The things that can scent you in the dark, that track you by the smell of your fearful blood, and the things that feast on the small, red, stringy, buffet that is you, don’t take their rest by day, as you would hope, or once believed.
No, dear child, their thoughts churn, and their dreams give them power.
Their lack of humanity robs them of all innocence, and there is no divine judgment on their soulless bodies.
They’ve already made plans for tonight, and you will never know when your part of town, or all of your farms, forests, festivals, and sabbaths will be a day of bloody carnage and a Valhallian feast for the damned.
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Sometimes, they fight among themselves with a great slaughter, but the diminished ranks are always replenished.
It’s neither quick nor pretty, this refilling.
Some are quite willing to die, and some are so wretched they will beg to belong, no matter the cost.
Others will be turned, and still others, turned away, but those are seldom left alive.
These plans, at times, have brought undue and unwanted attention.
Those who bring it are willing to risk the consequences, and bigger losses ensue.
The ruination is glorious in scope, and the air smells of wasted humanity proportional to the scope of the war.
They’re stupid, fragile things, these humans, but they’re sense of self cannot be denied. A rebellious, vain, and silly lot, they are not inept at fighting their enemies. They will cry, and mourn and wail, but they will not stop fighting all the way to their own demise.
But soon, their end must come.
Be there to witness it.
Be there to help it along.
Be there tonight, child.
No, they’re not asleep.
They never are.
Nightshade Stories 