The estate perched upon the hill stirred after centuries of stillness, the rumble of the earth harsh enough to wake the dead as dust danced through air that was once still. The quake trembled like a deep drawn breath, and with it so did Kierston. Ancient stone chafes as it’s slid soundlessly open onto the floor, the cold body within the tomb fresh as the day he slipped into his eternal slumber.

His slumber had lasted long beyond memory, dwarfing the years of history known to mankind, but the quake fractured more than ancient rock. It released an unrelenting hunger — an unforgiving thirst for blood — and enabled it to roam the earth once again. Perhaps it was Mother Nature calling upon a means of intervention, or perhaps his soul deemed his release overdue. Regardless, he was craving the sweet taste of human naivety.

The soft familiarity of the village streets was jarring, the lack of technological progress within human society disappointing. The streets buzzed with life under the comfortable weight of midnight, the rhythm of blood moving too fast in warm bodies pulsing along with soft tunes snaking through the night. Laughter floats through from those of all ages, nobles and peasants mingling in shared spaces as rats scurry past under their feet.

His heart buzzes as his eyes take in the artificial light around him, twilight being covered by fake daylight as mortals gathered in a nearby building. The metallic scent was exhilarating as he makes his way closer, the neon lights of what appears to be a bar burning through his eyes.

The rickety wooden floors stay lathered in spilt liquor as drunken fools pool around the entrance and bar. Mortals lay at every corner flirting, drinking, and forgetting. They failed to sense death slipping through their door, they failed to realise the dangers that would arise if they were alone for even a second. But he was there, waiting. Watching…

…And so were they.

Across the bar his eyes catch onto another as they pour drinks, serving his dinner ways to forget. Their eyes seem too aware, too focused on his presence. Too knowledgeable. Their eyes hold intelligence that the rest fail to understand, and yet such awareness could put him at jeopardy. He stalks through the room to the bar, taking his seat on the stool as blinding neon shines above.

‘Just a whiskey, please.’ He drawls, moving a strand of his own stark white hair to the front of his shoulder, caressing the length absentmindedly as he observes mortal work. He didn’t allow you to speak, to ask for his order. Instead, his words cut through the room, an unnerving silence falling as you pour beverage after beverage.

Each hair on the back of your neck finds it in themself to rise as his whiskey is slid across the counter, the intensity in his eyes almost threatening enough to forget he needs to pay.