Indeed, they knew nothing of the foe they faced - which was greater than hunger and cold could ever be. It thought little of the guns and spears hefted or fired by men; when they struck their mark, they drew blood, of course, but more of their lives went towards fixing that. It was a delightful game, if monotonous.
That was the creature\'s problem these nights; boredom. The native people had been sport for a while, but then he had held himself back too long, toying with them and drinking far too little for one his age. Barely two mortal years had this curse been upon him and sneaking up on muscular braves, secretly draining bits of their life away one night after the other hadn\'t been enough.
A terrible bloodlust had struck unexpectedly, and when he finally came out from it he found he\'d squandered his favoured prizes - the children - and bested numerous adults too. The rest of the tribe were gone and he was left with beasts for a while, until the Gods had seen fit to provide him with new sport and something refreshing for his palette. The pilgrims brought with them a touch of nostalgia, a taste of home... a home unremembered, frustratingly obscured by the mists of confusion.
Addled his brain, it had, when his mistress had bit him. He\'d been strong, honest, healthy and she\'d seduced him with honeyed lips and silken thighs. Afterwards, he was this beast and he couldn\'t even remember his name let alone the names of any that might\'ve loved him before. She\'d looked after him though, his mistress, teaching him how to hunt and play in the crowded playground of seventeenth century Europe. They\'d travelled, laughed, fucked and drunk their way across continents, meeting exotic people with even more exotic dreams.
One such had brought them here, to this new world, to the established colony of Jamestown and they had been thrilled with the energy and fear still to be found in the place. Tragedy struck though, one night while they were hunting a woman and her children; a number of men returned unexpectedly and his mistress was unable to fight her way out. He\'d seen her burn from a safe distance away, his eyes watery with tears before he\'d fled, ridden north as fast and randomly as the horse he stole would allow.
The grief had blinded and numbed him for a while, sending him senseless and after animals then, too, before he\'d learned to stalk the stalkers - the natives. The whites feared them, and the natives underestimated him because he was alone, so he learned to perfect his sport. He\'d also learned that it was best to hunt the men first, to eliminate the threats if he wanted to be left alone to enjoy the spoils properly.
It was a blur, how long it had gone on, really. He hadn\'t had cause to speak in so long he wasn\'t even sure he still could and the cave he slept the days in - while excruciatingly well-concealed - was making him think more and more of a grave. He\'d had cause to ponder his life\'s meaning, the joy he got from toying with mortals, but also to question if there could be any more to this existence. There were empty nights to be filled with whatever amusement he could find but he was so well used to the hunt now - and even the spoils - that it was becoming tedious, too, and the days he crawled back into his hole and just... slept. Was this to be all, then? Sleeping and stalking in as creative a manner as he could define for himself?
As he watched this new watcher man, this blonde with the keen eyes - who seemed to be quite intelligently almost looking straight at him, knowing he would come from the trees (but not how fast) - these things occurred to him again. It was time he tried something new, to see if it would fill the empty hollow in his heart, if there could be anything poured in to fill up his soul besides screams and enlivening terror.
He thought he was clever to contemplate approaching from the front, a white man who could speak their language, even if the words he thought in in his head had a different lilt. Thing was, he knew it wouldn\'t work because of the way he looked - and he was clever enough to realise that, too.
He was exceptionally tall at six feet and five inches, his hair a bright red tangled with twigs and leaves and dirt from his cave, the waist-length mop not even pulled back into a horse-tail to prevent further entanglement. He was also barely dressed; once he\'d worn fashionable, modern clothes, but now he wore offcast animal-skin native pants that ended well above his ankle, no shoes and no shirt. His lily-white skin practically shone like a beacon under a decent-sized moon, the muscles and unforgiving ridges of his hard body highlighted like one of the classic marble statues that swam occasionally into his patchwork memory for consideration.
No, as clever as his plan might be to approach from the front, he could look down at himself and see enough to know he wouldn\'t pass for one of them. Best to come from behind, then, and make his presence felt that way. He began to move through the trees, circling around on feet that swished through frosted grass like a breeze, not too worried about the twigs he cracked on the way. It would sound like an animal or, if it didn\'t, would alert this kind-looking man to look in the opposite direction he would come from (because two things he was, were strong and fast and he\'d be long gone from where those little noises came from by the time the white man looked).
Patiently, he circled and picked the right moment to come up behind the stranger, pleased that there was no fire nearby to complicate things. He was able to step up and, in one smooth motion, wrap arms about the coated figure. One hand wove around the waist while the other held the mouth closed so he wouldn\'t be able to scream, both of them pinning the warm, instantly-struggling mortal to his rock-hard body.
"Ho there, well met," he said, his voice indeed croaky and rough from misuse but the words surprisingly clear. He no longer knew that his accent had been spawned in the heart of London town itself, but it didn\'t faze him. He wanted the words to have some sort of impact on the man he was holding and possibly stop him struggling but that was a risk. It was as likely to be a failure as a success and that was exactly what already thrilled him about this new venture.
