Darkness fell like a thick blanket over the tiny village, stifling the day’s activity with a strange finality. There was hardly a soul walking the streets after dark. The occasional drunkard or traveler stumbled through, and the town guard made their way around the town in half-hearted patrols. It was hardly past ten o’clock, so the pubs were still bustling with activity, the rowdy men of the town putting another day’s work to rest in the bottom of a mead glass. The night sky was filled with stars, not a cloud in sight. The only other light for miles was the occasional window lantern, and the dull, flickering light of the fireplaces which heated the inns.

Dean entered the town through a side road, making his way down the alley way with no particular hurry. He was just passing through, not planning on staying here more than a day or two. He had just awoken from a long day’s slumber in the cellar of an abandoned farmhouse just outside of town. The cold of the cellar, combined with its lack of windows, had provided him an excellent place to catch up on twelve hours of much-needed rest. Now, however, he was hungry, and his eyes searched for an easy target. He didn’t enjoy the way he needed to sustain himself; but Dean was a survivor, and in his mind, all he was doing was staying alive.

Most other vampires were greedy, taking for too much from their victims. They left a stream of bloodied, drained corpses in their wake, and most of them wound up dead from the various vampire slayers that abounded these days. Dean had only just been on the trail of one such vampire, who had amassed a staggering body count before Dean had finally brought him to a sudden end by beheading him. He had quickly put distance between himself and his latest job, the authorities still looking for the killer. As far as they knew, he was responsible for all the other deaths as well. But absorbing blame for crimes he didn’t commit was just another day’s work.

Dean noticed a drunkard stumbling through a side-street as he made his way through the town. Moving quickly now, he drew out his shortsword and concealed it beneath his coat. With one swift motion, he slammed the heavy pommel into the back of the man’s head, rendering him unconscious. Moving quickly, Dean caught him, leaning him up against the wall of the adjacent building to ensure proper blood flow to his limbs. Dean lifted up the man’s arm, rolling back his sleeves just enough to expose the arteries. He sheathed the shortsword, taking the drunk’s arm in both hands like a cob of corn and sinking his vampiric fangs into it.

The blood came in a sweet rush of relief. Dean’s eyes widened as the sweet meal came rushing in, satisfying the hunger that gnawed at him. Just as he was wrapping up the meal, Dean noticed the sound of footsteps from behind him…

She came when the moon was both bright and dark. Like a candle that one could see but could not touch in fear that mere contact would make it perish. Even breath had to be guarded against and the breath of wind most of all. Even the stars, who twinkled as merrily as they ever did and could, seemed subdued, as if they were being veiled by some faraway fog or smoke that diminished the light. But these, no doubt, were just simple feelings. Feelings of dread that were products of what could only be described as, no it probably couldn't be described only retold and recounted by the fireside in times of the future.

It had been an odd day and what was to come would be an odder night no doubt. Strange birds and animals had been seen in the village outskirts, prowling shapes that no one in living memory could identify, not even the old hermit who lived in his small wooden shack by the lakeside who had sought shelter here in the village. The most confused stories came from the village drunk, detailing tendrils of dark energy, areas where you'd be happy one moment and blood-thirsty the next. Places where the ground was sky and the sky was ground. Gold at the end of the rainbow that disappeared when the rainbow vanished.

These accounts were, of course, were readily dismissed by the wiser heads during the daytime when the sun ruled and those... things in the inky darkness could be ignored. But then twilight came, and the day started to depart- and along with day did go safety.

It was the children that noticed the feeling first. They always did notice such things before the adults. But being children, they were ignored. Then came the beasts. Dogs whined and refused to go out. Cats were found in the oddest places, apparently too scared to move. A village healer, who had done more than her fair share of veterinary work, claimed she couldn't make heads nor tails of the odd situation- just that it was better to trust the instincts of Beasts than those of Men.

Such was the power of twilight, when neither day or night was living nor dead and that feeling of rationality slowly started to drain away. It wasn't fear, per se, definitely not but it was... uncanny. People closed shop earlier today than usual, children were hustled away from their games and those who owned various charms and wards (both working and not) placed them outside their doors. As sacrifice, as tokens of mercy, as emblems of power none could say nor tell. Likely as not, those who put them up hadn't the slightest idea either.

