2. LAMBING.

[hismasterpiece]

Tonight, just after sundown, there is a ruckus on one of the farms northeast of the village. When the bleating dies down, several dead lambs might be found in one of the enclosures. The ewes paw and nose at the bodies, dumb terror still fresh in their eyes.

Forest animals just have not been cutting it for Drusilla. But the vampire has been too wary to approach the village and feed there -- not without her Family, those who strengthen her. She stalks the journals during the day when she's not sleeping. Two slayers? A vampire hunter? All sorts of overpowered freaks and heroes and demons? She might be mad, but Dru is not stupid enough to attempt any kills in the village. Yet.

As she tears through the last lamb, the vampire laments to herself how much more fun this would be with Spike. And then she convinces herself in a long, drawn-out argument with a curiously red evening star -- which she quickly names Ethelind -- to spy on the sleeping village. Find out where the sweetest victims lay their heads. Her tattered white new-feather sundress, covered only by a black lace shawl, is stained red with lambs' blood. The dress of her porcelain doll, which she is carrying with her, is also stained. Perhaps she can stop at the shop for a new frock, and one for dolly, too.

When she glides through the village, Drusilla will dare to peek into some windows. She cannot enter any homes without an invitation.

[Dru will not be lingering around anyone she has identified as a threat. She is a powerful vampire but far more bold when working with lackeys or her "family" -- Angel, Spike, Darla. IF YOU WANT YOUR CHARACTER TO DIE OR BE INJURED AT THIS TIME JUST TELL ME IN A SUBJECT LINE, otherwise she won't be killing or hurting anyone in this post.]

Comments

EEEE

[bloodwaif]

The apartments have open rooms? [She repeats this and smiles at this newcomer. He looks like the solid, military type. He looks like the sort that Spike wouldn't like at all.]

Even for a lost lamb like myself?

[Maybe in the darkness he cannot see the blood. It makes a pretty pattern on the white cotton, she decides. She will keep this dress.]

Re: EEEE

[fuckthemission]

[In the dark? Not really. All he sees is white and dark blue where he stands; while he's familiar with blood splashed on someone, he hovers toward mud. Because she's smaller than him, and clearly in need of help—and he's still too new to be entirely cautious, though he does keep a gun at his lower back for all intensive purposes.

Just a normal lady, as far as he can see. He smiles, though the dark probably does her as many favors as it does him, as far as he knows. At least she may be able to verify her military-type theory by the jangle and brief shine of dogtags around his neck.]

Even a lost lamb. There should be a list. Uh... [He motions beyond to where the welcome center would be.] In the Welcome Center not to far from here. It's got a list of all the open rooms in the apartments, and it's open, first come first serve.

[A pause, as he drops his hands to his hips, pursing his lips before he continues:]

You're okay? Did you just get here?

[hismasterpiece]

[She very quickly cozies up to him, trying to take his arm. Trying to play up this little lost lamb angle as much as she can, because he looks tasty and glinting and soldiers always go down well.]

I'm new. [By way of explanation.] A new child in a dark place. Can you show me the way?

[fuckthemission]

[... Okay. He furrows his brow, unsure if arm grabbing is a good idea because. Well. Because. Something about her definitely eccentric, but so far his only real sign of danger in Luceti have been robots. If only he remembered that this place might as well be called 'Storybookland'. He clears his throat, and the moment he has a suitable chance he carefully slips out of her hold, side-stepping toward the direction of the Center, rubbing his nose and trying to pretend he totally didn't just ignore her arm.]

Uhuh. Right. Just follow me; it's not that far off.

[Don't feel too bad, ma'am, he's just not so sure he wants you all up on him like that. And as long as you don't walk into any light-source and show him your gross art display, he'll at least try to guide her there. It's cold enough that the smell of blood, dried or no, is lost on his nose.]

The name's Rick Doyle. Got a name?

[hismasterpiece]

Drusilla. Have I frightened you? I frighten some men. [This she admits freely, not ceasing admiring glances in his direction.] Some men run. You don't seem to me a runner, Rick Doyle. That is not in your stars.

[fuckthemission]

[...]

Frighten some men, huh?

[He glances at her, scanning her over again, eyes squinting against the dark. If he's ever asked 'what sounds like a blanketed ominous threat', that would do it, right there. But he's armed and she's just a New Feather. It'll be fiiine.]

... Well, I couldn't imagine why, Drusilla. [Not that he sounds 100% behind that. Always keeps his hand on his hip. And possibly a good few feet between them. Seriously hoping I won't have to regret stopping to check on you, missy.] You a chaser of sorts?

[bloodwaif]

Like Artemis? Favored of the moon! The two of us are sisters. I never have to chase, Rick Doyle.

[She doesn't seem bothered by the chilly spring night. Dru walks very gracefully and allows him to keep his distance. Eventually, though, she will tire of this entertainment.]

[fuckthemission]

[On second thought, it's probably good he got her focused on something other than some person's house. Goal for the night: get away from this darker area of the village and travel toward where the lights are, and where he may have people around to watch them quietly. It's not the quickest way to the Welcome Center, but he'd prefer it. Yep.

