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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘺-𝘵𝘸𝘰: 𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭
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𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬
BLOOD. THAT'S ALL THERE is, and I'm the one that's spilling such precious and traitorous liquid. Ripping and tearing flesh, shattering and cracking bones, screams of pure, unadulterated agony tearing themselves free from raw, blood coated throats fill the other sounds of the slaughter. Crying and praying and pleading for this all to end is the only thing that they're even close to being good for other than killing the innocent and unsuspecting.
A brief glimpse in a blood streaked window shows that I am more beast than Human.
Eyes wide and glossy, a deep red that borders on the illusion of pure black, ringed with an unnerving, shimmering silver that appears to have a vibrant shade of red seeping into it. Skin mostly grey but with splashes black, appearing to be cracked, and caked in fresh, drying and dried blood of many shades of red. Sleek midnight black claws, dripping with blood, and small pieces of innards stuck to the grey skin of my hands and forearms, one piece quite unidentifiable from the next, and unable to be told from which body they came.
What remains of my clothes are tatters, shredded by the way the bones in my body have broken and reformed, protruding from my skin in a way that looks painful. The bones in my forearms have extended beyond Human capacity and created almost machete sized, serrated protrusions from my elbow area, once white but now drenched in the blood of countless beings. Something similar has occurred with my spine, much like all those months ago against Jordan and those Hunters, and this time it's far less pretty: it's pure bone, but there are throbbing red veins weaving across the plains, a constant fluctuation pulsing through them and my body.
Looking down, one of the beings catches my eye, and my stomach collapses, an unadulterated emotion I haven't felt for decades, or maybe millennia, cascading over me. Blood-matted strawberry blonde hair and glassy, lifeless green eyes, their red lips parted in a scream of agony. There's a hole in her chest and her throat is ripped open, fresh blood still steadily leaving the gaping wound. Her heart is clutched in my hands, still beating, albeit weakly, but only for a handful of seconds. Once it's gone cold, it falls to the ground beside her body, almost as quickly crushed by my knees as I fall down beside her, clutching her lithe hands in my blood-stained hands.
