Mm, true. They do seem rather lifeless. [He looks toward the conjugal room, fingers drumming idly on the furniture. The whole thing was odd. The locals had tried to convince him to marry almost as soon as he arrived. He'd refused, obviously--he'd been hoping to stay on the streets and watch for drunkards he could lead away from the crowd, finally sink his fangs into someone.
But no, they'd insisted he attend to one of the couples. His standards might've sunk low enough to count 'indoors and clean' as a victory, but that didn't change the little sting of resentment he was harboring from that.
And so he doesn't take much convincing to interrupt whatever's going on in there.]
Oh, why not. [He stands, smoothing down his poor beleaguered doublet with its gently fraying embroidery, before going to the door. His boots stop just before the little line of salt the locals left there.] Does the wine please the couple?
[There's footsteps on the other side of the door, each accompanied by an odd ticking noise. A voice calls, one that doesn't sound like either of the newlyweds,] Oh, it pleases me, but him? He won't touch it! He's gone completely cold!
[The door slides open, and he freezes for a moment of honest shock--her wide, angry eyes have turned orange and the pupils slit, her face covered in a fine layer of fur. And the blood. The scent is immediate and powerful, her robes are covered in it, and a trail of misshapen footprints leads back to the bed--] He won't even talk to me anymore!
Well, [He laughs, trying to recover. The bride was a lycanthrope, and he was now torn between jealousy over the bloody corpse, irritation at all the waste, and very legitimate worry that he might be next.] I'm sure we can find something to liven him up.
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But no, they'd insisted he attend to one of the couples. His standards might've sunk low enough to count 'indoors and clean' as a victory, but that didn't change the little sting of resentment he was harboring from that.
And so he doesn't take much convincing to interrupt whatever's going on in there.]
Oh, why not. [He stands, smoothing down his poor beleaguered doublet with its gently fraying embroidery, before going to the door. His boots stop just before the little line of salt the locals left there.] Does the wine please the couple?
[There's footsteps on the other side of the door, each accompanied by an odd ticking noise. A voice calls, one that doesn't sound like either of the newlyweds,] Oh, it pleases me, but him? He won't touch it! He's gone completely cold!
[The door slides open, and he freezes for a moment of honest shock--her wide, angry eyes have turned orange and the pupils slit, her face covered in a fine layer of fur. And the blood. The scent is immediate and powerful, her robes are covered in it, and a trail of misshapen footprints leads back to the bed--] He won't even talk to me anymore!
Well, [He laughs, trying to recover. The bride was a lycanthrope, and he was now torn between jealousy over the bloody corpse, irritation at all the waste, and very legitimate worry that he might be next.] I'm sure we can find something to liven him up.