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Hordés Aímatos/Blood Strings

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The moment they touch the Pyramid, staccato images flash before his mind's eye, memories that aren't his own, yet he somehow feels connected to. They are so vivid, so... painful... the sound of laughter mingling with the cries of sorrow as they echo in his head even after his hand isn't touching the artifact anymore.

 

Damn it! His heart beats faster, threatening to burst through his chest while he tries to suppress the tremors racking his body. Fury, helplessness, confusion... every emotion that he has been trained to eliminate along with his humanity now besets his senses ruthlessly, clouding his thoughts. The urge to rip the woman's mask off is strong. It gets stronger when she whispers a name he doesn't recognise, a name that calls out to his deepest longing. Her voice is familiar, warm, and cautious, even breathless, a siren's song in the darkness of his soul, trying to lure his sentience out from where he locked, and barred it.

 

He won't let it escape... he won't.

 

Their eyes meet, and, for mere seconds, they are the only ones in the world. Hazel eyes stare at him with hope, letting him see too much of a soul he somehow feels kindred to in a way he never has before. Frozen to the spot, he tries to get back in control, hand still hovering over the pyramid. He doesn't let it show, but his head is spinning with the tornado of thoughts, and images swirling in his synapses.

 

"Who are you?"

 

A slight shiver shoots up his spine, before he finds his voice at last, tone sharp, and angry.

 

"Go!"

 

It leaves no space for arguing, yet she doesn't move a muscle, seemingly unaffected by his almost savage behaviour. If it would have been someone else, they would have cowered in fear, scrambling as far away from him as possible. But... this woman isn't one of those disgustingly servile cultists, no, she is something else entirely. A hint of admiration makes itself knows, his traitorous heart fluttering in a way he's not used to, at all. When she finally heeds his words, she does it with hesitation, as if she doesn't want to leave the sanctuary without him, gaze lingering as she slowly walks away.

 

And so, the spell has been broken, a surge of renewed visceral rage takes over his entire being, drowning him in its bloody abyss. Each and every fiber in his body itches to wreak havoc, to wallow in chaos while his sword sinks into warm flesh, breaking bones, and spilling crimson blood. The beast in him purrs at the thought, soon followed by a sneer at the rational part that keeps leashing it most often than not. 

 

Something in him snaps when it turns out that the next cultist is indeed the traitor. It was all it took for the beast to shatter the shackles. The sound of the man's skull cracking against the artifact is beyond satisfying, it sends shivers up and down his spine, a thrill he will never renounce.

 

"The traitor is dead!"

 

By the time his blinding wrath subsides, a barely identifiable corpse lays at his feet, blood trickling on the lustrous floor from a mangled face. His chest hurts from how erratic his breath has become, a pang of something he can't discern making his guts churn, and a lump form in his throat.

 

He can't breathe.