The Hunt, the Kill

The smell came out of nowhere. No one else seemed to notice it, and Myra wondered if she were hallucinating again. It wouldn't be the first time. So she ignored it. But on a stronger breeze, it came again. The scent of undeath. She couldn't mistake it for anything else. Even the dead smelled different than the undead...

Noting her odd expression, Strongbow questioned her. She told of what she thought she smelled and decided she was better safe than sorry. Using the soft breeze coming in off the bay, she soon found the strongest location of the scent, and the point where she became 'upwind' of whatever it was. But she could see nothing. With a small frown, she searched the ground for markings.

A gasp came from somewhere in the group of faces behind her as a drow appeared before them, whispering arcane words. Myra jumped back and circled around Strongbow's ethereal steed, trying to avoid the blade that had sprung to the drow's hands and at the same time string her bow. Finally stringing the bow, she whipped an arrow from her quiver and fired. Her aim struck true. But the arrow embedded in the drow's chest did not stop him. It took Myra a moment to focus... and when she did, a memory came to her. Vampiric drow. She'd heard mention of them only once... in a small notebook she'd read in the library...

Her hand sought her quiver, again and again. Sometimes pursuing, sometimes being pursued.... Until at last, one of her arrows sunk deep in its chest. Silently it collapsed to the ground. Myra moved near to inspect the corpse. However, her gut instinct overrode her intellectual curiosity. Her stomach tumbled within her at the smell, and the rush of adrenaline that still flowed through her veins. Excusing herself, she left the others to tend to the corpse.

The last time she remembered outright killing something with that much intent was Baal'morda. It was that thought that tied her stomach into knots. The rush of the hunt. The sound of her own heartbeat, blood rushing, throbbed in her head. It was something in the thrill of the kill that made her queasy. Not the stench of a drow turned vampire.

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> The smell came out of nowhere. No one else seemed to notice it, and Myra wondered if she were hallucinating again. It wouldn't be the first time. So she ignored it. But on a stronger breeze, it came again. The scent of undeath. She couldn't mistake it for anything else. Even the dead smelled different than the undead... > Noting her odd expression, Strongbow questioned her. She told of what she thought she smelled and decided she was better safe than sorry. Using the soft breeze coming in off the bay, she soon found the strongest location of the scent, and the point where she became 'upwind' of whatever it was. But she could see nothing. With a small frown, she searched the ground for markings. > A gasp came from somewhere in the group of faces behind her as a drow appeared before them, whispering arcane words. Myra jumped back and circled around Strongbow's ethereal steed, trying to avoid the blade that had sprung to the drow's hands and at the same time string her bow. Finally stringing the bow, she whipped an arrow from her quiver and fired. Her aim struck true. But the arrow embedded in the drow's chest did not stop him. It took Myra a moment to focus... and when she did, a memory came to her. Vampiric drow. She'd heard mention of them only once... in a small notebook she'd read in the library... > Her hand sought her quiver, again and again. Sometimes pursuing, sometimes being pursued.... Until at last, one of her arrows sunk deep in its chest. Silently it collapsed to the ground. Myra moved near to inspect the corpse. However, her gut instinct overrode her intellectual curiosity. Her stomach tumbled within her at the smell, and the rush of adrenaline that still flowed through her veins. Excusing herself, she left the others to tend to the corpse. > The last time she remembered outright killing something with that much intent was Baal'morda. It was that thought that tied her stomach into knots. The rush of the hunt. The sound of her own heartbeat, blood rushing, throbbed in her head. It was something in the thrill of the kill that made her queasy. Not the stench of a drow turned vampire.
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