It wasn’t too hard to tell the regular bats apart from one of the bloody brethren. They tended to look somewhat awkward in their own skin, as happens when sic foot of brooding undead was compressed into one foot of flying rodent. No doubt they could spot us a mile off, if they’d had the sight for it, but usually gave little indication of animosity. But evening amongst other creatures of the night, we do tend to stand out.
When they all go flapping off the nibble on gnats we’ll be the last one to take flight, that is, if we’ve not drifted off. Again, not a natural state, even for an unnatural being such as us, the so called satanic spawn. Thus what tends to happen is a preponderance of intermittent snoozing, much to counter the image of cool and menacing demeanour cultivated since our discrete revaluation to old Stoker and his ilk a century or two ago. We had done well for PR, in the most part, if coming across as more malignant than most of us would prefer, for discretion’s sake, but alas, such is the way of the vampire, admittedly in our latter days, far from our prime.
So much for merry meadows, how the Rex Lactucis flourish in the Madlands of the Marshes. Hailing from Kelfazin, this disciple of Darzin has prospered by such unnatural selection to survive the terra incognita of a land seemingly so barren, as their deviation from banal novelty grounds them as, like a child’s nightmare, so unforsaking in their corrupt innocence.