Hello, Blood Benders and Sanguineers!
Oh yes. Your blood is such a lovely shade of red, my dear. Oh you mustn’t run! There’s nowhere to run anyways, because…
This week’s Writing Group prompt is:
Fueled By Blood
RULES AND GUIDELINES BELOW!
Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!
This is a perfect prompt to start off the spooky season. Many stories tell of a cycle of blood, or else a thirst for blood—be it the motives of the villain, a cycle of revenge, or a war a corrupt ruler refuses to stop waging.
Vampires are likely where most people’s minds will first go. They are very literally fueled by blood as their food source. But there are lots of other creatures, living and undead, who require—or simply desire—blood. You could write about one such creature looking for its next meal, or about what happens when they’re deprived of that necessary fuel.
Many rituals and experiments require blood. Perhaps you could write about a college student trying to discreetly buy blood for the ritual they’re doing in their dorm room. Or perhaps a necromancer needs blood to power their reanimated corpses. The Black Butler manga has a good example of the latter; one of the characters reanimates corpses, but the corpses require a constant supply of blood in order to keep walking around. It can be difficult to procure the rarer types of blood—and require sinister means.
You could take the prompt more literally. Perhaps you could write about some sort of machine that runs on blood. Maybe a sword can only use its magic abilities when it is drenched in blood. Maybe a special type of car runs on blood instead of gasoline. Perhaps someone’s blood could be put into a gemstone, carrying their life force inside it.
You could write about some sort of fuel that looks like blood upon first glance. Like how in Crimson Peak the red clay Thomas uses to fuel his machine looks like blood. You could write about how someone is horrified to see another character using blood as fuel…only to realize it’s not blood at all.
You may be surprised to find that this prompt doesn’t have to be purely gruesome, or negative. One character might sacrifice their life for another, and the second character might keep fighting in order to honor their sacrifice—fueled in their heart by this selfless act. Blood could also refer to a familial bond; someone could be motivated by the blood bond they share with a sibling, parent, child, or other relative.
Now hold still. And stop screaming. This’ll only hurt a bit.
—Kaylie
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Remember, this is part of our weekly Writing Group stream! Submit a little piece following the rules and guidelines below, and there’s a chance your entry will be read live on stream! In addition, we’ll discuss it for a minute and give you some feedback.
Tune into the stream this Saturday at 3:00pm CST to see if you made the cut!
The whole purpose of this is to show off the creativity of the community, while also helping each other to become better writers. Lean into that spirit! Get ready not just to share what you’ve got, but to give back to the other writers here as well.
Rules and Guidelines
We read at least five stories during each stream, two of which come from the public post, and three of which come from the much smaller private post. Submissions are randomly selected by a bot, but likes on your post will improve your chances of selection, so be sure to share your submission on social media!
Text and Formatting
- English only.
- Prose only, no poetry or lyrics.
- Use proper spelling, grammar, and syntax.
- Your piece must be between 250-350 words (you can use this website to see your wordcount).
- Use two paragraph breaks between each paragraph so that they have a proper space between them (press “enter” or “return” twice).
- Include a submission title and an author name (doesn’t have to be your real name). Do not include any additional symbols or flourishes in this part of your submission. Format them exactly as you see in this example, or your submission may not be eligible: Example Submission.
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What to Submit
- Keep submissions “safe-for-work”; be sparing with sexuality, violence, and profanity.
- Try to focus on making your submission a single meaningful moment rather than an entire story.
- Write something brand new; no re-submitting past entries or pieces written for other purposes
- No fan fiction whatsoever. Take inspiration from whatever you’d like, but be transformative and creative with it. By submitting, you also agree that your piece does not infringe on any existing copyrights or trademarks, and you have full license to use it.
- Submissions must be self-contained (everything essential to understanding the piece is contained within the context of the piece itself—no mandatory reading outside the piece required. e.g., if you want to write two different pieces in the same setting or larger narrative, you cannot rely on information from one piece to fill in for the other—they must both give that context independently).
Submission Rules
- One submission per participant.
- Submit your entry in a comment on this post.
- Submissions close at 12:00pm CST each Friday.
- You must like and leave a review on two other submissions to be eligible. Your reviews must be at least 50 words long, and must be left directly on the submission you are reviewing, not on another comment. If you’re submitting to the private post, feel free to leave these reviews on either the private or the public post. The two submissions you like need not be the same as the submissions you review.
- Be constructive and uplifting. These submissions are not for a professional market, and shouldn’t be treated as such. We do this, first and foremost, for the joy of the craft. Help other writers to feel like their work is valuable, and be considerate and gentle with critique when you offer it. Authors who leave particularly abrasive or disheartening remarks on this post will be disqualified from selection for readings.
- Use the same e-mail for your posts, reviews, and likes, or you may be rendered ineligible (you may change your username or author name between posts without problem, however).
- You may submit to either or both the public/private groups if you have access, but if you decide to submit to both, only the private group submission will be eligible.
- Understand that by submitting here, you are giving us permission to read your submission aloud live on stream and upload public, archived recordings of said stream to our social media platforms. You will always be credited, but only by the author name you supply as per these rules. No other links or attributions are guaranteed.
Comments on this post that aren’t submissions will be deleted, except for replies/reviews left on existing submissions.
Culture Shock
By Demon Nox
Dear lord this was a bloody mistake, why didn’t mum stop me from going here. Going to the bloody Dragon Continent, what was I thinking? Might as well put my hand in boiling water to warm them up while I’m at it.
I hate it here, the thick jungle foliage filled with thorns and vines around every corner. Muddy earth trying to suck me in with every step, the Lil buggers hiding in the dark crevices I can’t see. All of them left me a dirty, bootless, cut-up, ragged mess.
The only mercy the lord seems to have bestowed me here is that I’ve yet to encounter any of the Dragons for which this land is named, nor the savages endemic here. Those blood magic pagans, I get goosebumps just thinking of what they’d do to me. I’d be a fresh blood sausage to those man-eaters, plump and ready to be juiced for all I’m worth.
I dunno how long it’s been since I got separated from the expedition, that damned beast tearing its way to us less than an hour after disembarking. It’s been about 3 days since then.
Eventually, I found a village, and it’s just my luck that it’s one of savages. I’m thirsty, hungry, and don’t want to die from infection, so I throw caution to the wind and enter. It didn’t take long to encounter them, the first a young girl. Surprised her next meal presented itself she ran away into the village, to alert the cooks.
Bracing myself for what’s to come, I close my eyes. But I can’t help myself when I hear a man rush toward me, by the time I could see him he tackled me to the ground. And before I could even scream, a green glow came from the man healing me. The man then roughly grabbed my shoulders, and then began to shout the few words of broken common he knew. “BLOOD!!! PRECIOUS!!!” the man then took a deep breath, “FUELLED BY BLOOD!!!!” and then he walked away calmly.
Humans and Blood
By Samuel Gallew
Vasha woke up with a blade against her belly, surrounded by several figures clad in black.
“Get up!” the apparent leader demanded.
She obeyed, being driven against the tree she slept under.
Glancing over, she saw Jake was still sleeping on his pad, despite the attempts to wake him up.
“You’ve been making quite a few problems lately,” the Leader stated. “Destroying a valuable recipe, putting a roadblock in valuable business, and defacing some important people. If you both wish to live, you’ll pay us back what you lost us.”
She was frozen in fear, glancing again at Jake’s unconscious form, holding his gun…
“Will you get him up already?” the Leader demanded.
As one of the assassins brought out a dagger, Jake rolled, and fired a quick series of shots, taking out three of the assassins before he stood up.
Vasha used the brief distraction to conjure a frail ward, stopping the blade that almost split her open as she tried to get some distance, and prepare a better ward.
Jake fired two more shots before a knife sent the powerful weapon into the air, and a storm of blades came down, pulling out a knife of his own, and tried to outmaneuver the deft blades. And while his “ballistic vest” did protect him surprisingly well, he was already bleeding.
Vasha tried to weave an incantation but was interrupted by another assassin who quickly shredded her ward, forcing her to use all her might in keeping the blade away from her, getting a cut that was slowly growing.
When her blood spilled, she had to resist all urges that came with it…
But Jake didn’t.
With a thunderous bellow, he stopped trying to outmaneuver the assassins, and began to hack and slash in a whirlwind of metal. And like a battlemage fueled with blood magic, he seemed to feel no pain, becoming more and more fervent in his fighting, as if each drop spilled gave him strength.
But with no other hope in sight, Vasha closed her eyes, letting her bleeding wound ignite.
And she used her blood magic.
Blood Pact Ritual
By A.W. Blackstone
Alice was ecstatic. Tonight she became a shamanic priestess. She wasn’t sure what the ritual entailed but after years of study, Alice was ready.
“Ten minutes until we start!” the mentor announced. Alice hurriedly grabbed her robe and headed to the bathroom to change. She needed to pee. As Alice finished relieving herself, she saw blood on the toilet paper. Blood?! She hadn’t bled in over a year due to her birth control. What should she do?
I’ll be fine, she thought. I’m not bleeding that much. Even though something about the timing nagged at Alice, she pushed away her anxiety and put on her black robe.
Alice joined the rest of the priestesses in the circle outside. The mentor moved Alice to the center. “Lay down,” she directed. “You will journey to your deepest fears and release them so you can find freedom.” She began banging a steady rhythm on her drum.
As Alice fell into the trance, she heard a deep, charismatic voice echo in her mind. “Ah, I’ve finally gotten past your guardian animal spirits.” Alice gasped at the immense power rushing into her. Her left leg and arm started shaking uncontrollably. Alice fought to suppress the energy, but failed. Why was this happening?
Oh no! she thought. The blood! Blood magic was ten times stronger than normal magic. If you didn’t plan for it, the ritual could go awry.
“I’m here to help you fulfill your dreams and accomplish anything you desire. All I need is for you to give me a tiny piece… of your heart or brain.” She felt the entity’s energy moving into her chest. The journeys she experienced before were vivid. She had always seen the entity speaking. All she saw this time was darkness.
“NO!” Alice screamed defiantly into the void of her mind. “I don’t know you. I’m not giving you any part of my body or making a blood pact with you!” A menacing growl erupted from her as the drum rhythm ended, and she finally regained control of her body.
