Dirigo

There was mud on his boots. Godric was sprawled in a chair by the fire, eying it dully and drumming his fingers against the elaborately upholstered arm. Eric was late, which wasn't so unusual, but Godric was hungry. For the past few weeks his appetite hadn't been what it was normally and it had made him irritable. Now that he actually was hungry, it was even worse. He licked pale lips as he rolled to his feet to pace restlessly from one corner of the lavish sitting room to the next. It was raining out and everything was cold and damp. His clothes felt moldy. He wanted to move on, he wanted to leave this stone house with it's glamored owners, tricked into thinking Eric and his young brother were guests of theirs, distant cousins from the South. He was bored. He was always bored, always restless, always snappish and cold. There was blood on the sheets upstairs, but nothing could keep his attention.

( And Eric was late. )