annoying.”
Pain blinds him as white floods his vision, his voice tearing itself out of his throat loudly. His hand is separated from his wrist and his neck sprays open with red the man gulps down greedily. Sharp solids root under his skin, ripping and ripping as his flesh peels open. White teeth tear his flesh into chunks viciously, containing every bit of rage the man felt, every bit of annoyance he’d inflicted. Scott went laughing, even as he gurgled in his own blood. It was a fair fight, to the best of his abilities, he couldn’t have asked for anything more.
Hours later, his eyes open once more.