As he brushed beneath the cloth concealing the near end of the entryway to his once-sanctuary, elf hanging limp in his arms, the demon rumbled a low, scarcely audible growl that made Constans’ flesh prickle with fear. He kneeled to lay the servant carefully on the floor, fighting to keep his composure.
“What is this?” demanded the demon, voice hissing and bubbling like spilled acid.
“Just a scullion. He spotted me in the corridor and seemed suspicious,” Constans replied, his tone clipped. The elf lay with his head tilted back, throat exposed, strong pulse visible against the wiry muscles of his neck. A small, sharp knife appeared in Constans’ hand; he couldn’t remember picking it up.
He didn’t know the elf’s name. Thank the Maker, he didn’t know.
“Kill it quickly, then, and release me.” If the demon had eyes, they would have narrowed.
Constans heard those words and shuddered. No. He could no longer deny that if he intended to survive the night, he would have to kill this man. With the knife shuddering in his clammy grip, his heart seizing in his chest, nothing could be more plain; he could not live with this. Commit to this thing, Constans, he told himself feverishly. You can’t salvage your life from this disaster, so give it all up freely. He found himself wishing that he really had taken the time to go say goodbye to his brother… but no. No matter what happened, he would not bring Desi into this only to ruin him too.
Recoiling with revulsion from the bared throat he had come so close to slitting, he turned his gaze downward and took the elf’s pale arm in his hand. Much of the power of blood magic was in the act’s immediacy, in the raw violence of hot blood spilling from a vital, living body. This… this would have to do. With practiced, surgical precision Constans made a long slit in the elf’s forearm, dark blood dribbling out immediately onto his hands. Congealing potions soaked into the cloth of his robes around the knees as he remained on the floor, watching this other man’s blood begin to pool. The room stank, the smell like sucking a copper coin.
The pale light bathing the space flickered as the demon shifted its bulk, resting clawed hands against the barrier with a sizzle of energy. It regarded Constans with cool suspicion, its horrible mouth forming into a snarl. “You lie to me, little blood mage.”
Constans did not look up, pushing back the sleeves of his robe and regarding his wrists with deliberation. “I’m too weak right now to survive your possession, surely you can see that. If you want to receive this body hale and hearty, I need to heal. I’ll take this elf’s life for my own.”
Regarding him with canny and spiteful intelligence, the demon pressed its talons into the magic of its prison and clawed in slowly, making the light of the barrier shudder and crackle. Constans could feel the force of the thing swelling suddenly against the walls of its prison, not just a physical presence but a manifestation of raw and staggering power. It had been toying with him, it must have been, this entire time- to have had such power remaining and never have used it! All the talking, the threats, and yet now he understood what it had truly wanted all along; his body and mind, willingly given, freeing the unholy beast to walk in the world utterly without restraint. Disgusted, terrified, Constans reached into the elf’s pooling blood with both hands and fervently began to draw the symbols described in grimoire, smearing them over the stone through liquid and shattered glass. Much of this mess had once been lyrium potions, now so useless to him… but perhaps they could lend some power to this ritual, mingled into the blood. He could only pray.