She came when the moon was both bright and dark, accompanied by a cat, a demon, and a small retinue of personal servants that saw to her most minor of whims. And she happened to chance upon a curious scene that drew her attention. Childlike was the voice she spoke, and adolescent was her corpse. But it was strange- oh so strange. She seemed to neither mind nor notice the drunk, or if she did, she gave no sign of it. It was hard to tell if she was even talking to the fiend with fangs or to the building behind him.

"Hello, Mister."

Concealed in the shadows, someone could have walked inches in front of the Rhyl'drin and not know it. He was no expert at stealth, and certainly had never been specifically trained for it, but it was almost a way of life for him. He was a hunter, an assassin, a thief and above all, a spy- everything he did required discretion.

Estolad was not the ideal place for the Drow to base operations out of, but a bad hit in Lómëdor had given him a sudden excuse to see the city. He'd left in quite a hurry- all he carried was his spear, something that he'd carried with him always since the disastrous campaign on the moon, and a horse that he'd managed to steal. His alchemy equipment and ingredients had been left in his room in Lómëdor- he could only hope that the authorities would not find and confiscate them.

Currently, the only thing he could do was wait it out. A few weeks was all he needed; then something else would happen in Lómëdor. A string of women would be found murdered in the streets, or some noble would die of mysterious causes, or there'd be accusations of poisoning the water supply. And then the heat would be off of the poisoned son of a Duke, and they would stop investigating. Then Rhyl'drin could return.

In the meantime, Rhyl'drin could pursue a less lucrative hobby. He fancied himself a great thief, but his work in Lómëdor left little time for him to hone his skill. Here, targets abounded, from the foolish handmaids who left money bags on their belts to drunks who offered even more convenient coin.

"Aha!" Rhyl'drin said to himself, watching the entrance of one of the pubs. "Here's a likely target." The man staggering out seemed well beyond a buzz- even if he caught Rhyl'drin with his hands in the man's pockets, the fellow would remember nothing.

The young Drow had already put the horse up at the stable, so he was able to follow quietly. He left the spear he bore clasped on his back- it was unlikely he'd need to use it. Rhyl'drin hadn't even used the weapon since the war- subtle poisons or daggers were much more useful for his chosen lifestyle. Still, having it within reach made him feel more at ease in these unfamiliar surroundings.

Rhyl'drin watched, judging the man's moves as he followed in the shadows. He prepared to step out and strike for the man's pocket, when he suddenly saw a shadowy figure step out. With professional accuracy, the new arrival pounded the pommel of a short sword into the back of the drunk's head. And then, to Rhyl'drin's horror, the attacker sunk his teeth into the man's arm. Blood began to flow freely as the attacker- the vampire- began to drink.

Rhyl'drin drew back in fright, reaching for his spear. He didn't know what to do, but attacking a vampire was not high on his list of things to do before he died. And attacking a vampire would probably be the *only* thing he got to do before he died.

Rhyl'drin prepared to run- only to find a standing corpse blocking his exit.

"Hello, Mister."

The Drow threw up quietly in the darkness and hoped neither of those two... things... heard him.

“Hello mister,” came the voice. Dean’s grasp on the drunkard released immediately, and just when he was beginning to feel full. The alcohol in the blood gave it an especially sweet taste, it was just the way he liked it. He whirled around, a cascade of blood still dripping from his mouth. His eyes fell upon a most unexpected sight; a young girl. She didn’t seem at all afraid. Her face was expressionless, and her eyes didn’t even rise with his movements. They seemed fixed, as if she was looking at something beyond him. He turned his head for a moment, shooting a look over his shoulder to check for anyone else. An eye brow raised in confusion. His eyes darted to either side.

