There were places that one
should never stand around in the dark, humming 'I am the very model of a modern major general'. In front of an
active jet engine. Busy traffic. Striga after dark. Thibor considered. He had survived all three. Of
course he had not been engaged in an act of micturation during the other two, though many of those who did not survive the process had been; in fear fuelled
reflex. This was not a fear fuelled micturation, it was a deliberate one; delivered with sufficient gusto to dislodge
some of the bark on the tree. It was not the first tree he had micurated upon that night; it would not be the
last. His bladder and his rucksack were lighter than they were on the start of the mission, and would be lighter still
before he could retire for the evening.
"What are you
doing!" It was not a question. It was a statement. It was a statement hissed out. It was a statement hissed out with the hint of a
lisp. That confirmed for Thibor what his senses had informed him of some minutes previous. Council Vampire. A relatively new one at that. It
was one of the few traits that Council Vampires shared with the real thing. Newly created, most of them had no fucking
idea how to talk around their fangs. They all lisped. Thibor turned, not
bothering to check the flow of the stream. It splattered wetly against the vampire's boots. Council vampires were even worse than the real thing. All the pretension; none of the
history. They took the name vampires, but were not. Yes they fed on life
energy; but those that drank blood did so not because they needed to, but rather to foster a particular image. Thibor
wasn't sure why anyone would want to foster the image of a suck-toothed wankstain on the tapestry of life; but that was not his concern. The vampire grimaced; the eyes behind the dark goggles becoming angry slits. Council
vampires did share an aversion to light, but it was due to their altered genetic make-up, not any supernatural cleansing force of daybreak. At worst they got a sunburn, going from pasty white to an ugly pink.
Thibor ceased his micturation,
shook twice and tucked everything away. He didn't bother with the zipper.
"Was taking a
piss." He explained, taking a step closer. The vampire could not pale
further, but clearly some of his confidence was flowing out of him. It was a charmingly human touch as he came into the
fully realized moment that Thibor was seven feet tall with more muscle than a Mr. Universe contest, and he was not.
This moment of clarity was lost and the vampire's Council arrogance reasserted itself. He charged, long, razor
sharp fingernails thrusting towards Thibor with dread intent. Thibor spun away with greater speed than his huge bulk
should normally allow for. A huge hand fastened on the back of the vampire's head and further encouraged the
charge, which ended with the bat-nosed vampire face striking the dark and wetly stained bark of the tree with sufficient force to leave an imprint. Physical imprint of facial features on a solid object was not solely the bailiwick of the cartoons, although the facial imprints
did tend to be of lesser quality, and could be only described as smooshed.
"Striga. Mine." The vampire was barely conscious in Thibor's grip. He shook it twice to reinforce the point.
"Striga….
Yours." Several bloody teeth dribbled out from between the smashed lips and were lost in the
grass.
"Is good." Thibor shifted his grip, took two steps and drop kicked the vampire in the general direction of the Wolf's throat. The vampire spun in lazy circles as he cleared the tops of the trees and continued for some distance before dropping back into the
canopy with a muted, rustling, thud and the squawk of surprised birds. He would either pass on the message or be raped
by squirrels and tucked away for the slow winter months. Thibor didn't particularly care which.
should never stand around in the dark, humming 'I am the very model of a modern major general'. In front of an
active jet engine. Busy traffic. Striga after dark. Thibor considered. He had survived all three. Of
course he had not been engaged in an act of micturation during the other two, though many of those who did not survive the process had been; in fear fuelled
reflex. This was not a fear fuelled micturation, it was a deliberate one; delivered with sufficient gusto to dislodge
some of the bark on the tree. It was not the first tree he had micurated upon that night; it would not be the
last. His bladder and his rucksack were lighter than they were on the start of the mission, and would be lighter still
before he could retire for the evening.
"What are you
doing!" It was not a question. It was a statement. It was a statement hissed out. It was a statement hissed out with the hint of a
lisp. That confirmed for Thibor what his senses had informed him of some minutes previous. Council Vampire. A relatively new one at that. It
was one of the few traits that Council Vampires shared with the real thing. Newly created, most of them had no fucking
idea how to talk around their fangs. They all lisped. Thibor turned, not
bothering to check the flow of the stream. It splattered wetly against the vampire's boots. Council vampires were even worse than the real thing. All the pretension; none of the
history. They took the name vampires, but were not. Yes they fed on life
energy; but those that drank blood did so not because they needed to, but rather to foster a particular image. Thibor
wasn't sure why anyone would want to foster the image of a suck-toothed wankstain on the tapestry of life; but that was not his concern. The vampire grimaced; the eyes behind the dark goggles becoming angry slits. Council
vampires did share an aversion to light, but it was due to their altered genetic make-up, not any supernatural cleansing force of daybreak. At worst they got a sunburn, going from pasty white to an ugly pink.
Thibor ceased his micturation,
shook twice and tucked everything away. He didn't bother with the zipper.
"Was taking a
piss." He explained, taking a step closer. The vampire could not pale
further, but clearly some of his confidence was flowing out of him. It was a charmingly human touch as he came into the
fully realized moment that Thibor was seven feet tall with more muscle than a Mr. Universe contest, and he was not.
This moment of clarity was lost and the vampire's Council arrogance reasserted itself. He charged, long, razor
sharp fingernails thrusting towards Thibor with dread intent. Thibor spun away with greater speed than his huge bulk
should normally allow for. A huge hand fastened on the back of the vampire's head and further encouraged the
charge, which ended with the bat-nosed vampire face striking the dark and wetly stained bark of the tree with sufficient force to leave an imprint. Physical imprint of facial features on a solid object was not solely the bailiwick of the cartoons, although the facial imprints
did tend to be of lesser quality, and could be only described as smooshed.
"Striga. Mine." The vampire was barely conscious in Thibor's grip. He shook it twice to reinforce the point.
"Striga….
Yours." Several bloody teeth dribbled out from between the smashed lips and were lost in the
grass.
"Is good." Thibor shifted his grip, took two steps and drop kicked the vampire in the general direction of the Wolf's throat. The vampire spun in lazy circles as he cleared the tops of the trees and continued for some distance before dropping back into the
canopy with a muted, rustling, thud and the squawk of surprised birds. He would either pass on the message or be raped
by squirrels and tucked away for the slow winter months. Thibor didn't particularly care which.