[Seth's words don't land like the assurances Richard really wants, but they don't have the time to argue on it more, and Richard doesn't have the will. Fully acknowledged, supported and encouraged by the situation, his hunger surges like a force, limitless and unstoppable. He's still looking at Seth as his eyes slide golden and slit-pupiled. Then he looks to the servant's arm held tight between his hands, fangs dropping forward as he stretches his jaw open, lunges down to bite.
The satisfaction of blood on his tongue is blinding. Focus remains only in fragments, a mantra of don't turn, don't drain, pulling his fangs back from the wound even as he swallows his first mouthful. The urge to rip and rend and devour is only held back by the flow of liquid, his grip on the servant's wrist shifting and twisting like he could wring the blood out faster. Images, memories and sensations come as scattered, Richard letting them pass his grasp, only caring for the whole, the sweetness of a good soul, the warmth of fresh blood.
The feeling comes too soon. The sense of a circle about to be completed, a thread almost pulled entirely loose from the weave of its making. He stops, pulling back from the wound, sure that he must. Breathing hard, eyes unseeing, unable to understand why he has. It's unbearable. There's more to be had, free for the taking, the servant's arm still soft and warm in his hands.
He lifts his mouth, fangs unfurled to strike again. Finish it.]
no subject
The satisfaction of blood on his tongue is blinding. Focus remains only in fragments, a mantra of don't turn, don't drain, pulling his fangs back from the wound even as he swallows his first mouthful. The urge to rip and rend and devour is only held back by the flow of liquid, his grip on the servant's wrist shifting and twisting like he could wring the blood out faster. Images, memories and sensations come as scattered, Richard letting them pass his grasp, only caring for the whole, the sweetness of a good soul, the warmth of fresh blood.
The feeling comes too soon. The sense of a circle about to be completed, a thread almost pulled entirely loose from the weave of its making. He stops, pulling back from the wound, sure that he must. Breathing hard, eyes unseeing, unable to understand why he has. It's unbearable. There's more to be had, free for the taking, the servant's arm still soft and warm in his hands.
He lifts his mouth, fangs unfurled to strike again. Finish it.]