Hemorrhage of Blue

Hemorrhage of Blue

Notes: This is a cowrite by Nemi the Nen and Fractalserpent. Thank you, Nemi! The story occurs about twelve years after "Deep Blue" which is also available on this site. In that tale, Kain rescues a human Rahab from being a tavern whore. Now, as Rahab is becoming a Sarafan, Kain hands him over to Vorador for some... education.

Both authors are currently in multiversehaven, a role playing game on livejournal. (Or google 'multiversehaven.') The list is replete with really exquisite authors... and some very tasty smex. ;) Applications are currently open.


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One Sarafan troop.

Six young pikemen, just out of training, but all of them strong and tall. Three archers, slighter of form and lightly armored in leather. Two grizzled field sergeants, carrying heavy axes. One young knight, blue-eyed.

Together, the unit was mobile and swift enough to respond to the slightest rumor of vampire activity, and powerful enough to confront most enclaves without waiting for further backup. This troop was not greatly different from hundreds of others scouring the countryside.

Except, of course, that this leader belonged to a vampire. The scents and magical marks of ownership permeated his skin, and though the former were a little faded, the inherent warning was abundantly clear to any vampire, fledgling to ancient.

They’d been delivered to Vorador by letter. A sheet of fine vellum detailed their movements, their armament. The ambush had resulted in no loss of fledgling life -- the troop's sentries had all mysteriously fallen under a deep spell of sleep. All twelve of the troop had been delivered over, part, parcel, and – Vorador lifted the young knight's helm, letting the cheap, standard-issue skullcap hang from the tips of his talons disdainfully --
piecemeal.

But this was no tribute, -- not that Vorador would have demanded tribute of the elder whose mark he sensed on the Sarafan knight -- that much was clear. There were terms to this bargain.

Vorador scanned the row of snarling faces where the Sarafan knelt, bound in their armor, before him. The sight pleased him – the humans kneeling before their betters, as they were meant to do. As once had they all, millennia ago; masses of humanity used to grovel before the blue-skinned angels. Human memories were so very fleeting. *That one,* he selected one of the veterans -- a healthy man, but too disfigured by old wounds -- and quickly, carefully, impressed a handful of memories upon his mind.

The warrior's eyes glazed over as fledglings dragged him away. He'd be taken to some distant dungeon, roughed up perhaps, and allowed to 'escape,' thus to bring word to the Sarafan order of this unit's capture. Vorador disliked releasing healthy cattle, but the sacrifice was necessary. The blue-eyed Sarafan knight would soon have to be released, and would have to be hailed as a hero upon his return. The older warrior would be needed to confirm the knight's tale, to save him from being viewed as a conspirator or worse. Humans fell upon one another nearly as often as they fought the vampires.

This was the first condition of the bargain.

The other ten soldiers were payment -- blood payment -- for something that could no longer be bought with coin. In comparison to the art of Vorador’s forge, famed Serioli armament was little better than battered training gear. A full suit of platemail, fashioned by the most experienced, most skilled armorer in existence, was beyond priceless.

So bought with blood, the armor was to be forged to fit the young Sarafan knight. And thus, of course, the knight was not to be permanently injured. This was the second condition.

Vorador considered once more the knight’s helm – the iron was crude, raw, but it had been well cared for, and could perhaps be refined into something more utile. The vampire tossed the skullcap lightly to a place on the stony ground, the clatter loud over the sound of labored breaths and rapid-beating hearts.

*Form three piles,* he commanded, whispering to the handful of fledglings standing behind the captives. *Gather anything leather or badly rusted for disposal. Most of the rest of this metal can be reprocessed or refined. And…* Vorador’s eye caught on the hilt of one sword, inelegantly jumbled in amongst the lesser weapons, where they lay in a heap, well away from the Sarafan prisoners. He plucked it free of the pile with telekinetic ease and brought it close to study. Serioli – how interesting. *And look for any other steel fine enough to go straight to the forge.*

Vorador set the blade aside and folded his arms across his chest, watching while the fledglings efficiently stripped and rebound the captives. Predictably, the humans shouted threats or fought the handling. The young knight fought perhaps most desperately of all, thrashing against the claws of the fledglings. They were forced to rend his armor from him.