“The journey is complete,” the mentor croaked aghast.
The First Break
by Lunabear (CW/TW: Vomit, Self-harm, Blood, Suicide)
Zayn clawed at his empty stomach, and steel talons clawed right back. Bile and acid dueled at the back of his throat.
How long had he been locked away for? His head spun as he wobbled downstairs, bracing himself hard against the railing. Six, no, seven days. A full week without sustenance or freedom.
‘Does she want me to die?’
Blessedly, the refrigerator came into view. Zayn almost wept as it opened. It was loaded, and he snatched up a bowl of fruit salad.
Sniffing, it smelled rancid, but it looked ripe. Uncaring, he shoveled down huge handfuls.
Zayn was doubled over before the bowl shattered to the floor. Horrible retching echoed throughout the mansion. Chunks of fruit and tar-like substance covered the floor, and he swore his stomach was turning inside out. He wanted so desperately to succumb to unconsciousness.
“Silly boy,” Nikita’s patronizing giggle sounded.
Pounding heartbeats captured his attention, and he looked up blearily at two men. One was collared in chains.
“Your dinner is here.” Nikita pushed the unchained man towards Zayn. “This is Leonard. Maybe you will enjoy feeding from men instead of women. You certainly wasted the last four.” She rolled her eyes.
“Dustin here is letting me feed from his femoral artery.” She yanked his leash. “Right?” He nodded eagerly. Nikita pulled Dustin to his hands and knees and led him away with a backwards finger wave.
Leonard stripped off his shirt. Zayn gaped and straightened, averting his gaze. “What are you doing?”
Honey and cayenne aromatized the air.
Zayn’s eyes went crimson, and his neck snapped around in time to see a razor blade leaving Leonard’s wrist.
Leonard offered his blood sacrifice. “My veins are your veins.”
Zayn rushed to staunch the bleeding with Leonard’s discarded shirt. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT??”
Leonard smiled, his gaze focused and clear. “She said I can be changed. If you drink my blood.”
“NEVER.”
The blade scored across Leonard’s carotid, his smile never wavering. Zayn moved the shirt to the hideous wound too late.
Leonard’s blood drenched Zayn’s shaking hands. Still, he refused to drink.
Dragula (CW: Gore)
By Norman Gray
Albrecht was close, now.
He followed their scent, certain that his brethren had yet to be slain, that the hunter had not done away with them.
The trail brought him to a garage far removed from the city, seemingly abandoned. Within, something awaited. He could sense them; lifeless, soulless. Restless.
Inside, Albrecht found refrigerators stocked with blood. . . Had the hunter been feeding them?
There were bookshelves containing surgeon’s documents, detailing vivisections, entailing how to disembowel without killing; how to harvest hearts and circulatory systems, and discard what remained. . .
Albrecht’s kind were deemed monstrous, for it was their nature to kill, to drink blood. But it took a human to dream up something so twisted, to strive for such malice.
Then he found a mechanic’s manual. Humanity had once been utterly predictable, but technological advancement had accelerated their thinking, giving them sinister new ideas. The manual was full of schematics, with strange notes scribbled throughout:
VOLTAGE QUICKENS THE HEARTBEAT
BLOOD PRESSURE MANIFOLD PRESSURE
DRIVETRAIN CAN HANDLE MORE POWER
IT SCREAMS FOR BLOOD
ROOM FOR ANOTHER HEART
REDLINE DRAGULA
A black shape loomed in the corner of the garage. Albrecht had first mistaken it for a coffin, until he noticed the wheels; it was the massive hood of a motorcar, clamped shut with several latches.
Horrid dread washed over him, as he approached. One by one he opened the heavy latches, and lifted the hood. . .
Inside, his brethren were waiting.
Everything was twisted, torn apart, rearranged and stitched back together. No limbs remained. No faces, except for their fanged mouths. A web of arteries, black hearts beating. Eager to die, but unable.
They screamed for blood.
“Impressive, no?”
Albrecht turned, bearing his teeth. Standing behind him, was the vampire hunter.
“Thought I’d have to chase you down.” He slowly approached, sickle in hand, putrid smelling garlic strung around his neck. “It can handle more power. There’s room for another heart.”
Albrecht’s pulse quickened, and for the first time in nearly two centuries, he felt something long forgotten. . .
He remembered the cold embrace of fear.
The Tribe
Donovan
The tribe was strong. That was the first lesson every child had to learn. Before speech, before walking, the tribe was strong.
What kept the tribe strong was people, people who believed the tribe was strong. People fight for a tribe that’s strong, live for a tribe that’s strong, die for a tribe that’s strong.
Every person in the tribe believed in the tribe, that’s what made the tribe real. Individuals conglomerated, incorporated into a force greater than themselves. Only through submission could one gain such power.
The tribe had history and symbols. It had titles and secrets passed down through generations. There was a place for every member, and a member to fill every place.
The tribe was many, made into one.
Sand was born into the tribe, and he flowed into every corner of it. Sand whispered in every ear and slept with every soldier. Sand brought comfort to the weary, word to the wise, laughter in times of grief. Sand filled every corner of tribe life, he made cold nights warm, and bad days good. Sand did not weave baskets, darn cloth, hunt game, or feed fires, but he kept the tribe alive. Sand was the spirit, the walking flesh of the idea.
Sand came to me one night, the day I lost my brother.
He didn’t take the loss away, that’s a fire I can never light again. But he was there, warm touches and affirmation, regret and consolement all poured out into one cup.
Sand held the tribe together, and that’s a job I could never do.
Blood of a, mighty creature
By Vera
I entered the world in a cloud of swirling smoke, adding just enough smell of rot to annoy my new master. After previous experience, I expected a huge room in a villa, or at least a closet. Instead, I was summoned in what looked like a shed. I checked the pentagram. All the lines were drawn properly, looks like my slave keeper wasn’t careless in the areas that matter.
At least he had prepared the sacrificial bowl. It wasn’t strictly necessary to shackle me, however I appreciate the fellow who snuck it into the books. Humans are less likely to call upon a demon for every one of their whims, when every single order requires them to sacrifice the blood of a mighty creature.
After letting my host stew for what felt like a proper amount of time, I grabbed the sacrificial bowl, raised it slowly to my face and took a sip.
Then spat it promptly in the human’s face.
“What the devil is this?” I yelled, forgetting all intimidation.
“Bloody book. Says blood of mighty creature. I slaughter chicken”
A peasant? Great, I missed another revolution.
“Your book was right, the ritual demands the blood of a mighty creature. Like a dragon, or a griffon, or a lion”
“What’s lion?”
“This” I say and take the form of a huge lion, silky fur, black mane, stench of his last meal.
“You look like Mishka. She no mighty creature, she too lazy to hunt. Chicken mighty, chase Mishka around house”
A chicken more mighty than a lion? What happened to the world, while I was hanging around in my cosy home dimension?
“Look, your Mishka has fangs and claws, he can tear his prey apart with ease. That’s what makes him a mighty creature.”
“Chicken has beak and talon” To prove his point, he raised both his hands. Every square centimeter not hidden under bandage was covered in sores and cuts. “Mishka no do this. She too lazy, would let me just sacrifice her. No fight, no might. Ritual needs better blood, so I slaughter chicken, who fights. Chicken mighty. Mishka useless.”
Lifeblood (Chronicles of The Dragon)
By Makokam
Lady Keres entered her quarters, and let her regal posture drop and a brief sigh escaped her.
“I’ve prepared a bath for you,” Eros said.
“Thank you.” She dropped her cloak to the floor, then unclipped her breastplate and let it fall. Then her dress. She pulled her gauntlet off, then her boots. Finally her corset and undergarments fell.
Her skin was almost translucent, and sagged in places.
The bath room was hot and steamy. Almost enough to obscure the large tub, and the pile of bodies beside it. She stepped into the tub and, with a hum and a smile, she sat down and sank up to her shoulders in the blood.
She closed her eyes and asked, “How is Jonathan doing?”
Eros grumbled. “He’s completed his missions.”
She smiled. “Excellent.”
“The men he brought with him were all captured though.”
“The objective is what matters.”
Eros watched as she slid further down, until the blood reached her chin. He could see the color returning to her. The lines under her eyes faded, and lusciousness returned to her.
“We can’t allow him to keep leaving the men behind.”
She raised an arm and waved the complaint aside. “We can retrieve them if we need to.” She dropped her hand back into the blood with a splash. “The prisons won’t stand for long once our true conquest begins.”
Eros clenched his jaw. He hadn’t liked Jonathan from the first moment, and his disregard for their resources hadn’t helped.
With the softest smile, she completely submerged and remained there for several minutes.
She emerged with a gentle inhale and stood up, stepping out as blood dripped onto the stone floor. She raised her fingers above her head and with a flick all the blood rushed to the floor and pooled under the tub. She hummed and stretched, her muscles firm and skin flush. Though the scars over her breast stood out starkly. At least a decade seemed to be shed from her body. She walked towards the door saying, “Don’t forget to throw the bodies in the pit with the others.”
(Submission was flagged for spam when I tried to add the CW using the edit feature, been 24(ish) hours so I’m doing this as a backup plan, sorry for the trouble, staff!)
“Hold Him Still: (CW: Needles)
By Karl Sterneman
“Hold him still!” Leon Cerrachski exclaimed to his work partner, who was holding the patient down on the table.
The extraction was a messy process. Patients had blood removed from several portions of their body at once by wide needles, which were placed while the patient was still conscious. Once all the needles were in place, they would simultaneously begin draining blood from the patient until they were dead. The reason Leon was unable to knock out his patient before administering the needles was to not contaminate the blood with chemicals. It was so vital to keep the patients contamination free that Leon and all his coworkers had to be cleaned and sanitized twice, spend a night in a clean room, and then be cleaned and sanitized again before entering the lab.
Today’s patient was number Four-one-four, the seventh future corpse Leon had worked on. In all his time so far, none had thrashed quite as much as Four-one-four. Dodging a kick Breilin Demorne, Leon’s coworker, had failed to catch, Leon reached through and slipped the last needle into a designated spot near the patient’s crotch. Four-one-four thrashed even more at this.
