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(Page 2 of 2) Bloodwork by Nils Durban
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The chosen were ranged out before him, each of them chained to the far wall of the cavern with heavy iron manacles. The first, a female, was already in a hysterical state, writhing uncontrollably upon the floor. Already she had cut her arms and legs to ribbons. He brought his focus to bear upon her, willing her to raise her head, to meet his steady gaze. She was compelled to do so. Tarsus braced himself, already revelling in the raw emotion that was soaking into his being, knowing that the merest sight of him would instill in her a dread unknown since her earliest childhood nightmares. He bared his fangs and held his mantle aloft, to better display his horns. Her rabid fear surged into him, causing him to stagger backwards, fiercely impaled upon his exaltation.
Tarsus steadied himself and shifted his attention to the other three vermin who would soon be subjected to his consummate attentions. The man stood rigidly, transfixed upon the demonic visage that confronted him. There remained the merest hint of bravado. Through it, however, Tarsus could already taste the sweet sweat of the man's dire dread, the sure and steady knowledge that there could be no easy end to this had taken hold within his mind. His left arm and that side of his face began to twitch. No, Tarsus thought, you will live a while yet, I will ensure it.
The boy, however, was already seemingly lost to him. He sat limply upon the floor, staring ahead unfocused into a non-existent place. Tarsus felt nothing and knew that here he had been bested by one of only two possible means. Only these two escapes were there, and from neither of them could there be a return. He approached the child swiftly, reached down to gather its shaggy hair in his clawed grip. He wrenched and twisted, pulling the boy aloft and flinging him bodily against the far wall where he impacted with a satisfying crack, leaving behind only the remains which had been unable to escape the manacle.
The girl child was where Tarsus knew his true pleasure would be found. She was in a particularly desperate state, surrounded by vomit and feces, unable to stand, having clawed hopelessy at her chained ankle until the white of bone shone wetly through. Her abhorrence was so startlingly palpable that Tarsus gasped, almost unable to drink it all in. He gorged himself upon it for several moments, the music of her screams an accompanying symphony in his ears.
And then he forced himself away, back to the centre of The Bowl.
"It begins," he announced in a gutteral growl. He raised his eyes to the chasm which formed the ceiling of the chamber.
"Moloch wills it!"
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