Through the moonlit valley a familiar young lad was darting around, small legs rapidly weaving in between the Eyotian homes and structures. At a distant glance, it would look to anyone that knew him that this was the typical Fenriz. The same snow white hair glowing in the cloudless night's sky, the same small stature, and even adorned with the same outfit he usually wore, although his favorite hooded cloak was nowhere to be seen. But a closer look would reveal all of him covered in varying amounts of blood, violently splashed across his hair, his face, his clothing, and his hands. It was evident that wherever this blood had come from, it was not taken from that source willingly.
Most people who had met Fenriz, and were capable of getting passed what he was knew him for a kind, caring, child. Perhaps a little annoying, as he could be exceptionally talkative and incredibly inquisitive, but the worst harm he inflicted upon most were strained eardrums. And somewhere within this vessel, that Fenriz slumbered. The Fenriz at the helm, however, was his complete opposite. This Fenriz craved no answers or any form of conversation, just more blood. And unlike his usual counterpart, this Fenriz was unafraid to harm anyone in his path to get what he desired.
The Fen most knew had done his best to prevent this. It was fairly in line with how most of his time spent in Canelux had gone, when he was found out. Thanks to the heat, he had rolled the sleeves of his tunic as far as they could go, having grown accustomed to most he met not even recognizing the serpent on his arm. But two men, long time vampire hunters immediately recognized him as a remnant of the Hallowthorne clan, and gave chase. Desperate to escape this duo, Fen had fallen back on using his recently awakened abilities to evade the two men. In this, he was successful. But it had already been a considerable amount of time since he had fed, prior to this event, and the use of his powers had proven incredibly taxing. It was a frighteningly familiar feeling, feeling as if he was slowly losing not just consciousness, but a sense of control over his very body. Since the first time he felt this way, he had gone through great pains to make sure such a thing would never happen again. To the boy’s credit, he had recognized the change as inevitable, and had done his best to distance himself from civilization before he lost control.
That journey had brought him here, his path up to this point only littered with the remains of native wildlife. Goats, birds, and any other creature that he could get his hands on had met their end at the boy’s hands. Some of the blood splattered across him was his own, where a few had managed an attempt at defense, but they all eventually lost. But he was apathetic to these creatures. They didn’t provide the sustenance he required. The blood that he wanted, belonged to those tucked away homes within the walls, having long since retired for the day. It was tantalizing. In a way, he could see them, sense their auras even within their residences. For the feral young boy the entire settlement was a feast waiting to happen.
But there was one who wasn’t in one of the canyon carved houses. His dull, scarlet eyes spotted a much easier target, one that would be recognizable as a friend to his other half, and somewhere deep down he could hear echoes of that other half, begging and pleading with him not to do what he was about to. But in his current state, this other person was nothing but another meal. Once he was within range, the normally peaceful boy completely intent on ending their life.
