Adrian Nightshade
The metallic taste spread inside my mouth like a bittersweet symphony.
Blood. Warm human blood.
Each drop carried with it the essence of the guard's existence, a tangible reminder of his futile struggles against the inevitability of his fate. It was a flavor that transcended the corporeal, a communion of predator and prey in the dimly lit theater of my cell.
As I savored the crimson nectar, the poor human's resistance gradually weakened. The metallic tang lingered on my tongue, an intoxicating melody that resonated with the primal echoes of centuries past. It was a taste that spoke of survival, of dominance in the face of relentless adversity.
The guard's struggles transformed into feeble spasms, mere echoes of the vitality that once coursed through his veins. Each