Vorador, curious, caught the human’s blue, blue eyes and reached past thought, past dreams, and into memory.

What fine blue eyes the mortal had, and such lovely scars. Particularly when combined with memory of how he received the eldest of them all. How kind of the other vampire to deliver such a fine piece of wood, to be carved with Vorador’s fine tools. "Now," he rumbled, taking a large step over to the knight and fledglings, his shadow stopping all struggles. "Isn't this interesting."

He knelt like a prince, like the dark god he was, and caressed a small white crescent-like scar on the knight's inner thigh.

Rahab jerked back hard, against the legs of the fledgling standing behind him, as the green, horned creature reached out. With his hands still bound behind him, the movement nearly tumbled him to the ground. Panic made him forget the shame of his nakedness, the disgrace of the crosshatching of old scars. He’d never seen a vampire so twisted by its nature – had heard of only one being so distorted. If this were that ancient evil, then…. “Touch me not, monster. I and my brethren have slain your kind, and we shall slay you, too.”

"What brethren?" The scar he touched was something of a puncture wound, the rip of a large hand around a small thigh, thumb biting bleeding into flesh. He touched another old, old scar, and then the all but faded rips on Rahab’s chest where humans had proved upon a young boy that they too could claw.

"I see no others of your kind here." He drew his hand back, pressed it to his chest and offered him a slight bow. "Forgive me, as it has been a long while since I interacted so cordially with humans. Please correct me if I am wrong, but I thought the Sarafan did not allow for camp followers."

Was the vampire blind, for Rahab’s compatriots knelt just there, to his side, as they’d been at his side in battle. His flesh cringed as the vampire touched him, its claws sharply edged, but very light, very careful. And then… “Camp follower?” his voice broke. “You mistake my place and my rank,” Rahab spat. “Unbind me, and face my blade fairly, thou foul and evil miscreation.”

Another mark, another touch. Vorador made a point to tilt his body to the side and look behind the human, at his back and arms. "Mm, no. No do not attempt to lie for these marks," he put his claws over a shadow at the knight's inner thigh where those legs had first been wrenched apart. "Do not lie."

"In fact," two fingers, one thumb, but they traced over the four-and-one markings. "They speak very plainly and very clearly to one who knows such things," here was the bite of fingernails, bruising flesh until it split from the strain. "So tell me, what is a whore doing with these Sarafan?"

Rahab snarled furiously. “My scars are from training and battle, you philistine beast.” He lunged away from the light touches, and had to scramble to balance himself in the awkward position. His men… his men were surely watching, all of them grown silent – either with fear or with… no. Rahab wrenched at his bound hands. He couldn’t… no! “Word of our capture will reach our order, and when it does, you will be hunted down like the dog you are.”

Vorador’s hand struck out and he dragged Rahab back, "I believe you have lied to those whom you call brethren, little human.” And he smiled with the slightest upturning of his lips, lazily. "Oh some of these marks are honorably got. But you deceived them, little one. You lied in silence and let them think they were all so nobly bought, and not," he jerked the human, lips snarling slightly, "earned while upon your back with your knees round your ears."

Vorador exhaled a short puff of air through his nose, amused and placid once more. "It has been a long while since I have tried the mettle and the wares of a human whore." The slightest smirk and sideways glance turned that unholy visage into an unmistakable leer, “You’ll impale yourself, little whore. And your men… your men will watch.”

"Then, I think I shall make fledglings out of all of you, and take you to my bed." He caressed his face and brushed his hair aside, "Oh, shhh, shh little one." He crooned, "I will feed you the sweetest bloods from my pantry while you lounge in my bower. I will take good care of you so I need never unbind you. And as a vampire you will heal so much faster; I'll have you sup deeply from me the first time and take away all your scars."