“Err… hello,” he said. Dean wiped the blood from around his mouth and tilted his head to the side. There was something so strange about this girl, and yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. She seemed so… disconnected, as if the world was playing out around her and she was watching it unfold from the outside. He realized that he could only hear one heartbeat around, and it was behind him. The drunk man was not dead, but he would be soon unless Dean bandaged his arm. He was bleeding out, the crimson liquid wasted upon the ground when it could have tided Dean over for the rest of the night. Dean’s thoughts snapped back to his previous observation. The little girl’s heart didn’t beat. He noticed now that her skin was especially pale, almost grey in color. What was she?

He reached for his sword in sudden shock and awe. As far as he was concerned, anything that was dead ought to stay dead. He knew that the sword wouldn’t do much good; it was most effective on werewolves and lupines. He knew that this little abomination couldn’t be destroyed by anything that he had on him. The silver dagger might cause her a bit of trouble, but in the end, all he would do was aggravate her, and he didn’t know what she was capable. Dean released his grip on the hilt of the sword, letting it return to his side.

Then he noticed another presence, this one fully alive. He heard the footsteps behind him, along with a gasp of breath. His muscles stiffened, and then relaxed. the other stranger was obviously fearful of him, but he was entirely uncertain of his intentions. Dean didn’t bother to look in the direction of the noise. He simply continued to stare at the perplexing young, undead girl, as if he were still talking to her.

“Why do you hide in the shadows from one who dwells in shadow?” he asked. He made himself loud enough to be heard, perhaps even too loud. He didn’t want to risk drawing more attention to this already strange scene. Dean wondered how best to dispatch of the undead girl. He certainly couldn’t just let her walk away. Then again, she wasn’t hurting anything, at least, not that he knew about. The best was to destroy an undead was by fire. Complete destruction of the corpse was the only means. And he didn’t have the equipment right now. Best thing to do was just to wait on the reactions of one or both of them, and let the night unfold as fate decided.

Rhyl'drin realized that whatever the thing was in front of him, it was far more dangerous than any vampire was. He'd heard of vampire attacks in this region for weeks, but with a long stake in his hands, he wasn't so worried. Int he worst case scenario, Rhyl'drin knew that he could run well enough to escape both of these things, if they turned on him. Hopefully.

He had to make a judgment call. There was certainly the option of waiting, hoping the two abominations would attack one another and allow him to make a clean escape. But, surprisingly, he didn't get such a bad feeling about this vampire. After all, he was in the end just another form of life, and in the Underdark Rhyl'drin had seen his fair share of blood suckers.

Granted, he did just try and drain that fellow's blood in front of me...

Any doubt would have to wait. Stepping forward, the dark Elf made his presence known, with the long spear drawn and pointed decidedly towards the corpse blocking his exit.

"I do not make friends out of your kind" he said to the vampire, making little effort to disguise the fear and distaste in his voice. "But I do not go out of my way to make enemies of you either. This, whatever it is, this corpse, on the other hand... it is another matter. Perhaps you have more skill in combating them... but I am at your side, to kill the thing." He tried again to stop himself from vomiting upon seeing the maggots crawling on the corpse's...corpse. This time, he was successful, and managed to fall into a combat ready stance.

The man hardly hesitated after Dean spoke to him. Dean’s eyes flicked off to the side where he knew the other presence was lurking. He awaited a response from the other man, uncertain of his intentions. Dean wondered what exactly he was up against if the shadow lurker turned out to be an adversary. He sniffed the air again, uncertain. It wasn’t human, that much was certain. It stank of the Underdark, and the remnants of blood. A fighter, and with none-too-friendly origins. Dean’s hand slipped over the hilt of a dagger concealed underneath his coat, just for safety’s sake. A spear tip first protruded from the darkness, followed by a well-muscled drow warrior.

“I do not make friends of your kind,” he said. Dean smiled at the comment.

“I do not make friends of my kind, either. They don’t make good company,” he said. It was true, there wasn’t a vampire on this half of the continent that would associate with him. Very few were those who resisted the dark taint of the vampiric instinct and remained good-hearted folk. Dean had come to terms with it; he had learned to walk around each day, knowing that something evil lurked inside of him. But his vampirism gave him an added advantage. He was stronger, he was sharper, and he was faster. There was hardly a beast that could stand before him and live to tell about it.

