Waking Blood Ch. 02

*Sanguine Offerings

I

They found the bloodied body next to the ashen remains of their once terrible and beautiful mistress. The Lady Ioshi's body smoldered in the mid day sunlight while the broken and pierced body of her favorite, Satoru, laid by her side, caked in dried blood and bile. The assembled hesitated, fearful of what mighty force could have decimated such powerful beings.

Beyond them, gray eyes stared at the devastated training compound from beneath a heavy woolen hood. He was the oldest of the Lady's servants and had been taught many of the secrets she was to bestow upon the young Satoru -- the elder was the first of the weapons she had tried to forge before falling upon the young tiger. The old man lurched forward on his walking stick, pushing aside the trembling familiars to a now demised vampire queen -- he painfully lowered himself to his crumbling knees and inspected Satoru's body, paying close attention to the pattern of his crumbled chest. Pushing the hood back with ravaged fingers, he lowered his hairless head near the gaping wound. It was still moist -- he reached into it and found an eerie warmth surrounding Satoru's dead heart.

The elder servant made a harsh gesture with his chin and two of the assembled gawkers helped him to his feet. The old man then spat a dark, phlegmy clump of mucus to the ground, much to the disgust of the young familiars.

He then tapped Satoru's body and pointed to a small temple at the far end of the Lady's compound. The other servants and familiars scrambled to assemble a makeshift stretcher and carefully lay Satoru's body upon it and carry it to the temple.

As the old familiar watched them go, he closed his eyes and said a short prayer to his ancestors before reverently moving Lady Ioshi's remains into the wind where they crumbled to dust and were carried aloft by the cool breeze.

II

The temple transcended its size by way of deceptive magics, allowing for it to be larger inside than the exterior suggested. The servants of the Lady Ioshi deposited Satoru's body at the bottom of a wide, triangular basin carved of marble and lined with aged blackwood.

At each of the three corners, atop a column of stairs were a pile of satiny cushions illuminated by flickering torches, inviting pleasure and debauchery. Down the sides of the basin, grooved channels lead whatever flowed from the cushioned decks to the center where Satoru's body rested.

The elder familiar spread his arms wide -- despite the pain that wracked his limbs he indicated the three corners of the basin. For each corner, a man and woman, loyal servants to the Lady, climbed the stairs and rested among the cushions. Each of the young men and women were beautiful and pristine examples of the virginal beauty the Lady Ioshi had gathered.

The elder judged these servants ready and he crashed his walking stick against the marble floor surrounding the basin and the servants began their ritual. Each man stood and removed the silken robe that wrapped his lean, muscular body while each woman undid the bridles in her hair, letting their ebony manes flow across their slender shoulders; the women removed their silk robes and they kneeled before their partners. Three mouths tentatively approached three erect cocks of equally impressive length -- a trio of tongues moved in tandem around the warm, silky flesh of the erections and each man buckled to varying degree under the expert ministrations

One grabbed the hair of his mistress and thrust his cock deeply into her throat, forcing her to gag on his thick, throbbing member.

Another closed his eyes and shivered as the woman accelerated her bobbing and his balls smacked against her chin.

The third man gyrated his hips slowly while his partner barely moved and he whispered the Lady's name upon each thrust.

The elder familiar laid an approving eye upon the the couples, evaluating how forceful their heartbeats must be. His frayed, cracked lips formed a grim smile as the couples surrendered their ritualistic lovemaking and succumbed to the more instinctive impulses of lust. Before such passion even the old familiar's loins tingled with desire. He then twitched and slammed his staff against the cool floor, resonating another command. The couples relented their intimate embrace and the men laid their partners onto the cushions and the brought their faces near their petaled gardens.

One pressed his tongue against his lady's button and she moaned and writhed while he sucked on her pussy lips.

Another took his partners knees and pushed her legs to her shoulders and lapped greedily and obscenely at her framed pussy; her squealing moans echoed off the walls of the dimly lit temple.

The third man had spread his partners legs to their limit and was violently sliding three fingers into her gushing cunt while he devoured her swelling clit, lathering it with his slobbering tongue while his woman shivered on the cushions and held back her screams as she pinched her hardening nipples.

