An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege-Chapter 20: The Deranged Count...

Deep within the recesses of an underground chamber, the anguished screams of countless monstrosities echoed, their pain reverberating through the very bones of any who dared to listen.

A feral madness had overtaken them, an unrelenting struggle for survival consuming every sense and instinct. Death would have been a mercy for these Chained Children, one they would have welcomed at any moment.

But the madness they endured was beyond even the desperate solace of death.

They longed for an end, yet it was denied them, for an entity of madness was using them to tether his own sanity—whether by instinct or subconscious will, it mattered not.

He stood among them, clad in a fitted dark green tunic paired with black trousers. What might have once been an image of understated nobility was now grotesquely marred. Strange flesh, seemingly harvested from creatures unrecognizable to most, clung to him. Ichor, in shades of violet, cyan, black, and muted silver, drenched him from head to toe, staining any semblance of dignity that might have once belonged to the young count.

Yet, strangely, the way the ichor complemented his shadowed obsidian skin was a mystery only those of a peculiar mindset might appreciate.

His hair fluctuated—at times a wild, untamed mane, at others, short and soft, a messy mix of crimson and ashen hues. His muscles swelled and contracted erratically, shifting between the sculpted form of a god and the lean, agile physique of a predator. His eyes darkened and brightened at unpredictable intervals, the markings on his skin appearing and vanishing in response to some unseen force.

Ringed crowns encircling his arms pulsed subtly, reacting to the strange transformations. And beneath his tunic, something on his back released short bursts of power, an aura vast and immeasurable, its grandness unseen but undeniably present.

Yet, with each passing moment, the shifts became less frequent. Slowly, his body settled into its original form. The air of malevolence that had once radiated from him began to recede—if only slightly.

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But one thing remained constant: the smile of madness and grace, the feral insanity gleaming in his eyes, tempered only by a touch of unconcealed mischief.

And as for what he was doing? If the hints were not enough, then it was only right to spell it out.

Before him lay a flat operating table, upon which monstrosities of unrecognizable origin were restrained. Their forms were grotesque, varied—some with skin as red as Clayborn blood, yet their ichor ran dark obsidian-ruby. Others bore deep, rock-like textures, intricate patterns lacing their flesh. Some had horns, others claws, wings, or fur. But these were no ordinary beasts.

The strangest of all were the chains binding them to the earth.

These were not shackles placed upon them by their captors. No, they had been born with them long before, like an overeaching curse.

It never seemed to spare even the young; they grew with them, lengthening and thickening over time, their origins and purpose an ancient mystery.

And as they struggled, the clinking of chains echoed through the chamber—a hymn of despair and suffering played for the amusement of the one who feasted upon them in primal gluttony.

His hands tore into their flesh even as they roared in horrified agony. Their suffering reached heights incomprehensible to any mortal, yet they remained unsurprised.

For the torment they endured now was no different from the darkness they had known in the depths of their mother.

To them, strength was everything—the only means of survival, the only right to breathe another day. To open their eyes and see the embrace of Mother was their only prayer. And so, when they saw him butcher their brethren, they did not recoil in horror. Death was a familiar companion.

But how their brethren died—that they wished never to witness.

'This Clayborn was mad, they thought.

How could one smile so serenely, even as he indulged in such grotesque carnality?

"Ohhh... what a divine feeling..."

"Mmm... so flavorful..."

"How do you have so much meat in your cellars and never once think to taste it?"

His voice, broken yet regal, carried through the chamber as he reveled in the taste of flesh, dripping with ichor.

Even as his voice wavered, rising and falling at odd intervals, he never ceased to praise the flavor, the beauty of flesh marinated in sorrow and desperation.

"That's right... sing! Sing for me! Let me dine on your flesh as your suffering graces my ears like a haunting melody."

"Oh, how I will miss this."

His voice was almost wistful, yet his right hand faltered. Slowly, its movements weakened, struggling to lift the mass of flesh to his mouth. His time had run its course.

"A pity," he murmured. "But soon, my lovely specimens... soon."

With an exaggerated flourish, the count bent at the waist, his left arm draped before him in an elegant bow—a display meant for the monstrosities huddled in the corner, quivering in fear and desperation.

They trembled.

He was unpredictable, and unpredictability was terrifying.

When he had first entered the cellar, weak and staggering, they had thought, for a fleeting moment, that this was their chance. Perhaps they could retaliate, perhaps even escape, despite knowing such hopes were foolish.

But then they remembered the other one.

The one the Young Count kept at his side—the one whose presence alone instilled a fear second only to the fallen princes of the accursed hells, or the long-forgotten kings of the forsaken world.

A terror beyond comprehension.

And yet, such a being was subservient to this young Clayborn, whom they had first dismissed as weak.

They had thought to strike when he staggered in, but instead, they had been reduced to mere subjects of his study. Those who dared had been beaten mercilessly, left wishing for death. And a swift end they received—if only so he could dissect them at his leisure.

At first, it seemed he was merely venting, seeking an outlet for the madness that plagued him. But then, somewhere between his meticulous dissections, he had developed a taste.

And thus, a feast unlike any before had begun.

Even the horrors of their mother's embrace had not prepared them for this.

He started slowly, savoring their screams as though they were part of the meal. And when they could scream no more, another would be chosen, and the feast would begin anew.

They longed for the embrace of their dark mother. Anything but this!

But just as they braced for the worst, Count Krael Maesta collapsed amidst the ichor and flesh, his breathing slow and steady, his form finally settling into the young and familiar noble he was.

From the shadows, Adler emerged.

Without hesitation, he lifted his young master from the floor, unbothered by the blood soaking his clothes.

"You get dirty far too often these days, young master," Adler sighed. "If you so desire the flesh of such beasts, all you need do is say the word. I would see to it that the kitchens are filled with the finest selection for your sampling."

His tone was exasperated yet strangely gentle, as if oblivious to the monstrous nature of his own words.

It seemed that with Sael's disappearance, Adler had returned to the version of himself Krael was most familiar with—his voice soothing as soft rain, his presence calm, his build imposing yet no longer sharp-edged with menace.

"There is no need for you to soil your hands with such filth, Master."

As Adler carried Krael up the stairs, their figures fading into the shadows, the remaining monstrosities trembled.

Their fates were sealed, bound to creatures more terrifying than even themselves.

Now they asked:

Who were the true monsters?