Silence usually meant the absence of noise. Yet, Percival listened. He could hear the sound of the silence in the Foyer. It did not really feel like an absence.
It felt more like a held breath, dark anticipation, a coiled spring of malice waiting for the pressure to release.
His eyes swept across the room, first he glanced under the staircase where he had seen some of the Vampires appear from in Willow's memories.
The corpses of the vanguard stared back at him. Percival narrowed his eyes, knowing that he had to be exceptionally careful. Those corpses were warnings of what would happen to him if he wasn't.
He held the War-Scythe of Black Iron right in his grasp as he scanned the ceiling, then the scratched paintings.
Those were the places where the green mist had poured out from before coalescing to Vampires.
Quietly, with his eyes still peeled, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a curious item. It wasn't a weapon or a Relic, but a silver bulb of garlic.
