The Bathory Theater, Condemned - Boston's Theater District - 6PM
The last rays of the setting sun filtered through the cracks in the boards that covered once beautiful stained glass windows. The watery sunlight played over red cloth seats that had once held a thousand enchanted viewers. Now they only held moths and the scent of dust. The curtain, drawn over a stage still elegant even now in it's twilight years, played host only to worn graffiti.
Still, something still moved besides the occasional rat or insect within the strange shadows of the condemned theater's interior. Sometimes that something was a monster, a creature of long and twisted shadows, haunting the slumbering halls like some sort of forgotten gargoyle. Other times it was much smaller, a furtive, girl shaped flash of life among the tarnished brass and moldering carpet.
Someone had set up a small nest in one of the box seats. There was a mattress, worn, but still fairly new, and around and over it a hoard of stolen pillows and blankets of all shapes, sizes and hues. A plastic storage box held a few meager possessions-- a flashlight, a lighter, a small first aid kit, a few bottles of water, and an assortment of canned, packaged, and dried food.
The owner of the nest was bent intently over a small camp stove set up on the stage below. A small pot of what looked to be a thick brown stew bubbled over it, and she watched it impatiently. She was a thin creature, but there was the wire and sinew of well worked muscle beneath it. Her skin was marked with scars, like topography on a map, and her green eyes were bright and wary.
Every so often she would stop what she was doing and listen, head up, ears pricked, uneasy. It was clear that while this had been adopted as a sort of temporary home in the least by the woman, she was far from comfortable in it. For now though, at least, she had privacy. Even with her coming and goings from the Theater at night in search of her errant mentor, she was strange enough to be chalked up to a merely urban legend. That suited Krepta just fine.
If we shadows have offended... She thought wryly.