#witcher-regis

----------

Early spring in southern Toussaint, 1272.

-----------

It had been well over a century since he last celebrated a traditional vampire holiday with his tribe, and Regis had been equally nervous as he was excited.

When Detlaff approached the topic with him it was as the two were collecting herbs by the waxing moonlight. A laugh had erupted from Detlaff’s chest when Regis lit up with excitement. He left the following morning to procure suitable wardrobe for Regis. Detlaff returned later with a finely embroidered carnelian doublet and black breeches, and helped tailor the garments to fit properly to Regis’ form. He wore them for the next three days straight, much to Detlaff’s amusement.

On the day of the full moon, Regis’ excitement began to ebb and was soon replaced by a growing anxiety.

Nervous energy manifested itself through Regis picking at his sleeves absentmindedly, as the two made their way along the path south of Mère-Lachaiselongue. He missed his satchel and wished he had remembered to wear it, if for no other reason than to have something to fidget with.

The celebrations of the Worm Moon were for deepening of familial and pack bonding, and Regis wondered if he would be accepted by his brethren after his extended absence. There was also the matter of his controversial view of treating humans as equals, something which a majority of vampires viewed with disgust. Should any violent conflicts arise, he doubted his ability to defend himself against an onslaught of angry higher vampires. Regis was still in regenerative stages. He was able to walk about; shift into mist, and even into some bestial forms, but nowhere near his former power.

Moreover, it was tradition to take place on a hunt and spill blood by the light of this moon, and the temptation this presented to him made him arguably more nervous than the acceptance of his peers. As of late his cravings had been more persistent, perhaps in response to drinking from Detlaff to supplement his regeneration. Regis was sure that if he participated in a hunt now, he would lose control and spiral into old habits.

Detlaff was acutely aware of Regis’ anxiety as they walked in the waning light, wordlessly laying a comforting hand on his shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Regis was his guest and his brother in blood; they were family now. If anyone had anything to say about it, they would answer to him first. The gesture elicited a small smile from the older vampire, though it was not enough to quell the thoughts plaguing him as they continued on.

As the pair approached the clearing, the dark had fully set in and the moon’s light had not yet reached its pinnacle for the night. Already, there was a significant gathering of vampires laughing, joking and embracing in their reunion. Detlaff was recognized immediately by several bruxae who greeted him enthusiastically, only noticing his company as an afterthought.

The jubilant atmosphere was halted as the members of the tribe recognized Regis in attendance, ushering whispers and hushed words amongst themselves as they eyed up the two. At this Detlaff stood tall with shoulders back, cold blue gaze challenging the others to dare to speak out against him. He could still feel the anxious energy emanating off his companion, but this did not deter him. Tension in the air was thick, and Regis felt as though his heart may leap out of his chest. Desperately wishing to avoid a conflict, Regis moved to speak his intention to support his pack and blood brother. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to explain himself, but found the words would not come. The tension was finally cut, when a voice rang out

“Regis, old friend, about time you joined us for a lunar celebration!” Orianna, a cautious smile on her face, approached the two and pulled him into an embrace. Regis felt himself breathe a heavy sigh of relief and reciprocated the gesture. Detlaff also seemed to relax, if less so, and with that the conversational din gradually returned.

Over the course of the next hour or so the trio kept to the fringe of the group, and with the exception of a few individuals who asked for Detlaff’s attention, the three of them kept the conversation to themselves. Orianna was interested in what Regis had been up to over these years, and he was more than happy to recant the time he spent with the Hansa, the incident at Castle Stygga, how Detlaff had found him and aided him in regeneration. The conversation was friendly, and to his relief the atmosphere in the group seemed non-hostile. In spite of this however, Regis could still feel the gaze of the other pack mates on him occasionally. It was made clear to him that very few of his kin were prepared to consider him part of their family. Discomfort twisted in the pit of his stomach, but he did his best to smile and push it aside.

As the moon began to climb to the peak of its arc, vampires began to disperse into the surrounding wood as they prepared for their hunt. Orianna and Detlaff looked to Regis, as if issuing a nonverbal invitation to join them on their hunt. As Regis considered he felt his mouth go dry, he cast his eyes to the ground and began to fidget again with the hem of his doublet. Regis met their questioning gazes and spoke.

“I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome as is. The two of you enjoy yourselves, and I will enjoy vicariously through you.”

Orianna protested, but Detlaff simply nodded in understanding. With that, Regis left by the light of the full moon, doing his best to ignore the looks of distain and the offended whispers of the other vampires for refusing to participate in their ancient traditions.

Regis made his way home, heart heavy with regret. True, he was thankful that his presence had not caused violence, and thankful Detlaff had shown desire to share the tradition with him. However he lamented that he could not engage in activities with his kin, wondered if his sacrifice was worth all the trouble it’s caused him.

When he returned to Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery, he drowned his sorrow in mandrake and sat on a tombstone, watching the worms make their way to the surface of the moist soil, jealous of their simple and uncomplicated lives. When his head was sufficiently foggy, he made his way inside the crypt, pausing a moment to pour a small amount of the moonshine on the earth in offering to the worms. He shrugged off the doublet and lay down on his cot. As sleep began to take him, he reached for his journal and began to write an entree: