Barrow Fields empyreal.

He was a child of night, and the glowing disk of light in the east was one of the few foes he could not defeat. From his kill — a pathetic meager, feathered thing tasting of salt and fish — the strigoi squinted at the growing light, crimson beads dripping from his pearl-like maw. His tongue seeks out the wayward drops as his eyes cut over the plains, searching for some shelter. He was a bastard of the light; it weakened him, and weakness was something the strigoi despised. 

His dark amethyst eyes locked on the waif in the distance. Luckily for her, he had already saited his bloodlust, and as he grew close, her gibbering deterred him from her presence. He was not sure how sane she was; he trailed her silently, her frame locked in his gaze.