Barrow Fields Sometimes the unknown is good

From the sea-facing slopes the strigoi descended, a cloud of mist in the night air, floating casually onto the fields alongside the ocean shore. He walked alone tonight, leaving his baiatel and the others in the Raven's Domain, the sharp curving scythes in his mouth twitching in anticipation for the fresh blood and unmarked skin that new prey brought to him. He had long satiated himself on the deer-like frame of his boy, the tiny frames of infesting coyotes and their whelps, but he yearned, hungered for more. Wolf blood, fresh wolf blood, was what he needed. 

As that cloud of mist, empty, harmless, floating with grace and silence, he crossed the sea of grass that preceded the sea of salt and water, amethyst eyes scanning the horizon for the sight of something, anything breathing with heart pumping. His stomach clawed at the inside of his body, at the back of his mind, demanding his rationale and conciousness to feed. 

He is lucky, for his sake and Mazatl's, that he finds someone. It is a prone lupine figure, splayed in the grass, upturned towards the stars. Athan hides a gasp of delight behind his teeth, instead prowling forward, as quiet as he can, as quickly as he can, to reach the woman. The closer he gets, the faster he gets. Athan is quick in his attempt to incapacitate her, throwing a paw so that he was half straddling her body, his muzzle pushed towards her throat, breathing heavily. His mouth moves to her ear, and he begins to speak. Do not move, dulce trata. If you comply, I shall grant you the mercy of life and little pain,