He was a petulant thief — one who did not stand frozen in fear, but instead, waltzed out of his grasp, yelling blindly in the face of the beast. Such arrogance — the stranger spoke as if he had done nothing wrong, as if his hands were as clean as a virgin saint's. Of all things, at least Fen wore no masks, hid nothing behind a cloak or façade — here he was, a figurative demon of blood, who haunted those that lurked in the dead of the night. And here stood a thief, demanding not to be touched, not to be harassed.
Dear child, those who dwelled in the dark — who lied, cheated, and stole— forfeited such privileges long ago.
"You've got nerve, knave. You're a regular grey fox, you know? A thief— who can't own up to his sins." He laughed, slow and low. "I would pity you, if I had the stomach for that sort of thing. But pity is wasted on extras, I think — on people who are only colored in black and white."
As he spoke, the stranger seemed to realize who he was talking to. He backed away, and Fen would've come forward, but the coins had distracted him — silver glints, spilling out onto the cobblestoned road. When Fen had told Bolstram he hadn't a care of money — for the silver specks of dust that peons carried and loved more than anything else — but damn, he if he didn't hate inconvenience. Hell if he was going to bend and scrape up every last coin, like a filthy peon beggar, scraping together a living in the streets.
Before he could catch him again, the thief ran once again — down the alleyway, far away from him.
Fen took a moment to run his hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, shaking his head from side to side. Gods, he hated it when they ran. They could stammer, stutter, plead, cry, whine, beg, but when they ran, gods, when they ran... He wasn't a physical sort of person, no — under normal circumstances, he couldn't run with the rest of them. But if he had a little kick, just a little push...
You have your coin. Don't do this. You don't need to do this... You don't need it tonight, Fen.
He pulled the knife from his sleeve, pressed it to palm, his pupils dilating at the smell of sweet, ruby red blood. Ahh, and here it was — running down his wrist, the disgusting, revolting, ambrosia, blood. It painted his pale palm red, twisted the mixed up mana in his soul, sent him speeding down the alleyway, abandoning the coins for his prey — and Fen, since he had come here, hadn't been able to hunt down prey in such a long time... He was a missile, a rocket, fueled only by blood alone — a part of him wanted to escape it, and the other embraced it, while somewhere deep down in Fen's core, he could use the conflict to propel himself forward.
In this state, it didn't take long for him to catch up with the thief. Again, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, but this time, he couldn't risk being gentle. This one was squirmy — if he let the worm go for a second, he'd run, and Fen loathed running with a passion. The monster, however, didn't. He clasped both of his shoulders, pressing him against a wall, his bloodied palm staining the stranger's robe unabashedly.
"The thievery," Fen muttered, laughing, still grinning despite everything, "isn't the problem here. No, that's the last of my worries. A little coin spilled out onto the pavement? Nothing. A mere inconvenience, if its anything at all." His grip grew tighter as he pushed the stranger against the wall, harder. "To spit in the face of the beast and turn tail — that— that is what I can't let go unpunished." There was the knife again, gleaming in the moonlight, kissing the stranger's neck. "Own up to your grievances. How will you atone for this, extra?"
Despite the knife at his neck, despite the blood that dripped on the cobblestoned road, Fen didn't have plans to kill him.
Not now. Not yet.