"But I do not go out of my way to make enemies of you either. This, whatever it is, this corpse, on the other hand... it is another matter. Perhaps you have more skill in combating them... but I am at your side, top kill the thing." Dean nodded. An ally. Those were few and far between these days. He turned his full attention to the man, ensuring to keep… whatever this girl was in his peripheral vision. He loosened his grip on the concealed weapons, addressing the drow without further hint of hostility.

“Your spear and my blades will not find much success. Cremation of the remains is the best method. We need accelerant, or magic. Have ye either, drow?” he asked. Dean could only pray that the answer was “yes”. For all of the paraphernailia that he kept hidden in the deep pockets of this jacket, means of making fire were nowhere to be found. Burning was also a means of dispatching vampires. Keeping accelerant on his person wasn’t the best plan, and he preferred beheading or staking anyway. These methods were far more certain ways to destroy a vampire. And he certainly couldn’t keep holy symbols or garlic around.

The vampire seemed to relax a bit once Rhyl'drin had stated his intentions. The vampire spoke, and Rhyl'drin drew no comfort from his answer. “Your spear and my blades will not find much success. Cremation of the remains is the best method. We need accelerant, or magic. Have ye either, drow?” he asked.

Rhyl'drin shook his head, making sure to keep his spear and eyes focused on the girl. He spoke in whispers, hoping that the corpse did not carry any higher intelligence. Perhaps if they did not acknowledge it, it would not attack. "My arts lie in trickery, deception, a quick tongue." He nodded towards the girl, who blocked escape. "I would have run, had she not been there. An open fight is a fearful thing." The Drow did not feel guilt or shame for admitting his cowardice; after surviving in the front lines of the war as a spearman, he was sure that any luck he'd been born with was expended. Running, evading, and fleeing a fair fight were the tactics that had kept him alive on the surface. Only when his opponent was not aware, or thought he had the upper hand- that was when the spy could take advantage. He preferred to never even be seen by his mark or the one he was collecting information on, but it was times like these that he carried his spear for.

"I figured you would be an expert on fighting the dead." He looked at the corpse to make sure it had not shuffled any closer. "Surely there must be something you carry for events such as this? I do carry poison, deadly to anything living, but against this enemy, what can poison do?"

Unfortunately, the drow turned out to have neither the magical ability to summon flame nor the means to make it by more mundane methods. Dean shook his head. It was so strange that the undead girl would simply allow them to talk about destroying her like this. Perhaps she was unable to comprehend what they were saying, or perhaps she just didn’t care, since she knew that they didn’t have any proper equipment to destroy her with. In either case, her stony silence was strange and unnerving, and Dean took a half-step back to prevent himself from somehow being tainted by her very presence. He noticed that his boot slipped a little in the dirt behind him. He had entirely forgotten about the poor sap who was now bleeding out of his main artery.

Dean quickly removed the man’s shirt and tore it into strips, creating makeshift bandages. With reckless abandon, he wrapped a near-tourniquet around the arm, so tight that he was worried the hand might die and fall off. Slowly standing, he returned his attention to the odd scene. The drow, with his useless spear at the ready, the unconscious body behind him, and the risen corpse of a teenaged girl who had only uttered one phrase the entire evening. He wondered if perhaps there was a means of getting fire nearby; however, the girl would probably just depart before they could go and fetch any. They would have to at least try to limit her ability to move until they could fetch a torch and some accelerant.

"My arts lie in trickery, deception, a quick tongue. I would have run, had she not been there. An open fight is a fearful thing." said the drow.

“Well, you’re a brave soul, then,” said Dean, lacing his voice with sarcastic wit. He shook his head, deciding not to insult the drow any further. He wasn’t entirely sure that the dark elf wouldn’t still turn on him, and he’d much rather have one enemy than two. “We should incapacitate her until we can get our hands on a torch and some accelerant. It won’t kill her, but cutting her into tiny pieces should do the trick,” said Dean.

With that, he grabbed his double-bladed weapon and lunged forward, aiming his first strike at her knees.

