u/Cepegalaz

The azure sky of this world, so pure and tranquil, felt alien to Drakarth.

The Dark Elf lord cast a cold gaze over the blossoming valleys. On the horizon, foreign dragons already circled, sensing the intruder, but his wyvern only gripped the granite peak tighter with its talons.

Pulling the leather reins, he awaited the moment to dive and paint this flawless day in shades of crimson.

The azure sky of this world, so pure and tranquil, felt alien to Drakarth.

The Dark Elf lord cast a cold gaze over the blossoming valleys. On the horizon, foreign dragons already circled, sensing the intruder, but his wyvern only gripped the granite peak tighter with its talons.

Pulling the leather reins, he awaited the moment to dive and paint this flawless day in shades of crimson.

The azure sky of this world, so pure and tranquil, felt alien to Drakarth.

The Dark Elf lord cast a cold gaze over the blossoming valleys. On the horizon, foreign dragons already circled, sensing the intruder, but his wyvern only gripped the granite peak tighter with its talons.

Pulling the leather reins, he awaited the moment to dive and paint this flawless day in shades of crimson.

The azure sky of this world, so pure and tranquil, felt alien to Drakarth.

The Dark Elf lord cast a cold gaze over the blossoming valleys. On the horizon, foreign dragons already circled, sensing the intruder, but his wyvern only gripped the granite peak tighter with its talons.

Pulling the leather reins, he awaited the moment to dive and paint this flawless day in shades of crimson.

The azure sky of this world, so pure and tranquil, felt alien to Drakarth.

The Dark Elf lord cast a cold gaze over the blossoming valleys. On the horizon, foreign dragons already circled, sensing the intruder, but his wyvern only gripped the granite peak tighter with its talons.

Pulling the leather reins, he awaited the moment to dive and paint this flawless day in shades of crimson.

Arrows pierced his shield, and blades struck him from all sides, but he was amused by their pathetic attempts to stop him.

The fortress of his ancestors, which he had sworn to protect in his mortal life, blazed at his feet conquered by his own hand. Below, in the fires of the assault, burned everything he had ever loved, while from above, the dead, freezing night pressed down upon him.

This laughter upon the battlement was the peak of his triumph and, at the very same time, the scream of his final downfall the exact second the monster defeated the man, forever walling himself up in immortal loneliness.

August 14, 1968.

Passing through Yasnaya Gran. I stopped at a house on the outskirts to photograph the aesthetic of a remote, dying village. A woman emerged from the house and called her son. They stood together without even asking for permission, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. There was something strange about them, though I didn’t immediately understand what. It wasn’t until I developed the film that I noticed their "connection."

She adjusted his shirt while he stared blankly at the sky, and there was something more mechanical than alive in that gesture. They didn’t pose; they didn’t even react to the flash. They just stood there, bound by this knot as if it were an ordinary part of their clothing or their daily lives.

In their world, there was no such thing as "apart." For them, this umbilical cord was the only possible form of intimacy. She simply never wanted to lose him.

Never.

Painted this before the 2021 movie standard. This is how I pictured Shai-Hulud based on the 90s game nostalgia.

The final chord drowned in the roar of the crowd. Breathing heavily, she looked down from the stage at the sea of adoring eyes, all ready to give their lives for her a true triumph, worth dying for all those years ago.

Deep in the smoky venue, amid hundreds of fans, one silhouette remained motionless. He didn't applaud. His fingers inside a coat pocket gripped a cold hilt, his eyes tracking the flawless line of her neck.

An hour later, in a dark alley by the backstage exit, the silence was shattered by a sharp gasp and the faint rustle of cascading ash. A flash of blinding fury, cold steel, and instant emptiness. No one ever heard her voice again, leaving the fans with nothing but a haunting sense of unfinished business as if, right in the middle of the most beautiful note, someone had simply pulled the plug.

Mirrors had long rejected Lucía's face, leaving only emptiness in its place. The Abyss was the only one who truly knew and accepted her.

In a dead end of the night city, hidden from the neon lights, she pressed her lips against the cold wall. Her shadow came alive, mimicking the contours of her beloved silhouette.

It was her closest ally and her most brutal mentor. The shadow was slowly consuming the remnants of her humanity, demanding absolute submission to the Abyss. Lucía knew this romance with her own darkness was doomed, but in a world of eternal night, she had no one left dearer to her.

The ink on the paper hadn't even dried when the bone cracked.

He didn't scream - he only gripped the pen tighter as his own thought, grown too heavy for a single mind, tore through his skull and reached blindly for the ceiling like a crimson ivy.

The brain hadn't abandoned him; it had simply become a prison, weeping blood onto the oak panels. With every new line, the man felt a hollow, icy emptiness expanding inside him.

He was giving his work the last thing he had left - himself, entirely, without a shred of hope for return, obediently writing the final words of his own end in the dead silence of the study.

The tulips on the table still smell of spring, barely masking the scent of cold pizza. He really did try. He spent ages picking out the bouquet, ordered dinner, found some stupid talk show to fill the awkward silences. He just wanted to feel normal, at least for a couple of hours.

But the beast inside doesn't care about romance.

The blue light of the screen flickers across her pale face. She won’t interrupt him with a silly joke anymore. He mechanically flips through the channels, licking what’s left of their "date" from his lips. Inside his chest, there's nothing but a dull, ringing emptiness. It’s so hard to find company for the evening in this concrete anthill. And absolutely impossible to keep it until morning.

The dinner in the yellow coat disappears into the depths of the alley. A burn in the eyes not some "hellfire," just a hunger that makes the jaw ache.

Another concrete crack in the streets, reeking of dampness and cheap fast food. No pity, only a sticky need and a tremor in the fingers.

She won’t look back. The city will swallow her scream as casually as this neon hum. A second more, and there’ll be relief. Until the next night...

The dinner in the yellow coat disappears into the depths of the alley. A burn in the eyes not some "hellfire," just a hunger that makes the jaw ache.

Another concrete crack in the streets, reeking of dampness and cheap fast food. No pity, only a sticky need and a tremor in the fingers.

She won’t look back. The city will swallow her scream as casually as this neon hum. A second more, and there’ll be relief. Until the next night...

They told me that red makes machines go faster. I didn’t believe it until I saw the sands burn behind this one.

Grania doesn't breathe, she circulates.

Black oil flows through her veins, thick as primordial darkness.

She is a cathedral of bone and steel, where prayers are replaced by the rhythm of pistons. Beauty stripped of a soul, yet gifted with eternity.

The perfect cyborg, where life is merely a glitch.

Grania doesn't breathe, she circulates.

Black oil flows through her veins, thick as primordial darkness.

She is a cathedral of bone and steel, where prayers are replaced by the rhythm of pistons. Beauty stripped of a soul, yet gifted with eternity.

The perfect cyborg, where life is merely a glitch.

The night streets outside are drowning in screams, violence, and the petty rot that the city calls life.

There is chaos.

Here, in Doctor Aryan’s basement, reigns a silence broken only by the faint flickering of a candle’s flame. But do not be deceived by this tranquility… No one in their right mind would choose such comfort. Here, you cease to be predator or prey. You become merely an object with a serial number.

He is no slasher from a cheap thriller. He is an Auditor of Flesh. A Nagaraja does not grant death. He invests in it. While the Camarilla plays its politics above, here, within the emerald mist of alchemy, "Subject 411" is stripped of the final right - the right to death.

Hecata tolerates no waste: every nerve and every groan is documented and put into circulation.

There will be no anesthesia.