𝗛𝗦𝗥 𝗙𝗔𝗡𝗙𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡
BOOK 1
Book 2 : What They Found (unpublished)
Book 3 : What They Yearned (unpublished)
" 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗮𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗹
𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗹 ... 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗻𝗼𝘁�...
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Crimson fluids seep from the carving of a wound — a dually punctured mark of a vampirical immortal's protruding fangs, embedded deeply into soft, velvety skin that trembles as its sustenance and viscous ichor is drained dry by that of a god's lascivious voracity.
Lapping up the warm, wet patch right in the pulse of his neck fervently, the god hisses — although, had his prey described it, it would've sounded more to him like a growl of a beast deprived and aching with a ravenous, hungering thirst.
To be quite fair with him, though, the situation wasn't much different to what he thought of it. There lay a grandiose, indomitable god. An Aeon long forgotten. One of power rivaling so many. Yet there he was, panting like a dog as he fed upon the last of his followers.
There was nothing left but inconsistent, nonsensical babbling from the mortal's mouth that soon dried, leaving him to whimper as he whom he followed once drained him completely of any essence and semblance of life.
Only when a feeble attempt to scream did the mortal attempt before falling deceased, was the god snapped from the incomprehensible state of his feral, insatiable thirst. His carmine eyes slowly gazed upon the corpse, a lack of sound and white noise filling his ears.
Blood was still smeared across the god's lips, a faintly ragged breathing emitting from him as his slightly dilating pupils remained fixed on the rotting body in front of him.
That's the last of them.
That is all that went through the Aeon's mind as his blood-colored hues returned once to their normal color, contrasting the red blaze that his irises held moments before. He wasn't all too fond of this, truth be told. He found the very act of drinking blood from a human — his follower no less — a sacrilegious decision.
In his eyes, there was nothing worth to bother with regarding his thirst, even if the taste of a mortal's life essence was all too enticingly sweet for his urges to resist. He despised how divine it tasted. He despised how he craved it.
And above all, he despised how he lead his every last follower to Hell's gates — Death.
There was now no one left. No one but himself.
He and his lonesome eternity — a sinister, disastrous solemnity.
Amidst all the silence, he could only murmur one sentence, in nothing but absolute reverence.
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