The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, a perpetual chill fading as the warmth locked within flesh met the night air of Astrea. There was nothing comforting about this warmth, it was wrong and twisted, it teased the mind, frolicked through the deepest fears of a person stocking and nurturing the madness within.
[Sorrow is a relentless and faithful companion]
These words echoed unheard, rippling through the darkness as a figure flickered again into existence. It seemed to fuse with the soft light of Astrea, dancing in the wamrth that hugged its body, finding comfort in the morbid wamrth of the flayed, and yet, everywhere it passed, blood bloomed like mist—tainting the air with the iron tang of death.
The sound of torn flesh, and crashed bones filled the silent night, giving company to those who gave their lives for the feast.
The morbid presence of death brought with it a coldness and dread, but after the first death they were prepared, there was anguish, betrayal acceptance.
