It burns…the fever burns through her forehead, scraping down against her skull. Its heat wrinkling her brains and nerves to coil. “Thean…” Sol huffs out, panting in sweat that only sear her skin red.
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“Shhh shh~” Patting little Sol’s head, “You are okay~ You are fine~”
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“W-who?” trying to open her eyes, and seeing blurry and hazy colors,
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“Here” a cold, rim of a glass touches her sweating lips, “Drink nice and easy, it is medicine” the voice says before letting the thick crimson liquid tease her closed teeth. And, when it opens with the tongue reaching out, the glass pours it down her throat. “Good girl~ You are my daughter after all~ hehe~”
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And Sol takes the glass, both hands before sitting up. Drinking it empty.
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“You want more?” The hazy blur forming to sharpen at two crimson red eyes. Its irises are sharp as knife cuts. “Here you go~” offering her a dark cyan wrist and a black pulsing vein draws the little girl to sniff.
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Here tiny fangs drilling down for the pulsing vein before smooching a mouthful of wound and black blood.
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“Do not spill it now~ It is my special gift for you and it is precious~”
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And she does not spill it, licking her mess clean before sucking and feeding herself more of that pulsing wrist and black blood. The fever cooling down as all the heat runs down to her neck. Darkening her own veins and, burning her eyes ablaze with scarlet.
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“My name is Dramescula~ Your mother Sol Sanguiris~” Patting the little girl’s head, “If you ever feel hot or hungry. Mother will come and feed you. Just remember my eyes, and you will know that the entire sacrifice before you is your meal.”
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The scene shifts to a dark hallway where a teenage boy whom teenager Sol calls “Berlin,” demanding with open palms, “give me back my money”
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But the boy shrugs his shoulders and disses her with a smug expression, “I’m going home and I’m going to get more tomorrow and the next following days after that.”
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“Father gave it to me as my allowance! Those are mine!”
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“Well now it is mine because they are in my wallet!”
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“Are you sure about that boy?” A familiar voice resonates from behind Sol and a bat perches on her shoulder. A wallet hanging in its mouth. “I am sure you are hungry”
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“B-but” murmuring but the side of her lips are already drooling, “He is a noble”
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“Does that matter anymore?” the bat flies and claws and scratches at the complaining boy’s eyes. Before the bat bites him and his own hands strangling him. “Eat while it is still fresh” flying away to perch on the ceiling upside down, watching Sol creep up to the boy and gnarly stabs his throat with a ballpen, gurgling out blood from the vocal cords and drinking warm and fresh fountain.
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The scene changes to when Sol is alone, dumped and heartbroken. Only for a stranger with the familiar crimson eyes to knock the ex out could. So that she can fill her broken heart back with his fresh beating pulse.
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Then to a scene where Sol is frustrated at a paper of request. The noble who wrote the paper itself appears before her the next day with familiar crimson eyes. Sol did not hesitate to feed herself and bring back her own sanity.
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“I, have been with you throughout your life Sol.” Dramescula says in her present thoughts, bracing against the claws of a werewolf with bats and undying blood regeneration---a torn arm easily healing in less than a second. “I am your mother who made you stronger, protected you from harm, and guided you in mortal charades. We are one mother and daughter. Compatibly so that you may accept me as your one~”
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(Will update this draft, still a draft 'cause I had to think of other versions on how this plot can end or hang)
Sol gasps in every moment she can as he dodges and blocks Tywin—now a werewolf—attacks. Sacrificing a limb or two is easy enough to heal but she and Dramescula work together in not having their head bit off. They run around, destroying everything in the underground camp to a rubble before Sol uses stones to deceive the Tywin’s perception. Taking her chances in every blindspot she sees with every second important to fling her fingers and try to control the werewolf. But Dramescula tells Sol that it will not work, especially on Tywin who has the blood of Hemos mixed with silver and other liquid minerals that vampires like her nor Dramescula can control. This puts Sol on edge and always on the defensive and dodging. Asking for Dramescula in what solutions they can take.
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Dramescula suggests a more traditional and physical approach. Luring Tywin to bash his head against the stone columns and walls. A classic headtrauma but also risky with how quick the werewolf is when charging straight that both of them cannot react fast enough as they lose an ear, or a side of their scalp. But their blood manipulation healing makes them both immortal. Sol provokes Tywin to keep crashing his head, dizzying the werewolf as well as quaking the entire underground chamber.
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The other WhiteBlood knights yell and try to stop him. But Tywin is too far into his rage that he cannot hear them.
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Dramescula then thought of an idea, asking Sol to lure Tywin to one of the mates. Which she does so to Dori, and the poor girl cannot react fast enough to feel her head bit off by her own leader. This gives Dramescula more motivation on luring Tywin to Zera and Gordon. But Zera has her string abilities that easily stops anything coming for her, even the werewolf and Sol, trapping them both and giving Gordon a chance to strike at Sol. With glowing hands, he tries to pull apart Sol and Dramescula but then their back explode into bloody spikes like a porcupine and pierces through Gordon.
