Here’s a post-game Isaac-y thing after years of not writing Isaac-y things that I considered decent
It's almost a little funny that even now, in the wake of the curse's passing, that hatred in the hearts of man is still there, swelling, thick and black, in their chests. He can see it in their eyes behind the look of animal-fear, of disgust. Tastes that same bitterness in the back of his own throat. So much for Hector's fine work. He's not welcome in this town any more than he is any other; he doesn't need the humans to tell him that. But they do anyway, coming at him with pitchforks and billhooks and stakes for the sake of their children, their women, their livestock. And again with the holy water - and how cute it is that they still think it'll do anything other than wet his skin. He might not have wanted this life, this second chance God's laughingly thrust on him. But he's not ready to die either. Not like this, at the hands of these creatures who had once held the power to terrify him a very long time ago. So he has to kill them. He was made for this, for running his spear through guts, lungs, skulls, for crunching his heel into eyes and screaming throats. This isn't like Hector or the Belmont. They're just peasants and ordinary hunters, would-be heroes with too much bravado and too little skill hoping to hang his head on the mantle like a trophy. Easy pickings he thinks he'd feel a little sorry for, if he could. But his only regret is how quickly they fall, some in pieces, some still choking prayers to a God who would never hear them. "Devil take you..." a man gasps out around a mouthful of bright, frothy blood. He pauses to look down at him with his pale eyes. A strigoi's eyes, he's been told. And maybe the humans were right, he thinks. Maybe he was a monster from the start. 'He already has,' he wants to say. But he jams and twists his heel into the man's crotch instead, lets him wail and stay with that agony a while before driving the red, dripping blades of his Chauve-Souris through his ribs. He looks up to find a woman staring, horrified, from the window of her home, clutching a child to her breasts. He offers a thin-lipped smile and steps over the corpses, walking past. Hector... he muses, turning his gaze up to the sky. It's all black, strangely starless. Can you feel me now?
