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The Taker

      The Taker slips into town at dusk, unraveling his string-bag of wares as pauses in the long shadows of evening.

      The raccoons pawing the trash nearby pay no notice. When they feel a wash of unease and cold dread, they hurry along.

       The Taker leers down into the bag, landing on the tools, visible to him, and only a few others. This one could be helpful, he thinks, running brushing his hand against the handle, fingering its sharp edge.  

Quickly. 

      Into the pocket of his smudged coat it goes. Along with a small ivory block and something amorphous. It could be a rock.

      The Taker glances up just once. His delicate rolling of the string-bag back just as deft as all his motions.  He slips the bag into his inner coat pocket. 

      He knows he has not been heard. He would have felt a gaze, heard the breath. He is not easily seen.

Unhurried. 

      The Taker smooths his coat, long fingers gliding over patches that were rough, just moments ago.  Careful not to allow his pointed fingernails to touch the coat.

      He angles his nose for a moment, leaning his ear just left. This is part of the routine. One he follows nearly every evening. Rarely in the same town, or adjacent villages.

      He hears what he has come for; what he needs.

      There is a party tonight, and many unsuspecting people to meet in town. No need to rush.  The Taker can extract what he needs at his leisure.

      But, he is so very hungry. Just a sample would be nice; take the edge off a bit. A quick flick of a tool, a moment of pain, then it is forgotten.  He could do it now.  There is a young couple ducking in and out of shadows nearby. Giggling. The sound tempts him. 

      No use for it. He reaches for the man.

      The Taker sees no reason for a full drain.  He has mastered that urge now. The poor soul, in that faraway town, quite some time ago. It was a feast. But it drew too much attention from the wrong interests. 

      There was a bit in the news about it. You may recall.  

      Unless you have met The Taker.

      Then you may recall a little less. Your memories slip away like smoke.  Even if you reach for them, they escape. You cannot seem to remember why.  

      Has this happened to you? Maybe more than once?

I see you have already met him….

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