The vampire lingers under a linden tree, away from any gravestone, like a shadow made solid in a suit of unrelieved black, high collared save for the single silver thread woven through it, barely seen in the moonlight, a bone mask shrouds their features, not carved Usum tells you, but grown. As you meet the eyes behind the mask something like recognition stirs in your heart. This is one who has known the touch of Kakur.
Suddenly the messenger as though you had poured a bucket of icy water down their collar and the rigid posture twists: legs splayed apart for balance, arms bent to guard their face and neck, finger hooked into lashing claws.