In the cave
Liam stepped into the cave. It was a natural hollow carved within the rocky formation. Outside, the sun was just beginning its ascent, casting a warm glow across the landscape. Years had passed since he had last witnessed the dawn. "I had forgotten," he murmured, his voice a mere whisper in the stillness.
As night reluctantly surrendered to day, the air transitioned from a faint orange hue to full illumination.
Sunlight, dappled and warm, filtered through the treetops, painting the forest floor in a mosaic of light and shadow. This gentle caress revealed a world Liam had never paused to appreciate on Earth – a tapestry woven from the delicate veins of leaves, the soft hues of wildflowers peeking through the undergrowth, and the intricate dance of dust motes in the sunbeams.
The weight of fatigue settled heavily upon him, urging him deeper into the cave to seek a refuge to sleep in.
As he walked into the cave, the sunlight faded, replaced by the cool, damp air that clung to the walls. The silence was broken only by the occasional drip of water from somewhere deep within. Liam's footsteps echoed softly in the darkness, his senses heightened, alert for any sign of danger.
He discovered a vast central chamber, the heart of a network of corridors that branched off like hidden veins. Hundreds of smaller alcoves, some barely large enough to accommodate a single body, dotted the walls. Liam chose one of these tiny chambers, a snug haven, and settled himself comfortably within.
Sleep, a precious commodity for one who walked the night, claimed him swiftly. Dreams, vivid and intense, washed over him, transporting him.
In his dreams, he tasted the rich, intoxicating nectar of life, the blood of his prey coursing through his veins, invigorating his senses and fueling his strength. He reveled in the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stalked his quarry.
With a swift, almost effortless motion, he would sink his fangs into their flesh, the warm, life-giving fluid filling his mouth. The taste was intoxicating, a symphony of flavors that danced on his tongue.
He envisioned creatures of his own creation, their very existence tethered to his will, their lives sustained by the blood he bestowed upon them.
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He woke up abruptly to the sound of voices in the cellar.
He sat up and listened closely; he could hear a distant conversation between three men.
"Move ahead, idiot," a very hoarse and dry voice said.
"I'm not very comfortable. Maybe we should call for reinforcements?" another, more hesitant and frail voice asked.
"Since when do you ask questions? Have you no honor? Move ahead, we said," a third voice replied.
Liam smiled upon hearing the voices; it seemed there were three men looking for something here.
They mentioned other men, so he decided to make sure they stayed silent. He grabbed his hunting dagger and left his bow and arrows in the small alcove.
He knew the three men wouldn't be a problem with his physical abilities.
Moreover, they smelled delicious; he could sense the scent of their blood from here.
"What am I becoming?" he murmured. But he didn't stop his march toward the men.
Quickly, with his enhanced vision, he saw three men approaching in the cellar corridors without being seen by them.
They were dressed in leather tunics and chainmail.
"Soldiers," Liam thought.
The soldier at the head of the group was a skinny man in his early twenties; behind him were two robust, bearded men with rough, hard faces.
One of the two brutes carried a heavy crossbow, and the other had a long knife.
They rudely pushed the young man when he didn't move fast enough.
"Come on, move, idiot."
The young man held a torch in his right hand and had a knife at his belt.
Liam observed the flame, feeling a sense of danger, he knew he was vulnerable to fire.
"Never mind," he thought, "I can always heal with their blood."
A guttural roar erupted from his throat as he launched himself at the group.
The men, their faces draining of color, stood paralyzed. Liam was a nightmare made flesh. His tunic clung to him like a second skin, a horrifying tapestry woven from crimson clots. Dried blood caked his face, like a grotesque mask painted in rust.
The skinny young man backed away hurriedly, placing himself behind the man with the knife.
The man with the knife stood up and brandished his blade.
"Damn..." the man with the knife didn't finish his sentence.
Liam grabbed the arm holding the blade and threw the brute against the rocky floor of the cellar, smashing his eyebrow and cheekbone at the same time. Without letting go of the arm, he crushed the man's neck on the ground, breaking the vertebrae with a sharp crack.
The man's body relaxed after one last convulsion.
The man with the crossbow fumbled with his weapon, his aim wavering as he pointed it towards Liam. The crossbow slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground like a dropped shield, as Liam's cold and unwavering gaze locked onto him.
The young man tried to flee but stumbled, and his torch slid across the rock before falling into a puddle and going out, plunging the cellar corridor into darkness.
"Idiots," Liam murmured.