What he admired most about the walking city was how unabashedly out of time it was. Were you to walk down any given street you’d suddenly be transported to another point of history. Of course, it was all through architecture, but it was a comfort nonetheless. While Jakobi was nowhere near as old as this ancient beast, there was still an odd kind of kinship he felt towards it. He could die, but so long as he was careful then that feat would be quite a hard one to manage.

For just a moment his eyes dulled, knowing that unlike this place, age would never show on his face or anywhere else on his body for that matter. He was lucky to have been sired at such a prime age, but it too had its drawbacks. The elderly were the ones he pitied most: to forever be stuck in old age. What did it feel like when your body yearned for death yet your condition wouldn’t allow it? And children? To constantly be walking around in a body that hadn’t even hit puberty yet was nearly as ghastly.

As far as siring ages went he had gotten off pretty lucky, but timelessness affects everyone. Hoja Mesto understood that. More so, it embraced it: consuming time and putting it on display. Why didn’t he come here more often? The city lurched and his eyes halved. Ah yes, that was why. As appealing as the city was, it bothered him to know that he could fall asleep somewhere and wake up in a completely different place.

The cloak of night had only just fallen and already his thirst was getting to him. It had been nice to have someone for a whole week to himself: a constant meal. But, her time was served and he had to get used to relying entirely on hunts again. He enjoyed the game, especially when the challenge was amplified by the intricacies of an urban area. Though, unlike most towns, Hoja Mesto had intelligent guards. Meaning he couldn’t just bite out a throat and toss the delirious donor aside once he was through. There were rules to follow, he hated rules, they were an irritating difficulty: an obstacle rather than an enhancement.

But whether he agreed or not, he had to at least hold up the pretense of following “laws”. So then, whose neck would it be? His tongue slowly ran along his teeth; his lips lightly parted as his eyes skimmed the area. The night was young yet, but mothers were already tucking their children in. Soon the scavengers would be out, the ones no one would miss, the forgotten. Every city had them and his meal would come easy should he keep patience. Unfortunately patience, along with nearly every other virtue, was all but absent for him.

Ever since her run in with the goddess Dalanesca, Mirannda seemed to be more in demand. Celeste has been lax on calling the phoenix home, which was fine by her. She checked in every few days, ensure her “mistress" was satisfied before venturing out again. This time, she had an actual job more demanding of her skills. There was a slave trader in Hoja Mesto, auctioning off little girls. If it was just for the girls freedom, she'd have done it regardless of reward money.

For days, she had been collecting information. Interrogations, overly friendly conversations, less than moral approaches at a bar. Never once did she use the same face, and took care not to allow any of them to be tied to the same person. The architecture had been seen once before, and she honestly didn't care to spend too much time sight seeing. All Mirannda needed was a general layout in her mind, and a destination. Her mission was not entirely an easy job either. First the killing of the snake who runs it, then the freeing of the slaves in their hideout. Twas the night before auction, so it had to be tonight.

The assassin had done her homework well and knew the bastard's route from home to the place of his “inventory”. She left the bar where she had eaten nothing more than a slice of bread, and a single glass of wine. Dressed in her light armor hidden beneath a cloak, Mirannda looked down the street before throwing the deep purple hood of her cloak over her flaming red hair. Boots clicked against the stone street as she began to head towards a conspicuous location to infiltrate her target's home.

As if on cue in some great stage play, a woman exited a bar across the street. The cloak hid her figure well enough, but he recognized movements well enough to tell. His lips spread into a sly grin when she pulled her hood back, confirming what he’d thought. Make no mistake, women were not easier prey then men, but he so loved the way they tasted. Especially mid pleasure. But that wouldn’t happen tonight, he was too hungry. As is he had to make sure he didn’t frenzy whilst in such heavily guarded walls.

Her flaming hair beckoned him, but he was patient. She turned down a street and he counted off twenty paces before sliding his hands into his pockets and crossing the street. Despite his boots, his footfalls were silent against the stones; a side effect of his siring. One had to be skilled in stalking if you wanted a meal every night. Or two. Or five. He couldn’t help it if he got more peckish than most.

The rush of her blood was intoxicating, even from the distance he was keeping. Something had her heart all a twitter, yet there was a constant rhythm to it. Focus. Suddenly it dawned on him: she was heading somewhere. Somewhere that had her nerves ready, yet she was keeping a cool head. Now he was growing intrigued but for reasons outside of her veins. Where are you going, little mouse? he wondered.

When there were no others on the street they had been taking, he allowed himself to speak. Though since he was keeping a safe distance from her, he had to pick up his pace so that he was only a few feet back now. “How interesting,” he mused, “For us to be going the same way. And just where are you off to in such a hurry?” His tone was casual, but even he knew the implications of a man sharing an empty street with a woman. Stereotypes were stereotypes for a reason.

“Although,” he chuckled, the tone rich as melted chocolate even though he didn’t mean for it to be, “You seem to have a better idea of where you’re going than I do.” By now he was nearly walking alongside her, but kept his hands comfortably nestled in the pockets of his pants.

As a hunter, one must be aware of her surroundings. If one fell into cocky mistakes, one found themselves dead in worst case scenarios. Thus, while there was no sound from behind, the shadows whispered to Mirannda. She wasn't alone, someone was following her. Instincts conflicted with each other. To stand and fight, and chance failing this job, would be her first choice. Or, to lose the tail, possibly creating unnecessary complications. Running was out of the question, as she had a job to do. The phoenix ran through the chances of what might be trailing behind.

Due to lack of sound, either they were able to blend into the elements or shadows, or this was a vampire. Her senses were warning of the presence approaching in haste, yet she managed to keep her stride even. Mirannda remained quiet as the guy spoke up in a casual tone. In an instant, she would be ready to defend herself if he believed she was an easy target. Instead, she rolled her eyes and continued in her path.

The stranger was persistent, which meant he was a hunter. Stopping instantly, Mirannda wheeled around. She glared at him with a such an anger, it took a slight effort to keep the expression when she noticed the perfection. Of course, the crimson eyes helped, as she still held a sore spot for vampires. ”Yes, I do have an idea of where I’m going, if you must know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business I must attend to with… an acquaintance.”

She began to continue, but stopped after a few steps. With a sigh, her shoulders drooped before turning back to him. While the anger was no longer burning in her gaze, she still gazed upon him sternly. ”I’m a mercenary. If you don’t want to get hurt, stop following me. Doesn’t take a genius to know a hunter when I see one. So, do yourself a favor, and ask yourself if it’s worth hunting me.”