Light, pale of moon burns the skin

dreams of the illusions come to life.

A flicker of heat, smoldering deep within

ignites. Burning, burning, burning.

The scent fills the air. Thick, pungent

carried by cool night air.

A taste, morsel of ambrosia. Always

wanting, needing, desiring.

Crimson dark to the sky, dark the sky of

our

The pungent smell of blood lays lingering in the cool night air, the dying cries of men piercing the night like an arrow. A lone soldier lay locked in combat with his foe, oblivious to the raging battlefield about him, consumed by his hatred. His arms growing number by the second, each blow parried and getting parried makes the sword he grips a little bit heavier. Tucking his sword into his side to absorb the impact he lunges foward. His foe stepping back and to the side quickly avoids the lunge neatly, swinging about his sword came flashing down on his head. Tucking his legs in he hits the cold damp ground hard, rolling just under the sword that would have ended the battle, his life. Parrying another overhead slash from his foes sword he lashes out with his fist, catching his foe offguard momentarily and connecting with a hard crack aganist the side of his helmet obscuring his view on one side. Sidestepping quickly to the blind side he slashes down with the fading remants of his strength, the sword bitting deep through the armor. A fatal wound, though by no means an instant one his foe tetters, the sword slipping through his weakened grip. Coughing a spray of blood spills forth through the air he stumbles to his knee. He looks down on his foe, weakened, dying on his knees. He felt no joy, no sense of accomplishment as he always envisioned in the past, only the numbness that seeped into his heart after spilling the life of so many into the cruel earth. He steps foward for the final blow, raising his sword over his foes head with the point aiming down he stabs downward. The split second his foe reaches up grabbing his arm, the surprising movement caught him offguard, losing his balance he sank down on his knees eye level with his foe, the sword embedded deep in the ground harmlessly. Swift as a striking snake he sinks his teeth into the exposed neck, biting deep through layers of skin, fat, muscle and nerves. The pain was blinding, his breath escaping out in one sharp exhale. Reaching down for the dagger he strapped on his thigh he draws it in one swift motion and drives it deep down through the neck of his foe. Releasing him, his foe gasps as another spray of blood comes spilling forth into the air, slumps onto his backside. His voice floats through the air above the sounds of the battle still raging on about them to his ears, "Crave the life of the many you have spilled, as I have.." One last gurgling death rattle and he lays silent. His hand cradling his neck wound, his vision floats growing dimmer by the moment. His sword slips from his hands as he slumps down onto the rank ground as darkness descends and he thought no more.

Cold, he felt so cold. And dry, his throat was brittle and parched. The smell of decay hit him a moment later like a warhammer as he realized he couldnt move, trapped so by the weight of the bodies ontop of him. An anguishing scream tears through his throat breaking the silence of the night he pushes upwards, clawing, crawling to the top. He breaks free as a momentarily gust of cold night wind sweeps the rank, pungent decaying scent from his nose. Scrabbling up the side of the mass grave he lays on the cold earth exhausted, thirsty, hungry. The waft of earth fills his nose, and something else. Blood, he smelled blood. The earth was still damp with it soaked as it was from the battle. Without realizing it he planted his mouth to the earth and sucked, dirt filled his mouth as he sucked the blood free of it before spitting it out and grabbing another handful of dirt and cramming it into his mouth. Grabbing a sword he straps it on and rises unsteadily to his feet. Tears of anguish pours freely down his face as he stumbles off into the night as he knew he had become the same creature that had took the life of his family.

He found the sword amid the ruins of a forgotten battlefield. Tales spoke of a sword that can draw the life of a victim with one slash of the flesh. He tracked it down following the legend of an old war till he found the last battlefield. The sword was cold to the touch as he lifted it up from its pedestal of skulls but he could feel a peculiar sensation, as if the sword was drawing something from him. An instant later the sensation changed from a minor leak to the rage of a roaring river. Feeling his strength drain from him he sinks down onto his knees in knee to feel the breeze of an arrow missing his neck thudding into the ground. Whirling about he sees the man fitting another arrow to his bow and readying for another shot. Mercenaries, robbers, most likely heard him asking about the sword and followed him for an easy score. Gritting his teeth he sprints at the bowman with his unnatural speed, crossing the gap between them within a few seconds. The sword flashes once in the moonlight as it cleaves the head off, his blood gushes out unblocked from the severed stump of his neck spraying into the night. And then a peculiar thing happened, the blood swirled up and was absorbed into the sword. Instantly he felt the vacumn sucking his strength, his unlife away stop. The sword sated, the two rubies on the blade glowing softly as if it were the eyes of a slumbering demon. Intresting he thought as he noticed that he too felt his eternal thirst ebb as the sword's did too, another way to feed.