Blood: the precious sustinance of life. Like a bank, a crime to steal. No mere currency of power, but the liquid weight of injustice when spilt on the alter of greed. A decade dead and an eternity suffered, Christopher Blake hunts humanity’s greatest sins incarnate. Infinite vengeance, self-loathing honed to a righteous blade, die he’ll refuse till he is the last of his kind.
By oracle’s foresight, the last blood of Caine shall cease — the sin of Adam returned to the stained soul of humanity, vile monstrosity incarnate no more. By the prince’s decree, the innocent mortal crushed, the prophecy to die unfulfilled — Brown’s undead kingdom forever to stand. Evisceration of collateral to bleed the soul, this mere human to no more be a threat.
Anguish, grief, loss: a shattered soul stitched together by threads of hopeful revenge. Sanity eroded by hunger, cravings, power, and blood: Blake’s fragile plans rescued by a single spark, a speck of light missed by the monsters which remade him in their image. Now the ore of his hatred, forged into the steel of holy wrath to cut the cancer of compounded curse from mankind.
A fortress of the ivory tower, the black castle stands invisible amidst the glowing mountain city. Like mists of shadow, the armies of night bleed out of the Den into the Rockie clefts and forests, willing their Bronco steeds ever farther on the hunt for this single thorn. Despite this fluke of fate, the Brown Prince will still see victory under the stars.
The razor edge of the Inquisition’s blade, the single rebel of undead kindred betrays his blood in loyalty to his soul. The spark with him a reflection of the light within him, a sanctuary mobile and impossible to destroy from without. Thanks to this fluke of fate, the world he’d never known will crumble in his grasp, and burn to ash in the glory of the sun.
The would-be god seethes with frustrated rage, the beast within drooling for pride’s vindication and ever more power. The combined drive shall not be diverted, dissuaded, or denied. The reluctant crusader screams in agony, drowning and redirecting his beast’s will to his own. This pain meant to break him shall instead be his own weapon, a maul to crush the wicked.
Teeth gnashing, fangs bared, claws outstretched. Rivers made red, ash on the wind, havens ablaze, and soldiers clashing in the final fight. Drink deep from the well of poison, ye who rage. Thorns and stones cut and scrape, casting shadows where they block the light. The flame shall not die as it incinerates the chaff and scorches the rocks — but will it burn hot enough to avoid being buried beneath the rubble?
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