Quoth the Raven

Contemptuously the aristocratic deathdealer looks upon the body of the naive girl, barely offering a snort of derision to the motionless corpse before sidling back down the street in the direction of the nearest Inn. Whistling an age old tune to the night sky, the beast is satisfied, the hunger sated for the evening.

So it believes.

The lamps gutter, shying away from the passage of the unnatural host, the aura of cold undeath threatening to swallow even the light of the flames within the beacons. Entering a dark alley, making toward the rear of the oceanside inn, the vampire halts to watch a vagabond picking through the piles of waste cast from the door of the establishment. A gleam of hunger alights its red tinged eyes, the urge to kill overwhelming, returning once again. Creeping amid the shadows, the vampire stalks closer, awaiting its chance.

Bedraggled in a patchwork cloak, the hermit smells to the high heavens, worse than the dockside aromas of rotting fish and brine. His appendages are heavily wrapped in rotting rags, presumably to thwart the bitter bite of exposure on icy nights. His head is concealed in the inspection of his latest find, cradled in his hands.

Opportunity is never wasted on the opportunist, and blood is just as sweet irrespective of its source. The blood-drinker surges forth, its claws digging deeply into the depths of the vagrant's back, making for the throat. And yet, the body of its victims seems to cave inward, away from the damage, avoiding the grip.

In a flash of unfollowed movement, the vagrant turns, catching the vampire in midair, throttled by the neck in a viced grip. The night stalker scratches at the arms restraining him, throwing its head from side to side, attempting to find the means to bite.

"Enough" whispers the hermit. His voice, filled with the timeless echo of countless victims. The vampire's eyes widen, suddenly in fear and recognition. The voices are those of HIS victims.

"Thou hast found thy last sustenance upon this plane. Thou arte now mine." The talons at his throat tighten. Eldritch flames flow from the once vagobond's orbless eyes, encompassing the undead abomination. The memories of past murders flood into the vampire's mind, along with the certainty that oblivion has come at last. Scrabbling for freedom, the creature weeps, sable tear marring its cheeks.

The azure fires grow, encompassing the form of the vampire, its screams swallowed in the crackling force of the unearthly burn until nothing remains. Retracting his arm from the now empty space, the hermit returns to his scavenging, awaiting the next opportunist seeking oblivion.