Volume Three - WordPress.com — Get a Free Blog Here

“I am called Dréoteth.”
I enunciated each syllable slowly, unable to abide the pleasure of his death with the wrong name on his lips.
Dray-o-teth.
It was the first time I have uttered it in—I do not know how long. Decades. Centuries. Mister Mathan, a prominent member
of society, now knows exactly who and what has been picking off the citizens of Malmsbury.
I worry not for my safety. The dead tell no tales.
If the villagers knew what an atrocity walks among them, as one of them, they would look upon me with horror rather than
intrigue and curiosity. But they do not.
The people have no idea that the scribe in their midst is the one responsible for their nightmares, for the dark whispers in the
corners of the inns and taverns.
I have been here for six months and have chosen my prey wisely. I have not attacked them in groups even though I have been
tempted. Sometimes I want to change right before their eyes and watch them flee en masse, terror thick on the air, their screams
layered one over the other.
In this subtle way, taking one victim at a time, I can stretch out the duration of my stay and study them. The townsfolk have
concocted many stories about the unexpected disappearances; one rumor insists that one of their own has gone insane. Another is that
a curse has been placed upon the village by a troupe of gypsies that passed through not long before I arrived here.
A random stroke of luck, that, since it throws any suspicion off me. As a newer member of their small society, any ill news or
bad omens and strange deaths might be blamed upon the man they know the least about.
In an attempt to blend in better, I gave them a false name when I arrived. Here in the village of Malmsbury, they know me as
Nehemiah Trimble. I amuse myself with these trivial little details. Centuries past, I never bothered to try and integrate or get to
know them. There is danger in doing this, which I suppose is part of the lure. In a fit of brash honesty, I admit that humans have
always been nothing more than food in my mind, not worthy of my time or commitment. They are prey, and I am a predator. I found
their trials and tribulations tedious. Humans fret and worry over nonsensical things.
However, the longer I spend amongst them, the more I find myself annoyingly intrigued. There are several men in this town with
intellects almost as big as their egos and on more than one occasion we have engaged in interesting conversation. I find myself seeking
their company out, shockingly, and could swear that they seek mine out also. I wish that did not fill me with a sense of satisfaction.
They are only men, after all, vastly inferior and I know in time they will prove that their true worth is in how well they fill my belly.
In another contradiction, I find myself loathe to target those with artistic skill; painters, architects, musicians. I am secretly
fascinated by their abilities, as much as I wish I was not.
A woman who serves here at the inn, Eugenia Bailey, bears watching. It is almost as if she can peel open the layers of a person
and take a look inside. I know, because I caught her doing it to me and it was most unsettling.
For a rare moment, I thought she knew my secret.
I have not lived this long to be disabled by a glance, no matter how incisive, and dismissed the notion immediately. I will see her,
in fact I will see them all again on the morrow. There is a great festival planned and while they revel, I will do my best not to be
incited by their energy.
For now the candle burns low and the hour grows late.
Dréoteth.
The distorted image that stared back at him in the looking glass resembled a gentleman. His coat, black wool
with matching trim, fit loose from his shoulders to his thighs. Layered underneath, a black vest and white shirt
added contrast but he cast a critical eye on the snug breeches that tapered down into knee high boots.
They were gray, the color of ashes, and he considered changing them to match his coat.
When Dréoteth realized that he was dawdling over his appearance like some normal human, he snorted.
Humans and their wardrobes, in his grandiose opinion, were too bright, too frilly, too overdone. If he
weren’t careful, he would next be shuffling through wigs and ruffles and lace kerchiefs that had absolutely no
business anywhere in the vicinity of a man. The thought was laughable if he’d been the type given to fits of
amused whimsy.
He was not.
Austere. Over-confident. Aggressive. Those were words that better suited him.
Weak fingers of light, the last hurrah of a dying dusk, painted the spartan room more orange than ochre. It
turned his olive skin a jaundiced hue and streaked his jet-black hair with bronze.