A silent curse stalking on lets of dominant shadow. Darkness seemed to cling to him as young children to an aged brother, seeming to hang as though a fabric of garment, something tangible as silk. The club was filled with darkness, in the hearts of patrons, enthralled in the gifts given humanity by the master, gifts designed to darken souls, and in turn forever bolster the ranks of war. Existence was nothing more than a cog in the war machine at this point, the world churning out darkened souls, tormented by a toil filled, sinful life. Few escaped. To fall was inevitable.
A woman clung to him, dancing against him in a hypnotic show of carnal expectancy, and Yahto simply gazed beyond, to a pair of women, one with the stink of Vampirism upon her, the other an unwitting accomplice, and a foolish man-child onto whom Yahto had no doubt their eyes had settled. Their ambitions were so very clear, the way the one woman hung upon the man, throwing into context the other woman, as though barely a concern, igniting the man’s curiosity, whispering poison into his ear to draw the mind to glimpse the nirvana they offered: the three of them writing together amongst sheets and a thick cloud of sweat dampened heat. Yahto watched in eager anticipation, lingering his gaze on the woman, this Rae... a pawn in game, as sure as the fool they’ve ensnared into their trap.
As they started to leave, Yahto made a move, stepping away from the woman, pressing through the crowd of the busy club, sliding through a mass of convulsive, pulsating bodies like a flame through a pile of wax. Around him, as though inexplicably forced apart, the waters of sin parted, bodies moving aside to allow him to pass through, only to converge behind him, a self healing wound to the organism of sin from which he emerged. From behind, his steps were silent, quick. A steady, firm right hand reached out grabbing the wrist of the woman, Rae. Finger close tightly around her wrist, his arm pulling her to a sudden and very firm stop, undoubtedly invoking a response, and as she turned around to face him, Yahto smirked as his left hand suddenly found itself warmed by the thick, sticky trickle of the woman’s life blood.
His fingers had made short work of passing through her skin. The nails on his hand, long, sharp spires extending no more than an inch from each fingertip, tore through flesh and bone with the stiff, ridged thrust delievered. The force, inhuman in its skill and power, in its speed, could not be defended as he shoved his hand through the chest and rib cage, to grab and crush the beating heart in the woman’s chest. As her eyes widened, as the shock settled over those beautiful, still orbs, Yahto’s lips curled in a pleased smile, the woman’s own backward stumble bringing his head from the confines of her flesh as she falters and collapses in the very next second. Blood dripping from Yahto’s clenched fist.
In the instant before the crowd noticed, and alarm and fear gave rise to panicked screaming, Yahto’s eyes bear into Laelette, to feast on the anger that he knew must reside within. A smile, perfectly pleased, stands bold upon his face, tuning the curve of his lips to his ‘Sunday’ best, as he, with open palms, holds up the twitching, crushed organ between his hands before them, in silent offering.
“I’m coming for you,” He whispers, and as though to punctuate his statement, the first scream of an onlooker is given to voice, followed by another, and in the next moment, the club is wild. Bodies rush to the door, sweeping past them as quickly as they could, while others seek out the safety of the darkness, hoping to go unnoticed, hoping to simply disappear and avoid whatever was going on here. Hundreds streak towards the door, a mass of pulsating, quivering fear, pushing over itself to pour from the small exist of the club, to spill onto the streets. A moment Yahto stood before her, holding the dying heart, in the next, the organ falls lifeless and still to the floor, Yahto’s body melding into the crowd as it sweeps by: a message delivered. Nothing more.