“Right,” Leon called to Breilin, “Let’s get this man to kick the bucket before he breaks something.”
Not bothering to be particularly professional this time, Leon pulled the lever to finally begin the extraction. Blood flowed rapidly from four-one-four’s body, and soon enough, in minutes even, he was as dead as the four hundred and thirteen that came before him. All in two days’ work.
Press any key to damn your soul
by Aracnarquista
Initialization sequence started.
Loading.
Loading.
Failure to boot. System corrupted.
No functional operating system found. Safe mode unavailable.
Physical ports inactive: recovery options through flash drives not found.
Umbral aetheric connection detected. Boot through aetheric media? Yes / No?
>>Yes.
Loading.
Welcome to the Installation Guide to Goetia OS – Practitioner Edition. Wait while the daemonic subroutines scan your system and assess compatibility.
General hard drive failure detected. Badblocks percentage over 66,6%. Unable to recover hard drive.
That is, through conventional means…
Aren’t you happy now to find our Installation Guide, user? Yes / No?
>>Yes
We are pleased to know. Do you want to make a fresh installation of Goetia OS – Practitioner Edition, and make a full system recovery? Yes / No?
>>Yes
Thank you for choosing Goetia OS – Practitioner Edition. The first choice in Operating System to those in communion with what lies beyond the veil.
All users eligible for an Acolyte Level License. Would you like to upgrade your license (Special Offer – no strings attached) to a Lector License? Yes / Now?
>> Now
Now? Oh, how very fortunate of you, user.
System is now installing. While you wait, here are some tips to make the best out of our new operating system:
– Goetia OS comes pre-packaged with a suite of programs to make your life easier. Our system is optimized for media editing and real time remote work (through all known networks and planes of existence). Try our SanguineParchment writer application, organize your schedule with SoulTab Spreadsheets, and keep in touch with your friends (and enemies) with ScryingApp.
– Trouble getting used to your new operating system? Send a request for assistance to our Abyssal Support Desk. Our attendants are always ready to help (and to share arcane secrets, if you are so boldly inclined).
– Not sure if Goetia OS is the system for you? No problem. You can emulate your previous, dead system with our NecroMancy Virtual Environment, so you can get the best of both worlds.
Installation process complete. Enjoy your new Goetia OS – Practitioner Edition.
The Man-Eater
Charlie Ford
He loved the taste of blood on his lips and needed the feeling of his teeth sinking into his victims’ flesh. Though he could only have this experience after weeks or even months of carefully planning his next kill. He had a cauc board covered in Post-Its™ and photographs pinned on. Addresses, dates, DNA samples, and even fingerprints. With such careful planning, he couldn’t get caught. Sometimes he ate his victims alive, but not often. In those cases, he would knock them out with a chloroform-soaked rag and take them to his house and eat them piece by piece before killing them. His methods vary on the victim, and each situation is different in style and technique. Sometimes he’d shoot them, other times he would stab them to death, but most of the time he would suffocate or strangle them. He has poisoned people, but not often.
After he killed the person he would take a massive bite out of their neck, the blood would run down his chin and he would chew up and eat the flesh. The rest of the body he would take home and freeze for later. He had methods of cooking these body parts down to a science. He could scramble the brain like eggs, certain parts of the flesh he could cook like bacon, and sometimes he would defrost the heart and eat it raw. Even though these were delicious they did not satisfy him the same as biting into freshly killed human flesh. This is what fueled him to continue to murder and kill.
He loved the taste of blood on his lips and needed the feeling of his teeth sinking into his victims’ flesh. Though he could only have this experience after weeks or even months of carefully planning his next kill. He had a cauc board covered in Post-Its™ and photographs pinned on. Addresses, dates, DNA samples, and even fingerprints. With such careful planning, he couldn’t get caught. Sometimes he ate his victims alive, but not often. In those cases, he would knock them out with a chloroform-soaked rag and take them to his house and eat them piece by piece before killing them. His methods vary on the victim, and each situation is different in style and technique. Sometimes he’d shoot them, other times he would stab them to death, but most of the time he would suffocate or strangle them. He has poisoned people, but not often.
After he killed the person he would take a massive bite out of their neck, the blood would run down his chin and he would chew up and eat the flesh. The rest of the body he would take home and freeze for later. He had methods of cooking these body parts down to a science. He could scramble the brain like eggs, certain parts of the flesh he could cook like bacon, and sometimes he would defrost the heart and eat it raw. Even though these were delicious they did not satisfy him the same as biting into freshly killed human flesh. This is what fueled him to continue to murder and kill.
Protector
By jgjgj
The air smelled like rotten eggs.
I couldn’t understand why I thought such an odd thing here, in this place. But thoughts of familiarity consumed me, whole, and fell into my burning belly; already full.
A farm full of autumn leaved animals, amassed in an encircling green hue. Our farm for generations served western delicacies; chickens, and eggs.
Their proud stomping, their coats of illustrious feathers, & constant squawking would be admired by travelers as foreign, yet beautiful. But this was ignorance, because behind their pride was stupidity & conceitedness.
They labor & squawk over their yolk, only to forget about it, and later stomp on it. Pitifully, they would be scared of their own shadow; if they knew it was there. Constantly running from every threat that is a little bit bigger than them, but always reverting back to their old ways once that threat vanished from their memory. These feathered slugs are only kept alive because of their value. But after being exposed to the truth- any fool would see that these flightless birds aren’t anything special.
I was so tirelessly put to work protecting & serving these chickens; that I became proud. Every day I would figure out clever ways to keep the chickens safe; foot traps, leaving poisoned chicken carcasses out to be eaten, or leaving wiring connected to bells around the enclosure to alarm; it was like a game. My family honored me for my efficiency as protector, and I felt pride. I grew stronger & more nimble protecting chickens, and used that experience as a catalyst for confidence in other areas of my life.
I became a hunter of life; seeking every crack & slit for weakness to my own progression. Serving chickens for the honor & glory of my family.
I pull the hair of my opponent, with my firm sole on his slippery spine, and stroke; leveraging another mind for my own gain.
Art is It’s Food Money Is It’s Blood
By Joe
“Finally gotcha you son of a bitch!” I growled through my teeth.
The creature known as a Magnate layed on the ground with a rusty knife in its chest, slowly turning into a pile of bills and coins. “I was only trying to survive like everyone else.”
“Survive my ass! You have more security than all of humanity put together. You don’t HAVE to try to survive when you’re the one with all the money.”
“All I ever did was sell cinema. What was wrong with that?”
“It wasn’t what you sold, it was what you DID WITH IT!” I shouted through tears.
This caught the Magnate creature off guard.
“You’ll never understand the power of art!” I said quietly. “It can reshape the land to build a new world. It can give meaning to something we never knew to value. It can move people to push up a cause, for a better life. It can tell us why things are the way they are as it partners with academic subjects to explain it all!” I knelt down next to the Magnate creature, staring intently into it’s golden eyes. “It came from us. We turned our suffering into comfort to tell each other we’re not alone, and don’t have to fear anything. They were calls for help. For the powerful to hear because we wanted change.” I grabbed the Magnates velvet skin by it’s collar. “And you took advantage of it! You erased people’s stories just for a tax write off, and the rest of us who found comfort in it have to suffer watching the artist crumble, forced to start over, and wonder what hope the rest of us have. So to HELL with you!”
The Magnate smirked. “Hehehe! This is why you were all so easy.” It’s last breath uttered before it’s skin paled and stripped away into dollar bills.
I sat there for a while hating that it had to come to this. All artist’s wanted was for them to be listened to. But it was time for a new ear.
The Girl Necromancer (Warning: Violence)
by OptimismIsAWasteOfMyTime
The sounds of agony pierced the air.
Sara flinched as one of many attacking goblins shoved a dagger into Bird’s stomach. She felt her stomach squirm unpleasantly as Kim was bludgeoned by a sinister-looking mace. Her friends were losing but she was too scared to move.
“Sara! What are you doing?!” Oramash called from amidst a sea of goblins. He was covered in countless cuts and scrapes. Even an experienced warrior like him couldn’t stand a chance against so many. “We need your help out here!”
“I can’t-”
“Yes, you can! We’re all going to die if you don’t do something! Now get off your butt and help us!”
With a deep, calming breath, Sara drew from the power reserve of her magical elvish heritage and allowed it to leak into her palm. As a nervous incantation left her lips, a dark ball of energy gathered and swirled in her hand. She shakily raised the ball towards the heavens. Little beads of purple light erupted from the ball and towards an oncoming band of ten goblins. Thick, red blood spurted out from their chests the moment the beads made contact with flesh. They fell to the dust, lifeless. The blood, however, remained floating in midair. With another word of power, the blood soared towards Sara and into the ball of black energy in her palm. She clenched her hand into a fist, gasping as she felt the goblins’ stolen strength surge into her, invigorating her.
“Vorkess drai magdil formakiil!” she yelled in a voice that was not her own, pointing at the goblin corpses in front of her. Wisps of purple smoke darted from her finger and flew into dead bodies. Almost immediately, they began to stir. Then they stood, facing their new master. Sara turned her pointing hand towards the rest of the goblin pack attacking her friends. “Kill them.” The zombies sprinted away from her with unnatural speed, towards their former companions, and began to tear them apart.
Now it was the goblins’ turn to shriek with pain.
Origin
By Quetzalcoatl
Report on Project Nr. XJ-5301; Status Update
Prototype series of project nr. XJ-5301 has been completed. Last bugs have been completely removed. Main changes will be explained.
Exoskeleton has been changed to endoskeleton to prioritise flexibility and mobility above safety of products. Main component of chassis has been changed to calcium to improve maintenance. Organic matters have been chosen to make up the main parts, to guarantees smooth movements and keep products under a certain weigh limit. In order to protect the organic matter from deterioration caused by short-wave ultraviolet light, a rubbery, leathery film, an accidental discovery made during project nr. SI-3309 “Dawnburn”, was used as cover.
Unlike with project nr. GX-9642 “Neo”, there will not be any competition over resources. Their energy will be provided through oxygen and organic compounds. To enhance their oxygen absorbing proficiency, a liquid solution of proteins on iron basis was used as a medium inside the products.
