Roadside tent: Daniel W & Damian W
Daniel was not so subtle. In fact, he was more like a wrecking ball in comparison.
He didn't worry about the lights. The darkness was his, and he would not be driven hence by anything stronger than daylight, several hours off. While he was uncomfortable out in the open, almost a mile away from his home, Daniel was driven forward by pure outrage. Challenges to his solitary existence had come from all quarters over the last couple weeks, whether it was Sam needing tutelage, Cris howling at him about one thing or another, or even Jude trying to lure him outside on small pretexts. Daniel felt hounded and defensive, with the three of them telling him his instinct to stay away from other vampires was confusing, unnecessary or hurtful in turn. Yet he was handy when they wanted something, when they thought he could provide them a service, to save one whore in a million from the distant theory of suicide, or to teach one selfish little girl how to get through the afterlife without leaving a trail of bodies behind. Daniel felt like nobody gave a damn about how he felt about the whole thing, as if his greater experience with being himself hardly mattered in the wake of this disaster. He wanted to tear at anything scratching at his door, rip apart the people who kept laying siege to the way he lived his life.
The blood madness of months before had been so sudden and yet so short. Daniel came out of it astonished to be in the same century, much less the same town. He couldn't speak American with the facility he had before Halloween, and the number of people familiar and predictable to him had become very few indeed. He questioned their loyalty. Paranoia lurked around the corners. His purpose for coming to Repose was long gone, skipping off in loose-laced tennis shoes and to the strains of gospel, and if that didn't make him want to nail people to the floor, nothing did.
In short, Daniel stalked across the empty highway toward that lopsided tent with a whole lot of rage. Somebody had brought Something into his town, along with rumors of vampirism dangerous to both him and Sam. And quite frankly, he was there to kill those people. He moved fast, but not supernaturally fast, not knowing he was being watched. In the hot summer night he was without his black coat, wearing some white linen shirt with the buttons done up askew over indeterminate gray slacks. He had forgotten his shoes, and moved like death: graceful purpose. He came straight for the opening of the tent. Damian's heartbeat was one of a few thudding along in there. He hardly noticed.