Was she once, in life, this warm? When she held on to another, when she fought the man who turned her, did he, too, feel that strange surge of heat, that promise not merely of a feast, but of a life? He is accursedly, unabashedly living, and throwing all of it her merry way, when he should make for a quick and decisive exit. The hasty gulps she had taken were enough to soothe her most immediate hunger, yet she is far from restored, and that is all that slows her down. Were she at the height of her strength, at her fullest, thirstless, she would snap his arm in two, and tear his throat out by the might of her teeth for the mere pleasure of it.
Like this, however, she must choose, and so the hold on the woman is lifted as swift as it had descended on her. This mortal is not crafted of that same cloth the man before her is; there is no attempt made to help him now. She presses a hand to her throat and means to scramble, but the bloodloss is slowing her. Fragile in her terror, she uses the wall to steady herself as she makes to crawl away, and Celeste's nostrils flare as she scents the blood, a trail left like a promise for her to follow.
Later.
She licks her lips, then wipes her mouth, and those precious few drops that have escaped her blood-red tongue are lapped now from the side of her palm, wasting none. It is not enough, and her hungry eyes fix on him now. Like a cat's, they reflect the streetlights, eerie, she might reckon, had she ever seen herself like this. "Mortal man, what is this stranger to you?"
Her cold hand falls to his living, warm one, and he can feel the surging strength as she means to rid herself of his grip. Blood has stained the front of her fine dress, and blood has dyed a strand of her hair, which has come loose from an otherwise respectably neat up-do. "See how she leaves you here." Her free hand roams forward, meaning to touch his face and force him to look her in the eye, so that she may assert herself over his mind with a lull of false promises. "I would be more earnest with you than her."
no subject
Like this, however, she must choose, and so the hold on the woman is lifted as swift as it had descended on her. This mortal is not crafted of that same cloth the man before her is; there is no attempt made to help him now. She presses a hand to her throat and means to scramble, but the bloodloss is slowing her. Fragile in her terror, she uses the wall to steady herself as she makes to crawl away, and Celeste's nostrils flare as she scents the blood, a trail left like a promise for her to follow.
Later.
She licks her lips, then wipes her mouth, and those precious few drops that have escaped her blood-red tongue are lapped now from the side of her palm, wasting none. It is not enough, and her hungry eyes fix on him now. Like a cat's, they reflect the streetlights, eerie, she might reckon, had she ever seen herself like this. "Mortal man, what is this stranger to you?"
Her cold hand falls to his living, warm one, and he can feel the surging strength as she means to rid herself of his grip. Blood has stained the front of her fine dress, and blood has dyed a strand of her hair, which has come loose from an otherwise respectably neat up-do. "See how she leaves you here." Her free hand roams forward, meaning to touch his face and force him to look her in the eye, so that she may assert herself over his mind with a lull of false promises. "I would be more earnest with you than her."