Scavengers of Souls

By Dawnwalker
 


       I can still remember when I was alive, though it's hard for me to remember exact details. I remember being a man of Nosgoth, whose passions were strong and who had a lust for battle. I remember a time before I was trapped in this realm of ether, gloom and terror, when I still had blood and flesh. Now I look at my hands and see feral claws instead of hands, sickly-green luminescence rather than pink skin. The Hunger gnaws at me, a constant drumbeat, a continuous
humming in my head, to eat, to tear to devour. The Hunger is everything; the souls that surround me have become my food and drink. I've become a monster.
       But I am trapped in my Sluagh form, joining other cursed souls in endless soul-hunts, swallowing a creature's entire being like eating watery, viscous soup. I feel their passions flow through me, their loves, their fears, and their hates. Each is like honey on my tongue and bitter lemon in my throat. My being swells with each meal, my form shimmers with new energy. But still I cannot speak, my tongue is twisted and broken, only howls can I make audible. I am an animal, a shark constantly swimming through this spectral realm hunting for smaller fishy souls that swim aimlessly. They are easy prey. My pack brothers and sisters can catch many in a night. There are more than ever these days. The Hunt isn't easy; we have to compete with the disembodied Vampire Wraiths whose anguished and hateful cries permeate the twisted and shadowy halls of my existence. 

       It is a dog eat dog world in the realm, Sluagh feed on souls, Vampire Wraiths on we Sluagh. There is no escape from this mundane existence, only the equally soul-destroying and empowering experience of the hunt and being a Devourer Of Souls. As a pack we are strong, alone we are weak. Our bondage will last forever in this dank plane, unless a  wraith consumes us. They at least have a means of escape; their undead forms lie in torpor in the Material Realm, awaiting resurrection. We have no such opportunity. Our spirit-skins will remain wrapped around us like so many rags until the end of time. Our tongues cannot work to speak to the living, only growl and hiss making those sorcerers willing to make pacts think us mindless. We are not.
       To be motivated by the Hunger is an ecstasy unknown to even vampires; it is also the greatest curse.  Forever shall we hunt; forever we shall roam the corridors and ruins of the Spectral Realm, for there is nothing else. Some think us cowards; I call myself a survivor. Yet hark! For there is one now amongst us who has the power to walk the lands of the dead and the living. Should we acquire his power the Sluagh would be able to choose the ripest souls; souls of
bitter hate who taste of smoke and ashes, souls once commanded by lust who taste like blood and fire, souls whose fear is like the sweetest fruit gone rotten. We all Hunger for such delicacies.

       We shall seek this Soul Reaver, and when at his weakest we shall savage his ragged form like so much parchment. Our strength in numbers shall tear his soul apart. The Souls of Nosgoth are ours to devour! Not some whelp whose wings resemble filthy rags. I will stand astride him, his form shattered by mine and my brother's talons and teeth. I will stand astride his prone form and suck the soul-marrow from him, his last thoughts before oblivion of my lank hair and glowing eyes. Yes, he shall meet his Oblivion, so I do not meet mine. For all this existence is, it is still existence.
 

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