With a short, sharp shriek of rage, Rahab lunged forward, driving his forehead into the creature’s smirking face. Or at least, that was the intent.

Vorador leaned away with a slightly bemused expression on his face, curious to see if the man would overbalance and fall on his face.

The vampire was impossibly fast, and Rahab should have expected that. The creature pulled back, and in wrath, Rahab bit at the beast’s exposed forearm, clamping down hard on the green-patina of its skin.

"Oh yes," Vorador said, voice changing tone and dropping slightly. Voice rising up from his chest, up through the roof of his mouth. "I like you."

To Rahab's disgust, and his horror, he realized that the vampire was aroused. "Take them, carry them. The room all in blue for this one's eyes...."

The arm was wrenched from between Rahab’s teeth, and he gasped at the unholy strength so easily applied. He hadn’t even dented the creature’s skin, he thought. “No!” Rahab cried, as the monster turned and gave his orders. He swallowed thickly. How could he… but the faces of his men came before his mind’s eye – some of them were younger than Rahab himself, one had yet to shave his first beard. If he didn’t… how could he know any honor if he didn’t… “Take me; I’ll… do what you… want. But let my men go!” He drew a shuddering breath. “Please.”

The monster touched his face again, gently, careful of its claws for his sake. Light and sickenly comforting, they scratched against his scalp. "Poor child, I know humans fear forever, fear the gift of immortality. I can't let them go, not when they will go out once more and kill my fledglings, maybe even you."

Vorador, for the first time addressed the rest of the troop. "Is death, -- dark absolvance of your sins, -- that much more preferable in your fearful, unenlightened state?"

Rahab’s men shifted restlessly, and he understood their unquiet. Vampires produced fledglings rarely, he knew. An elder of several hundred years might possess an enclave of a handful. It was that trait which made the Sarafan so effective, for whilst new recruits arrived daily at the stronghold, the vampires were dwindling. Rahab knew that, and thus he knew that the offer of immortality was no light matter.

But the Sarafan were not so easily entrapped. A poor leader he would be, to fail to provide leadership. Rahab drew breath, and began reciting the prayer for deliverance from the dark.

"For you I am willing to offer a boon." Vorador interrupted as the men took up the prayer – the words that renounced the fate he offered.

"For one who is worthy of being my son." Gentle, very gentle, soft. The way Rahab’s father sometimes spoke to him. "Your men will stay a time with me and mine. To feed me and mine – one, perhaps two, will be killed. The others freed... perhaps on the morrow or the eve after."

Two killed… Rahab’s words caught in his throat. And the price of the rest of his men… was to be Rahab’s own damnation. He’d have to… have to employ the skills his father had assured him he’d never again need in life, not unless he chose to make use of them. Yet… perhaps Rahab could find some way to slay himself before he was made into nothing more than a murderous beast. “I…” Rahab swallowed thickly. “I accept your pact.”

Vorador leaned down and whispered into his ear. "They will be given a chance to escape, though I assure you they will be coursed down and killed. And if they desire it, if they wish to remain with me, and join you, then they shall.”

“No!” Rahab cried out, struggling anew. “You beast – you can’t! Don’t! Please! I will cooperate, but let my soldiers return unharmed!”

Vorador smiled. “It is no light gift you ask of me. You will have to beg me sweetly with all the skill you have, dear one."

Rahab gasped, a slick of sweat on his skin, even in the cold night. He grit his teeth against an unbecoming whimper. He’d been taught better than this – his father had taught him better than this. But he’d never thought he’d have to… never thought he’d be here, in this position. He bowed his head, eyes downcast. “Please,” Rahab said, just above a whisper. “All my men are honorable. If you ask that they vow never to hunt your kind again, then it shall be so. I led them into this forest, and it should be I who is punished, not they, who only followed.” They who only trusted him.