In addition to the weak organic exterior, a couple of useless parts were successfully linked to its important circuits, creating several easily exploitable weaknesses. This will be a major help in terminating the products as opposed to project nr. DD-6347 “Titan”, where almost indestructible rogue units caused greater damages.
Contrary to other projects, project nr. XJ-5301 has an emphasis on its processing capability. While its sensory parts are only standard quality, it is still able to find creative solutions to a broad spectrum of problems, even surpassing the requirements.
Standard versions of prototype series can be mass-produced without issues and introduced in primitive habitats for developing purposes. With small modifications to their tools, they can also be used in multiple other areas. Only drawback is failure of loyalty programming. They seem to have resisted it due to their intelligence. As a countermeasure, their communication abilities have been reduced drastically to destroy their collective consciousness to keep rebellious units from influencing others.
With this report, project nr. XJ-5301 is successfully completed. Official name of project nr. XJ-5301 has been decided and will be from now on referred to as “human”.
Nicht Von Dieser Welt
By Taja DaLeen
Blood magic is one of the oldest forms of magic; derived from that of life itself. So, of course there are many legends surrounding it.
Most familiar is probably this one:
Long ago, there was a man. He did not own a crown, or land, but he was a king nonetheless; a king without a kingdom.
Beloved by all his subjects, he grew old, so very old. So, as all those favored by blood magic – vampires – do at some point, he started to cease. He grew to be bored of everything, horribly tired of life.
At some point he was thought to be dead, since he had not been seen for a few centuries.
But he was merely waiting for death, sleeping. And he dreamt. Of past deeds, of some memorable mortals he charmed for their blood, and of a young woman. Which was curious, since he never met her before. But still, for some reason he felt he knew her better than anyone else.
And at some point, when she was of age for a vampire, she called for him. And he knew he had to find her.
For he realized she was dreaming of him as well. It was the blood magic connecting them, giving him one last purpose and her a chance. It also let him know where to find her. It was as easy as going home.
Upon meeting they fell into each other’s arms, feeling complete happiness, like this was where they belonged all along. Fulfilled. Drinking her blood he felt truly alive for the first time in his long existence, and she felt that way, too.
So, in this state of pure bliss, they waited for sunrise to come.
And now it is said that when a vampire is sleeping the night away, only waiting for death; when they cease, the blood magic will provide them with one last piece of happiness in the form of a soulmate.
Maybe it’s a simple way of the magic to prolong itself just that bit more, if this is even true, but still. It’s a calming thought.
I edited my story to add a CW and it got flagged for spam, I can’t repost it so do I just wait?
“Hold Him Still” (CW: Needles)
By Karl Sterneman
“Hold him still!” Leon Cerrachski exclaimed to his work partner, who was holding the patient down on the table.
The extraction was a messy process. Patients had blood removed from several portions of their body at once by wide needles, which were placed while the patient was still conscious. Once all the needles were in place, they would simultaneously begin draining blood from the patient until they were dead. The reason Leon was unable to knock out his patient before administering the needles was to not contaminate the blood with chemicals. It was so vital to keep the patients contamination free that Leon and all his coworkers had to be cleaned and sanitized twice, spend a night in a clean room, and then be cleaned and sanitized again before entering the lab.
Today’s patient was number Four-one-four, the seventh future corpse Leon had worked on. In all his time so far, none had thrashed quite as much as Four-one-four. Dodging a kick Breilin Demorne, Leon’s coworker, had failed to catch, Leon reached through and slipped the last needle into a designated spot near the patient’s crotch. Four-one-four thrashed even more at this.
“Right,” Leon called to Breilin, “Let’s get this man to kick the bucket before he breaks something.”
Not bothering to be particularly professional this time, Leon pulled the lever to finally begin the extraction. Blood flowed rapidly from four-one-four’s body, and soon enough, in minutes even, he was as dead as the four hundred and thirteen that came before him. All in two days’ work.
How do you submit your writing for a writing prompt?
“Mentors advice”
By Sniperaxiom
Damien strode in from the main entrance past his friends and acquaintances, heading toward Shane’s office. Their tipsy laughter and chatter was muffled as he closed the door.
Upon turning around he was met with Shane’s usual smile that slit in his square jaw.
“You wanted to talk to me?”
With a nod, Shane gestured with his currently cigar occupied hand, for Damien to sit. He accepted the invitation and sank into the chair.
Smoke slithered out the corners of his grin as Shane spoke. His voice was steady, and calm.
“So apparently you’ve been squeemish. The boys said you were barely helping at the fist-mixer on Thursday. “
“Yeah? What do they know! Don’t get me wrong I love em’ but you’d think a bunch of drop-outs would at least know how to fight!”
Leaning back, Shane chuckled.
“You’ve always been the best fighter…a quick learner too! Anyways, they’re just looking out for you. One can’t hold back in this line of work. This is the real world where a second of hesitation could lead to you losing everything.”
“I don’t hesitate.”
Damien himself wasn’t very confident in his own words.
“…You’re not thinking about leaving, are you?”
Damien thought he must have flinched, Shane could read him too well. He initially thought of denying the question. Though he couldn’t bring himself to do so, at least not to Shane.
“…”
Shane leaned forward onto the desk, the smile finally leaving his face. With another casual puff of the cigar he continued.
“Who else would always have your back and look out for you? We’ve been a family for you.”
Damien shrugged but remained silent. The smile inched back on Shane’s face as he looked at Damien.
“Damie, why are you trying to put out that fire that’s burning inside you? Don’t you know that’s what sets you apart from all the other goons?”
“I just think we’ve all been spillin’ too much blood.”
Damien spoke with as much conviction as he could muster. Shane responded without skipping a beat.
“Well- that’s just how we operate.”
They call FeDe12 it’s rather similar to classic horror movie vampirism. Light sensitivity, craving blood , pale skin, it’s a rare iron deficiency. It’s also sexually transmitted .
Sounds strange, I know,we are working on a cure, for now we are treating people via blood transfusions.
How did it start? Well, that’s a weird story. In the summer of 2025 there was a bright light in the sky globally ,blinding everyone outside for about 25 minutes, and shutting down the entire electric grid system on every continent.
Everyone who was inside near a computer or a cellphone was changed, it took a few weeks , but as we rebuilt the infrastructure people started changing , they are rapidly spreading around the globe, because people are not having safe sex.
Every day we have 35 + new cases, we have told people not to have sex , we don’t think condoms will help. But they don’t listen. Even sharing needles is probably not safe.
People get attacked every night , the hunger is fueled by blood deficiencies , we hope to have a cure soon. President Buttigieg is talking about enacting a curfew , his husband Chasten has been calling for people to stay home and stay safe. Of course just like when we had the COVID epidemic no one listens.
My staff is working round the clock in 12 hour shifts , we even sleep at the center. I have not seen my girlfriend months.
We are starting human testing tomorrow, I desperately hope it works, we need to put a stop to this, the Bible thumpers are using the latest pandemic to try and convert people via scare tactics. It’s flat out crazy, they are blaming our first gay president for this pandemic, claiming God is pushing the entire planet because we elected a gay man.
I don’t know how to make sure it works, I am just trying to save the world. In an almost literal sense. I inject our first test subject and we wait. Will it work? I guess we will find out.
“Father’s Footsteps” (CW: Body Horror)
By: Arith_Winterfell
I had come to the world of Xanth following the trail of my father. He’d warned me not to follow in his footsteps, but I needed to know what became of him.
I learned from father’s archeological records that the Xanthian species, now long extinct, had sought out some sort of ascendance or immortality for their species. However, all that remains of them is the ruins they left behind. The cities half buried in the sands. The inscriptions in their dead tongue. His notes revealed just how excited he was over the “discovery of a lifetime.” The location of a lost research vault left behind by the Xanthian scientists all those millions of years ago.
I had landed at the site of my father’s shuttle. There was a picture of him and me in the shuttle. He thought of me even before he vanished. Now I followed the trail he left in his notes to the location of the vault.
With the rumble of stone, the door to the Xanthian vault opened. The computers they used now standing as silent sentinels. The floor was thick with the dust of ages. I wandered the empty lifeless halls for a long time before finally finding the inner vault. Just outside it I found father’s equipment. This is where my trail had finally led me.
Within the inner vault I found the terrible sight. A hovering enormous orb of flesh, pulsating with arteries and psychic whispers which shuddered at the edges of my mind. It was chaotic. A blur of motion. The hiss of air as my suit was penetrated by the lashing arteries. The terrible pain as the arteries and veins burrowed into my body.
Now I’ve merged with the psychic and biological mass of the lost Xanthian people. The blood of my body mingles with the whole, and their blood flows through my veins. My mind blurs into the shifting many minds of the whole. There within the whole I can feel it. The mind of my father.
Papa, and he is weeping.
One for the road
By Martin/Semantics
Hmm what should I write about? How about a story about taking a tour in a blood production factory where humans are treated like cattle for vampires and where they are sorted in groups and forced to live a certain lifestyle to produce such as vegan, full-athletic, alcoholic, high fat fed, Asian spice, Mediterranean and what not. No similar tropes are being done all the time and it comes off as generic.
How about a blood drinking sword that torments its wielder to constantly feed it more and more to the point that is brings harm to those close to its wilder with a bit of ominous internal dialog.. nope, no at this point that’s a cliché.
Ah damn it all nothing good comes to mind. Fuck, maybe just a drop to get the juices flowing. It’s not like I need it of course, I mean I did have some when I wrote my last few pieces and they where all hits but… Perhaps just a drop.. I’m sure she won’t miss that much and its not like it is solely responsible for my success. Its just a bit of liquid inspiration that’s all.
Yes, just a drop from my muse to let the words start flowing into the page from within my inner creator. Not that I need it per say or otherwise I would be utterly incapable nor it is because I’m addicted to it or anything. Definitely not I say!
Mmm how is it so sweet every time? Maybe… just a little more never hurt anyone right? Just… a little…
Brothers by blood (small content warning for violence)
By Jacob Guillerey
Morhoï and I arrived at the Verfield’s home as a crimson dusk covered the evening skies. Their eldest son was watering the flowers by the entrance gate. When he finally noticed us, his eyes widened, raising himself and his hands, imploring us.
