He immersed himself deeper into the Lake, walking as deep as he could before his toes lifted up. He dunked himself, once, twice. He strode out as quickly as he could, feeling the cold seeping in. He strode ashore and shuddered, shaking the water off of his body. He checked himself again, and, satisfied with his cleanliness, he began to groom himself.
He could hear someone coming near by. He looked up to see someone walking on the shore. Hello,
he said to the woman. He shook his head once more, shaking the dripping water from his body.
I am grateful to have some northern blood in me,
He shook himself again. The cold bothered him to an extent — there was something about diving into cold water from relatively warm air that was bothersome. Spring had only just arrived, true, but the air rocked on the precipice between warm and cold. He felt that deep in his bones, even as he began to dry — the air wasn't enough to dry him, unfortunately. Are you from nearby?
My apologies, then,
He said, dipping his head to her. He was glad there were no ducks around in their eponymous lake. He didn't like birds, especially not ducks. He didn't like hunting them — he despised feathers — nor did he like being around them. Too noisy, too brash, really.
His eyes widened for a moment at her request, a slight pause before he chuckled. Don't hold me to it,
He hoped that she was joking, but it was often hard for him to tell.
She didn't, shrugging instead. She seemed distracted, her mind somewhere else. He saw the opportunity he had, his experienced eyes focusing on her seeming lack of clarity. But, he had just spent the time and energy to rid himself of the stains and gore of his last hunt, which he said as much to her.
Cleaning myself,
he said. He gestured at the paleness of his fur. My fur stains easily.
He was vain in that sense. Had he been a true Melonii, with his fur black instead of the paleness from his mother's Arctic heritage, this would not be as much of an issue. But he had to keep up appearances. He had seen a few strigoi and wolf-eaters such as himself, more ghoul than the refined character of the vampire he had once met, reeking of rotting flesh. He was not that kind of monster.
She seemed nervous, something beyond shyness creeping into her. He did not risk anything by agitating her further. He had just cleaned himself after all. And she had been right: the day was cold. It would take a while to dry. He would have to find somewhere nice and sunny to nap in for a while.
He nodded back to her, letting her leave. Have a good day,
he returned, turning back to the water to give himself one last douse.