The full moon illuminates the wilderness around the highway, clearly, in that pale, almost blue hue. It fills the woods with shadows, and adds touches of silver to the hulking, rusty monstrosity that is the Municipal Bridge. The lights of St. Claire's skyscrapers and city find a strange resonance in the presence of a Wal-Mart. The store stands out like a soft pool of light, civilization and semi-convenient shopping, in this removed locale.

The night's perfect. The bank nearly glows green, with the grass, and the large grey stones scattered about, look terribly inviting. Which makes that 'off' tone of the store, the bridge, and the lights only compounded by the fact that there's no-one there at all, enjoying it. It's not too late, and by now, at least one or two junkies, net-heads in desperate need of a snack and their monthly dose of fresh air, or travelling families would be making use of these spots.

Bernie almost counts in that second group, having been bathed in the glow of a computer screen most of the night, so far. Midterms can do that to one. They can also cause a severe need for munchies and posterboard, both of which are filling the Wal-Mart sacks the girl's swinging lightly in both hands as she walks back toward the bridge, in no hurry despite the energy she currently radiates -- quite possibly, she just doesn't want to go back to studying. She hums softly to herself as she strolls.

Excuses provide themselves everywhere. Posters on a lamp-post advertise all manner of things-- one particularly well-designed one is actually a design competition. There's ads for a family circus, place inappropriately close to a black-and white flyer for an 'alternative' type of circus. There's life about the stones, too. Just not human; crows peck at what appear (through the dark) to be the remains of rats or squirrels, lying about the stones. Almost like discarded coke cans.

The posters catch her interest for a bit, and she catches sight of the rodential corpses as she turns away. The Gnawer pauses, makes a face, and sets her bags down by the light, padding over to inspect the remains with some distaste. If something's killing rats, after all, more than normal, she'd probably ought to do something about it. Squirrels, well... that's less of a problem, but still a little odd.

One of the crows caws irritably at the girl as she approaches. Three others - they're two pair - are scattered about the stones, and continue picking away at their various meals, too engrossed to notice her, beyond a casual look. Presence noted, they feed. As she gets closer, still, the crow attacking the corpse of a rat cries out again, in annoyance, before taking off, and settling on a carcass much further away. Some things can be sensed, amongst the beasts. Racial memory, maybe.

Bernie sticks her tongue out at the raucous cawing directed at her, and gingerly makes her way to see what there is to be seen, hands in her jacket pockets. Her nose wrinkles further. Rotting carcasses are not her idea of pleasant landscaping, whatever the species.

There's only a few. Dotted here and there, near the stones. Certainly not enough to attract that many crows. There is that faint whiff-- the scent of death. There doesn't seem to be anything to see about the carcass that she comes to. The crow has pecked it away into scraps. The cause of death would be totally indeterminable. There's very little blood from the bird's mess, but it doesn't smell too bad. Not too old. Another small, dark shape lies a few feet away, looking relatively unscathed. The scent of the river is also strong, here. And that familiar trace of the sewers... down by the banks of the river, under the bridge. A dark place that might usually be home to a few bums with a lovingly-tended fire in a drum, is empty and dark. She can almost see, or maybe just imagine, a shape of such a drum... but it's dark and cold.

Bernie's brow furrows a little, and she sniffs again, trying to parse those smells, and not to gag at the beginning decomposition. It's harder, in homid... she moves over to look at the less destroyed corpse, closer toward the area of the bridge.

A car drives past, headed West, over the bridge; its headlights shine over her for a moment, and its tires and engine disturb the silence, drowning out the soft drone and buzz that is the frenetic heartbeat of the city, over the bridge. When she sees the corpse... it's totally untouched. Just lying there, immobile, and not even smelling that much. Fresh death. But still no blood. Possibly poision, or a wound on its side, lying over the blood-- it's hard to tell without closer inspection.

Bernie isn't terribly squeamish, but tossing around dead rats still isn't her idea of a good time. A few moment's glancing around finds a twig strong enough, she thinks, to turn the body over with, and she does so, gingerly, half-expecting a swarm of maggots to erupt. Just the thought of it does wonders for the attack of the munchies that originally sent her out this way.

