Mark thought to take a step to the side and probably creep around the back, employing his stealth and his intangibility skill.
Then, a loud command was sent at him, and true to its will, he complied.
He turned and sheepishly looked at the one who had cried the command, careful not to expose too much of his face. The few guards around the walls began jogging towards where the two were. So much for a stealthy mission, he let out a sigh under the shawl he borrowed and which covered his mouth.
The uniform march of boots against compact ground was like a drum beating to his demise–his execution, had he been Mark, just Mark–not Mark wielding the form and power of a powerful narcissistic vampire aristocrat whose death had faded from those thought to be immortal, he would likely had gone on his knees and surrender, but fortunately for him and unfortunately for them, he was Count Damarian, if only for seven minutes since he had spent about eight trailing Rafire.
