Corven stepped into the dark woodland he had left from not long ago, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The cold wind wrapped around him like an old mory, carrying the scent of moss, pine, and distant decay.
Above, the moon hung high—a pale, watchful eye in the heavens—its glow spilling through the trees and painting silver streaks across the canopy. A hauntingly beautiful backdrop.
The start of a hunt.
"So I have nine blood units currently... and I’m still a fledgling vampire," Corven muttered to himself, his breath steady as he focused. He slowed his pace, closing his eyes for a brief mont to sharpen his other senses. The woods whispered with subtle life—crickets chirping, leaves rustling, small creatures burrowing.
His ears twitched slightly. Every heartbeat. Every shuffle. Every distant cry. He listened—not as a man, but as a predator.
To find prey.
His fingers curled around the grip of the bow slung across his shoulder. Familiar. Reliable.
Bow in hand.
"No rest for the wicked..." he chuckled under his breath. It was a dry, humorless laugh, echoing faintly in the stillness around him. A coping chanism from his previous life. One of the few things that hadn’t died with him.
Corven stalked through the undergrowth like a shadow, weaving between trees and low-hanging branches. He moved gracefully, unnaturally fluid—like a ghost untouched by the world. His feet disturbed no leaves. His breathing made no sound. Even the wind seed to part for him.
Creating as little noise as possible.
And then—prey was spotted.
A distant crack. A sharp snap of a branch being broken under careless weight.
Corven’s ears twitched, pointy and attuned to even the subtlest vibration.
’Finally,’ he muttered inwardly. Minutes had passed in silence—long, oppressive minutes spent listening, waiting.
Now, he moved. Swiftly, soundlessly. Toward the sound, toward the source.
If he got lost in the woods, it didn’t matter. He could always follow the drifting smoke of the town’s fireplaces... or the rotting stench from the graveyard where the dead waited quietly beneath the soil.
He would never be lost. Not anymore.
He arrived.
And saw it.
A creature stumbled through the woods, tripping with every step. Its pale skin hung loosely over twisted muscle, and its limbs spasd unnaturally—like it didn’t quite know how to move.
Like sothing wearing a body it didn’t understand.
’What is that...?’ Corven narrowed his eyes, climbing up the nearest tree, taking careful steps along a sturdy branch to get a clearer view. From above, he could observe without risk. Without alerting it.
The creature crashed against a trunk, leaving a sar of old blood behind. Corven adjusted his angle, keeping pace above it.
Then he saw it.
Bite marks. Jagged, vicious—right along the neck.
’A vampire victim...?’ he wondered, brow furrowing. ’People call them vampire spawns in my world...’
’More than normal zombies... but far less than a true vampire.’
’A slave.’
He reached behind him, retrieving an arrow with practiced ease. His grip on the bow tightened. His eyes locked on the target.
"Spawn or not... prey is prey."
He exhaled, steady and controlled.
The arrow whistled through the trees.
It struck true—clean into the creature’s head. There was a sickening crunch as the body collapsed into a pile of dry shrubs, twitching once, then going still.
Corven dropped down monts later, landing in a crouch with feline grace. He approached the kill cautiously, his hand retrieving the arrow and returning it to his quiver with muscle mory alone.
"Thanks for the al," he murmured, voice cold.
Then he bit down.
The blood hit his tongue with a jolt—an acidic tang that clashed violently with the smoother flavors he’d tasted before. Nothing like wolf blood. Nothing like human.
It was foul. Sour. Like drinking spoiled milk aged in rust.
"Disgusting..." he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But it would do. For now.
- Blood (11 units)
Then—another sound.
A twig cracking. Closer this ti.
He turned, bow already raised.
Two figures. Sa stuttering gait. Sa pale skin. Sa wounds.
More vampire spawns.
He didn’t hesitate. Two arrows. One breath.
’Good thing I took archery lessons before...’ he thought, heart rate steady.
The arrows flew. One struck the first spawn in the neck—it crumpled against a nearby tree with a wet crunch. The other hit center mass, sending the second tumbling backward onto a moss-covered rock, motionless.
The woods fell silent again.
But sothing had changed.
The forest was getting weirder. He could feel it. Like the trees themselves were holding their breath.
And yet—
Corven was ready.
Ready to hunt every last one of them down.
And feast on their blood.
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