Sian's Story part 25 - When You Are Weak, Then I Am Strong
Entry posted by jfraser in Sian's Story
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It took longer than usual for the populace to catch on to my scheme. This vessel inadvertently chose the perfect spot – a city with many hidden corners, where people routinely disappear, where the general populace is quick to turn a blind eye. A city run on fear.
Delicious.
The vessel and I left in the middle of the night near the end of the summer months. The house of my master was beginning to exude odours strong enough to raise queries even amongst those who instinctively knew to avoid the place. Five score rotting bodies are difficult to conceal.
The vessel has grown strong with the uninhibited months of feeding, a luxury seldom granted. The need to sell the vessel for rutting is past – we are strong enough to hunt. We take to the dark roads dressed as smoke, strike down prey before it knows it is under attack, feast on the blood and the souls of the unwary and the vigilant, the weak and the strong.
I am no longer as careless as in centuries past. Even mortals, weak as they are, are to be treated with caution; individually they are nothing, but, like wolves, when they form packs, they must be...”feared” is not the correct word. “Respected,” likewise, gives them too much credit. Sometimes they stumble into good fortune and succeed despite themselves.
I recant my previous statement. They are not like wolves. They are more akin to sheep. Sheep that, in panicked flight, sometimes accidentally knock a pursuing wolf off a cliff, and thus save themselves.
I digress. We have cast a pall of death on the western holds of this country. Hunters search for us, but they are inept – their souls make a particularly satisfying scream as they are ingested.
Tonight, dinner awaits in the form of three women who sit near a fire close by. One wears robes; the other two wear nothing but marks. They are of Dibella, much as this vessel once was. It will be a great pleasure to snatch them from Her grasp, to taste Her blessing in their blood as it courses down this vessel’s throat. Those touched by power always make the most succulent of meals.
I am hunger. Feed me.
Edited by jfraser
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