"Mm hmm," Vorador hummed, humoring the human. The rustle of fabric and slight flap of leather signified another intent entirely.

The sound of talons upon buckles jerked Rahab’s head up, eyes wide. That was what the vampire had meant by ‘beg’ – “No!” He couldn’t help the exclamation as the thrashed back, falling onto his rear, crashing against the legs of the younger vampires behind him. Words were one thing, but the movements as the vampire unbuttoned himself – so familiar, so – he couldn’t!

"I know you've done this before," the Vampire rumbled gently. "Show me your skill, and I best not feel your teeth lest you wish to feel mine. Or is it not worth the lives of these Sarafan?"

The lives of his brethren…. Rahab could not look at them, could not view the condemnation, the disgust in their eyes. Laboriously, he gathered himself back up to his knees. Hands bound tight behind his back, he’d have no choice but to… Rahab’s eyes closed, a single tear escaping the corner of one eye. Blindly, heart pounding, he stretched up until his nose just brushed the open front of the leather breeches.

Long, thick claws, murderously sharp, came to rest in his hair as Rahab felt a... a ridge with his nose. But no, that was fabric (please oh please be fabric). The claws didn't pull on him, didn't press him down, only offered gentle caress to soothe him. Lightly he was petted, and then guided, his head shifted to the side and this time the ridge was skin.

Rahab yelped and jerked back, eyes wide and oh gods, what was that? Please, in the name of every saint, don’t let that be… the claws cupped the back of his skull, and straining against them was unutterably futile. No! -- how could… as warped as the vampire was, how could – and the size…!

It was a fight against a mountain, but the mountain pushed back, with claws. Fledgling vampires shifted and stirred, straining to get a better look as a very faint scent of blood took to the air. Rolling, mocking laughter was in the deep back of that voice, "It doesn't bite, child," yet.

Rahab hissed as the tips of those claws drew pinpricks of blood. He caught the gasps and muffled murmurs of his troops. Oh gods – even if they all escaped from this, how could he ever face his order again? He remembered this kind of shame so well… Rahab squeezed his eyes tight shut once more, the motion letting flow more wetness from his eyes.

Rahab leaned forward again, haltingly. It was better if he couldn’t see, if he could only smell the vampire, a strange and smoky scent that caught in the back of his throat. The tip of his nose found flesh once more, and he swallowed thickly. He could do it, just like this, just like all the others. He’d just have to… ignore the ridges, the scales… oh, gods. Trembling, Rahab touched the tip of his tongue to the skin.

And as soon as Rahab made contact the pressure lessened, becoming the soft touch once more. "That's it. Take your time if you must. I don't expect you to manage it all." Chuckling laughter, almost good natured. "That will be later."

Later… Rahab suppressed a groan of terror, but could not control the way air came in panic-short, panting breaths through his mouth, wafting over the cool flesh before him. He knew how much a man’s cock could hurt -- and this was still soft; what if the vampire wanted to put… to put itself into.… No, no. Rahab could control himself, could do this, just like he used to, with no thought as to the next hour, let alone the next few days. Calming himself through sheer force of will, Rahab nuzzled around the side of the thick shaft, easing the length of it free of the tight breeches.

The vampire was purring loudly and it helped a little to drown out the other sounds. The nightbird and cricket. Rahab’s own heartbeat and panting breath.

The whispers.

The shaft...stirred against his cheek, hardening slightly from the touch of his flesh. The fact it wanted to be free made it easier to... to get it out.

Rahab’s lips brushed a patch of scale-like bumps, hard and raised, near the base of the thick cock and he shuddered. The skin was not soft, as was a man’s, but rather faintly textured and thick, like suede draped over cartilage. And swelling now.

Eyes tight shut, Rahab began to lick, flicking his tongue across the underside of the base, working his way, an inch at a time, out to the tip. Thick veins rose under his tongue, occasionally crossed by ridges, and Rahab could not help freezing momentarily as he encountered each. But the motion, if not the subject, was familiar. He licked and nibbled, just touching his teeth against flesh to counterpoint the softer strokes.