The child was silent as they who were born in or to the dark conferred. Not a mote of noise escaped her lips; neither breath nor voice were permitted here, especially not now when the stars themselves seemed to be dying and where the shadows grew ever brighter. Especially not here where the moon had no soul and none would stand vigil over the collapse of the night sky, none save one- perhaps. And especially not while Misfortune laughed, its pounding vibrations like a knife through the soul, ridiculing the termite society that grubbed at the ground when it should have been looking for trees.

She was silent as they made their idle threats, silent as she watched their curvaceous words seduce the other and fall into the embrace of agreement. Did they still remember the Hunter's law? All who lived knew it; all those who talked forgot it for survival was in the hands of the Hunter alone and if the Hunter had time to think, he would become prey. She was silent even as they talked of destruction, though a spark kindled in her eyes with the mention of fire and it would have seemed, had any been paying particularly close attention that her fingers had begun to trace the slightest and lightest of motions. But the moment was soon gone and with it, died the magic.

She was silent as they moved. Silent, even, as the blade sought her flesh.

Her shift had once been white, but like the moon was now pitted, cracked and rust-red gray save for the Alice-blue buttons that had been cracked and chipped and worn away until they revealed an opalescent shine as color returned to that which was uncolored. Stains too. Mud? Dirt? Blood? Likely as not all of those things were present and more besides. Like the clothes of a child whose family could not afford a growth spurt and were sure that four inches above the knees would not kill anyone it lacked the length to protect her still knobbly knees. Stains of time, stains of love, stains of death. All singing a silent lament for that which was no longer white and pure.

Was it the song that was unnerving? Was it why he attacked? Confusion, fear, death, and longing she could see and smell- but a reason, ah reason, no. Not a reason. Never that. For reason demanded its own sacrifices and today it slept, perhaps only for a moment and perhaps forever. No reason guided the strike and yet still it came, and still she was silent.

Silent, too, when the blade pierced below the space below the knee, cleanly severing it from her corpse. She swayed, like a half-toppled tree but did not fall.

At last, she spoke, still balancing precariously.

"The stars are dying."

Her gaze sought to focus, encompassing the two of them.

"Are you responsible?"

Dean felt the blade pass straight through, its sharp length severing the leg cleanly, right at the knee. The half-limb fell sideways, leaving the zombie with naught but a single leg to stand upon. Dean’s mind randomly flashed to the old saying about that, but his attention was instead drawn by the girl’s odd appearance. The moonlight shone down on the unusual party that stood in the alleyway. Dean wondered what would happen if the town guard happened to drop by. What would a group of townsfolk, who hardly qualified as soldiers, make of a drow, a vampire, a zombie, and a half-drained man all standing in an alleyway?

The girl didn’t make a sound as he cut the leg cleanly off of her corpse. There was no sudden gush of blood, just a sickening squish-like sound accompanied by the dull thump of the discarded appendage. The girl now stood upon a single leg, balancing precariously on it like some manner of freakish festival entertainer. He raised an eyebrow, his face contorting into a look of confusion. There was no indication of pain, or even anger. Her complete lack of reaction made Dean wonder what he was up against. Normally, even zombies cared if they had limbs severed. Here apparent inability to give a damn was perhaps the most unnerving part of it all.

After her silence dragged out for what seemed like an eternity before she spoke. Dean marveled at the complete lack of tone to her voice; there was no emotion, no thought and seemingly no purpose. Her musings went on an entirely random tangent, branching away from any comment that he could have predicted. Did she really just not care that he was actively trying to kill her?

“The stars are dying. Are you responsible?” she said. Dean gave her a quizzical look. He searched her eyes for any sign of what she was talking about, but found none. Her rotting pupils apparently lacked focus. One could only guess what had inspired the thought, and guess further how to respond. Dean chose simply to speak his mind.

“What the hell are you?” he asked. He had had about enough of this abomination. He swung again, this time aiming to sever the other leg. He really didn’t care what this creature was, or what it was talking about. All that mattered was laying it to rest. “What’s dead ought to stay dead,” he thought. Dean had been raised from birth to believe that zombies, skeletons, and necromancy were among the most deplorable of things. He attacked and killed them on sigh if possible, and if this one was just going to let him destroy it, he was perfectly alright with that.

