His eyes fluttered open, glazed over and burning from days of sleep. How long had it been? Six days, the answer immediately came to him. Yes, it had to be. He could remember the intense pain that occurred with each sunrise and the cooling of his skin when the moon found its way into the sky. He felt all of it but could see nothing more than darkness behind his sealed eyelids. He could feel the changes deep in his veins as his body shifted and transformed into something new. Into what? He wasn't completely sure. All he knew was a power filled his body and a burning so intense barreled from his throat to the very pit of his stomach. He was thirsty. Water. He needed water. No, that wouldn't be enough. Something more. Wine? No, but he was getting closer. Something intoxicating; alluring; he need more to quench this thirst.
He sat up quickly; sniffing the air. His hazy eyes darted around his surrounding. What is this place? Snow capped mountains, dessert sands, rolling hills, a thick forest of in the distance. Nothing matched. The only thing about this place that seemed consistent was the sky. It was a deep, terrifying purple and streaks of lightening continuously shot across the dark clouds; yet there was no thunder. Not a single rumble. It frightened him and filled him with excitement all at once. There was a true power here. Scanning the area, he spotted a lake near an opening of the forest. He stood, placing a foot forward to begin the long walk across the ever changing terrain. With one step, he found himself speeding; gliding; towards the far off watering hole. Within seconds, he stopped just inches from the...water?
Falling to his knew, he dove his hands through the surface of the thick, black liquid that stretched out before him. Except when he lifted his cupped hands, he saw it was not black. It wasn't even the clear, crystal blue that water often was. No, it was a deep, crimson red. It was blood. Thick, sticky, salty, warm blood. His throat burned as the smell drifted under his nose. Saliva filled his mouth and a yearning rumbled in his stomach. Bringing his filled, curved hands to his lips, he drank. He feasted. Plummeting his hands into the bloody lake over and over, gulping down its contents. The taste was nothing as he remembered from times that he'd cut a finger while sharpening his sword. When he'd place the wound to his mouth to stop the bleeding, it was bitter and salty. But this was different. It was sweet and filling and he could feel it cooling that nagging burn in his throat. He drank until he stomach felt full and the longing faded. He sat back and leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree. That's when he heard it for the first time. A sound that caused a smile to spread across his face and the hairs on his arms to stand with excitement. Screaming. The scream of someone being tortured. the sound of someone withering in agony. Except it wasn't the sound of just one, it was thousands. Possibly millions of petrified, painful screams.
That sound. That magnificent, torturous sound was a precious melody to his ears. It reminded him of the many souls who denied him as their king back in Romania. Their betrayals found them flogged repeatedly and starved. The useless peasants would silently fight the pain for days, sometimes even weeks, until it became too much to bear. That is when the screaming would begin. Delusional, blood curdling screams. It was sweet music to him then and it was sweet music to him now in...Where was he?
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