The elder closed his clouded eyes and listened to the melody of bliss the women were playing as their bodies were wracked by pleasure. It always surprised him how the women the Lady Ioshi would choose to be her maidens were so attuned to their sexual power as the Lady was attuned to her own might. The men were chosen for being pristine examples of virility -- which was why he had silently questioned the Lady's decision of bringing a child into their midst, though as Satoru grew and became a being of raw physicality, the elder -- already ancient when Satoru first joined them -- recognized the boy as the Lady's future masterpiece. And now, Satoru lied dead at the bottom of the basin. The old familiar tsked and struck the floor another time with his creaking staff. The couples were startled from their erotic trance and maneuvered to fully consummate their unions.

One released his woman's nub and mounted her in the intimate way, his weight holding her down as he placed his hard cock at the edge of the woman's moist slit. Both held their breathes as he pierced the fragile gate of her virginity.

Another slipped beneath his woman and watched hungrily as she straddled him -- she guided his root to the soft black hair covering her mons till it parted her hesitant pussy lips and she then slid down his manhood, biting her lower-lip as he parted her, her pain a delectable transition to the pleasure of being fucked.

The third man moved his woman like a doll and placed her on her hands and knees. He grabbed her hips and unceremoniously entered her cunt with a single thrust. She squealed and tears wetted her cheeks and then she moaned as her pussy embraced its violent intruder.

The elder familiar watched intently as the three coupling pairs attacked the task of fucking with varying degrees of determination. He saw in their movements innocence, trepidation, rage ... transcending emotions that permeated blood with energy. Each couple moved at a rhythm that set their bodies alight with the fiery glow of bliss and the elder knew the time was soon. Serving a vampire meant having an intimate knowledge of the passions of blood. The temple filled with the smacking of flesh on flesh and the joined moans and grunts of the lovers as they approached orgasm. The elder familiar found a slight notch in the floor that matched the end of his staff and it fit snugly around the wooden tip. The old man closed his eyes, allowing his more subtle senses to follow the lovers' progress till they reached their fever peak -- he smelled it first, an arcane mustiness that filled the temple. Then, it was the raggedness of their breathing, shallow, then deep. And then the shift in vibration in the floor as their hearts pumped blood with tremendous alacrity. The elder turned his staff and there was a click.

The couples' ecstasy reached its pinnacle while a series of gears and springs beneath the temple floor came to life. The couples were frozen in bliss and their voices shattered as long, slim metal pikes shot up through the cushions, tearing away at skin and cracking bones as they were impaled. Blood splattered the cushions with nearly purple stains while droplets pearled and rolled down the sides of the basin till they exploded against Satoru's cold body.

The elder familiar glared grimly as the warm blood pooled at the bottom of the pikes before beginning its trek down the slanted platforms so it could be funneled by minute grooves in the wood till it reached the three main channels that led to Satoru. The blood accelerated as it streamed down the sides of the basin and washed over Satoru like tides over a lifeless reef. But as the blood struck him, the skin soaked it up like a rag.

"What has been given freely," the old familiar said.

The impaled bodies were exsanguinated and all their blood was pooled around Satoru's body -- as the crimson liquid was absorbed, his wretched form rebuilt itself.

"Ioshi ..." Satoru whispered as he sat up in the swirling puddle of blood, a crimson tear rolled down his cheek, while the remaining blood pooled withing the wild white of his eyes.

III

An old familiar stood next to a revenant as they both stood before the destroyed training hall and boudoir where the Lady Ioshi had fought and loved for their last time. The setting sun cast an orange halo around their silhouettes.

"What are you?" the elder familiar asked the revenant.

"Satoru."

Faster than the eye could follow, the old man struck Satoru to the head with his ancient staff. Satoru stumbled back and the skin of his temple split and rivulets of blood ran down his cheek, but the gash was already sealing itself when he faced the old man, rage boiling behind his eyes.

"What! Not who."

"Rage ... hate ... desire ..."

"Name yourself."

"Satoru."

Again the staff flew with blinding speed, but to Satoru it was as if it moved through stagnant water. He caught the staff and his hand shot out to grab the now feeble looking old familiar and slam him to the floor. With a single twist of his wrist, the staff splintered and Satoru pressed a shard to the old man's throat.

