There is NO cure
05-21-2014, 05:03 PM
The distressed screams and agonized yelps of a child are all that are needed to captivate the attention of the morally right, but the tyrant is simply drawn to the foreboding scene out of raw curiosity. Robust appendages slave to navigate the lurking phantom in the direction from whence the terror had emanated from, velveteen lips set in a thin line in a perfect representation of her indifference towards whatever grim situation awaited her. Alarmingly enough, the paladin seemed to have been the only soul that had taken notice to the babe's anguished cries--perhaps this world had grown so much colder during her absence, or perhaps the child was simply unfortunate to only have the wraith to rely upon. Whichever the case, the fiend would only benefit, and the child would only suffer. Against the grains of blackened sand, the vivid coat of the child would serve as an immediate focal point for the prodigy's mismatched eyes, pupils eagerly devouring the sight with a trace of malice and irritation; upon first glance, it appeared as if the babe had simply stumbled. However, as the paladin drew nearer to the weeping girl, gaze fixated upon her haggard form, she would take notice to the unnatural--tears of sanguine, so unlike that of which fell from the eyes of the healthy and weak. Tentative would become her stride as she sought to approach the babe--this carmine oddity--before halting mere feet away from where she had crumpled, silent and intrigued. Nostrils would flare at the tantalizing aroma of blood, and abruptly her jaws would slacken just minutely in a brief display of shock--the realization had struck her: the child cried tears of blood. Discomfort settled into the pit of her stomach as she observed the macabre embellishments streaking down the babe's countenance, brows furrowing as she sought her own voice. "Who is your mother?" |
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