A sudden, accusing caw pierces the air, from the displaced crow, again directed at her, as she appears to pilfer their spoils.

Bernie is startled, and jumps slightly, having already been a little on edge. After the split second it takes to register what it was, her eyes narrow a little, flashing at the bird, and she growls at it from somewhere in her throat.

The bird ruffles its feathers, still eyeing her sharply, with stark disapproval. But quietens and settles down to continue pecking scraps of flesh from its new find. When she returns her attention to the rat carcass, she notices that it's almost as unscathed on this side, as the other. Though there is a faint stain of blood by the creature's neck, dark against its fur. Not a drop lingers on the grass. There's another similar dark shape - probably another carcass - maybe fifteen feet away, near another of the large stones. Closer to the river and the bridge. And as the wind changes, subtly, the scent of death-- much older and more rank, wafting over from the bridge. Carrying the lingering, familiar scent of the sewers, for those few moments that the gust carries.

Bernie's brow furrows, and she makes her way closer to the bridge and water, stick still in hand, detouring slightly to glance at the third corpse as well, on her way. It gets the same gentle flipping with the twig, and she tenses again as she does it, still a little worried what might emerge.

Nothing, of course. Just that identical stain of blood near the creature's head. The scent's stronger, here. Strong enough to be unpleasant. Rotting fish and the scent of the sewers, and more. Death, in that darkness. The crows shriek out again, once then twice, at each other, as two of them fight for one of the few rats. For some reason they leave the ones she's touched alone, not even appearing to consider coming closer to her.

Involuntarily, Bernie's hand moves to her face, as if to block out the odor, and her expression betrays even more distaste. Still, she continues, picking her way down toward the water's edge, toward the source of the unpleasant smells. At the very least, anything sewer related might be important, and regardless, there's =something= unusual here today.

The source scent of the sewers becomes clearer. The overflow pipe, underneath the bridge itself, releases the noxious fumes, and much of the overflow, into the water. But the smell of death is different. And closer. As she draws nearer to the darkness under the bridge, there appears to be an old, rusted, and shadowy shape of a car is lodged on the edge of the river. Either not low enough to be swept away, and lower, into the river with the current, or lodged in the thick reeds that surround it. The smell comes from there, where few pedestrians would venture. Beyond, through the suddenly thickening tufts of grass, and filthy mud, descending into reeds. It's almost a marsh-like appearance... with the growing scent of rotting flesh.

There is absolutely nothing appealing about the scene, but as yet the Ragabash's curiosity is more powerful than her revulsion, and she keeps on, moving warily toward the marshy river's edge, and the car lodged there. Her boots get a wry look as she feels them sinking half-sole deep into the muck, pulling back out stickily. That probably won't come off easily, and there may be worse to come... but shoes can always be replaced. Resigned to that risk, she continues her exploration, unintentionally avoiding breathing through her nose as much as she can manage.

There's definitely something wrong about that car. Or maybe something around it, or underneath. The smell's not good, and the smell of the river isn't helping. Closer, now, she can see that it's an old, old wreck. Filled with rust, and with no glass. Presumably the tires would have been removed, but it's bogged down too far to tell. One thing appears a little strange about it, as she approaches it from the front. The boot's popped open, and there's a faint light shining inside. Only faint. Like that from a small, gas-lantern, perhaps.

Bernie tilts her head at the light, brow furrowing again. =That's= not right. Even if the trunk happened to have a light built in, there's no way the car's lights could still be working, is there? She picks her way carefully closer, to investigate this.

Slowly, slowly making her way around the side of the car, she notices used-up packets of cigarettes, and a few full ones, even. Bottles of booze and their wrappings, and... a dead body. It's wrapped in garbage bags, and wedged tightly under the back seat, but a shoe is still visible, and that smell could be nothing else.

Bernie stops. Just stops. And takes a moment to work on not throwing up. Dead rats are one thing; dead people are quite another. And the rats, by the relative smells, hadn't been there as long... regaining some of her composure, Bernie steels herself, and lifts her chin a little as she takes another slow look around for things out of the ordinary before continuing toward the oddly lit boot of the car.