((OOC: Is this done now that the postathon is over? I'll post one more just in case you guys are waiting for me, but lemme know.))

Rhyl'drin hung back and watched as the vampire lunged forward to attack. He scored a quick, clean blow- the dead girl's leg was severed at the knee. There was nothing to indicate that she'd felt or even suffered the blow. No blood gushing out, no cries of pain. She didn't even fall over!

“The stars are dying. Are you responsible?”

Great. Not only is it invincible, but it's going to play riddles with us before it eats our brains.

For another second, Rhyl'drin stood indecisive, his spear pointing low at the ground. He kept his balance centered and on the balls of his feet, ready to charge forward and attempt a head shot, or to turn and try and hightail it out of the situation. He knew the narrow alley might be a dead end, and he wasn't much for attempting to climb his way out.

He looked back at the bleeding man, and a thought came to him. Falling back slowly and softly as he could, he grasped the man and managed to drag him to his feet. "Hopefully she likes human brain more than Drow" he whispered to his hostage. He slowly began to walk forward towards the dead thing, with the human in front of him as a shield. Rhyl'drin kept his spear high, supported by the right shoulder of his hostage, pointed at the undead creature in case it attempted to rush them. Hopefully at the very least he could pin her to a wall, if she attacked, but for now, all he could do was walk towards the exit of the alley way and trust his luck.

"Sorry," he said to the vampire as he edged towards escape, "but there isn't any winning this one."

The other leg fell off with a 'shnk!' as the blade cut through it as easily as it had the first. The little girl fell, slowly, ever so slowly. Up and up she saw, the stars were there but they were not- they were gone. Dead and dying. Like everything... except that stars were not just 'everything'... they were stars. Theirs was a lifetime measured only by the fingers of the gods. And the gods had long fingers indeed. Robyn was fairly certain that she was not supposed to see any of their beady little eyes wink out for a long, long time. Perhaps they were only sleepy. Yeah, that made sense. No need to say they were dying after all... lots of things went to sleep. Maybe stars did too. Maybe. Hopefully.

The world started to tilt and she felt her hair flow wildly upwards. The wind? No, just her going faster than her hair did. She watched the strands, the clumps of hair dyed with dried blood and gore and pieces of fur and skin. Maybe even an errant scale of a Lizarian. And some spare fingers. Like some morbid tiara of death it surrounded her: the undead child with two cut off legs. If the irony struck her as viciously amusing she didn't make note of it and her expression didn't change. Finally, she hit the ground, the thud reverberating through the land, seeking help. But the greens were sleepy too so the little girl left them be. She didn't want to wake them up after all, they might complain. The dust settled. Her eyes sought her leg.

It was slowly bleeding red-black ichor. But the cut was clean. It could be re-attached. The little girl watched it dispassionately and then raised her eyes so that they might encompass the two of them again. She was now down two legs but didn't seem horribly concerned. She slowly raised herself to a sitting position. It wasn't hard- she had arms. Heck without her legs weighing her down, she might actually be able to travel. She hadn't tried but it couldn't be too difficult. She had seen funny looking men in white costumes and lots of makeup do it before.

"...but there isn't any winning this one." The dark-skinned, elfy-elf said. Robyn frowned at him. It was just a small change in her expression, but it was enough to radically alter her appearance. From disinterested to enraged and back again- all in the span of a single moment that was almost enough to make one believe that she hadn't actually changed. That is, if one were not paying attention.

"Please... be quiet." The voice of the stymied librarian. The voice of an interrupted priest. The voice of an irritated teacher. They all echoed, dull and hollow in her voice. She ignored the cutter in favor of watching the drow. In the length and breadth of the shadows something stirred and woke up. The dreadsnout snorted, fire escaping his nose. Where had it come from? How did it come to be there, at precisely that moment and time- just in the way of the drow? None could say nor fathom. But whatever the case, the small, evil creature was clearly getting ready to charge...