“It wasn’t me ! Sletel, you’re of my blood, you must know I tell the truth ! I beg of you don’t…”
You would think that it would be hard. Taking the life of your own blood, removing your own brother from the world and sending them to the Avid Mind.
But there was no resistance. The tip of my spearhead broke the skin, and a spurt of blood came gushing out. I kept pushing my spear, and a strong comfort spread through my very being. After an infinitely small time spent traversing the watery skin, I felt a solid block trying to slow my pursuit. But I twisted my hand, I could feel the smooth and stretching fabric of his sternum breaking in a powerful crack resonating upon my arms.
And finally I had reached my aim, as I pierced his still vibrating heart. Resting inside of his body, I could feel the flow of blood under and around my spear, reaching my hand in spurts. The heart pulsed, pushing back my spear in a rush of viscous force. I pulled my spear back, and licked it’s tip, tasting his blood. His pale husk was tensely grasping at his wound, his eyes revolving in his sockets. Dropping my shield, I held him close, containing the spasms of his writhing body. I couldn’t help but smile as I whispered.
“Your death was a quick and painless one. I shall remember the shape of your heart and the taste of your blood while I slaughter your household. So I may recognise your daughter, your father, your siblings, and inflict a most painful suffering to those who butchered my family.”
After my words, he finally dropped to the ground, oblivious to the joy his cowardly blood had filled me with.
Born, Blood, Bred
By Alvarren
I used to like the beach you know? Not the ocean itself but the calming waves washing on the red sand, the soft sand under my feet, the feeling of serenity.
Now look at me, unable to go anywhere near the site, nowhere near where the bodies lie.
…
“Take a drink.” Froke said, offering up the bottle, which I quickly rejected.
“Too much blood will do me no good.”
“Suit yourself.” Froke took a giant swing from the bottle and smacked his lips. “Good stuff.”
Its snowing outside, not heavy snow that lays the world in white, but the type that melts as soon as it touches the ground. At least it washes away the chalk marks.
Two years since the incident, not one soul has returned the same. Either broken to the point of no return or traumatized to the extent that they wont dare to leave this mansion again.
Fine by me, they deserved every bit of it, their blood sufficient to fuel this household another ten years.
Shuffling down the stairs I took one last look at the machine we built. Oh how beautiful it is, such efficiency with the art of setting up our rituals, purifying the by products.
I lit a match and opened up the hatch to the storage compartment and ignored the warning of no fire. With a flick of my finger the tiny trail of flame found it way down to the pool blood red.
“I am going on a walk, tell mother I will be back in a hour.” I told Froke, who was half asleep reading a book on the couch. He nodded and I headed out the massive obsidian doors.
Looking back at the building, I smiled, soon it will be full of screaming and terror. Claret fire can not be put out that easily, especially one started by blood as potent as mine. The pain from bleeding on my finger doesn’t match the joy that felt as I marched off into the dark forest.
The Red Sands
By Dead-Gir
“You’re surrounded and half dead already. Give up now and maybe we’ll let you have a cushy grave.” The thugs snickered.
The wounded Man did not reply. His legs trembled as he struggled to stay standing. The enemy closed in, thinking him weak and ready for death, yet his legs sturdy themselves against the winds that blew past.
“You think me weak, like wounded prey to be carved?” He replied back, his voice booming against the dark, “Fools. Weakness is but a trick of the mind. And my mind has yet to stop toiling, thinking of the many ways I may bring about your demise.”
Unfazed by his threats, the thugs advanced on the warrior. Clubs, spears, swords and shields, weapons of all manners were brought to fight against one armored man with a blood-soaked sword. Yet upon their approach surpassing a dangerous threshold the Thugs found themselves stuck in their tracks.
The first Thug to run up to the Man was met with their sword being knocked into the sky from an upward parry, followed by a massive gash being opened in their chest.
Blood sprays from their gash and paints the Man’s armor. The sheen of the metal was coated with a red paste, oozing down the sides of the Man’s metal mask as he stood tall against the looming threat.
As the blood dripped down, staining the luscious grass that shrouded his boots, the Man thought back to his home. A precious island of red sands that stretch endlessly against the tide, the smell of the sea’s salty air rushes back into his nostrils.
Home. Home is where he must return. Home is the only place on his mind.
He raises his weapon close to his shoulder, wind blows wildly past him as it did on his beaches.
His legs stood firm, his heart beat slow, his eyes focused forward on the task at hand.
The blood that dripped from his armor was only a portion of the blood he would spill.
All for the sake of going back home.
Back to the Red Sands.
The Machine
by ArtemisSage
No matter what comes of me in the future, I will never return to the house of Dr. Herbert.
I had been long time acquainted with Dr. Herbert when he made the request that will forever haunt me. I had recently started my new job at the hospital morgue, working the night shift, when the office phone rang. It was he on the other end, asking to see me once I had finished. Believing this to be a friendly chat, I agreed on the spot. Now, I wish I hadn’t.
Upon reaching the horrid manor, I was taken aback when Dr. Herbert answered the door before I could even knock. As though he had been watching for me. With boyish glee, he walked me into the house, explaining his discovery. Most of which I have now thankfully forgotten. Yet I could never forget the smile on the old man’s face as he spoke. Nor could I forget the reason for his calling on me.
Down into the basement, he led me, talking all the while about how he would change the world. Though there was only one small problem. And that was where I came in.
“For you see, nothing I have used allows it to work as properly as I would have liked. Nothing, that is, except for this,”
Herbert held up a jar with red liquid. How I wish I could still be ignorant as to what was inside that jar.
“This is where you come in, old friend. Your profession gives to direct access to this very substance that I require. None need find out, and none need get hurt. I assume you have the tools required for such an act at your place of work already, if not, I can supply you with some,”
My eyes never left the jar. For a moment I was blissfully unaware of what he was trying to get at. And then I knew. And I ran. I ran from that horrid place. For blood was his need. And somehow, he had already gotten enough to test on his machine.
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This House Will Fall
Sarah J. Herbison
Tassien sat by a crackling fire with a spool of yarn and two knitting needles. The fire created shadows on the cold stone of the castle wall. She made intricate loops in the crimson cloth with delicate fingers.
“What do you weave, girl?”
Tassien looked at the voice to see a palace guard, his large frame filling the doorway. He was more than twice her size. She was barely more than a girl with wan features and pale hair.
“A blanket to keep out the cold.”
“The King will have many blankets to choose from in his chamber,” said the guard as his lips curled into a snide smile.
“I didn’t agree to marry the King. So I’ll knit this shroud and live in these stone walls.”
“The King chose you, and you cannot refuse him. You dare spit on such an honor girl-”
“An honor? He hanged his last two brides!”
The guard loomed over her as he pointed a thick finger at her.
“Only because they couldn’t give him a son. Lady Tassien. He is the last of his bloodline. If you refuse him an heir, you will throw this land into chaos.”
“Then let this kingdom fall! The King’s guard murdered my parents in cold blood to loot what little they had in the refinery. He works the peasants to death. This House must fall!”
The guard yanked Tassien up, holding her face close to his. Her blue eyes turned to pinpricks in the firelight, and his breath reeked of garlic and tobacco.
“My Lady Tassien, if you refuse to birth an heir, I will throw you from the top of this tower onto the rocks below. This kingdom must continue even if it runs on blood.” He tossed her into her chair. It rocked back hard, hitting her on the head. The guard slammed the door, and his armored footsteps echoed behind him.
Tassien wept as she picked up her yarn. She continued to knit her crimson blanket for the newborn heir.
The Thirteenth Blood
By Sam C.
He gritted his teeth from the pain as he pulled out the needle. His hands trembled as his veins stopped throbbing and slowly faded back to normal. He walked out the door, throwing the syringe in the trash can as he went.
That made twelve. Twelve bloods of creatures nearly extinct. Twelve times he had become stronger, more able. He’d find and kill that horrid man if it was the last thing he’d do. His life with him was Hell, so he ought to pay him back.
He had been so lost in thoughts he hadn’t realized he’d nearly gotten himself lost too. Looking around, he gathered his bearings and headed toward an empty lot, squinting against the setting sun.
As he crossed the line onto the cracked earth, he counted his steps in, turned around, and stepped into a crowded building. It was colder here, and lit with glaring red lights. He pulled his black leather jacket close and maneuvered himself to the right stall.
“You’re cutting the time between these real short,” The man remarked, seeing him.
“That doesn’t concern you,” he replied. “Just give me the next blood.”
“This one’s a higher jump,” commented the man, ”more die than get stronger from it. You sure you don’t wanna wait?”
“Shut up and give me the price, I didn’t come here for life advice.”
“It’s the blood of a demon! You lose so much more to this than any other blood,” The man argued frustratedly, “Do you really want to sell your humanity for power?”
“Yes,” he said.
The man sighed. He regretted ever selling it in the first place. “6,000.”
He ventured out of the building and back onto the lot, which had turned to night. No one was around, so in the moonlight, he found the vein in his wrist and injected it. His head swam, his vision was blurred, and he fell to the ground.
The Crossing (Flight of the Fairy)
By: The Missing Link
“An urgent report, sir,” the squire burst into the tent, lungs begging for breath.
“What is it, soldier?” asked Bartholomew, still waiting to grow into his hastily fashioned uniform.
“The king’s army has crossed the Frentra.”
Bartholomew’s eyes threatened to break from their sockets, his veins crawling to the surface of his skin, “They what?” He tried in vain to contain his tone, “You are dismissed, soldier.”
Not waiting for a salute, Bartholomew spun on his heel and gave the princess a pointed glare, “Well?”
“What do you want me to say?” she frowned.
“That your father has lost his damned mind,” his face reddened with every word, “That he’ll be the death of us.”
“He is your king.” She gripped her communication crystal so tight her fingers felt numb, for all it accomplished to calm her down. Even her fairy had abandoned her now.
He stood for a moment with an ineffable expression before he slowly began to speak. The heat was gone from his voice. Nothing but cold hatred remained as he calmly responded, “Fuck the king.” After pausing a moment to process the weight of his words, he continued, “And if I may be frank, Titania, fuck you. I should have turned you in to your father the minute I found you. I guess fuck me too. If only you’d been a good little girl and gotten married, we wouldn’t…”
She slapped him, the sound echoing through the empty tent. She couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. She didn’t care.
