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

Pale, pink eyes, almost white, opened with an absolute silence. The youngest heir of Lacceta lay still, unspeaking and unbreathing as he tried to remember the last night's events. Of course, he remembered snippets, incoherent flashes separated by long periods of a static void, pieces of a puzzle long abandoned and since destroyed, but he did not truly understand anything beyond the beginning of the battle. It did not help that he was weak, and famished, bordering upon a true and final death if he dared let himself rest a moment more. Like any man, Aerin feared death, and would so do whatever he could to keep death at bay. So it was that he rose, slowly, staggeringly, faltering but not falling, driven to his feet by desperation tinted with fear. In jerking, halting, unsteady steps, his noble frame slouched and hunched for a lack of strength to hold his head high, he lurched and staggered and swayed away from the couch, his saviour and blood enemy mercifully unnoticed as he went in search of something, anything, from which he could draw the sustinence demanded by his body. To his fortune, it found him. A man familiar yet forgotten to him opened the door, hobbling in on a pair of crutches after Aerin tore his leg off at the knee and clubbed another man to death with it. Whatever words had been in his mouth were swallowed and died when he saw the wretch his enemy had become, and shouting some nonsense about his staying away from Lady Beaumont he did a hobbling leap at the Lord Lacceta, swinging his crutches about like some demented windmill. Weak though Aerin was, a crippled and tired soldier was hardly more threatening than a kitten to him. It was with a savage ease that he snatched the man's throat, holding him aloft such that his solitary foot dangled a full inch off of the floor of the room. You ignorant fool, Aerin sneered in his rumbling, stony bass, a permanent tone of condescending mockery marking the speech as his, there are no True Beaumonts anymore. Their bloodline is too tainted by base mortality to be of value to us. His lips quirked into a devilish smirk as he drew the man, whimpering now in fear and trembling ever-so-imperceptibly, closer to him, tilting the soldier's head to expose his jugular. The scent of the fresh, warm blood within him was enough to whet his ravenous appetite. I vastly prefer bedding a pretty thrall before I eat, but a starving man can not afford to be picky. A mangy mutt like you will have to suffice. And without further ado, he sank his fangs into the full, rich artery, digging deep and holding his meal steady as he fed. Such was his hunger that not a single drop of life's blood escaped his lips he would have happily drained the man dry even if he did not need to feed, out of sheer principle to kill his enemy, but as it was he was certain he drained every last drop of crimson essence, and still he was not full. Oh, certainly, he was well away from danger of death nowthough his skin still held it's usual ghostly pallorbut he was yet to return to his full strength. Gradually, but quite rapidly, the red of his eyes began to darken, that and his posture signifying his returning strength as they returned to their usual dark red shine and he was able to draw the strength to straighten his back. It was only after the man was quite dead and Aerin's throat quite damp that he threw the useless, empty husk to the floor, rolling his shoulders and sighing out a contented Ah. All this in just under a full minute. A hungering man wolfed down his food quite readily.