OOC: Memory (001) "The Hero Dies"
Warning: The following contains disturbing imagery and would be rated NC-17 for violence. You have been warned.
He was running. It was dark, but not too dark. Sunset. There was a city, just like he had walked through in his in-between place.
There was a man, his coat held tight against him, hair nearly white in the dim, and he reached the end of the alley. He turned, his gloved fingers resting against the brick and his brown eyes darting, looking for an exit.
He slowed. He tasted the slightly sweet of saliva flooding his mouth.
The man's face, half-shadowed in the dim, was familiar as ever- it was, after all, his own...and yet, it was not him. The man braced himself, unsheathing a sword and looking down it with the intensity of a soldier. He uttered one word, the sound of it lost in a void.
He advanced, slowly.
The man set his jaw.
Everything unfolded all too quickly and too slowly at once. There was metal against him, and he saw as his own clawed hand ran red from a strike. The sword was grabbed, pulled out of the man's grasp, tossed aside. He tasted the coppery sweet of blood, saw his hand lash out, and the man fell back against the wall. His eyes were wide, his hands grasping at his stomach, his mouth open in horror.
If he had been wearing any color but black, he would have been wearing red at that moment.
He was against the man in an instant, and he could see as his jaw opened. The man's hands were against him, pushing with flagging strength. He could taste skin for a moment, and then beyond that was more blood masking over the almost delicate taste of flesh. He was looking into almost-white hair and pale, perfect skin. He pulled away, ligaments stretching free from his jaws and blood pouring freely from the ragged wound.
The man's mouth gaped open and tears ran from his eyes for a few seconds before they rolled back. His mouth moved again, once, and he was still.
His jaws opened again, ripping free muscle from skin on his neck, the taste of it all flooding his senses. The man's face remained untouched. They always did until he was done.
And on he feasted, ripping off clothing to free skin that was torn apart. When he finally ate a way to his heart, it was beating slowly, blood leaking in a halting rhythm.
When it finally stopped, he was shredding apart his arm, the delicate taste of the meat and then blood still there, but he moved. The movements were all the same. His blood-slicked hands touched his lips, his body pressing against the man's and he looked down into his face, remembering it. His stained fingers touched his lips, pulling them apart and he pressed his lips against them.
There was a taste, something beyond even description, the thing familiar. He could fill in the gaps, the feeling of warmth crawling over him, the pull of it as he inhaled the death-rattle of his prey. The taste was something warm, his sight swimming for a few seconds.
His eyes rolled back in his head as the taste faded.
He was running. It was dark, but not too dark. Sunset. There was a city, just like he had walked through in his in-between place.
There was a man, his coat held tight against him, hair nearly white in the dim, and he reached the end of the alley. He turned, his gloved fingers resting against the brick and his brown eyes darting, looking for an exit.
He slowed. He tasted the slightly sweet of saliva flooding his mouth.
The man's face, half-shadowed in the dim, was familiar as ever- it was, after all, his own...and yet, it was not him. The man braced himself, unsheathing a sword and looking down it with the intensity of a soldier. He uttered one word, the sound of it lost in a void.
He advanced, slowly.
The man set his jaw.
Everything unfolded all too quickly and too slowly at once. There was metal against him, and he saw as his own clawed hand ran red from a strike. The sword was grabbed, pulled out of the man's grasp, tossed aside. He tasted the coppery sweet of blood, saw his hand lash out, and the man fell back against the wall. His eyes were wide, his hands grasping at his stomach, his mouth open in horror.
If he had been wearing any color but black, he would have been wearing red at that moment.
He was against the man in an instant, and he could see as his jaw opened. The man's hands were against him, pushing with flagging strength. He could taste skin for a moment, and then beyond that was more blood masking over the almost delicate taste of flesh. He was looking into almost-white hair and pale, perfect skin. He pulled away, ligaments stretching free from his jaws and blood pouring freely from the ragged wound.
The man's mouth gaped open and tears ran from his eyes for a few seconds before they rolled back. His mouth moved again, once, and he was still.
His jaws opened again, ripping free muscle from skin on his neck, the taste of it all flooding his senses. The man's face remained untouched. They always did until he was done.
And on he feasted, ripping off clothing to free skin that was torn apart. When he finally ate a way to his heart, it was beating slowly, blood leaking in a halting rhythm.
When it finally stopped, he was shredding apart his arm, the delicate taste of the meat and then blood still there, but he moved. The movements were all the same. His blood-slicked hands touched his lips, his body pressing against the man's and he looked down into his face, remembering it. His stained fingers touched his lips, pulling them apart and he pressed his lips against them.
There was a taste, something beyond even description, the thing familiar. He could fill in the gaps, the feeling of warmth crawling over him, the pull of it as he inhaled the death-rattle of his prey. The taste was something warm, his sight swimming for a few seconds.
His eyes rolled back in his head as the taste faded.