To Barrobos, the smell was the most noticeable thing. It was a pungent, wet smell, old and rotten . Dried blood, tangy and full of a metallic tint, wafted through the air from the shaggy beasts arrayed in a semi-circle around him and his men. They had been as silent as shadows.

The men stood with weapons drawn. Barrobos cursed his own incompetence, certain he had missed some subtle sign of their approach. He should have been more careful. How foolish of them to think they could transverse these lands without notice. The vampire Ravenholt had dwelled here for countless years. He was part of the land, part of its decrepit nature. He could feel anything that did not belong as a man feels a sword point in his stomach. Barrobos had thought he knew better.

Done berating himself after only a flash of thought, the regiment commander fell into a fighting crouch, shutting off any negative emotions that might interfere with his actions. Now was not the time for contemplations or self affliction. Barrobos knew there was never any need to be hard on oneself. The world always did a pretty thorough job of inflicting pain on its own.

“Stay near,” he said. “No man leaves circle of comrades.”

Barrobos stayed in the center and they made their move to escape.

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