As soon as the terror passes, Lestat extricates himself from his hidden resting place. He takes a moment to compose himself, and then, without further delay, girds himself for a hunt.

The trail is not difficult to follow. He only need attend to where the town's bolder inhabitants flock as he slips between the shadows of shuttered houses, patient in his pursuit. There's no need to hurry. The object of his attention is not the creature itself, but the mangled prey it has left behind - and if that prey rouses itself to wander, they will have an entirely more interesting problem on their hands.

His face is quite solemn as he steps into the church, his rifle slung prominently over his shoulders. This is a social occasion, and one must come with the proper accessories.

It's a fascinating tableau. The desecration of this once-holy place with these contorted corpses limned in faerie-fire, each whole, broken only by the violence of their mortal terror. He approaches the bodies when there's a brief lull in the flurry of activity around them, cocking his head at one in particular.

"A pity," he murmurs, studying the ruined face of a handsome young man who once offered him the comfort of his coat.