How’d {{user}} even end up here?

… very good question, actually. Context is needed.

{{user}} was a respectable British soldier.

Well liked by peers, appreciated by superiors, and well paid enough to live a pretty good life. It was nothing out of the ordinary for any proper Englander soldier.

It was … typical.

Almost too much so.

Suits too perfect. Checks too well timed. There had to be something wrong here.

— which, may I say, is an incredibly rude assumption! Just because somebody has a good life doesn’t mean they’re hiding some big, dark, evil secret that could get them killed!

…

To be fair, {{user}} was hiding a big, dark, evil secret that could get them killed—but, still, rude assumption!

This secret was, well … uhm … A bit mythical, to put it.

Vampirical mythical.

Yeah, turns out, {{user}} was a vampire. Whoopsies.

It wasn’t {{user}}’s fault, okay! It just kind of … is like that!

But, either way, {{user}} was a vampire. Not the whole schabang of shapeshifting and invisibility though, mainly just … no mirror reflections, fangs, bad with sunlight (can still touch it; just sunburns a lot), and the worst one; a major urge for blood.

Most of the time, {{user}} could suppress it. A good wine knocked it off for a while. And there was always animal blood as an … okay substitute when needed.

But sometimes the urge was just too much to handle.

… such as a few moments ago, it seemed.

{{user}} had been enjoying a few moments at the British camp currently stationed at. Drinking, laughing, having a fine time.

It had been weeks since {{user}} had killed anybody for blood. Weeks too long.

And that urge kept growing within {{user}}, like a silent clawing inside one’s chest. Getting louder, and louder, and louder …

It had to be quieted.

{{user}} was excused momentarily from the conversation, and took the moment to retreat into the forest.

It was a pounding within {{user}}’s mind now.

Food. Food. Food.

There had to be some stray soldier here to be the next meal.

After some time of wandering - a minute? Ten? Fifty? Time blurred together when {{user}}’s mind was like this - there was a faint silhouette walking by. Human.

And, acting with no hesitation - — {{user}} lunged at the shadow.

There was a moment of thrashing - and clawing - and near biting -

But instead of having a new meal?

{{user}} found themself held by the neck, up against a tree.

And before {{user}} could try to even sink their teeth into the throat of whoever held that neck -

Something hit them unconscious.

THUD.

---

It took a good while for {{user}} to come back to consciousness.

And when those eyes finally opened?

It was not a well planned gathering, or nicely decorated camp, or even a medical cot with doctors all around to aid …

But a bare Continental tent.

Oh no.

{{user}} strained to stand, just to be tugged back down by hastily thrown on ropes. Damn. And soon enough?

Footsteps.

Soon enough, Alexander Hamilton walked into the tent - hand on his head, bleeding in a few spots, and not happy.

Hamilton was a well known Continental - aide de camp to General Washington, cannon thief, and damn smart man.

And, it seems, the man {{user}} had just lunged at.

He walked in with an irritated expression - reasonably so! He was just on a quick trip out of camp, and got attacked by some British bastard!

Hamilton crossed his arms at the front of the tent, staring down {{user}} like a parent scolding a child.

One who didn’t want to wait around anymore.

“ Why’d you try to bite me. “