Antichrist (Frerard)

10: Are You Count Dracula Or More Like Edward Cullen?

Bob knew that perhaps he had indeed made the worst of mistakes in trusting either of the Way brothers, but kindness did seem to cling to you the longer you spent on this side of the town; he knew all too well that kindness lay in an absolute abundance in their territory, and at least that brought forth the zero tolerance for troublemakers policy, but it most certainly did not benefit the ones unlucky enough to be preyed upon.

He knew that they, or at least the authority: the voices that were heard, didn't want a war as much as the living, so at least there were promises like that to act as therapy for his conscience, but Bob knew he could never truly trust anyone here - human or otherwise.

The place they had agreed to meet was secluded: the cluster of trees near the graveyard, yet outside of its gates, and outside of its power: you didn't go inside that place for a very good reason, and yet Bob couldn't help but feel just a little nervous, and he couldn't help but cling to the wooden shaft of a stake in his jacket pocket.

Perhaps it was a stupid precaution and unnecessary too, but Bob wasn't taking any chances here, especially being just so close to this place. He even wondered if its effects grew like clawed hands, grasping out of the gates and reaching for innocent and uneducated passers-by; he'd heard that the worst fates were reserved for those that strayed in places they shouldn't.

Their community was one of such spite in which the stupid were punished, not taught, and the fear based dictatorship served as education for the others, and the naive and innocent didn't make it very far at all. It was cruel, for sure, but it counted as nothing in comparison to just half of what they were capable of, and with such a thought in mind, Bob never let his hand let slip on the stake as he waited in the dawn; the time of day giving him a small advantage in the time constraints of their meeting for the other party, at the very least.

This however, could of course, be turned on him, because their intelligence and cunning was something you should never doubt, and Bob knew all too well that there weren't stories of such naiveties because people never quite lived long enough to tell such tales.

He couldn't help but be just a little nervous, of course, his faith - whatever was left of it; the church did fuck all in this town, and a belief in God did nothing when the antichrist was all too very real. Whatever was left of his faith was the only thing Bob Bryar had to cling to right now and even then he knew it could very easily be deemed nothing but worthless at the cold hands of someone whose heart no longer cared to beat, and someone whose blood was not their own, but the blood they stole off the weak and the living.

"Oh so you did indeed decide to grace me with your presence, Bryar." He was caught a little off guard by the cold and almost pretentious voice that seemed to make its way through the shadows first: a body following behind. "It seems the living are not all such cowards as the stories make them out to be."

"You have stories?" Bob raised his eyebrows as he found himself in a state of perplexation; both eyes focused upon the tall and almost scrawny figure before him: dressed in a black suit leaving nothing besides the utterly sickly pale complexion to show his state of death.

"Don't we all?" He mused, a chuckle gracing his lips as he narrowed the distance between himself and the man who called himself this town's protector; he must say he did admire the arrogance needed to put such a title upon oneself. "What are we all without stories? What are we without the things to haunt our nightmares and the things to grace our dreams? What are we without the shivers on our spine around a campfire? And what are we without that fear that keeps us running when we think we hear footsteps behind us out alone at night?" He let his face carve itself into almost a theatrically overdramatic smirk. "What are we, Mr Bryar? What are we without stories?"