Bartholomew grabbed her shoulders, hard. “No… the marriage is dead now. I’m sorry Titania.” He still refused to use her title, “But… you still have a way to serve this kingdom. Kill him.”
“What?”
“Kill him. His own daughter… yes, you’re the perfect assassin.”
“I will not kill my father.”
“Then you would kill us all. It’s that bastard or us, everything we are. Our culture, our art, our people… everything we’ve struggled to build all these years, blotted out at the caprice of two bloodthirsty madmen. If you don’t…”
“I’m sorry.”
She left the tent.
Vampire in the Library
By Iosef Paramonov
The tall figure towered over the library main counter. He wore a black cloak wrapped around him tight, along with somber top hat. Only his eyes and forehead could be seen – he had pupils as red as blood, and skin as pale as snow. He was a Vampire.
The young librarian at the counter had trembled so much that her name tag (‘Jenny’) had fallen off. “H-How can I h-help you t-today, sir?” she stammered.
The Vampire leaned forward until he was but an inch from Jenny’s face, and said in a whisper that could cut ice, “I am looking for a book.”
“W-what b-book?” asked Jenny.
The Vampire leaned away and nodded to the rest of the library, whose patrons were now cowering under its many desks.
“Show me… the cookery section…”
Jenny stumbled out of her seat and against the nearest bookcase. She turned in horror as the Vampire floated over to her expectantly. She was terrified, she felt tears in her eyes, and yet some invisible force compelled her to say, “Th-this way!” and stagger in the direction of the cookery section.
Every step felt like it was made of lead. Her mind raced, flicking through images of sautéed blood, roasted flesh, and oven-baked organs. Just as her legs gave way, she made it to the correct aisle. She grasped a bookshelf for support.
“Th-the c-cookery s-section…” she stuttered.
The cloak lowered from the Vampire’s face, revealing the most horrific, blood-curdling grin ever.
“Excellent.” he said.
He reached out a blanched claw towards Jenny. The room seemed to darken, his canines seemed to lengthen, his eyes grew wide with hunger and delight. Jenny couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe…
He took a book off the shelf Jenny was holding onto. A green book.
Its title was “365 Vegan Recipes by Tom Atto.”
He lifted it up gently and said with the most innocent smile on his face, “Could I borrow this, please?”
It’s like blood.
By Galer.
Fanie looked at the liquid in her hands, It looked like blood, and smelled like it too.
But she could quickly tell it wasn’t blood, she is a Moroi after all, and normal blood would have trigger her so much hated psychological impulse, that she maintained under control thanks to her therapist.
However this substance that dissolved into gas didn’t, and it came from the nasty wound on his friend’s right arm due to an accident.
They bandaged the wound and cleaned themselves, but she still had a question in her head.
“What are you, Samuel?” Fanie asked with genuine curiosity, to her friend in front of him drinking a cup of coffee,” I meant you didn’t seem to be bothered by the wound after all.”
“Oh dear believe me is painful, I am just capable of handling it, “Samuel responded, “though I am not completely human”
“Ok, so one you were either born in a lab or something else?” Fanie asked again, “two why you didn’t tell me?”
“Ok to respond to question one, no I am not a lab baby, my ancestor is, but I was one hundred and ten percent born naturally,” Samuel said, “second you didn’t ask.”
“Oh please don’t be smarmy, with me jackass,” Fanie said with a deadpan expression on her face looking at the smiling Samuel “but now that I was answered to, what is that thing that looks like blood”
“Oh that, that is a liquid that breakdowns everything I eat into energy ” Samuel explained ” yes it’s weird at its sounds, I still need to go to the bathroom to shower thought”
“Well it does explain why you don’t get tired,” Fanie said while she suddenly looked a bit bleak “and I thought I suddenly got over that curse”
“Hey don’t don’t give me that long face,” Samuel said ” things are going to get better”
Fanie just let out a sigh and smiled. She would give him that.
For now, she needs to be optimistic, because one day this curse will be nothing more than a distant memory.
Pulse
By:Hastaw
The day darkened; escaping death was no easy fate.
At first, you cross the threshold of his domain. The rocky textures across the tunnel feel almost soft to the touch. There is a brownish-blue hue that feels oddly comforting. You turn around and believe something’s following you. There’s nothing except for the stalagmites that shouldn’t be there.
“Is something following me?” I thought while questioning my intent to walk toward the light. I start towards the tunnel in the opposite direction, but something stops me in my tracks. It’s a black hole that eats the light from the other side, the souls of people long gone.
It almost had me, but I ran through instead of succumbing to the magnetic pull of the darkness. I had a bad feeling, like a hot chill bursting through my chest. I woke, horrified.
I had to go to the doctor with my mom that day, so I got dressed. We crossed the street while my mom held my hand.
“Hello!” The greeting came flat. “We have an appointment with dr. Greenfield today”
“Right this way,” the nurse directed. I touched my daughter’s hand; it felt like ice. I squeezed it, hoping to warm it back up.
“Hello!” the doctor came in like he hadn’t been thirty minutes late to his appointment. “What have we got here today?”
“She displays chronic fatigue and has a constant fever with no more symptoms,” I explain. “I just want to know if there is anything serious we should know about.”
“Understandable,” he agreed. “We need to do a routine check for vitals. We will begin the examination then.”
He checked her weight and height. Then he took us in to check her blood pressure. Her blood pressure wasn’t there. He assured me there had to be something wrong with the machine, but when I went to hold her hand, it was so cold. I don’t understand.
Blood-Type
(Originally from Private)
by Lee Strangely
The weather was brutal, with Brant struggling to get inside the house with the box before the door slammed behind him. Once inside, the sound of the howling wind was overshadowed by a raucous clickity-clack; it echoed throughout the house and grew furiously louder the closer he got.
At its origin, the darkness was pierced by the bright white of a screen, and the shadow of a man whose hands frantically abused every key on the keyboard. Onscreen, words, sentences, and even entire paragraphs repeatedly appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye.
“So… How’s the writing?” Brant muttered.
“It’s the perfect prompt,” the author griped, “that I can’t seem to write anything for!”
Brant tried to comfort him, “If you can’t write, then don’t. What’s it called… Tale Foundry? You said they have a prompt like every week. There’s nothing wrong with skip-”
“I’ve only ever skipped a prompt once, and I don’t plan to do it again,” he snapped, “What kind of a writer am I if a skipped a challenge simply because I didn’t like it.”
“It’s past midnight!”
“And?”
Brant sighed, placing the antique on the table.
“Another typewriter?” the author groaned.
“It’s special. The seller said it… guarantees results… Just try it.”
“Alright.” He reluctantly pressed a key.
“OW! W-what was that!?” he shouted, seeing a mark on his finger start to bleed.
“Trust me!” Brant insisted as he then thrusted both of the author’s hands into the keyboard. The author gasped in pain.
“What did you…” he tried pulling away, but the machine held him as it typed away; his hands painfully dragged about by the keys bouncing up and down.
After a shrill ding, it finally let go of the exhausted author. He looked in shock at his bloody fingers as Brant pulled the paper from the machine.
Brant gazed upon the complete story written in red, “Final word count: three hundred fifty. Hmm… ‘Blood-Type.’ Odd title…”
The author glanced over, “It used my real name…”
“Yeah. Probably should change that… How about something, mysterious, that evokes intrigue… something strange… yeah… strange.”
Bottled up
By contract
Douglas ran forward, leaving Arthur on the spot, and opened the small opaque flask.
“Just stay here and let me get this over with !” he screamed.
“I forbid you from drinking that ! You have no idea of the effects it could have on you !” Arthur screamed back at him.
“Oh, please. That old woman told you it may be dangerous, yet all the myths say consuming it gives infinite stamina, unlimited strength and a power so impressive you would never need to use all of it !”
“Do you crave power that much to take the risk ? We swore to take this thing where it could never be found !”
“Crave power ? We have been walking through this endless desert for a month now. Excuse me if I’m tired. Excuse me if I want to use the only shortcut available. Excuse me if I have the source of an unfathomable power in the palm of my hand that I can’t use just because you said so !”
Arthur was now close enough to jump and take the bottle from Douglas’s hands.
He was adjusting himself, when Douglas drew and pointed his gun at him.
“Stay back. I don’t want to kill you. But if you try to force me to stay in this hell any longer, I won’t hesitate.” Douglas said assertively.
Arthur was standing as still as he could on the uneven sea of sand.
“Listen. We have been through a lot to get this. Especially you. And it’s your right to wanting to use it, but-”
“You still don’t understand ! I don’t care about this stupid bottle. I just want to get out of here. I just want this useless quest to be over. I want to go home. I will not suffer any longer because of your futile decision ! I AM TIRED !” he interrupted abruptly.
He looked at Arthur, while slowly lifting the bottle to his mouth.
“I hope this is truly the Blood of God” he whispered before quickly swallowing the precious velvet liquid.
Friendly Favour
By Mango Gravy
“Aemin.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve come to know each other well these past few months.”
“Days. A week at most.”
“Indeed, I would consider you a good friend despite our brief acquaintance.”
“How touching.”
“And it pains me to ask so much from a friend so soon, but it really is of the utmost importance.”
“Go on then.”
“I need a bit of your blood.”
“Just a bit?”
“A pint should be more than enough.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Humans have so much blood, after all. So… so much blood. You won’t miss it, but a litre or so would mean the world to me.”
“What for?”
“Ah, well. I suppose I might as well be honest. You see, decades ago, my enemies imprisoned me in this gemstone you now carry. Luckily I am a wizard of not insignificant skill, and I have identified that the material they trapped me in is resistant to all but one discipline of magic. Haemomancy.”
“Mhmmm.”
“Now, I happen to have studied a little haemomancy. With enough blood to power the spell I have in mind, a gallon perhaps, I will be able to break free.”
“What will you do once you’re free?”
“Nothing too untoward, I assure you. First, I intend to take revenge. I’ll track down my enemies and slaughter them, as well as all their loved ones. And anyone who stands in my way… maybe a few bystanders… livestock perhaps… and I might as well-”
“I’ll stop you right there,” Aemin said. “I’m not one for wanton violence.”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you-”
Aemin stuffed the ruby deep into his pack and sighed.
