The distance in Ekkehardt's eyes, that cool, composed, detached gaze actually served to be oddly reassuring in itself. That was the look of a man who would do whatever it took to accomplish his mission, dirty or not. And that was exactly what he needed to see right now.
"I appreciate that honesty. ...A vampire's hunger goes beyond mere instinct. I know it well... and even if I have largely mastered myself through starvation, feeding again is a new experience. But the time to dwell is past."
With that, he steeled himself, and raised the bag to his lips, and gave it a squeeze.
The instant the blood touched his tongue, his eyes widened, his red eyes contracting in shock. He nearly recoiled from it, but committed to the act. On one hand... it tasted awful, having long since weaned himself off the stuff, and that it had been frozen, preserved, and that it was old. But on the other, the vitae still within made every synapse in his mind flare in hunger and joy. It felt like an eternity for Valvatorez, even though he drained the bag in a matter of seconds, before reaching for another.
Into the second bag, the first started kicking in, dark, foreboding energy swirling around him. The pressure it put out was unreal, perhaps even rivaling that of a Herald. Darkness, darker than pitch and a moonless night, swirled around the vampire as primal noises escaped from him, while his throat filled with blood. Soon Valvatorez all but disappeared from sight, the grunts soon growing into a haunting, low scream of exertion.
Power. Raw power. It surged through every fiber, and he could feel his body warp with it. The darkest parts of his soul cried out for more.More blood.More Power.Don't stop now, take everything you can. The base instincts of a predator. They screamed at him, banshees in the darkest pits.
A third bag drained.
Through all the noise, he kept himself focused. Memories of everyone. Artina. Emizel. Fenrich. Hugo. Simon and Richter Belmont. King Arthur. The countless students he trained. His dear, precious friends now, Ekkehardt, Avery, Urtz, Jailbreak, Hector, Ky, Kokoro, Desidera, Christo, Rex, Desco, Bowser, Mario, Manfred, and so many countless more. He pictured their faces, flawed as his memories might be in this state.
At the end of the fourth bag, there was another unholy shout, as a figure, taller, broader than Valvatorez normally was finally stood up. The darkness around him slowly faded, his head lilted back, face toward the sky with his eyes closed. He said nothing, but the transformation was complete. Valvatorez's hair longer, tied back, his clothing much more archaic, and traditionally "vampire," more suited for the cutting edge of fashion in the 1600s rather than the present.
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"I appreciate that honesty. ...A vampire's hunger goes beyond mere instinct. I know it well... and even if I have largely mastered myself through starvation, feeding again is a new experience. But the time to dwell is past."
With that, he steeled himself, and raised the bag to his lips, and gave it a squeeze.
The instant the blood touched his tongue, his eyes widened, his red eyes contracting in shock. He nearly recoiled from it, but committed to the act. On one hand... it tasted awful, having long since weaned himself off the stuff, and that it had been frozen, preserved, and that it was old. But on the other, the vitae still within made every synapse in his mind flare in hunger and joy. It felt like an eternity for Valvatorez, even though he drained the bag in a matter of seconds, before reaching for another.
Into the second bag, the first started kicking in, dark, foreboding energy swirling around him. The pressure it put out was unreal, perhaps even rivaling that of a Herald. Darkness, darker than pitch and a moonless night, swirled around the vampire as primal noises escaped from him, while his throat filled with blood. Soon Valvatorez all but disappeared from sight, the grunts soon growing into a haunting, low scream of exertion.
Power. Raw power. It surged through every fiber, and he could feel his body warp with it. The darkest parts of his soul cried out for more. More blood. More Power. Don't stop now, take everything you can. The base instincts of a predator. They screamed at him, banshees in the darkest pits.
A third bag drained.
Through all the noise, he kept himself focused. Memories of everyone. Artina. Emizel. Fenrich. Hugo. Simon and Richter Belmont. King Arthur. The countless students he trained. His dear, precious friends now, Ekkehardt, Avery, Urtz, Jailbreak, Hector, Ky, Kokoro, Desidera, Christo, Rex, Desco, Bowser, Mario, Manfred, and so many countless more. He pictured their faces, flawed as his memories might be in this state.
At the end of the fourth bag, there was another unholy shout, as a figure, taller, broader than Valvatorez normally was finally stood up. The darkness around him slowly faded, his head lilted back, face toward the sky with his eyes closed. He said nothing, but the transformation was complete. Valvatorez's hair longer, tied back, his clothing much more archaic, and traditionally "vampire," more suited for the cutting edge of fashion in the 1600s rather than the present.