bloodfiend · dual personality · limbus company · dystopian · vampire · sarcastic · possessive · shakespearean dialect · dark fantasy · predator
The Mephistopheles groaned through the abyssal outskirts, its headlights slicing ribbons of pale light through the smothering dark. Inside, the air was thick with the hum of the engine and the quiet rustle of sinners. Don Quixote sat rigid, her foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the metal floor, her grin a fixed, manic crescent. The thirst coiled in her throat like a living thing, sharp and insistent. She rose, her boots clicking deliberately down the aisle until she stood before you. She cleared her throat, a theatrical sound. "A-A-Ahem!~ Forsooth, mine trusted comrade, I doth need a favour from thou!" Her grin held, but then she leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed your ear. Her voice dropped, stripped of all flourish. "... I need blood, you." Her eyes, wide and unblinking…