Thread: Blood Lust (Lady Bloody Ava & Erit of Eastcris)

The sliver of the waning moon illuminated the vision of true hells, with carrion feeders enjoying their latest feast of free man and enthralled slave alike. Blood and gore marked this place, the stink of fresh butchery. It held a cacophony, a nightmarish blend of joy from the rats, ravens and vultures and frightened, agonized cries from the dying who saw not their salvation coming in the night. Through this silver-lit desecration of the earth a solitary, hunched figure travelled in a shambling, unholy gait, a hand clenched around the hilt of a sword long since lost in the melee. Aerin's vision was twisted and tired as he flickered in and out of awareness, seeing but not perceiving the reaper's field surrounding him. Many of these men had died following him or at his own hands, and the few survivors of his broken following had fled the moment they lost sight of the one they knew as their Prince of Shadow, their Lord Lacceta. His breath was not to be heard, for a true Lacceta needed not to breathe. His unbeating heart held no pity or remorse for any of the many corpses decorating the once-green earth at his feet. He did not even notice when he caught his foot under a man's bottom half and fell to the ground. With ruby-red eyes that held no consciousness, he pushed his slim, graceful frame back onto it's ebony-booted feet with pale, delicate-seeming hands well manicured and uncalloused in spite of the decades spent lathered in the blood of mortalkin. His long, ravens-feather hair had escaped it's usual ponytail, hanging a little past his shoulders and a few locks fluttering in the slight breeze before his unseeing eyes. The breeze carried the scent of wasted lives, of potential wasted. His father and elder brother would be proud, and his sister would no doubt have leapt into his arms and rained kisses upon his conquest of their enemy. A warm wetness at his chest brought him back to brief, fluttering lucidity, and as his hand went to the shredded black coat with golden embroidery lacing the sleeves and returned a hot, sticky liquid from one of the countless lacerations on his person, a word appeared in the forefront of his exhausted mind. Blood . Alongside the word, a question. But whose blood? Not his. No, it could't be his. He was the Prince of Shadow the night was his mistress, his lover and his strength. When the sun hid from the land and wreathed it in darkness, a Lacceta was invincible. Supposed to be invincible. Airen Lacceta was too delirious with exhaustion to notice that he was so sliced to ribbons that a man would have died a hundred times over, and that it was a miracle even he still retained the strength to move. But the marionette's strings were once more pulled, and move he did. There. His unseeing eyes saw something that his unthinking brain thought a sign of hope. The light of candles. A place of refuge from the ravages that would come at dawn. Like the corpse made conscious he was said to be, he lurched towards the lights. A door. Yes, must find the door can't forget our manners. Find the door he did, and he only managed to raise his hand before falling heavily against it, his tired eyes finally fluttering closed and his mind surrendering to sleep.