Crimson Vision: Forward Let Us Range

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

Malcolm smiles as he wipes the blood from his blade. This time, it had been quick, the bystander fleeing towards the light like a rat, the thief swooning against the press of unseen teeth. The wilting half-spent scoundrel's neck is unmarred when he is tossed like trash into a dumpster. Malcolm is never one to shop off the rack, but he is one to take a taste.

He slips through the alleyway, and back onto the roaring sidewalk. Still, the knight's veins strain for it, screams for it -- the blood here is so thin, so ill-bred, and he wants more. But is it blood he craves? Or the hunt? He ranges forward, expanding his search. The gathered shadows watch.

Making his way to the serene cemetery at Beech Grove, he pushes open unlocked gate. Over the croak and squeak of rust, he hears the laughing children: drinking and rutting against hallowed stones. He winds along the dimly-lit path, and then steps onto the dark grass. He waits by a diseased beech tree. He waits patiently. An hour passes before one of the teenage vandals steps away from the crowd. Laughing, he kicks over a tombstone and staggers toward the tree, intending to empty his bladder on blessed ground. His veins will be lightened as well.