PHOEBE
The roar should have scared her, the appearance of claws, the shout of her name – it all should have given her pause and made her retreat. But the blight instilled a viciousness and bravery (ill-gotten as it was) that she had never possessed before. Instead she bit harder, tugging back with all her might, her nails finding purchase against his collarbone. He was powerful, but she was desperate, and as his vines wrapped around her, trying to pull her back from his frame, the glorious sound of tearing flesh reached her ears. Her head snapped back as the bite she had taken suddenly tore loose, and she gnawed on the raw flesh with delight. Blackened eyes already scanned her prey, looking for another easy, fleshy bit.
When dark creeps in and eats the light
Bury your fears on sorry night
For in the winter's darkest hours
Comes the feasting of the Vours
No one can see it, the life they stole
Your body's here but not your soul