Someone's living in it or nearby, that much is clear. As she comes around to the rear of the car, she can see quite clearly-- a sudden flash of light, as she's staring fully into a lit gas lamp, resting in one corner of the boot. There's a padded bedroll down, in there, and some bundled-up clothes making up what appears to be some sort of pillow. A bottle of beer lies down, spilling its contents out over the carpeted trunk.

Overhead, over the bridge, a road-train thunders noisily, sixteen wheels thumping against small cracks in the road, and shuddering its payload about. The crows caw again, and again, in another minor scuffle, and suddenly she hears a sharp intake of breath. Right behind her.

Bernie whirls, immediately defensive; the past year or so certainly hasn't hurt her reflexes. Not to mention that anywhere one runs into dead bodies that almost certainly met foul play, the denizens still breathing aren't likely to be glad to see you. Her current form may not be particularly menacing, but at least she can move like she could be.

The sight that greets her is, in fact, somewhat stunned. Pasty white, and a few feet back, holding a half-empty bottle of beer. It's a young man in dirty, wrinkled clothes that might once have been acceptable for clubbing in. A tall man, with lank, greasy black hair, that's curled, unkempt, about his cheeks. He stares at her with glittering, nearly-dead eyes, recovering from the shock of her movement, before suddenly narrowing them and hissing. He smashes his bottle against the steel supports of the bridge that mask the wreck of the car, and leaps at her with surprising speed. In that light, it strikes a cord-- like something out of a movie, it's so horribly, horribly wrong. His teeth: they're fangs.

The beginning of the change is almost instinctual as Bernie catches that sight, already moving to dodge the bottle as best she can. She's in Glabro almost before she knows she's decided to change, and ducks down to get in under his arms and tackle him, trying to force the armed hand away from her. It doesn't help her any that she's utterly leery of letting his teeth anywhere even vaguely near her neck, though.

It feels so... wrong. There's few ways to describe the strength that /should not be/ in such a thin man. At the shift, he hesitates, wild-eyed at the impossible sight of her changing skin and flesh-- but the tackle brings him back to the defensive, immediately. And he /meets it/, gritting his teeth and panting as he struggles to bring the bottle to her neck. His eyes keep running over her ugly countenance, worse than his, and frighteningly animal. "OH shit... shit... Gngh.." Eyes uncertain with fear.

Bernie growls, pushing the arm away, trying for the leverage to give it a serious and preferably debilitating wrench, the moon's fullness doing little to moderate her responses. Still, his reaction startles her just enough that she doesn't shift to Crinos yet. "What've you done?" she rumbles at him, a little breathless from the combined efforts.

"Shit!" He's breathless, pushing harder, and narrowing his eyes with concentration. And he's losing... Desperation shows clearly in the comparatively tiny man's face, as she starts to twist his arm against his will. He screams at her, and tries to kick her in the gut. "Die! OH please God die!" he whimpers, as he tries to break free of that grip, or beat her down.

Concentrating more on the potentially slice-y arm, Bernie's almost surprised by the kick; it lands, knocking a portion of the wind out of her, and she curls a little with the impact. The control her curiosity lent her fizzles at the combination of the blow and the lack of an answer, and her moon-stoked Rage comes to the fore, her form shifting again. One short comment makes it though coherently before her mouth and throat are the wrong shape for human speech, "You first!"

Stomps-The-Wyrm still has hold of that arm as she reaches the new form, and it gets a twisted yank meant to at least dislocate and probably break it, or worse, in the sudden rush of fury. Her other arm plays defense, wicked claws poised to intercept anything that moves.

Wide eyes bulge to the point of popping out, almost, at that. The pale young man screams with the pain, and goes limp, suddenly. Almost as if reduced to a puddle, his limbs flail desperately but half-heartedly, as he tries to escape the hideous beast that dwarfs him, so. It's nothing, in that rage-filled vision of the monster. Just a minor detail; he's crying. Shuddering and shaking, with those deathly frightened whimpers.

