4: The one behind it all

His boots thudded against the cobblestone streets, leaving echoes in his wake as he turned down one alleyway and then another.

The scent was faint, but it was there. A sickly yet potent smell came from the little pill.

Passing the town's smithy, Zellrid paused for a moment, the sound of the anvil hitting hot metal reaching his ears.

He could see the smith's apprentice, a burly boy not yet a man, toiling away in the dim red light of the forge. He paid Zellrid no heed. Good. The fewer witnesses tonight, the better.

Continuing on his way, he made a turn toward the cornfields that stretched out in the darkness, their tall stalks rustling eerily in the moonlight.

The scent became more intense, almost overwhelming. He knew he was getting closer.

"Something's off," he said, interrupting his steps. "The scent is moving too quickly. He is toying with me."

Zellrid lowered himself into a crouch, scanning for any sign of movement. His senses were on high alert, honed from years of experience.

"Time to play his game," he thought to himself.

He reached into his belt pouch, carefully drawing out a vial that glowed a faint green.

He uncorked it, and as he unsheathed his sword, he lifted the vial to his lips, taking a sip.

The potion seared his throat like hot coals, yet he gritted his teeth and continued.

Gradually, the scars on his face darkened, resembling charred wood, while a network of veins surfaced on his skin.

His one eye transformed into a fiery crimson hue, blazing with an otherworldly intensity.

Zellrid's senses sharpened impossibly, enabling him to detect the most minute disturbance. The scent of the beast was now a cacophony, overpowering and intoxicating.

 But it was not what caught his attention.

The sounds of the night came alive, like a symphony of whispers. The rustling cornfields sang a siren song, but beneath it was another note of discord that revealed the beast's presence. 

In the distance, a silhouette of a woman stood near an abandoned barn, holding a severed head by its hair and tightening it firmly in her palm.

Zellrid's eyes narrowed in determination. 

He silently made his way toward the barn where his target was standing.

As he crept closer, he could faintly hear her singing an old tune from the past, a song that children used to sing long ago.

*** "Crows asleep amidst the trees, bats all a-swaying in the breeze, But one soul lies anxious, wide awake, fearing all manner of ghouls, hags, and Strigoi.

For your dolly Polly, sleep has flown. Don't dare let her tremble alone.

For the Nightstalker, heartless, cold, paid in coin of gold."***

"Nice tune," Zellrid said, standing face-to-face with the woman who held the victim's head in her hands." Been a while since I heard it".

As she turned, her golden locks cascaded down her back, framing a face with delicate features - small lips, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks that gave her an angelic appearance.

"folks forgot about it," she said in whispers.

Zellrid spoke in a calm tone, but there was an underlying authority in his words. "I can't blame them, though. The words are too dark for a younger audience's taste."

He continued, "But you know why I've come here."

The woman looked away for a moment; her gaze falling on the decapitated head in her hand. "Yes," she whispered. "I do."

She smiled, as she dropped the severed head to the ground with a sickening thud. The crimson-stained hair fans out around it like a macabre halo.

"In the old days, no amount of gold could persuade a Nightstalker to hunt down a Strigoi as vile as me," she spits out, her voice barely audible above the sound of her own pounding heart.

With steady hands, she begins to undress, each piece of clothing falling to the ground like discarded armor.

"Time changed," Zellrid responded coldly, his crimson eyes fixed on her every move.

The woman stood before him, naked and vulnerable. Her skin glistened in the moonlight, and her body was a canvas of ageless beauty.

"You're not like them," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're different."

Zellrid's gaze narrowed as he spoke. "I am the worst."

He lunged forward, his sword slicing through the air and plunging into the woman's chest.

The impact sent a spray of warm blood onto his face.

The woman's body contorted and twisted, transforming into a dark mist that shot off with blinding speed towards the nearby barn.

She disappeared, and the ground beneath his feet shook and trembled as if reacting to her command.

Zellrid watched the mist drift away, feeling the vibration beneath his feet. He knew he had barely scratched her, but it was enough to piss her off.

Glancing towards the horizon, he could see the army of ghouls and necro phages drawing closer, their malicious intentions clear.

"Great, another part of unpaid labor."

Zellrid took a moment to wipe the blood from his face with the back of his hand, his expression grim as he surveyed the approaching horde.

With a resigned sigh, he sheathed his sword and reached this time for the mini-fire bombs.

"I'm going to need more than just the keen edge of my sword for this fight against piss pots," he declared.

As he pulled the bombs from his pouch, they glowed with an incendiary promise in his grasp.

The fuses were short and had to be thrown quickly and accurately.

His eye, still ablaze with otherworldly sight, picked out the leading ghouls as they skittered forward, their limbs moving with a hunger-driven frenzy.

Zellrid's lips curled into a disdainful sneer.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he hurled the first firebomb into the center of the advancing horde.

The air hissed as the bomb cut through it, landing with a muted thump among the ghouls.

For a moment, everything seemed eerily silent. Then, an explosion erupted, sending waves of fire rolling out in every direction.

The pungent smell of charred flesh filled the air as flames consumed ghoul after ghoul.