The demon made his way to the Elven Lands. His body burned with the fires of Hellfire; the puny drow was left behind as his powers were diminished in that form. And, he was hungry. He needed blood. He needed to assert himself over the weaklings and leave a mark they would not soon forget.
It was night, he was safe from the light, hidden as best he could in the shadows that lay low on the lands. But, even so, his flesh burned brighter than any fire. From a distance, they might think the flames to be a wanderer's campfire, but if they were too close, well, you can imagine their fate. He let out a low, feral growl. If they got too close, if they saw him, he would end them.
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| The Demon |
As he passed through the lush Elven forest, the heat from his body pushed into the earth, pushed outward toward the bushes and the trees and slowly flames began to envelope them, The land was on fire as he pushed threads of Hellfire outward. If you were to see him, his legs were spread apart, his arms stretched upward and he hunkered like an animal as he burned brighter than any fire, as Hellfire shot from his hands. He let out a cry, a cry like no human had ever heard.
He cursed the drowess who would keep him at bay; but she had been sent away to join the Drow on yet another battlefield, one which was not personal. But, he had been drug into this - the one that was personal. And slowly, it became personal to him. And he ached, he hungered for the Power of the Druids and the ruination of all they held dear.
And as the lands burned, he passed through them, willing the Hellfire at bay. He had done what he came for and now, he was hungry. He turned and moved quietly, silently. Again, he tried to hide himself in the shadows.
He stopped short and cut his eyes toward the road that led to Cheshire. A farmer walked beside a cart pulled by an ox, heading toward the port city, evidently to sell his wares at market. The demon changed his direction and moved toward the scent of FOOD, the scent of BLOOD.
Suddenly, the Demon was behind him and as he let out a low growl, he wrapped an arm about the shoulder's of the farmer, his free hand digging into the man's throat so he could not make a sound.
The ox was spooked and bucked and fought against the harnesses that held him at bay. And when it could not free itself, it charged wildly away from the fiery Demon that attacked its owner. It charged along the familiar path toward Cheshire.
Meanwhile, the farmer was subdued. The demon let go his throat and gnarling his hands into the farmer's hair, he twisted his head to expose the man's neck, the vein pulsing in his crushed throat. And he dipped his face against the fragile flesh and pushed his fangs hard and deep. The farmer made a whimpering sound and went limp. The Demon fed from the farmer, blood filling his mouth. He sucked and he drank until the vessel, the farmer, was drained. Then, he let go of his victim who fell, crumpled and broken in a heap on the ground.
The Demon's nostrils flared as his tongue licked at his lips, drinking in the last bit of blood. And, as casually as a man finishing a meal at the inn, he turned and walked away. He was sated for NOW. But, he would hide no more from the weaklings.
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