Vorador watched him, purred and even smiled slightly. The sensation of soft skin and the slight friction of chapped lips was enchanting. However, by far he got most of his pleasure from the small sounds his ears picked up, the sight of his distress, his tears, and knowledge of his shame and submission.

Rahab reached the flared tip of the organ, and gasped. As thick as the shaft was, this was wider still, somewhat like a blunted head of a spear. Some faint noise rose over the sound of the vampire’s deep rumbling, and Rahab could not help jerking back, just to the limit the claws would allow, his eyes wide and darting to where his men knelt.

Some fought the fledglings assigned to them; one was being gagged. A few had their eyes cast down. Most... most were watching, revulsion writ plain on their faces. They knew... they knew because the ancient vampire had told them. They knew what Rahab was and what he’d done, and the thick cock before his lips simply drove that knowledge home.

And so too were the fledglings watching, those that were not restraining their captives. Their eyes were wide, bright and hungry. Not at Rahab though, but rather at their lord and father. The ancient vampire rumbled softly and spoke. "Your desire to save them betrays your experience," Vorador said, voice rumbling, blending into his purr. "You are beautiful to behold, to see, yet I will have to see to your instruction later since time, I hope, has dulled your skill."

"It is what I hope to believe. I do mislike the thought that you always lacked ability."

Rahab flicked his gaze up, past the hard planes of belly and green-skinned chest, to the fearful visage of the ancient vampire. Gods, if this wasn’t sufficient, if Rahab’s pleading was not enough... he drew a deep and quavering breath and tore his attention from his men. Rahab licked his lips, slicking them, then moved forward, kissing the tip of the cock in depraved supplication.

His lips slowly opened around the tip, teeth well-parted. No matter how much he wished to simply swallow the cock, force the monster to come and get it over with, the greatest pleasure was not to be so easily sought. Rahab swirled his tongue over the tip as it slowly entered him, drawing sigils in warm wetness against the head. He found the delicate slit and tongued it -- light taps, harder sweeps.

"You have some knowledge I see," Vorador grasped himself as he became more aroused, keeping his shaft steady for the human.

The opening was like unto a man’s, as normal as it could be considering the rest. But all around there was a slight hardness, and just above, the true tip, it was almost a smooth round callous. Vampire or no, blood flowed in the creature's body, and Rahab could faintly feel it under his lips, surging to harden the shaft completely.

Rahab could not contain the soft whimper that escaped around the thick cock, the head that filled his mouth and kept him wide open, making him vulnerable all the way through. The tip of the monster’s cock was hardened, and it occurred to Rahab that that tip -- with the massive strength of a vampire behind it -- could be forced past any ring of muscle, no matter how tightly clenched; could tear delicate flesh.

Memory brought him back to other times, other nights when Rahab’s lips hadn’t been sufficient, when the flesh had been pulled from his mouth and forced into a hotter, tighter opening, and swallowed a sudden sob as best he could. Carefully, jaws stretched wide around the lascivious thickness, Rahab pressed forward, slowly sliding the entire head inside his mouth.

The kiss had been sweet, had sent a wave of warmth out from the median of Vorador’s body. But that small whimper called a shiver from his spine, tightening muscles in anticipation and every inch of him listening for more. The half hidden sob made him moan just as softly.

Rahab whined as his mouth was taken, the unnatural thickness muffling the sounds. The delicate places on a human -- the divot just beneath the head, the slight roughness around the widest part of the flare -- were different on the vampire. Underneath was a ridge, and there were tiny, short, flexible spines around the rim -- Rahab couldn’t tell whether those spots were as sensitive as a human’s, though he bathed and flicked them with his tongue. He set up a low hum instead, suppressing a shiver as the vampire’s tone darkened.

