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+-- Forum: Vufrien (https://hemlock.rpginit.com/mybb/forumdisplay.php?fid=12)
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+--- Thread: Every Rose Has Its Thorn (/showthread.php?tid=553)
The recent conquest of Dunmeath had rendered the roads in and out of the city unusually quiet. The humans, she'd heard, had been corralled within its walls like cattle for the slaughter. A fitting penance for vermin, she supposed, relishing in the notion of their fear. Lamenting the fact that she was not there to witness it herself. But she was not so foolish as to draw the attention of the Red Queen and her forces without cause. Not now that they had, had the opportunity to rest and resupply. Their string of victories and freshly slaked thirst would make them all the more confident and, therefore, all the more dangerous. She held no hostility toward the Vampiric race as a whole, so long as they kept their distance and left her to her own devices. And so she remained on the city's outskirts, restricting herself to the network of waterways only a short distance from the mountains. There wasn't as much cover here as she may have liked, but neither was there a high likelihood that anyone would be traveling this way. Not until the city's gates reopened and each of its residents was accounted for.
Though it was currently caught in the throes of the summer solstice, Vufrien's heat was tempered some by the cool air that swept down off of the distant, snow-capped peaks. It made the heat tolerable, especially as she lounged on the grass by the riverside, careful to remain in her human form. One could not be too cautious, after all. Humans may have been weak and arrogant, but they were resourceful and desperate. Werewolves, too, often proved to be a particularly persistent nuisance. And so she whittled away the hours with her legs partially submerged in the water, soothed by the gentle babbling of the current as she plucked at the grass and weeds with delicate fingers, and deftly weaved them into glossy, convoluted knots.
But fate had interesting way of sticking its nose in at the most inopportune time, and it was all she could do not to release a long, overdramatic sigh as she heard the approach of footsteps in the distance.
It seemed more blood may still be spilled yet, if someone wasn't careful.
With a soft groan, Roach got to his knees and wiped the dirt from his hands onto his pants legs. He had lost track of time once he’d stopped digging; now the grave was full, the body within it buried, as evidenced by the shovel at his side and the dirt still caked under his fingernails.
It was a fine grave. A little bare, but that could easily be fixed, and Roach turned to look at all the other graves, hoping to glean some inspiration from them. He’d left bundles of flowers at each one—wildflowers, mostly, but ones that he thought were pretty. And although they weren’t too hard to find, barely any seemed to grow near his home. He’d have to head into the woods for more.
So be it, then. He felt that he owed it to whoever the poor woman was. She had been all alone when he’d found her at the foot of the mountains, and with a grisly wound in her neck; some creature must have killed her, before deciding that she wasn’t worth eating and wandering off. He’d cleaned the wound as best as he could, after bringing her back home with him, then sewn it shut and started digging. It had taken him all morning, but he was glad to have it done; were she still alive, he could only hope that she would appreciate his efforts.
Grabbing his knapsack, Roach set off on his search. He let his nose guide him, focusing on what floral scents hung in the air. The sweetest of them was sure to belong to the prettiest flower, or so he thought as he walked through the woods, stopping to inspect every other plant that caught his eye.
And then there came an odd scent—one much sweeter and stronger than the others, that drew him a bit deeper into the wilderness. After some time, it brought him to the edge of a river, where he felt another’s presence before he turned and saw them, sitting some ways away on the grass. Immediately, he stiffened. It was a woman, pink-haired and pretty—unusually so, and the longer he looked at her, taking in her fine silks and all, the more he felt his throat constrict with a vague sort of discomfort.
Then it hit him. This woman, she wasn’t human. Even at a distance, he could tell. Did that make her more like him—someone with accursed blood—or did she belong to some other race of creatures that was simply disguising herself as a human? And that scent… if it really was coming from her, then what was up with it? He’d eaten food that didn’t smell anywhere near as good.
It’d be weird if I kept staring, he told himself, and then he cleared his throat. “Uh…” he began, only to tear his gaze from the woman to stare pointedly at the ground, instead. “Ignore me,” he muttered, forcing himself to get a bit closer to the river. Flowers grew near rivers, sometimes, so who was to say that he wouldn’t find the ones he wanted here? If nothing else, it’d keep him busy and distracted.