"Satoru. I am kaiju. I ...thirst. "

The elder smiled and Satoru allowed him up. Although he stood quiet, Satoru could hear the old man's blood rushing, as well as all the blood flowing within all the living familiars still in the compound. The thirst came over him suddenly -- it tore at his throat and scorched his sight red.

"And that part of you demands," the elder said. "Foolish thing to fall in love. Now look at her. Look at you." The elder familiar reached into his robes and extracted a tanto blade and held it out to Satoru in his bony, leathery hand. "So much you need to know, but so little time."

Satoru took the tanto knife and it seemed to mold itself to his hand. "I have here," the old familiar said, tapping his temple with a yellowish fingernail. "You have there," he added, pointing t Satoru's chest. "Feed and you will know."

Satoru shivered at the thought, disgust and delight constricting his throat at the thought of filling it with warm, darkly crimson fluid.

"If I start, I won't be able to stop," Satoru whispered, the blade gleaming in the setting sun.

"We know," the ancient familiar said. Before he could say another word, Satoru was on him and the tanto had left a scarlet gash across the old familiar's throat and Satoru caught the red geyser in his mouth. The arterial spray colored his features and coated the back of his throat while Satoru felt a vibration of energy ripple through his coiled muscles and down his cock. With the flow of blood came a flood of memories and experiences -- a young man seduced by a beautiful, cold woman; an act of vengeance she commits on his behalf in exchange of service; the burial of a loved one whose face is lost to memory; then, apprenticeship in the passions of blood. The old familiar's eyes were wide and clouded and a smile colored his face, though blood bubbled at the edge of his parted lips -- he was dead but Satoru wanted, needed, more.

Satoru turned towards the inner courtyard. The moon was rising and the last dozen of the Lady Ioshi's familiars -- men and women -- were prostrate before him. His nostrils filled with the scent of blood and the musky odor and fear and desire. Though his cock was hard, it was blood and secrets he required.

"What is given freely!" they chanted as he moved among them till he finally stopped by a young woman. He looked into her eyes as he leaned her head back and slid the tanto blade across the soft skin of her neck.

As Satoru drank her gushing blood, she sighed in relief.

*Kaiju, Crimson Road

I

The oil glistened off the sharp edge of the ancient blade as he poured some down the sword's width. He lovingly began to polish the cold metal with a soft cotton chiffon like the ones she ad used. Satoru watched as the oil penetrated the blade, invigorating it with a new passion for bloodshed. In one swept motion he wiped the excess oil off and followed up with a whipping gesture to wash away any excess droplets the way he would droplets of blood after a cut. In the haze of the small fire he had built, he pressed the flat side of the blade to his high forehead to honor it and then presented the sword to the moonlight. He then rose to his feet, took a deep, cleansing breath, and proceeded to engage in the old forms Lady Ioshi had taught him for eleven years.

Satoru remembered Ioshi's graceful movements as she danced death with a sword: a step, a thrust, a cut, a death, a shifting position fluid like wind over water. She was elemental. When Ioshi first put a sword in his hands, he could barely lift it -- a feebleness he held accountable for his failure in saving his brother -- but as the months, then the years, passed, he grew stronger, swifter. He would never match Ioshi's grace, but his own style became an ode to his inborn animalistic savagery. And year after year, as her kisses went from chaste to bold to passionate -- Satoru understood she had forged him.

Yet, the weapon and the sword maker had shared a moment of human warmth and the Lady Ioshi had lived as a woman who loved and laughed. Satoru thrust the sword forward and leaped with inhuman force and landed on the other side of his encampment and then he pivoted, his blade slicing the air. He remembered their last duel -- she floated in the air as was her terrible nature and he met her stroke for stroke. And after cutting her, they fucked, their flesh meeting stroke for stroke.

Satoru brought the sword up the center line, slicing from gut to throat. As he had laid with her and learned her secret through her blood, their past had caught up with them. Lovemaking had weakened them when the soldiers and feeders of the demon-beast Goru had struck. It had been brutal and ruthless and short. The Lady lay dying her last death and the man Satoru was lay shattered and dying. But in death, the Lady had given him her heart -- literally -- and a chance to live again. But as something else.

