Lyrian Stratagem
{ Ruse among Beasts }
Why he had done it ? The act in itself hadn’t really crossed his forethought , where his own judgement would manifest. Laying claim of the unscrupulous act out of influence. Beckoning the excuse rather impassively , one he in the long run ended up convincing himself upon belief. A territorial dispute ? Or so it was what he had conjured for the story in question. It would have been hard for his pack to fathom had he simply poured the full extent of the deed - the precise foundation of why the Beast of Lyria had been slain essentially by his hands. That he, Dettlaff van der Eretein, their alpha, higher vampire of tribe Gharasham ; did it because the folk suffering over it’s hunting grounds had been kind to him abroad their social exterior.
That the Fiend bull had gone rogue with countless slaughter - pointless slaughter. Speculative that the beast had been searching for nesting grounds to entice a female ( if their even had been one.) Particularly odd to be over a human stronghold by fault of the animal’s quest.
So there the beast’s carcass lay within the outskirts of deserted stone. Almost peaceful when brought to an insentient state. Not much of a struggle indicated by the flesh either. The throat is where the final blow was made , it was where the evidence could conjugate. Yet the lesion bore too clean; precision ended life without suffering. Yet the essence that gave life, gathered at a pool beneath his feet. With it conceived an immense intoxication to lesser creatures that roamed these regions. Though his scent alone on the beast could easily deter the majority of corpse eaters.
Yet it was in good intention that the decision to drain the beast before presenting him to a hunter a mile out. What good would a staged hunt have been, if ghouls found him absent of the odor that served to dissuade them in the first place. A contradiction he wasn’t willing to risk.
He looked perturbed by the idea, if not the entire situation. Regret settling thin, weighing him inward . The guilt conducting his hesitance to progress. Digits though once idle with verification discoloring talons that gradually receded; twitched irregularly as he hoovered over the mass. A twinge of his rigidity, corrupting his expression with one of disdain. Singularly reflective and drawn within. A language spoken through his movement and his body poised, easily registered that regret openly so. A stage of forgiveness if not solicited, for what he was about to do.
A now presenting limb gathered behind him, it grasped the decorative hilt of a blade ; a short ranged weapon, the dagger was released with a protesting hiss against captive steel and pine - a sign of it’s neglect . Before it was brought to his fore and thrust deliberately messy into the gullet and onward, descending. Impersonating the sheer desperation of a mortal man in the act.