Crying? The Enemy is =crying=? That's... that's not =fair=! Stomps hesitates, holding his arms tightly to restrain him, and tries to remember what they've told her about vampires. He's got fangs, he must be one, right? And he attacked her. Only she was a stranger in his place. But a harmless looking one. And he has a corpse in his car. Assuming it's his car. And they're Wyrmy... that's what Kaz said, right? Not like the Raggie can smell it. She can smell the stench of death around here, though... But bad guys aren't supposed to cry!

The thin young man's hands are reaching up, trying to cover his face as he whimpers pitifully, quivering with fear. "Oh God..." he manages to breathe, through a choked throat. "Oh God I don't wanna die. Please don't kill me..." A sharp breath in, between sobs, and he wails quietly, "I don't wanna die please oh God, why is this happening to meee..." More of a boy than a man, really, upon closer inspection.

Well... well, =fuck=. Bernie melts down to Glabro again, warily, sharp, clawlike nails threatening his skin, grasp on him still very tight. "What. Have. You done?" she repeats, voice gravelly and less than reassuring, "...why is there a corpse in that car? Think that person wanted to die?" It's half an interrogation, half trying to counteract her reluctance to kill a crying kid. No, vampire! Evil! Kill him. It. Him. Damn! God, how do you kill them, anyway? Stake through the heart, uh, fire, sunlight, decapitation?

The boy shrieks, as the monster turns vaguely girl-like and barks at him. "Please! Please! I didn't mean to! He was old! And I was just /so hungry/ I was going to /die/ and.. and.. I tried!" His chest heaves with sobs of grief and remorse, mixing with blind, broken terror. Blue eyes look up at her with a brief glint of desperate hope in the fear. "I /tried/ so hard I didn't know what to do! I tried rats! Please! I don't wanna die! I didn't want this!" There's something strange. His shoulder-- so recently dislocated-- has slipped back into place. The marks she's put on him are... gone. In fact... there's no blood. It's not beating through his veins, and he's curiously cold. He doesn't /feel/ like a living thing, apart from the writhing and the voice. It feels very wrong-- an offense to her instincts.

To that, Bernie can relate -- just what she needs. She didn't ask for this either. His animate-corpseness makes her a little queasy with its wrongness, even as she finds herself sympathising with his situation a bit. Trying counts for something, in her mind... the stink of the rotting body assaults her nose again, and reminds her that there will be others, trying or no trying. And vampires are Wyrm creatures, they said, and... and he's =dead= but he's =moving= and =crying= and it's just =wrong= on so many levels... She bites her lip without thinking, a habit of worried thought, and her teeth, sharp in this form, draw blood. "I'm sorry," she says softly, voice unavoidably harsh but still unmistakably regretful, even as her form blurs up again, one immense taloned hand holding him in place while the other grasps the base of his head, around the neck, and rips and yanks it off with all her might, praying it'll make a quick, clean, relatively painless death.

The boy's eyes just about pop out of his head at her apology, and he draws breath to scream a final, desperate scream. His hands claw uselessly at her claws, as she rips upwards, with powerful, fur-covered muscles. His high-pitched shrill scream of anguish and fear is cut off with the loss of his throat-- expelled air merely gushes out, bubbling blood up and over her hands, staining the fur with the young man's blood. The eyes stare, still, and his mouth is frozen open in a rictus of horror, showing those fangs, and his pitiful dying expression. The body wriggles a little, operating on the last instructions given, flipping limply and then dropping. Finally dead. And then there is quiet. Another road-train rattles overhead.

The near-silence extends for timeless seconds, broken only by the rattle of the train, the breeze through the rushes, and the flowing water. Stomps-The-Wyrm is frozen in place, barely even breathing, still holding the shoulder of the limp body in one massive paw, the head in the other. Her grip loosens, then, and the corpse falls to the bank; she sags, seeming almost to collapse into herself as she melts down to her birthform, sitting heavily on the ground, and setting the vampire's head gently by the rest of him, on the dirt. And then, very quietly, she cries.