Of course the Brucolac recognises him, with a smile even, hitching his lip to reveal a fang. The whole village has a curious air, subdued and weirdly manic simultaneously. The sugar rush of grief. A lot of people are drunk, and talking over-loudly, over-happily, as the fires crackle. Cleaving to the warmth and urgently enjoying it. The dead boy had been popular and well-known, and the Brucolac himself is wearied by the loss. For him, though, it's familiar, almost tiresome.
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Of course the Brucolac recognises him, with a smile even, hitching his lip to reveal a fang. The whole village has a curious air, subdued and weirdly manic simultaneously. The sugar rush of grief. A lot of people are drunk, and talking over-loudly, over-happily, as the fires crackle. Cleaving to the warmth and urgently enjoying it. The dead boy had been popular and well-known, and the Brucolac himself is wearied by the loss. For him, though, it's familiar, almost tiresome.