31 Days of Horror 2025: Obsession

​The war against the Teraphim had begun to corrupt the Brelonian empire from the top of nobility down to the common street urchins. There had been talk of the corrupting treasure; a golden blood with the gift from the Wings to heal the impurities within their short lived race. The viscous ichor became an obsession amongst the Lords overnight. Hunters of every walk of life were sent to fetch fresh supply for the houses and paid handsomely for each head.

Lord Vincent had secured his own supply early and had vintage crafted fresh for his enjoyment, much to his staff's dismay. The terrified cries from the cellar kept many of the servants awake at night. The Lord, on the other hand, slept soundly in his suite without a care in the world. His thirst had grown deeper each day. He had little time to deal with the cattle's prattling for mercy. His main concern laid with finding a way to satiate the thirst. Over time it left the cellar cramped with huddled teraphim being bled dry. 

Months had passed since the war first broke the borders of Corethin, yet the repercussions were already starting to rear their ugly heads within Lord Vincent's home. It started with splotches of golden veins along his arms - vibrant marks he had worn with unfettered pride. He declared the Wings were blessing him with the blood of the ancients. He was to live forever. 

Soon after, the thirst became more depraved and demanding. His lips became stained from the coagulated blood - a kiss from Divin herself. His mirror was clouded with his obsession, the slow morph of his body a blind spot or a gift from the gods themselves. Even as the gold began to spread in creeping cobwebs over his face and neck, he just boasted his nonsensical joy in the discovery. 

When his teeth began to decay, slipping from the corroded gums and clinking into his goblet, he said nothing but praise for his 'wine'. Once the first fell, the rest followed suit within the week. Lord Vincent didn't bat an eye when the servants had to start serving him food mashed to mush. He barely even touched the food after a while, leaving the main dining table laden with molded plates. 

His sanity fell further. Servants began to find their master in small sun spots under the windows, babbling to himself and sipping from a bottle of ichor. When the sun set, he went about the house howling for light, demanding candles in every room be lit and more set out. As the candles filled the small spaces he paced in his sleepless state, the servants began to dwindle from the rosters. He noticed not - for his attention fell to the ceilings caked with soot; further maddening his desire for light as it left shadows in the corners of every room.

Then came the agonized screams throughout the days. The end to the obsession he demanded be fed hunted him in his rest. Wings ripped from his back as grotesque skin flaps with hair for feathers. No matter what he did, they continued to twitch and bleed relentlessly. The one servant he had left tried to tend to the wounds for days, but even she was driven away after his insanity and stench of rot.

The last any of the servants heard of their former master came in the form of whispers in the alleys. Perhaps he flew from his nest and made home in the corruption spreading through Brelow. Maybe he perished in the house burned to ash from his desperation for light. Others insist the Wings took their vengeance and cut him from the world. The favorite among the rumors were the teraphim in the cellars were freed and took their own karmic justice upon the one who bled them to husks. All they knew for sure - the screaming had stopped.