POKERFACE]

Just Rick or Doyle. No reason for both.

[He was never one for Gods and astronomy and all those things. But he gets a pretty vague opinion of her so far, other than the obvious.]

You're some kind of starchild, that it?

[bloodwaif]

[That. Is. Exactly. What.]

Starchild. I am a moonchild, Doyle. Will you tell me a story? Will you tell me where you're from?

[fuckthemission]

... I'm from a really Earthy place. Lots of boring buildings and normal people. Not much to it than that other than some, uh, crazy epidemics. Became a Sergeant after hanging out in the army for a while; guess it was to counteract all the boring-ness.

[He had a lot of time to kill in the 80's.]

Ended up biting off more than I could chew by the time I got here, since the UK was a complete wreck and needed men there.

[hismasterpiece]

The UK. [She sounds agreeable enough about that.] Always has been short of worthy men. My uncle was one of them, before they killed him in front of me. His blood touched me here.

[She reaches up to press a forefinger against her forehead. Then her cheek. Then her chin. Then her mouth. Then her eyelid. Then her other cheek. Then her forehead again. Then her other eyelid. Then her ear. Then her throat. Then her nose. Then her palm just rests against the entire side of her face and she draws and releases an unnecessary breath.]

I do so admire the army.

1/2

[fuckthemission]

[... There is not a sliver of doubt that you are the craziest person in this entire place. He hasn't met everyone, but he's going to call it right now.]

[fuckthemission]

[That hand, always on that hip. It's just too bad he didn't bring his journal with him on his trip.]

Sounds like you've had a... tough life.

[Well at least he has lights approaching not too far ahead. He looks at her from his peripheral, calm. Actually, that dress is starting to look more and more of a warning beacon, now that they're drawing nearer.

... That's not mud.

That is definitely nothing of the sort. He's still at a distance, but he looks at her now, frowning and stern. Hand closer to his back now, out of view; nothing to worry about.]

Who'd you hurt, Drusilla?

[hismasterpiece]

The children. [She grins at him, thoroughly distastefully.] And you. [And with that, her face shifts into a horror. Drusilla lunges for him. Just one taste. No one will miss this soldier, will they?]

[fuckthemission]

[He grits his teeth under thinned lips and whips his handgun out in a flash, aiming and firing at her, if not for her ugly mug, then for the fact that somewhere, someone is probably dead. Someone who is possibly young and in need of help. But the thought occurs to him, in this moment--

Maybe he's very under-prepared for Lucetians.

And that whatever she is, it sure isn't human.]

[bloodwaif]

[The bullet will slow, but not kill her. There might even be a sight of quickly-congealing blood somewhere in her midsection. This only angers Drusilla, though the force of the gunshot sends her reeling backward a few steps.

Undaunted, and now angered, and realizing that hypnosis will not be easily effected in the darkness, she tries to strike at his jugular vein and spill him out under the moon.]

[fuckthemission]

Shit--!!

[He puts up his arm in the hopes that it'll at least keep his neck safe, sacrificing whatever damage she can deliver to his forearm, and along his cheek, in exchange for that sort of instinctual safety. As long as he can keep her from touching any of his vital kill spots, he might have a shot at getting the hell out of there.

He doesn't shove her away, instead jamming the gun toward her neck and face and firing again. If anything could work, maybe it'd be a headshot, or something close to it. His panic is rising if only from experience--if he were in his world right now, he'd be infected, and for a moment he flashes back and wonders if it's contagious, if he'll turn into some monster.

The thought makes him more determined to get away.]

[bloodwaif]

[An enraged shriek follows that gunshot. Had it been a little to the left, and had she not dodged it so quickly, it might have partially severed her head. Instead, it nicks Dru's jaw, peeling the skin back to her ear.

This will buy him time, though -- but not much. Her nails are like razors. If he can manage to get out of her reach, he might be alright. Humans can outrun vampires in the world of Sunnydale.

If he doesn't he could very well earn more dangerously deep cuts from her claws. What he should avoid are her attempts to latch onto his neck with her powerful fangs.]

[fuckthemission]

[He sucks in a sharp breath, glancing at his partially tattered sleeve in the dark. That hurts like a bitch, and more frighteningly, that was fucking sharp. And judging by the drips of blood rolling down a cut on his cheek and the way she opened her mouth and lunged at him--among other things--he's finally piecing it all together.

Not going to stick around here. He curses under his breath and turns, running as fast as he can with his arm tucked away protectively; lucky him, he's very used to running. Hopefully he'd stunned her just enough to get a break. Just the little break he needs. These things aren't fast, are they? He figures if they are, he's as good as killed. Again. Again. Ugh. What is he, some sort of death beacon?]

[bloodwaif]

[Drusilla watches him run. She isn't prepared to attack again -- not now that she's injured and he is probably on his way to rouse the village.

She's had enough of pitchforks and torches in her undead life.

Instead she stands, swaying slightly, for a few moments, tasting what remains of him on her fingertips. Oh. Oh. He is exquisite. Oh, she wants more.

Soon enough.]

Soon enough, Ethelinde. Soon enough soon enough, Ethelinde.

[And she turns to make her way toward the Barracks.]