He saw her as he was walking home after enjoying his night's meal. She twirled and danced in the moonlight, humming an odd tune and she was lovely.
He watched her, being careful to mask his presence in the shadows. It was a surprise, therefore, that she paused in her dance to look through the shadows that hid him, directly into his eyes, a wicked smile on her lips.
She was in front of him almost before he knew it. “The stars, they sing of you. You are their spark, their flame,” giving him a frown and a shake of her head she hurried to add, “but not too bright or you'll burn all to ash.”
Her hand cupped his cheek, drawing a hiss as her nails drew blood, eyes fluttering closed as she licked the drops from his face.
“They whisper such lovely tales of you and they'll be blood, rivers of blood,” She leaned into breath “La Magra.” into his ear. A keen of distress escaped her lips. “The blade, the nasty blade is so sharp. You must watch the blade, it will try to poison you and then there will be no rivers of blood.”
It seemed as if she'd deteriorate from there. He didn't understand much of what she had said, as riddled as it was, but he knew where to start his search, La Magra - The Blood God, and that was good enough for him.
He turned to leave but changed his mind, turning around he noticed that she seemed to have pulled herself together. “What is your name?”
She smiled a deceptively innocent smile as she answered, “Drusilla.”
He returned her smile, “I'm Deacon, Deacon Frost.” He began to walk away before he heard her call his name.
“The Pure. Use the Pure.” She giggled as she danced away.
His brow creased in confusion, use the pure?, shrugging his shoulders as he began walking again, he pushed his confusion away for now, he'd learn eventually.