Wrath of the Righteous

Entry 68 - Shadowblood

As written by Sarena Miller

Entry 68.

I’ve long since stopped writing these things regularly. I guess I fail to see the importance anymore. In the beginning it was about documenting what I did to earn my place among the worshippers of Sarenrae. Then it was to write about the Crusade so that someone might find it and read it and know what happened if we all failed. Then it was all heartbreak, my only outlet for useless feelings that were getting in the way of – I suppose my true purpose.

Who could really know what that purpose was? In the desert the angel spoke fairly plainly. He said that I was “unmade” so I could be “reborn” here. Here in Mendev. Of course, Sarenrae could do little else. She couldn’t give me direction – that would be meddling. I could only be placed here, and She would hope that I did the right thing. I’m not angry. How could I be? It’s the ultimate trust to place me here. Or perhaps I was just a seed in the wind. How many other angels were unmade? Maybe I was the only one that was found. Found before I died as an infant in the Worldwound. She would know though, that I’d be found. Wouldn’t She?

There would have had to been easier ways. Wipe my mind, send me down here full grown thinking I’m an Aasimar. For my WHOLE LIFE, thinking I’m I thought that I was something I’m not. I thought that I belonged here. I thought that my feelings of not belonging were all in my mind, I thought it was THEIR fault for not accepting ME. Maybe they could tell I didn’t belong.

It’s ironic because because apparently even Avashniel, the leader of the Riftwardens, Guardians against All those not native to this plane, could tell an Angel from an Aasimar. It’s such a supreme joke of the cosmos that made me fall in love with the exact person who’d never love me.

Goddess, it hurts. Your joking HURTS. He threw things at me. He looked at me like…filth. Lower than filth. He said I was the same as a demon. His words hurt, but the look in his eyes…the anger – that hurt more. He had always been so careful to hide his feelings. He was so careful to make sure I never knew if he cared for me. But there his feeling were were, flooding out towards me, finally, but not in the love I wanted, but hate. His hate crushed me. It felt like drowning…all I could do was gasp for air, and cower. He shattered me.

So much of my hope was in his eyes. Hope that one day, all those signs, all those little slip ups that could be interpreted in so many ways…hope that one day they’d all go my way. Hope that that one magic moment, in the waters of the dragon cave, wasn’t going to be the only moment of its like that my life would have.

But when I saw his eyes after I told him the truth, I knew he’d never… I thought I could handle writing it, but I can’t. I wanted to write it so the pain would go away. I could lock away the pages and it would be gone. But it’s not gone. I saw him cry too. I know he never would have wanted me to see it, but I think he broke too. His anger was too much for his walls to handle and he broke and ran away. Ran away from me. Why did he cry?

I wanted to bury the pain. This isn’t helping. His hate is a seething, molten rock in my chest. It burns and wears at my resolve. But there are people here in Baphomet’s realm that don’t deserve to be forgotten, and even though I’m in pain, I won’t forget theirs.

I’ll admit that I am weak. I am afraid. Not for myself, but for them. My pain is making me weak and I fear that I won’t be the one to suffer the consequences, but one of them will.


I think you have be be sorry for what you did in order to be forgiven. I’d be lying if I said I was sorry. I didn’t know if what I was doing was right until Cyrin dipped me under the dripping corpse of the demon. I said the names because that’s why I was letting him… that’s why I chose to drink shadowblood, but from the first time I tasted it on his lips I knew I wanted it.

It was in the brothel, in Nocticula’s realm when I first tasted it. Everyone around me was moaning, feeling the intense pleasure radiating from the succubus. I might have been moaning too. Cyrin was next to me, looking at me with purpose. He didn’t know that my disguise hid my armor. I didn’t see frustration in his eyes when his wandering hands figured out that my skin wasn’t readily available for him – I saw eagerness. He was enticed by the challenge.

He didn’t force the issue the first time though. He kissed me, hard. It was then that I tasted it. He must have tipped a little vial of the demon blood between his lips moments before he kissed me. The blood didn’t taste normal. Instead of the coppery fruity flavor that my own blood had, when I had the displeasure of being so badly injured to taste it in my mouth, it had a spice to it. There was an acidic burn as well, but instead of making me pull away, it made the heat of the kiss hotter than it should have been. Not that I had much experience with kissing, but as soon as Cyrin’s lips touched mine and I felt the heat and the burn of blood, I wanted it. I wanted him and I wanted the blood. It didn’t occur to me until now, that maybe he did it on purpose. Does it matter?

I could have let the experience wallow in Nocticula’s realm. I loved Avashniel. I love him still. Only the thought of having to tell him what I’ve done has me feeling shame enough to even consider stopping. But then I remember that he threw me out of his lab. He said I was no better than I demon. He looked at me like I was a creature, detestable and foreign. I will carry that look with me until the day I am finally released from this existence. The looks of hatred on demons’ faces right before I kill them do not even begin to reach the heights of hatred I felt from him that day. Why should I fear his judgement? My heart still belongs to him though and I am certain that I’ll never get it back. But perhaps I am learning from Cyrin that my body does not have to follow the whimsy of my heart.

