FINALVANIA? CASTLE FANTASY??

[haredresser]

Every bit of his outfit is meant to protect his identity from humans. It isn't the most comfortable having a hood cover his ears, but it's necessary so he isn't asked questions. A viera's feet are also shaped differently than a human's, so his boots appear unnecessarily heeled, but it is a fitting disguise. Lastly, his tail is covered completely by his clothing, but the cape doesn't hurt either.

So as far as a human can perceive him, he is just another man. An odd one, willing to hunt creatures of the night for a price, a job that has suddenly become very popular not long after the death of Dracula's wife.

The client for tonight is definitely a posh young man that has no business in being present in such a shady tavern as this. Too well dressed, fine furs, perfumes, and not a speck of dirt on him. The story isn't that uncommon: the young noble is out for vengeance, for a vampire had slain his parents and took off. Vampire hunting can be a real pain in the arse, but this man -- Artoriel -- seemed willing to pay quite a bit for it.

Obsidian tips his mask up to take a final drink from his stein before lowering it. "Half now, other half when the job's done." He holds out his hand expectantly, until the weight of a bag of coin settles into his palm. Satisfied, he stands and hauls his absurdly large sword from where it'd been leaning, hooking it onto his back.

It'd probably be wiser to wait until morning to approach a vampire, but the night's always agreed with him best.

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[unicornknight]

It was an hour past midnight when the door swung open, admitting stately traveler wearing a dark cloak that obscured his face. He was exceedingly tall and broad-shouldered, yet he walked with an easy grace that was at odds with his massive frame, his boots hardly making a sound against the wooden floor.

The barkeep eyed the stranger warily at his approach, taking note of the confident and purposeful manner in his stride, which marked him as some spoiled little lordling. All the nobility walked in that manner, as if the whole fucking world owed them something for being born with a proper name and raised in one of the High Houses.

He spat on the floor as he continued to wipe out a glass with a dirty rag. "What'll it be, stranger?"

The tall man placed his palm upon the bar, revealing a gold coin with the Emperor's face embossed upon its gleaming surface. "A hot meal, a room for the night, and someone to tend to my horse, if you please."

The barkeep's brows furrowed, his eyes growing dark with suspicion. "The bed's got fleas and the soup is barely thicker than sweat, but if you don't mind that, you can stay. Just don't be expecting someone at yer beck and call to wipe yer arse and shine yer shoes in the mornin'. We ain't that type of establishment, ya hear?"

The stranger nodded his assent, and the barkeep slapped a meaty hand atop the coin, slipping it swiftly into his pocket. He gestured broadly toward one of the empty tables, bidding the stranger to take a seat while a rail-thin stableboy skittered past like a rat avoiding detection, to slip outside to tend to his horse.

Haurchefant settled himself into a chair near the fire, the worn wood creaking beneath his weight. He stretched one long leg beneath the table, revealing a glimpse of practical travelling attire and a longsword strapped to his hip. But anyone with eyes in their head could see that no rust marred his gear, no mud stained his clothes. It was as though he were a mummer playing the part of a seasoned adventurer; someone's idea of what an adventurer should look like after reading one too many romances with their fanciful illustrations.

Even when the barkeep returned with his meal—a bowl of thin soup with a crust of dried bread and a tankard full of dark ale—he refused to remove his hood, keeping his head lowered and eyes downcast. It was easy to tell that he didn't want anyone to see his face.

But as he lifted the tankard to his lips to sip at the bitter ale, one might be able to catch the firelight reflecting off his eyes, a glint of gold beneath the darkness of his hood...

[haredresser]

The stableboy is in a hurry, and understandably; the horse is well fed, and the man that'd just stepped inside is just as absurdly tall as any vampire that Obsidian has seen. Full grown, enormous, maybe looking for his next meal? Luring out some poor fool from a sorry inn is typical, and he's certainly expecting it.

It'd be smart, maybe, to pace it out. But he also can't settle with the taste of letting the vampire get what he wants just so he can get the drop on him.

And throwing himself into battle is really just what he does best.

And I'm never alone.

Obsidian shoves the door open, his heels clicking against worn wood as he approaches the giant figure.

"Take it from someone wearing a mask, but you look like someone who has something to hide." He hauls the giant sword off of his back, Deathbringer glowing faintly in his hand.

"Oi, what do you think--" the barkeep starts.

Obsidian holds up his free hand. "You'll want to leave. This will get messy. Trust me."

[unicornknight]

Haurchefant heard the stranger's approach before he even swept through the door, his senses far keener than those of mortal men. He refused to turn even as the sound of steel sliding against steel informed him that the stranger had drawn his massive blade, brandishing it in a one-handed grip.

Slowly, he sets his tankard upon the filthy tabletop and draws a slow, steadying breath through his nose. His fingers curl against the handle in a white-knuckled grip, the leather of his gloves creaking with the movement. It is the only outward indication of the animal fury that gnaws savagely at his heart.

He was cold, tired, and hungry. He hadn't even been allowed a moment to taste the disgusting swill that passed for soup, and somehow that was the worst thing of all.

No rest for the wicked, is there?

Haurchefant's face is an impassive mask as he watches the barkeep sidle nervously from behind the bar and slink toward the door. He stinks of stale sweat and fear, his eyes watching them warily. A rat fleeing a sinking ship.

Without turning, Haurchefant addresses the stranger: "I just want to enjoy my meal in peace. Is that so much to ask?" His tone is even, measured. Civilized. "Whatever they're paying you, I'll double their offer. All you have to do is turn around and walk through that door, and pretend you never saw me."

A vain and foolish hope, but Haurchefant had to make the offer. His hands were already stained with the blood of hunters too stupid and too tenacious to leave him in peace. He didn't really relish the thought of compounding his sins by needlessly taking another life.

SOBBING sorry for the delay

[haredresser]

There's a wry snort from Obsidian. Meal. Vampires can eat human food, but it offers no nutrition; what he sees is a cover-up, not something that would actually feed him. That, and the money is nice but not entirely necessary. After all, from what he knows, he's also doing the world a favor of taking this vampire out.

Still, he does not debate the matter. Arguing it won't accomplish anything. Vampires are stubborn from his experience, and this one likely won't be that much different.

The blade rests against his shoulder, and he gestures to Haurchefant. "Stand and face me. I will only say that once."

Though he doesn't have much left, there's still a sliver of his moral code, just a hint of honor left. He would prefer to fight face-to-face, but if push comes to shove he has no qualms about fighting dirty. He'll do what it takes to win, after all.