He danced back, the blade crossing over itself at blinding speed. The Lady's legacy was now his alone. Part of its embodiment was in the blade he now held -- he had found it beneath the main training area after he fed on the last of the Lady's faithful. It was an odd blade to his eye -- long, with a broad base that tapered to a point. It was dual-edged with a thick guard, a long handle for a two handed grip and a pommel forged in a seven headed dragon with ten horns and ten crowns.

It was lite and solid -- silver was melted into the blade, flanked by obsidian streaks. Though it lacked the elegance and of a katana, it was still a lovely weapon and more than suited to his task. He called it Reaper.

II

Satoru traveled during the day, when he was at his weakest, like the fiends he sought. He sat on a rickety cart pulled by two weary horses as they teetered on a narrow, rocky trail. He traveled with old man Mojiro, an old but good natured farmer with thinning gray hair and a dwindling gleam to his eye who made sake and has to great a taste for his product. Their other companion was Mojiro's granddaughter, Kamiko. She had seen no more than 20 springs, barely more than Satoru before his first death. She wore he hair boyishly short, and her kimono was short and loose allowing her womanly figure to be readily noticed.

Satoru had encountered the family while traveling south -- he came across a band of 6 bandits as they accosted the pair. Mojiro stood his ground valiantly but was too drunk to be of much threat and Kamiko -- though possessing some knowledge, evidenced by the bandit with the bloodied nose at her feet -- was overpowered by a fat brigand. He had pinned her arms behind her back while his companion had slipped a hand into her kimono and roughly pawed her breast while the others laughed.

Despite the sun, Satoru moved with inhuman swiftness, his tanto blade drawn while his sword was strapped to his back. The brigand pawing Kamiko fell back when Satoru slashed him behind the knee. As the brigand fell, Satoru switched his grip on the blade during a downward stroke and stabbed the would-be rapist in the throat. The fat one loosened his grip on the girl ever slightly, but Satoru had already cut him across the face, splitting the fat man's smile from ear to ear, severing the facial artery. His knees buckled, and he died, showering the screaming girl's hair and shoulders with a crimson rain.

One of the other brigands had raised a spear but Satoru knocked it aside and stabbed him in the gut. The bandit heaved for air as Satoru sliced upwards, cutting through muscle, intestine and even bone. When Satoru extracted his blade it was from the bandit's throat -- Satoru saw another two bandits rush him. One had a spear and the other, a katana. Satoru lifted the gutted brigand as a shield and tossed him easily at the oncoming brigand with the katana. They fell in heap, the dead man's innards spilling out and staining the path like crushed, gray snakes. Satoru pivoted to meet the spear man, sidestepping the thrust and bracing his back leg before grabbing the spear with his free hand. It had the effect of the spear man striking a wall -- his thrust was halted but momentum threw him into Satoru's embrace. Satoru's cold eyes were the last things he saw before his neck snapped. Satoru held the spear and leaped into the air, landing and impaling the spear through the gutted brigand and the swordsman pinned beneath him.

In the time it took the final brigand facing Mojiro to turn and realize what transpired to his companions, they were dead and Satoru had picked up the fallen katana.

The brigand assumed a fighting stance versus Satoru's lazy grip on the katana.

"Run or fight," Satoru said. "You die."

The brigand ran. Satoru's prophecy was fulfilled.

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They ate quietly around a boiling pot filled with a pungent broth and rice. Mojiro dipped his bread in his steaming bowl and ate greedily between gulps of sake. Kamiko poured some broth over her bowl of rice and intently watched Satoru as he stared at the fire. They were sheltered in a makeshift lodging Satoru had assembled in minutes. They were outside a village of some fifty families. Mojiro planned to peddle his wares the following day.

Satoru heard the collective harmony of the villagers heartbeats echo upon the low frequencies of the night, even as he heard Kamiko heart flutter as her young body responded to his.

"Big as you are," Mojiro belched. "You don't eat much."

"I already fed," Satoru said quietly, remembering how the blood of the brigands was cooling as he emptied the bodies before disposing of them in the bush.

"You ... fed?" Kamiko asked, intrigued by the term. She shivered when Satoru fixated her, his eyes peering deeply into hers. She felt her pussy moisten as her mind's eye filled with the image of him standing before her and driving his exalted cock into her willing mouth -- Kamiko relived the sight of him cutting down six men without the effort she needed to undo her kimono. She brought her thighs together against this speechless intrusion into her mind.