Send 🔪 to find my muse drenched in blood after they killed someone, or send 🔪🔪 for reverse.

Rowan knew it looked bad.

… Well, from another perspective, he supposed it could’ve been.

It was all over now, but the air continued to buzz with violent energies. The attack, thrust upon him out of the blue, was a ripe opportunity in his mind. If Rowan were to take a life, he could think of no reason why the blood should go to waste. 

 There was one tiny problem however. 

Vampires were painted in a terrible light and he could fault no one for it. In the aftermath, he was standing in a half crouch over that corpse, blood made black in the night as it dribbled from his fangs and lips and stained the road, and the robber lay forever silent to all but the Gods. Who could say he hadn’t started this? Worse still, where was the proof his prey was some manner of ill-doer? 

For all anyone else knew, he could’ve made a meal off some impoverished soul seeking warmth and shelter. 

He decided to speak when the big Nord (and werewolf, he added to himself curiously) found him. Better to do that than try and be bizarrely inconspicuous, or hide.

“… You’ll be wanting to keep an eye out,” he called a warning. “The roads in Falkreath are harrowing at night.”