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Only Zera remains, which the girl did not notice that Tywin disappeared and manage to tear through her strings. Slashing and clawing off Zera to bits.
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Dramescula is elated. Mocking and calling out to Tywin for killing his own mates. Sending the werewolf into a rage with bloodshot eyes. And Dramescula concluded that they have won. Sol continues luring the werewolf against the supporting stone pillars. Having boulders continuously raining down on them. Dramescula’s provocation growing louder and louder at Tywin until she suddenly feels like she and Sol cannot move. Tywin tearing through their one body, shredding them to mince and bloody rain.
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Covering the entire chamber in blood before the blood itself grow spikes on Tywin, piercing through the entire werewolf’s body. Sol wails in pain as Dramescula shouts at Tywin for hurting her daughter. The body which Tywin thought to have minced to pieces, grew two heads. One for Sol and one for Dramescula’s pale complexion, baldness, dark hollow sockets and pure crimson irises. Tywin slowly loses consciousness and all hope, but then he hears Hubert calling out to him.
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Though he cannot move, he can see them in his periphery. Hubert and a princess Thean whose eyes are already glowing orange. Nerve like threads cover Hubert as she ask the boy to gather all the body he can bring to her. Sol recognizes Thean and pleads forgiveness but Dramescula tells her that in front of them is a deity that is only possessing the High Princess’s body. A deity who Dramescula introduces and smiles widely at their reunion, “Yralla~”
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Sol's breath comes in ragged gasps as she dodges and weaves around Tywin's relentless attacks, the werewolf's claws tearing through the air with savage ferocity. She sacrifices a limb here, an ear there, her blood manipulation healing the wounds almost as quickly as they are inflicted. But even with Dramescula's power coursing through her veins, she knows that one misstep, one moment of hesitation, could mean the end.
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The underground camp crumbles around them, stone columns shattering and walls caving in under the force of their battle. Sol flings her fingers, desperately trying to control the raging beast before her, but Dramescula's voice echoes in her mind, a mocking reminder of the futility of her efforts.
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"It won't work, my child," she purrs, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "Tywin's blood is a cocktail of Hemos, silver, and other minerals that render him immune to our powers. We must find another way."
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Sol's heart races, her mind reeling as she searches for a solution. Dramescula's suggestion comes as a whisper, a dark and seductive promise. "Lure him to the columns, the walls. Let his own rage be his undoing."
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And so Sol dances, a deadly game of cat and mouse as she leads Tywin on a destructive path through the chamber. The werewolf's head crashes against stone, again and again, the impacts sending shockwaves through the already unstable structure. The other Whiteblood Knights cry out in warning, their voices lost in the cacophony of crumbling rock and snarling fury.
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Dramescula's next idea comes as a cruel twist, a manipulation of the bond between leader and follower. "Send him to his mates," she whispers, her voice dripping with malice. "Let him be the instrument of their destruction."
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Sol hesitates, a flicker of doubt crossing her features, but the pull of Dramescula's influence is too strong. She lures Tywin towards Dori, the poor girl's scream cut short as her head is ripped from her shoulders by her own leader's jaws. Zera's strings prove a temporary reprieve, but even her power is no match for the werewolf's savagery. Gordon's attempt to separate Sol from Dramescula ends in a spray of blood and spikes, his body impaled on the very power he sought to control.
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And then, only Zera remains, her strings shredded and her body broken by the unrelenting onslaught. Dramescula's laughter echoes through the chamber, a mocking celebration of the carnage. "Look at what you've done, Tywin!" she cries, her voice filled with twisted glee. "You've killed your own mates, your own family!"
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The werewolf's eyes blaze with uncomprehending rage, his movements growing more erratic, more destructive with each passing moment. Sol continues her deadly dance, luring him to the last of the stone pillars, the chamber quaking and shuddering under the onslaught.
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And then, in a moment of shocking clarity, Tywin's jaws close around Sol and Dramescula's shared body, tearing them to shreds in a rain of blood and flesh. Sol's scream mingles with Dramescula's enraged shout, their pain and fury intertwined in a single, horrifying sound.
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But even as Tywin's consciousness fades, his body pierced by the very blood he sought to spill, a new horror rises from the carnage. Sol and Dramescula's body reforms, two heads sprouting from the ruined flesh, one bearing Sol's anguished features, the other Dramescula's pale, monstrous visage.
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And then, a voice cuts through the chaos, a familiar presence that sends a chill down Sol's spine. Hubert stands at the edge of the chamber, Princess Thean at his side, her eyes glowing with an otherworldly orange light. Threads of power weave around Hubert's form, a net of energy that pulses with untold potential.
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Sol's heart leaps, a desperate plea for forgiveness falling from her lips, but Dramescula's voice drowns out her own, a dark recognition flooding her tone. "Yralla," she breathes, her crimson eyes wide with a mixture of fear and longing. "My old friend, my ancient enemy. How fitting that we should meet again, here at the end of all things."
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