Sunset, the four hundred and ninety eighth year, seventh month, second week, seventh day, since he had awoken. Awoken, in a quiet glade. A glade where nothing living breathed. A glade where no moonlight could shine on any blade of grass, where all the blades were embedded in his heart. His unbeating heart, which had bled still fresh from his lips, his neck, his back. The stinging, sallow scent of blood on the air and the unceasing quiet, had left a sour taste in his mouth. In those depths, it had been a strange unearthly sensation, taste. And yet, it had brought him back. That taste had turned from bitter revulsion, to slight reproach, to ravaging hunger. A hunger which tainted his being, animated it, kindled it, and gave it death's wings.
That night was long ago, and time had wound its weaving fingers around him since, with weathering, eroding, unrelenting teeth. And yet, he remained a blooming presence, a rose in a waste, a sapphire in a riverbed. It was in this fragile yet enduring state that he found himself, on the threshold of the Winking Mermaid. An establishment which was altogether too clean, too neat and tidy for his liking. And yet there it was, as he opened the door. A spilt drink, and an enchantment, working at the mess and sending it into some unearthly existence. It made his teeth ache. Drawing his gaze away from that ugliness, he made his way to a table tucked into a corner, where an old man sat drearily. He grabbed the man's shoulder and pulled him out and away, whispering a word to him. A word of warning, or a word of soothing. However the man took it, he sat and did not arise.
Frenetic pounding, loud noises, painfully boisterous throbbing and rhythmic movement. Song and dance were not things that he appreciated, as they made it difficult to concentrate. Difficult to avoid concentrating on his aching teeth anyway. He may have enjoyed the arts, or maybe not. Who could know? He wasn't truly himself anymore, and of course, anybody else who'd known him would have to be dead. He had actually tried to search during those first several troubled decades. It was a wonder he was still alive, unburnt, unhanged, and unalive. What a thought, it was, to contemplate how death would seem to one not currently living. Would such a being come back to life, memories and thoughts intact? Doubtful, though this existence had taught him not to presume the impossible to be without any likelihood. He himself was the prime example of this fact, and yet he knew somehow that attempting to test his theories on mortality would likely result in an even sorrier existence than he already possessed.
Ale, tepid and mostly drunk had been left by his table's previous occupant. Lowering his cowl, he turned he tankard over in his pale hands. He'd done this hundreds, maybe thousands of times. A small, conservative sip. He spat. Replacing the tankard, he drew out a stained arrow, one of a dozen. The tip was unwashed, still brown and bearing his last prey's musk. Furtively, he brought it to his mouth and licked the metal. The crusted life essence crumbled into his mouth and melted into a congealed node which tasted about as appetizing as he guessed the ale would be to a living person. Which was to say, terrible. But more tolerable than the ale at least. He stowed the arrow and cracked his fingers, wondering at just how badly his teeth ached.
Blood and death, stolen breath. Gore and sinew, curdle within you. Lives of sins, hidden betwixt the twins. Blood and death, no corpses left.
