[color=#9BA7C3][b]"Delwy–?"[/b][/color] Lyselle stopped herself just short of calling his name again, her eyes blinking a couple of times in genuine surprise — the sort of surprise you couldn’t fake if you tried. Whenever she brought this flair up, other members would ask her what she experienced, since each hunter felt the sensation differently — at least among those gifted in such areas. It was always hard to put into words, to turn the sensations of the supernatural into something describable, but she had always shared a similar explanation when inquired about it.

The shadow-haired woman often spoke of it feeling like a scent, that each vampire — even each undead — had a different feeling to them, even those mass-summoned by necromancers and tied to the same puppeteer. It enveloped you like a fog rolling in, or smoke being gently exhaled across her skin, something that almost reminded her of someone smoking in the dead of night, accompanied by that familiar bite of chilled air.

Vampires and their “smog,” as one might imagine, were always thicker, denser, and easier to pluck out among several impressions. She had met a “very old” vampire only once, during a hunt with a few of her older instructors, and never had she felt anything like it since — until now. She remembered the thickness of it, the pressure, the presence, and how wildly different it was from what hunters referred to as “old.” One of the few things she had never read or understood yet was why a vampire suddenly gained power past particular boundaries (as “old” and “very old” began somewhere around 219 to 249 years), but she had a theory that it had to do with the average lifespan of humans.
But that wasn’t the point.

The difference she had felt that day had been akin to day and night — but this, tonight, was so much more significant. Like feeling a downpour compared to a gentle mist. It instantly drew her guard, her blade in hand before she even realized it, her gaze darting around as she tried to sense the origin.

Then she saw her. Her eyes weren’t as powerful as her sixth sense, but even in the dead of night she could still catch the slight movement — a darkness swaying in the wind like a flag. Lyselle’s hands clenched around her hilt and her body tensed, her free hand slipping toward a bottle of silver dust — but would she even have time?

The memory of how fast an older vampire could move was burned into her mind, and with how thick the scent of this vampire was, she doubted she’d have any chance to complete a sigil. But instinct took over regardless — her fight-or-flight response flaring like a struck match.

Hoping she had time, she broke the bottle onto the ground and reached quickly for the hallowed powder, trying to draw a repulsion ward around herself to give her a few precious seconds to think. She was alone with something very old — ancient, even — and there would be no opportunity to run.

All she wanted to do was find Delwyn... but deep down, was that truly the reason?
A strange feeling gripped her heart as it began to pound faster.
Was it fear?
No — not really, though she did wonder how she might survive the night.

Perhaps... perhaps it was excitement.

Not excitement for the hunt — but something quieter, deeper.
A spark in her chest whispering that if she survived this, if she faced something like this and walked away...
Maybe — just maybe — she really was a prodigy.
Maybe she truly deserved to stand with the best of the best in history, just like everyone always said.