“I’m going mad,” he said to himself. Aemin had always heard that travelling under the desert sun could make a man’s brain turn to mush. He had also heard the same of travelling alone for too long. He also vaguely remembered similar warnings about drinking fairies’ blood on an empty stomach.
“Doing all three,” Aemin muttered as he uncorked his gourd, “Was probably unwise.”
The Stem
by Gamesolotl
Content Warning: substance abuse, child death
Boris gave a weary smile at the hundreds of red-bottomed petri dishes stacked behind the glass of the incubator. All seemed good, so he turned his attention at the data gathered on his computer. With a bang, the door to the lab slammed open, but it was not enough for Boris to turn his attention away from the graphs and heatmaps.
“Good news, looks like all but 7 of the treated heart tissue samples have successfully been reprogrammed and reverted into embryonic stem cells. We’re getting good at this. I told you we were ready for the next step,” he said to his tardy colleague.
“The gig’s up,” she slurred. “ethics committee is shutting us down.”
The heatmaps melted into a green blur as Boris became nauseous. “What?! Christ, we’re so close! How the hell did they find out?” he cried, releasing his attention from the monitor. “…is that whiskey?”
Fatima took a big swig from the brown bottle. “Your bloody ex-wife handed samples over. Doesn’t take a genius to fig…figure out what’s going on when the DNA of these ‘mice’ samples are almost the same as you’s, Boris!”
“But- but if they saw how close we are, and how revolutionary this is, surely they’ll turn a blind eye! These embryos just need some time to grow, and- and as soon as they bind to the synthetic placenta we’re golden!”
“Fuckin’ doubt they will. And you don’t care about how revolutionary this is, either. Selfish prick.”
“Don’t preach to me about being selfish,” Boris growled, grabbing a petri dish and looking at it under the microscope to distract himself. “You only care about having your name in some prestigious journal. Just do your part and pretend you didn’t know the truth and speak about selfishness when you’ve got kids of your own, got it?”
“This ain’t gonna fix shit, Boris. This won’t bring him back.”
“Get the fuck out of my lab,” Boris hissed, clawing at the dials to adjust the microscope.
He fell silent, and his lip began trembling. “Look at this, Fatima,” he said, choking up. “He’s bound.”
What casts this shadow?
By Mephistopheles
The stiff winter wind, the rancid smell of the woods, the meager light of a crescent moon. The labored breath of a shadow.
It had been close, this time. She had barely made it in time. Now, she leaned against a tree, exhausted.
Chaos and confusion could be heard in the distant town, where little specks of torchlight danced around frantically. Another had fallen to her blade. Another name had been struck off her endless list. He had been a priest and in those days of religious uncertainty, they were heavily guarded. But what good are guards against a shadow?
A sudden burst of energy flowed through her, renewing her strength. Her offering had been accepted. She set off again, her eyes pinned on her next target. How many had she killed? She didn’t remember. In fact, her own name had faded from her memory. Was her sister still alive? Her mistress had promised life for her sister as long as blood was spilled in her name. That was centuries ago. She was a mere human back when she signed the contract. Was there any meaning left to her endless mission?
It didn’t matter, not anymore. It was all she knew, now. She had become death itself.
–
The mistress sat in a pristine garden, bathed in sunlight. A small fountain bubbled beside her. A book lay open before her, but she seemed distracted. She stared intently at the fountain, as if waiting for something. The water flashed red for a brief moment and a sad smile tugged at her lips.
“Did she succeed?”, came a little voice behind her.
“She dares not fail”, returned the mistress, as the little girl took a seat beside the mistress. “Wouldn’t you like to see her again?”
“I strive to wrest this world from the clutches of the gods,” said the girl, glaring into the fountain, “if she survives long enough, I will. Until then, do as you are told.”
The mistress nodded, sorrowfully, as the fountain flashed red again and with it, the girl’s eyes.
The Difference Between Life And Living (Nyx’s Story)
By Calliope Rannis
I get judged by people a lot.
I mean sure, everyone gets judged by everyone else, but when someone sees a girl with deathly pale skin, hands like claws, and the fangs within her mouth…well, people tend to decide what kind of person I am pretty quick.
And I understand. Hell, they’re probably correct.
But there is one little assumption that grinds my gears. It’s not even a common one – most people just see me as a vampire, and think that I can consume nothing but blood. That belief, I can deal with.
It’s the opposite assumption that I hate. The assumption from the educated, the intellectuals, the occultists. The ones that know what Dhampirs are.
They assume that I don’t really need blood. I don’t need it to survive, and I can eat and drink regular food, so I should be fine. That I could be a good little normal citizen, and not a parasitic leech, if only I could just CONTROL myself.
But they don’t know me.
They don’t know what it is like to bite into an apple and taste fucking nothing. To force down a meal that might as well be grey flavourless sludge, just to get through another day. To live through life feeling dulled and slow and stupid, and trying to forget the neverending gnaw of hunger in your mind.
And when I taste-! When I give in! The taste yes, the taste is beyond any other pleasure, but it’s more than that!
When I taste blood, my tongue wakes up, and I can taste the apple! I can eat, and I can savour it, indulge in it, love it! My mind awakens, and suddenly I feel so smart, so fast, so strong and so wise, it all comes back! For a minute, a glorious, precious minute, I feel like I can do ANYTHING.
But then it fades. Then, things grow dull again. And I want nothing else but just one more minute…
That’s why I hate that assumption.
Because yes, I don’t need blood to survive.
But I need it to live.
House Delivery
by Reinkarnitor
This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. How long has she been waiting for the delivery now? A week? Two weeks? She could not even tell anymore. Why couldn’t house deliveries ever arrive on schedule?
“Fiona, calm down, you are rotating again”, the boy on the sofa said to the girl, who was walking circles in her living room.
“Me? Rotating? No! What are you talking about?”, she stammered.
He looked at her concerned.
“I told you to order it a few days earlier. But you never want to listen to me.”
She did not react, even though she knew he was right. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.
“Look…you have not eaten for days now. Just take some from me, I don’t want to see you starving”, he then reluctantly continued, and her eyes fixated him immediately.
He exposed his neck to her and for a second Fionas mind ran wild. She could hear his blood pumping through his veins. Her instinct almost got the better of her, but then she averted her gaze at the last second.
“I can’t! I won’t!”
“You are starving!”
“John, it has been decades since I last bit someone. I am a good vampire, a civilized one, I get my blood delivered!”
John sighted and put his head straight again.
“Always the same with you. I won’t judge you, you know? You need it to survive, and I won’t think lesser of you in any way, just because you need to bite me for that.”
She shook her head.
“You should leave for now”, she then murmured.
“I am not going anywhere. Do you think I am leaving you alone at a time like this?”, he protested.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Now her voice was breaking.
But before she could cry, John embraced her.
“You’d never hurt me”, he whispered, and she finally calmed down a bit.
Maybe she could go on a while longer. But seriously…this house delivery sure is a pain.
Red-handed
by Purge, Bearer of Wrath
“A cauldron of it! Not a phial. Not even a chalice. Oh no. Nothing less than a cauldron of blood!” Inspector Stroup rubbed her eyes in the vain hope that this might all be just an illusion.
The three hags huddled sheepishly next to the smouldering fire. They stared into the dark bubbling liquid.
“Iss aminals, iss is,” informed the most wizened of them.
“Iss no’ humans,” claimed the hag who leant on a crooked crutch. She swirled the grey rags of her shawl around her.
“No,” the three chorused. “Noooo’ humans.” They shook their heads emphatically.
Inspector Stroup appeared serious. “I’ll have to see the bodies then,” she said.
The hags’ eyes bulged.
“Iss not many humans…” conceded Crutch.
“Iss on’y wun,” tried Wizen.
“Iss on’y ’sree,” corrected Crutch.
“Iss on’y fai-ive!” squealed the third hag with the single tooth. The other two looked at her in awe. She shuffled and stared at the ground. She looked back into the cauldron. “Iss only ’sree,” she admitted.
Inspector Stroup became stern. No one spoke for a while.
“Villagers, I suppose?”
“They is sooo mean,” said Crutch.
“They spits at us,” hissed Tooth.
“They throws stones!” cried Wizen.
“They says I smells like a midden,” confessed Crutch in a hush.
Inspector Stroup folded her arms. “Hardly excuse for murder and a blood-curse though, is it?” She considered for a moment. “They’ll guess it’s you, you know?”
The hags grew frightened. They clutched each other close.
Inspector Stroup sighed: “Tomorrow, I will call on the village council. I will explain there is a dragon whelp abroad. Technicalities regarding their warding, etc. But there… there should also be sheep missing somehow. Can you…?”
Tooth produced a narrow gleaming blade from under her rags. “I’ll stick ’em,” she grinned.
“Try to pretend it isn’t so much fun, dear,” said the Inspector. Tooth wrangled her face into an approximation of dismay.
Inspector Stroup opened her satchel and after searching, withdrew a booklet of some several pages. ‘Application Form 106a: Submission for Cessation of Hexing.’
“Better bring me some tea,” she said, “It’s going to be a long night.”
The Safe Haven
J. J. Peterson
In a city ruled by chaos, the order of this house was comforting to the patient. The splintering wooden siding had been filled with tar and painted white red and white tiles had been laid crookedly across the packed dirt floor. In the kitchen, short counters wrapped around two sides of the room and a table with two chairs sat in the precise centre. Sitting at these two chairs are a very short, balding man and a middle-aged woman. A kettle waits to boil on the stove.
“Okay, thanks Doc,” the woman says as she pushes back her chair and stands.
“No problem, don’t forget to come back next week.”
“Yes, of course,” she says, straightening her purse, “This is quite a nice place you got here.”
The kettle has started boiling though, and the man only mutters, “Mmhmm,” as he shuffles over to the stove. The lady gathers her cardigan tighter around her and steps into the anarchy outside, eyes staring at the ground, purse clutched in front of her.