Cyrin dipped his finger in the slow dripping of the corpse when he sensed my reluctance. He walked to me with a smooth, powerful stride. He overwhelmed me with his presence. I could barely breathe as he touched the blood-soaked finger to my cheek and dragged it softly toward my bottom lip. It burned my angelic skin just very slightly, just enough to add heat to the gesture. He pushed his finger gently into my mouth – the sexual nature of the gesture wasn’t lost on the deeper areas of my body. But it was then, just then that I tasted my first real drop of shadow blood. So I let Cyrin dip me under that corpse. I felt the hot blood burn my lips. I said the names.

After the first drop though, I knew I wouldn’t stop. My existence has been so cold for so long. The dripping seemed slow, but soon it was slowly drawing lines down my face. It was running down my neck in slow trickles. I was on my knees, and he was watching from a few steps away. He looked at me like I was irresistable. I had been wanting to see that look in someone’s eyes for such a long time. He looked at me like I was a dream fulfilled.

He closed the small gap between us, got to his knees and kissed me again, hard. It wasn’t long before his face and neck were covered in blood too. I remembered things I had read in Melisande’s book. About where to touch a man, how to kiss him…I kissed the base of Cyrin’s neck and grazed my tongue gently along his skin until I got to his ear. I heard his breathing quicken and I was silently pleased with myself.

He kissed me for a long time, kissed me until we both ran out of breath. The drops of blood ran between our kisses and bled heat into the fire that was already burning between us. His hands ran along my body, finding me again in the armor that had thwarted him the first time. His nimble fingers ran between the straps holding the chestpiece close to my body and loosened them more quickly than I had ever done. Despite wearing leather himself, he seemed familiar with this type of armor too. Perhaps he was just familiar with taking it off women. I barely noticed that he had done it, until I felt his wandering hands frustrated yet again, by tunic between them and my soft skin.

It was the closest any man had ever come to touching me. He laid me back, and kept kissing me, kept feeding me blood.

He stood up and looked at me again. I wish I knew what he was thinking. It seemed so obvious then that all he wanted was sex. He drank me in, seemingly memorising the scene. I did the same to him. I took in every shadow on his face, and every crease in his black leather. What he thought about seeing me like this was obvious from the bulge that was fighting the strength of his pants. Again I was proud of the effect I had on him.

I had never felt so free than in those moments. I drank the blood and laughed. I sucked it off my finger as he watched. He returned to me, and kissed me fully and without reservation. He pressed me to my back, and ran his hands along my belly and torso. I did the same to him and even let a few fingertips stray just under his waistband. He breathed heavily, and pressed himself on top of me, and muttered a few words between breaths, “Are you sure?”

The question broke my blood-induced heat. My mind was introduced back into this moment that until now had only been controlled by overwhelming feeling. I wanted this, I did. I wanted to be loved, ravished. I wanted someone to want me. But there was also another part of me who saw Avashniel weeping in a stone basement. The part of me who still held on to hope that Avashniel cared for me. But that part of me was stupid and immature and was quieted by the heat coursing through my veins.

I don’t know why I said it. Perhaps it was Sarenrae’s guiding hand. Perhaps it was the blessing still lingering from the marriage. I asked him, “Promise me, when this is all over, when we’ve returned to Dresen, you’ll quit drinking the shadow blood with me.” His eyes were thirsty and eager, his hands were working on the straps to my leg armor. “I promise,” he said.

The words sounded truthful. I wanted to believe him. Perhaps I had been lied to too many times by Avashniel and Melisande. But I remembered him saying many times that he’d never quit the shadow blood, that it made him who he was. He was lying to me, and I knew it.

I told him “No.” He still kissed me. He won the battle against the straps of one side of my leg armor, and was caressing the soft, strong shape of my thigh over the barrier of the linen pants underneath. I wish I could say I fought against his attention after I said no – I didn’t. I felt him press the bulge that fought his pants against me, and I know I moaned. I am sure I had forgotten that I told him no. But he hadn’t, and asked me again, “Do you want this?”

Again, my mind returned to the vision of Avashniel in tears. My answer might have been different if it had returned to the moment he was calling me a demon and throwing alchemical bottles at me, but that’s not what came to me in the moment. My heart was broken. My body was in heat. My heart won. I said, “No” again and Cyrin growled but didn’t stop. He pushed my arms to the ground and kissed my neck and lips, he leaned his body heavily on me and rubbed that bulge I wanted so badly between my legs. It seemed like he wasn’t going to stop, and if he hadn’t I’m not sure I would have objected.

But he did stop. After he was sure my body was worked to a point of no return, he growled again. I’m not sure if it was in anger at me or in response to fighting his own needs. Maybe both. But before he went any further, he wrapped his magical cloak around us both and teleported us back to my companions. So there I arrived, mostly unarmored, covered in blood, and fully regretting my decision to say no.

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