Chapter 3
As he waited for Baelish to recover and for the meal he had ordered to arrive, he cast his mind back to when he had first arrived, cast through the outer darkness to this strange and initially terrifying place.
He had found himself in the middle of a great, steppe like plain, grass swaying in the nighttime breeze for as far as the eye could see. Above him blazed constellations of stars that looked unfamiliar to him, he had cast his mind out in panic, but could sense almost nothing, only the dull minds of animals.
Rather than wait he had set out walking, noticing the slow progression of the stars overhead he assumed he was walking westwards, he did not know why he picked this direction, only that he did.
As dawn began to break, he was forced into the ignominy of digging himself a shallow grave with his bare hands, and lying down in it and covering himself up with the loose and dry dirt of this steppe. It was the only way to hide himself from the baleful glare of the rising sun, and not be consumed by the rays of his kinds olden and implacable foe.
He spent an uncomfortable day lying in the dirt, trying to sleep but his mind refused to be calm, for he was vulnerable and unprotected, his mind cast its mental probes all around him, seeking out any sign of, well, anything.
His mind discovered nothing and as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, he dug himself out of his 'grave' and continued on walking westwards. He crossed several streams, pausing to drink the cooling waters, he would have much preferred something crimson and hot, but his human shell had its needs, just as his true self had its own needs.
On the wind he caught a scent that set his mouth salivating, the faintest of faint scent of humans, prey...food. He sniffed at the air, his face melting and cracking as it reformed into a visage of something hellish, part wolf, part bat, part human. His jaws lengthened and reformed, great fangs filling his mouth, a wet snout where his nose once was sniffing at the air, his ears elongating and rising up above his skull, weirdly mobile and quivering. And his eyes blazed crimson in his head, searing points of light, casting illumination over feature like something out of a nightmare.
He set off at a lope, following the scent like a great, savage bloodhound, because that was what he was in truth, his mind blank and only focused on finding prey and consuming blood. He traversed miles and miles at his pace, the seent growing stronger and more defined, horse scent mixed into with human scent, as he got closer and closer other scents began to distinguish themselves, leather, armor, iron.
He was close enough now to pick up sounds on the wind, the odd snatches of speaking, the odd scream. The distinctive scent of humans having sex caught in his nostrils and he smiled and monstrous smile, for he could satiate both of his desires it seemed.
In the distance his eyes caught the flicker of firelight and a small feeling of triumph thrilled
through him, focusing his eyes he picked out details that would be as yet invisible to any
other creature. An encampment of some size, many tents and horses, multiple campfires burning, and no guards posted, what a shame.
A altered his direction of travel to move around the camp and approach upwind, horses could be spooked easily enough and unless they were used to him, or he was able to exert his mentalism on these often dull witted beasts, his scent often panicked them.
Slowing down he crept closer and closer, scenting the air and his ears flicking back and forth, he decided to let his mind expand outwards, though carefully, barely toughing each mind he encountered.
He whipped back his mind, terror consuming him....where was he? What, what was this place? What he had seen in the minds he had barely touched was terrifying, incomprehensible. Panic gripped him, him, Faethor Ferenczy, a thousand years old and a Wamphyri! Aye, sheer terror and panic.
He did not know how long he spent, his mind tumbling and spinning in his head, unable to get any sort of purchase when from the encampment a man strode out, one of these so called 'Dothraki' no doubt
Pure instinct took over and he moved swiftly like a great cat, silently approaching the man, who had dropped into a squat to take a shit. He slowed his approach, letting the man finish his last ever bodily function before he pounced as the Dothraki stood up, a smashing kick to the lower back while at the same time wrapping his hands around the savage's face and neck to stifle any scream.
He dashed off into the night with his meal in his arms, the Dothraki's spine was broken but he as yet still lived, he always preferred his meals alive, their own heats pumping their blood made dining so much easier.
Running at an easy, loping pace he covered a mile or so before he stopped and sat himself down for his repast, dumping the Dothraki into the dirt before him. Unlike with females, who had convenient openings for pleasure and feeding he rarely used the less appropriate openings that men were provided with. He merely tore out the Dothraki's throat with his fangs and supped the old-fashioned way, messily and rather wasteful and all that it was, it was still viscerally pleasurable to do when the occasion demanded it.
Once he was finished, he twisted the savages head clean off and tossed it away, letting the body slump to the ground at his feet.
He would follow this party of Dothraki he decided, to see where they would lead him, as they would provide him with 'meat on the hoof" to feed upon.