Re: Grand Staircase
He was in a foul mood when he left the alcove and the lifeless body of the undead thing behind. He was all animal, and nothing of the man that prowled restlessly within, awoken from an endless slumber, and he didn't worry about the undead not remaining dead. Those concerns were human ones, and the human was not in attendance this evening. He left the alcove with the same dominating thought as he'd entered it.
Hunger.
He pulled the dark hood back over his lank hair, and he smoothed fingers gone red with blood over the wound that still trickled sluggishly at his neck. He was an animal, and he didn't stop hunting prey because of a nothing wound that would not kill him. Enough time to lick said wound later. Or, preferably, to find something else to lick it for him.
He stayed in the shadows, this creature with the Wolf's eyes, and the Wolf's maw, and the Wolf's appetites. He prowled the corners of the room like a hunter, and this time he sought prey that he desired. The last one had come to him, and it had left him with nothing but wounds and emptiness. Tonight was not a night for emptiness.
He was on the ground floor when he noticed the whore in the wifebeater and jeans, and anyone nearby could hear the low growl that built in his chest and escaped that sickening maw without restraint as he moved toward the staircase once more.
He walked up behind the advertisement, and unforgiving clawed fingertips closed around the wrist that trailed fingers along the bannister. The grip was bruising, and the tips of his fingers dug into the paperthin white without caution, causing rivulets of red to trail to the elegant surface beneath. He didn't speak.