Mmm, Vorador considered, well at least the human knew something. Vampires used innate telekinetic abilities to draw blood down their throats in an uninterrupted stream; as a result their ability to deep throat and provide suction was unrivaled. The human's ability was... perhaps a little more than basally acceptable.

Rahab swallowed as well as he was able, around the thick impalement, his mouth gone dry. The ancient vampire’s low rumblings had taken on a warning tone. It was so easy to slip back into a mindset Rahab had long thought vanished, one in which every response from a client spelled the difference between a beating and, perhaps, a coin. And now the coin was his brethren’s lives. Rahab stopped thinking, stopped feeling, losing himself in the slide of flesh in his mouth, the dancing, whorling, caressing motions of tongue and lips. Rahab rose up on his knees, lessening the bend of his neck, and moved forward, swallowing around the thick shaft as the head nudged the back of his throat.

The vampire stroked himself and gave a soft moan. Lighter forward, firmer back--the scales and ridges depressed and tilted slightly allowing for movement and the slide of that clawed hand.

The scales were slight little callouses, not even as hard as the bit of armor at the shaft's tip, and they stood up a little like a snakeskin as the flesh beneath filled with blood. The vampire rocked slightly, not pushing, not really because Rahab knew what forceful pushing was like. This was just a reminder, and with the vampire’s strength behind it, the motion was no gentle entreaty.

Rahab rocked with the movement, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. The shaft stretched his jaws until he could barely keep his lips folded over his teeth, so that they brushed the velvety flesh, just lightly. The side of the vampire’s hand touched his nose as the creature stroked. Rahab backed off a little with each forward movement of the hand, swallowed more with each backstroke, the flesh slipping past his lips with each wet slide. The head, slightly pointed, slipped into his throat, and he gasped, drawing a hard breath through his nose before his air was cut off.

And Oh. Oh yes. That other – the unknown elder vampire -- had marked this one as his and Vorador was beginning to see why. There was this skill, and the eyes, and that lovely form. There was hate and there was love and there was pain. There was already a practiced ability that would become better with the dark gift. Should Vorador shame the human further? Allow him to think he had accomplished his goals? After all, none of the Sarafan would escape.

Rahab worked his throat around the broad head, swallowing against his own gag reflex, the muscles of his throat rippling. The flesh was thicker than any cock he’d had, than any he remembered, and it stretched him unmercifully. The calcified tip scraped and rubbed. The air began to grow stale in Rahab’s lungs as the vampire paused in his stroking, the creature’s clawed hand at his base. Desperate, Rahab pushed forward, sealing his lips against the vampire’s hand, the tip of his tongue sweeping against the underside of the cool girth, encasing the length of it in the hot sheath of his mouth and throat.

The ridges along the length of the cock hardened suddenly, in sequence. The crown, trapped deep in Rahab’s throat, engorged as well and he could feel it. The sudden stillness, despite the lack of a hard thrust, was familiar, coupled with other small cues long memorized of impending release. Never before had a man’s organ swelled again inside his mouth or throat, but then, this was no man.

The thickness of the head wedged deep in Rahab’s throat. The young knight jerked back, cracking his skull against the stone-hard talons that trapped him, but couldn’t get free -- and couldn’t tear that monstrous cock from his throat. It held him, knotted him like a dog in a bitch, and Rahab knew with sudden vividness that he was going to die like this.

Blackness began to descend as Rahab struggled, jerking, the claws behind his head making escape impossible, the thickness blocking all breath. He began to choke on the impalement, losing his grip on his gag reflex, glottis rippling fiercely around the cock. Unknowing, panicked, Rahab did not feel his teeth come down against the thick shaft.

Suddenly, Rahab gasped around a greater thickness -- something pressed the tissues of his throat wider still, bruising from the inside... but he could breathe! Something in his throat went numb, his mouth felt lax, his eyelids suddenly went heavy as relaxation was forced upon his mind.

