It was pitch black.
This pleased Vanil. Being what humans tended to refer to as a 'vampire', there were certain indispensable pedigrees alotted and ascribed to one such as he. If one was to avoid particular notice or interpretation, it would be best if such things were proliferated, to an extent. So it was that, among many other things, Vanil tended to shy away from sunlight. His unnatural, coded disposition was against sunlight. It was painful, irritating, and reminded him all-too easily of his inescapable mortality that he was so very fond of concealing.
Vanil often wore shades, in a stylish effort to counteract the glare of the Systemic sun. Even this night, with the sky shrouded by nightshade, the moon was out, glittering in full, and, as such, the blood noble still wore his shades; testaments to his extreme sensitivity to light of all sorts and natures. His customary black leathers wrapped tightly around him, Vanil glided gracefully through the shadowed, nighttime alleyways and streets of Kowloon, as he was so fond of doing these nights.
There was a scent in the cold, dusky air. Smell was, by nature, a sort of crude, dirty sense of perception, too wrapped up in its own languishing, physical nature to be of much use, but Vanil's blood forced certain physicalities upon him that he found, sometimes irritatingly, frustratingly difficult to ignore. Sometimes, like this time, it was simply best to indulge them, to a certain extent, until they abated.
The scent was of death. Not of the cold, sensual immortality of Vanil's kindred Exiles, but a sort of rotting, foul death; the sort of death that lurched through one's nasal passages haltingly and caused one to spit and gag at its fetid, crude caress.
It was...rather disgusting.
The source was the importance factor, however, and, turning the latest corner, it wasn't hard to determine its nature. As he rounded the bend, his dress shoes scuffing lightly across the pavement, Vanil caught sight of them. Hordes of zombified, walking corpses, lurching and stumbling, slowly and wildly, towards him. They were everywhere; their numbers clogging alleys and storefronts, the nearby Blues having either been evacuated, or, more likely, devourered, their gray matter ingested as suitable substance for this despicable, grotesque mob of crawling death. The stench was indescribably horrid. These things reeked of corroded earth, old disease, broken bone marrow, excrement, and rotting flesh. A human, likely, would have gagged to death before finding themself able to do the sensible thing and run.
They smelled 'disgusting.' And they were in Vanil's favorate Kowloon haven. And that equated to being unforgivable.
His thin, pale lips curving into a slight frown, Vanil slid his matte-black Desert Eagles from his sleeves, loaded with heavy silver projectiles, and pulled the triggers. With a deafening bang, the weapons let loose, their bullets perforating the stumbling, sloth-like mass of walking dead, rupturing dozens of them and blowing massive, bloody holes in their fetid, insect-ridden flaps of loose, hanging skin.
Vanil sighed as he slid fresh magazines into his Eagles and stepped forward, firing all the while, zombies dying a second time and exploding into rotting gore all around him.
It was pitch black, and it was going to be a long night.
Happy Halloween, Prince of Darkness.
~V
This pleased Vanil. Being what humans tended to refer to as a 'vampire', there were certain indispensable pedigrees alotted and ascribed to one such as he. If one was to avoid particular notice or interpretation, it would be best if such things were proliferated, to an extent. So it was that, among many other things, Vanil tended to shy away from sunlight. His unnatural, coded disposition was against sunlight. It was painful, irritating, and reminded him all-too easily of his inescapable mortality that he was so very fond of concealing.
Vanil often wore shades, in a stylish effort to counteract the glare of the Systemic sun. Even this night, with the sky shrouded by nightshade, the moon was out, glittering in full, and, as such, the blood noble still wore his shades; testaments to his extreme sensitivity to light of all sorts and natures. His customary black leathers wrapped tightly around him, Vanil glided gracefully through the shadowed, nighttime alleyways and streets of Kowloon, as he was so fond of doing these nights.
There was a scent in the cold, dusky air. Smell was, by nature, a sort of crude, dirty sense of perception, too wrapped up in its own languishing, physical nature to be of much use, but Vanil's blood forced certain physicalities upon him that he found, sometimes irritatingly, frustratingly difficult to ignore. Sometimes, like this time, it was simply best to indulge them, to a certain extent, until they abated.
The scent was of death. Not of the cold, sensual immortality of Vanil's kindred Exiles, but a sort of rotting, foul death; the sort of death that lurched through one's nasal passages haltingly and caused one to spit and gag at its fetid, crude caress.
It was...rather disgusting.
The source was the importance factor, however, and, turning the latest corner, it wasn't hard to determine its nature. As he rounded the bend, his dress shoes scuffing lightly across the pavement, Vanil caught sight of them. Hordes of zombified, walking corpses, lurching and stumbling, slowly and wildly, towards him. They were everywhere; their numbers clogging alleys and storefronts, the nearby Blues having either been evacuated, or, more likely, devourered, their gray matter ingested as suitable substance for this despicable, grotesque mob of crawling death. The stench was indescribably horrid. These things reeked of corroded earth, old disease, broken bone marrow, excrement, and rotting flesh. A human, likely, would have gagged to death before finding themself able to do the sensible thing and run.
They smelled 'disgusting.' And they were in Vanil's favorate Kowloon haven. And that equated to being unforgivable.
His thin, pale lips curving into a slight frown, Vanil slid his matte-black Desert Eagles from his sleeves, loaded with heavy silver projectiles, and pulled the triggers. With a deafening bang, the weapons let loose, their bullets perforating the stumbling, sloth-like mass of walking dead, rupturing dozens of them and blowing massive, bloody holes in their fetid, insect-ridden flaps of loose, hanging skin.
Vanil sighed as he slid fresh magazines into his Eagles and stepped forward, firing all the while, zombies dying a second time and exploding into rotting gore all around him.
It was pitch black, and it was going to be a long night.
Happy Halloween, Prince of Darkness.
~V