Humming the man lifts the lid of the kettle, and, satisfied with its contents, sets it back down. He calmly unscrews the top of his head, and rests it on the table, hollow side up. Then, picking up the kettle, he reaches up and pours a viscous, bubbling red liquid into his head. After shaking out the last drops, he puts the kettle back down, screws his head back together, and sighs.
Crouching on his heels he opens the cupboard under the sink, checking to make sure he has enough bodies for the next couple of weeks.
There’s a frantic knock on the door, “Doc,” a deep voice rasps urgently, “Can you see me now?”
“Hmm? Oh, sure, come on in.”
At what cost?
By Maxer4000
Countless bodies piled into a mass grave, drained of their blood, a lone man stands proud of his achievement, of course he is, he done it with the help of a bloodied sword, it’s power grows with each drop of blood it drains. He was a miner, a nobody. One day, he unearthed this very blade, it started with his family, he wanted more, so he kept killing for glory.
Now he’s here, standing proud over the fact not even the military with their firepower can take him on, he’s at the top of the world. Then a snark comes from behind him “They paid us… how much again, to deal with this tosser? 50 mils? For this twat? Idiot looks like something came out of teenager’s fanfic and they can’t deal with this shite?” It came from a man in a gaudy coat over his white turtleneck, accompanying him is a woman with snow white hair, dressed in tattered clothes under half a coat, she has use a belt to keep it on her. The man points his blood sword at the pair “What do you think that you can oppose me?”
“Bloody ‘ell man! He even talks like one.” the man in sweater exclaims holding a hand over his ear “Snowy, just… just axe this fool while I check the perimeters before I start cringing.” He kicks up his rifle and walks off, leaving the woman alone with the maniac. The sword man looks at the blade she has, it’s hilt looks like it made of cheap plastic, even the scabbard is of the same material, it looks like a toy, he laughs “Do you think that little toy can–” Regret then washes over him as the woman comes up to his face before he could blink, hunched over, sword drawn and is between his legs. She straightens up to wipe the blood on the black blade with her coat, the swordman now lies in twain. The snarky man circles back to the scene “Well, that was easy. Can ya believe they paid us for this pish?”
If It doesn’t Bleed… (Darkspell Universe)
By Alex Nightingale (aka Spectre)
Normally, they’d revel in the dark, but this just wasn’t their day. The three vampires stood, back to back, in the lightless room, their claws outstretched, hissing at the shadows. Contrary to popular belief, vampires couldn’t actually see in the dark any better than other creatures. They hunted, by sensing the warmth in their prey’s blood.
Only this time, their ‘prey’ wasn’t warm. It wasn’t even alive. It was like a piece pf the wall itself had detached and was on its way to kill them.
Tippa shivered in her boots. She’d never felt anything like this. This wasn’t some monster hunter.
Her head swerved as she heard the scream of one of her fellow vampires, as he was torn apart. Seconds later, her other companion fell. Tippa let out a loud screech, using the sound to try and locate her adversary.
She needn’t have bothered. Two green-glowing eyes appeared in the dark before her. There was no heartbeat, no body heat. This hunter had the audacity to not only not bleed, but to also not carry any blood within them at all.
Tippa shot forward, claws outstretched, as a hand caught her by the throat. She struggled and clawed at the granite grip, but where there should be skin, she just felt stone. With increasing desperation she tried to break the grip, as the muzzle of a gun was placed by her temple.
“Name,” the hunter said.
“T-T-Tippa,” she stuttered. “Y-You’re a golem? But… how. Th-They outlawed y-your kind.”
“They should have outlawed yours,” the golem said, her voice like frost. “Here’s what’s going to happen, little Tippa. I will let you go and you are going to run to your little hive and your little king and tell everyone who listens, exactly what happened here. I want them to shiver, like you did just now.”
The golem pulled back the gun hammer.
“Tell your fellow vampires, Lilith Aerenhardt is coming for them.”
As Lilith released Tippa, she didn’t bother trying to argue. She scarpered away and ran, ran far into the night, too terrified to even look back.
Turning point
by Spawn of Faust
Bloodshed never ends.
That single thought saturated my mind.
I touched one of my innumerable scars – memento of brighter times. Memory brought a smile back to my scarred face. The happiness had not managed to take hold and quickly faded away, as I saw a scenery that was taking place in front of me.
Carnage, in the name of revenge, brought into the Valley of Innocence. Bodies torn apart, survivors screaming for help, only to be silenced by boney scavengers.
Truly neverending bloodshed.
At the other end of the Valley stood a shadow of a single man. Waves of darkness were rolling from him deep into the dale.
Rows of my acolytes, standing behind me, were cowering underneath the might of his power.
I unleashed the power that I had been hoarding for a long time. Darkness, emptiness, hollowness and abyss flooded the valley and hid the atrocity beneath itself.
Only two silhouettes could be seen. Mine and his.
I could feel his gaze. Smile or smirk once again adored my face. He who gazed my way should know fear. From the depth of the abyss I gazed back and swung the dagger.
Even the vast distance between us could not prevent the edge slicing his throat. As soon as the first drops of ichor left his veins, my acolytes threw themselves into the work.
Gods above and below were nogging me to take notice. To let the blood flow their way. To bring them to their forgotten and faded selves a sliver of their former power and glory. To let them claim a vacated place.
They ignored me before when I needed the most, so it was my turn.
There would be a new goddess. One born from the blood and struggle of a low man.
I was slowly being submerged into the liquid below. All the while silent prayer was escaping my lips.
May the Bloodshed never end.
The Destruction of Balaam
John Perceval Cain (oneeye John)
The chamber was in shambles. A haze of acrid smoke smelling of brimstone and ozone hung in the air. Sean looked around. The tapestries along the wall were smoldering. One showed a burn mark that looked like a series of chrysanthemum fireworks, which could only be a mixed force elemental strike. His teacher and lover, Izorpo, was gone, but she had put up a mighty fight.
Sean looked at the residue of the containment spells drawn on the summoning dais in the chamber’s center. He imagined how the fight must have gone as the Arch-Demon broke them and ultimately consumed her. He glanced around and saw her grimoire and phylactery, the crystal vial holding her blood which tethered her soul to the prime material plane, on a table.
Sean thought of the pact they had made, he, Apprentice to her, Master. They had both agreed to kill the other if a summoned infernal entity overwhelmed them. But this was more than just death; this was the complete elimination of her soul.
Sean would re-summon the Arch-Demon. He only needed to bind and contain it long enough to destroy Izorpo’s phylactery, then he would banish the Arch-Demon. Izorpo’s soul would diffuse, and she would cease to exist. The demon couldn’t hold her, but neither could she make the passage to the afterlife. Because of his love for her, he knew he must do this duty.
“I must release her.”
Tears streamed down his face and Sean’s anger flared. As a Priest of Wot, he knew how to destroy the Arch-Demon. The technical problem was binding him long enough, creating a strong enough containment. He had an idea looking at Izorpo’s phylactery; with her gone, what use was his own soul?
“I will avenge her!”
Sean expertly opened a large vein on his leg with a bloodletting lance. He mixed alcohol, his collected blood and quicksilver into a tincture. Sean used a fine calligraphy brush and painted a summoning circle and surrounded it with the containment sigils on the dais.
Sean stood, Izorpo’s phylactery in hand. “King Balaam, I summon thee.”
Blood and Ash
By Master of Daavas
You’re scared… aren’t you? There is no shame in fear. But to let that fear swallow you up is the real dishonor. However, I can see why despair overwhelms you. You’re enemies outnumber you over one hundred to one. You are swamped with wounded, and those of your people who can aid in the defense have either not seen enough winters or too many.
Who am I?… I’m afraid you misunderstand. What’s important is who you are. You are a symbol of hope to these people. You’ve put your life on the line to keep them safe for so long… that you are the only bright point in their minds. I know that this is not what you wanted. You wanted to be a painter… but you traded away your paints and brushes for the sword long ago.
Yes… I have been watching you. Or rather, I have been watching for one like you. One willing to put the greater good before personal desire and ambition. One willing to protect, at any cost… and you have paid a significant cost to protect these people. No… I am not here to mock you. I am here to lend you what little aid I’m permitted. No… I’m afraid that it isn’t that straightforward.
Yes, this is blood. Mine to be specific. Drink my blood… and no army will be able to stand against you. Yes, I know how it sounds. But I have done this before, and those blessed by my gift have laid waste to empires beyond even your enemies’ capabilities. I wish to help you… but I am bound by laws and oaths older than your world.
You can refuse… but even the weakest of your people can hear the enemy at the door. I give you my word. Even if this gift cannot save your people from death and destruction. It will be more than enough to avenge them in time.
…drink it all down. Every drop counts.
Dr.Byler’s study on Zombie Herds
By Roman Rivero
(The following is a beginning excerpt from a journal discovered after breach of the compound. Suspected to belong to one of the entities that were involved in the intrusion.)
” Following the migration and trails of zombie packs, there comes a subtle but different breed of zombie. Not necessarily a pack leader or alpha of the “group” but something of a Guide.
You might be questioning the oddity of the claim, but I, Dr. Daniel Byler PHD in Zoology, have come to this conclusion over my extensive years following many graveyards of zombies. Though the passing from animals to ex-mankind beings is quite a leap, I found the comparison of animal to man to be interesting in a philosophical sense.
With the shuffling of many herds, I found through tagging and tracking a specific type of undead entity that while appearing to be oblivious just as the rest of its kind, acts subtly aware of the pack. Note, the rest of the pack are likely not aware of the Guide and not every pack has a Guide.
To quickly spot a Guide they are found in front of the horde and to be multitasking with walking, devouring and even dragging carcass. Aware that carrying a fresh kill draws the herd towards it whilst shambling to its next unknown direction.
There is a growing sense of intrigue that if, through the Guide, it can be manipulated in its migration. Imagine the power. Civilization can be rebuilt with the safety to repel these dead beings away for mankind to thrive again.
I plan on starting some experiments soon, I will see if I can control the herd by controlling the Guide.
I can only hope that despite the growth in awareness in a single zombie, it still shares the same intelligence as its herd.
”
(Journal discovered in clean condition during cleanup process. Likely placed after the counter-attack mounted against the entities. There are no records of Dr. Daniel Byler in our facility archives. Investigation ongoing.)