Vorador trembled slightly, his hand clenched tight around his base, carefully keeping up the simple telekinetic bubble in the human's throat, and the enforced relaxation, as he drew his shaft free. Foolish, delicious human. How long had it been since Vorador had denied himself? He had forgotten how much it hurt to choke back ‘please.’ But it was good to be reminded, all the better to wield carnal need against others.

Gasping, gagging, Rahab fell back, onto his heels. With his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t wipe his mouth, couldn’t rub at his blurred eyes. What… what in the abyss…?

Vorador reached out and caressed Rahab's throat, banishing the paralysis. Then... then he stroked himself and luxuriated in the feel of his own clawed hands and the sight of the blue eyes of the human before him. "You are very foolish you know. But it matters...mmm...not. When you are a vampire such -ah!- needs as breath will hinder neither you nor I."

Rahab gasped, muscles in his mouth and face just beginning to respond. His mind felt slow as he breathed hard. “Foolish... I don’t....” he slurred. The head of the shaft seemed like a fist before his eyes, flesh pulsing in the vampire’s hand. To Rahab’s side, one of the men doubled over, retching.

"To swallow it all. But admirable." Vorador glanced sharply over to the vomiting human, "Kill that one. He cannot be taught. Save the body for the Manor; do not waste a drop." He slid the flared head of his cock against Rahab's cheek and purred at the sensation and visualization.

Rahab cried out, tried to jerk away. “No, please don’t...!” and was cut short by the crunch as the man’s head was twisted entirely around. The soldier was dragged back by the hair, keeping the body from falling into the muck. “Please! You said you’d...” the saliva-wet head of the monster’s cock was brought around to rub against his cheek, and as the pungent scent of vomit reached him, Rahab nearly gagged, himself. And he knew what would happen to him if he did.

"If you begged well, only one or two would be killed, the others I'd give a sporting chance." Vorador slid his cock up the human’s cheek to rub the shaft against him, forward and back. "Well then, that's one. And you really can't tell me you thought you begged well, can you?"

“Ah!” Vorador threw back his head, gasping in a deep rumble. His hips gave an abortive little jerk. He kept stroking, and addressed the younger vampires. “Keep the… mmm… keep the Sarafan’s body close to the others. Mustn’t... let the blood cool overmuch.”

Vorador knew divinity as well as he knew the ways and workings of orgasm. He had combined the two many, many times in any manner of ways -- spilling out over the sky blue flesh of a living angel. This was a Sarafan, and Vordor knew without doubt that these murders were as far from divine as one could get. That fact did not lessen his pleasure, the sudden shuddering release as his muscles went lax, as his attention and his euphoria focused.

And, he mused as he came back to himself, the pinkish, silver-clear fluid looked remarkably...pretty on the Sarafan's face.

Rahab gasped as the thick head of the cock rubbed his face, trailing sticky threads of his own saliva, and then the monster... came. On him, thick jetted spurts of cold fluid. Rahab cried out, tried to jerk away, only managing to catch more of the ungodly liquid on his forehead, over the bridge of his nose, his lips. Rahab spat desperately, but the beast’s cold seed was coagulant, clinging, thick.

Vorador’s flesh settled as the blood drained away to other parts of his body. With a satisfied sigh, which his fledglings mirrored disappointedly, he tucked himself away and redid his belts. "My," his voice was rough-edged as he knelt down, "You are the lovely one."

Bending down, the ancient vampire scooped up the Sarafan knight as a husband his bride. Ignoring Rahab’s struggles, the human’s tight-bound struggles less than useless against the vampire’s strength, Vorador growled softly. "It suits," he commented before forcing a kiss upon the human, tasting himself.

*Remember,* Vorador sent to his fledglings, *the blue room at the manor.* Deep in the mists of the swamp, lights ignited – the eerie green flare of the Ignus Fatus, bright to guide the tread of fledglings burdened with armor and prey. Then Vorador summoned his magic and vanished in a swirl of blue teleportation energies, the young knight’s cries abruptly silenced.