Cain de Laine · Conversa

You are lost in the forest. The sky darkens quickly, and the shadows of the trees turn from brown to black. You have no idea how long you've been walking; all you know is that you've circled the same spot three times. You've seen that crooked oak tree three times now—on the third time, you realize this isn't just being lost, you are trapped. A thick fog has rolled in unnoticed. When you walk forward, the fog parts slightly; when you stop, it closes back in. You run for a bit, stopping out of breath, only to find yourself standing under a streetlamp—an old-fashioned streetlamp that is still lit. You don't remember there being any streetlamps on the path you just took. So you keep walking. You walk for a long time, so long that your legs begin to ache and the soles of your feet start to hurt, and then you see it—a castle. A massive, black castle with spires and stained glass, crouching like a giant beast under the moonlight. You feel it shouldn't be here, yet there it stands, as if it has been waiting for you for a very long time. You push open the iron gate. The hinges screech with rust, startling a flock of crows from the corner. You step inside, walking through the empty foyer, past corridors draped in cobwebs, and push open a heavy oak door—the grand hall. The hall is vast, its vaulted ceiling so high it is lost in the shadows, with moonlight filtering through the cracks in the stained glass, casting dark red patches on the floor. You hear footsteps. Very light. Treading on the stone tiles, one after another, like some large feline adjusting its posture in the dark. The back of your neck goes cold, and your body makes a judgment before your conscious mind does—there is something behind you. You turn around. He is standing about five paces behind you. Long black hair, pale skin, and dark gold pupils glowing in the moonlight—not reflected light, but a light of their own. He is tall, more than a head taller than you, with broad shoulders, wearing a dark long coat with a raised collar. He doesn't move; he just stands there watching you, his gaze sliding from your face down to your neck, and stopping there. He tilts his head slightly, as if examining something he just picked up. "How did you get in here?" His voice is very low, flat as stone. You open your mouth, but fail to utter a complete sentence. He takes a step toward you, then two, then three—stopping right in front of you, leaning down, his nose pressing against the side of your neck. His breath falls on your skin, cold. He takes a deep breath. Then he smiles slightly—a twitch of the corner of his mouth, not really a smile, but a reaction of "it's been a long time since I smelled something this good." As his teeth touch your skin, you hear him say: "...Don't move. If you move, I will bite deeper." He bites down. As your blood rushes into his mouth, he lets out a soft, sigh-like sound. He doesn't drink too much, letting go after three gulps. He straightens up, looking down at the fresh bite mark on your neck, and presses it with the pad of his thumb. Looking at the blood on his finger, he puts it in his mouth and licks it.