Co-written with Christemo, who did most of the hard work, and beta read by Frostyvale.
Disclaimer:
All participants engaging in the various acts of coitus depicted here are adults of responsible, legally consenting age. Fate/Apocrypha and Tsukihime and their related ideas and concepts are the intellectual properties of Yuichirou Higashide, Kinoko Nasu, Type-MOON, Notes Ltd., and other respective rights holders. This story is written solely for the purpose of entertainment, and not for any sort of monetary profit. If anything, consider this free advertising.
Eulyphis
There’s a leak in the ceiling.
Since the days where heroes roamed the earth to battle evil, old castles have always been a place for horror stories to bloom and be told in. During the days where they were considered damsels or prizes, young heiresses have always been either these stories’ ultimate victims or their ultimate evil. Nothing pulls in the strings of the heart quite like the twisted smile of a young lady drunk on power, nor is anything quite as deadly. Heroes, those who are strong of body and will but weak of mind, were never a match for them. Those men are torn apart by the women too beautiful to put to the sword, reduced to bloody pieces of what was once a man as the damsel they desired turns out to be a monster in a flawless disguise. A disguise that hides the most horrific monsters of all.
Humans.
Of course, such idle fantasies are just the products of human creativity, ideas put on paper with ink by those who cannot satisfy their curiosity for the nonexistent, the supernatural. Anyone who actually believes in these products of the pen must surely be insane.
But what if such a story existed? What if many had existed before it?
What if there indeed was a castle, manned and guarded by hundreds of slaves with hair as white as cleaned bones and eyes redder than the blood in their veins? A monster as old as the ancestors you never knew you had that desired blood, to rip every human open with its long nails akin to rusty letter openers and suck on their sanguine fluids, eat every last piece of intestine and dine upon their brain like it was a delicacy that surpassed what even a Michelin Star cook could never prepare? But most of all, what if it contained a young princess, a girl who would not harm even the germs on her skin and the rats in the wine cellar if she could help it, with hair that one wanted to run one’s dirty fingers through at first sight and eyes that let you see into the disgusting soul behind them? Truly, she would be too beautifully revolting to ever exist outside a fairy tale. A stomach-churning human being who would become the greatestthe world would ever know.humanmonster
There’s a leak in the ceiling. Fluid falls on your face.
Do these thoughts terrify you? Do they elate you?
Can you even answer, stuck in the nightmare that you are? Those trapped in sleep are helpless, paralyzed by their own bodies. Could you even tell the difference between monster and monster? A monster who desires eternity and a monster that desires the world to prostrate at her unappetizing feet?
A monster like you.
Like you. Like you. Just like you. You with the perfectly tidy hair, you with the eyes like cracked gemstones, you with that nauseating kindness that masks your disgusting, twisted soul that covets the attentions of all you meet. You who wants to be raised above on a throne of blood and flesh and torn organs to drink the spinal fluids of everyone who didn’t throw away their everything for your disgusting dream.
That monster is you. You. You. You. You. You. You you you you you you you you you you you you-
Monster.
There’s a leak in the ceiling. Fluid falls on your face. It falls into the same spot. It is a slow drill that bores into your skull, penetrates your brain. Fluid falls on your face, drips into your eyes, your mouth. It covers you entirely.
It smells. It tastes like iron. Yet it tastes so sweet. A foreign taste from something you’ve tasted all your life.
Sweeter than the sweetest honey. You gasp for air as this sweetest of all flavors runs over you. You moan as it covers your delicious, bare flesh. You lap it from the leak that never stops dripping.
The honey never stops. The floor is caked with it, it swamps to your shins. But who are you to know? Why do you care? You drink and drink and drink from the endless fountain.
The taste provokes every sense, every feeling. Your tears run in arousal, your sweat forms from relaxation. Your arousal leaks as your very tears are caked in sweet honey.
Honey covers you to your shoulders. Yet you drink. Tantalus released from his eternal punishment. Sweet flavor that stiffens in your hair. That runs down your bosom. That falls down your face. That narrowly escapes your gaping maw. One missed drop is a tragedy.
So much honey. No, royal jelly fit for the queen bee.
All of it, just for you. You love it so you must have more. That is the order of the world. Pleasured cries echo against the ceiling that seems so close now.
All of the sweet flavor pushes you onward. To the source. Your neck hurts. Your head is squashed against the ceiling. It hurts. But everything feels good.
The liquid overflows. You don’t need to breathe anymore. It fills your lungs. What you cough up you just drink anew. You are where you want to be. Your body heaves for breath and you resist.
You don’t need to worry anymore. The fluid washes away everything. Your arousal your sweat your tears of asphyxiation your mind. None of that matters. All that matters is the sweet juice. It colors your eyes, runs under your nails, caresses your every crevice.
You cannot breathe, cannot moan, cannot cry out in terror. Terror from lack of breath. You can only keep drinking.
All of your disgusting flaws. Your hideous flaws. All of them are taken away. By the fluid that chokes your lungs.
What color is it, you wonder? What color is this wonderful thing? The thing that kills you and pleasures you at once?
It’s red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
...isn’t it vile of you to feel this way over it?
Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
...Of course it is. You are disgusting. Utterly disgusting. Revolting. You are red.
Yet you’re more beautiful than ever. A rose in bloom, that you yourself are withering. Wither because you could not hold back. Wither because you were too greedy. Wither because you wanted an ocean, not a drink. To lather yourself in red rather than to drink it. Disgusting. Revolting. Vile. Red.
But even now you want more red. You want to wear it more than your own skin. You wanted to drink and dine upon it forever. You want to bathe in it every day of an eternal life. You want to pleasure yourself in it, drinking it all the while. You want the red.
That’s disgusting. It’s monstrous. It’s you.
That is when the nightmare ends, and Fiore Forvedge Yggdmillenia awakens. Lying in her own bed, within the halls of the family’s castle, staring at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity.
Almost as if she expects it to leak. As if at any moment, the red will return and wash her away.
Chapter 1: Sweet Red
The morning sun hurt Fiore’s eyes as it poured through the window of her room. She told herself that was because it was so early, and that she was still tired, half-asleep.
That was a lie. Half of anything like a full night of sleep would have been generous compared to what she had.
Ever since that vivid dream had encaptured all her senses she had been restless. Too tired to be awake yet unable to reach that which was beyond the event horizon of sleep. A limbo that had lasted until dawn, where she had needed to retreat under her covers just to escape the sun. At times like this she almost envied her brother, who always had something lying around to play with. Chess pieces, a phone, or even that computer she had so reluctantly let him buy. Anything to stave off her dreadful boredom would do.
Just a drop of red would do.
A familiar voice from the other side of her bedroom door pulled her from the miserable state that she mired in. “Are you awake, Fiore?”
The voice of Archer, who she had sworn to do battle with for the Holy Grail, gave her some small level of awareness that was befitting someone awake. Her pact with the wise man had completely slipped from her mind, buried below caking red in the back of her head.
“Oh, hello Archer,” Fiore said. “It’s bright this morning, don’t you think?”
“Brighter than the night before it, certainly,” Archer said with a raised brow. “But the sky is somewhat overcast today. Are your eyes sensitive in the morning, Fiore?”
“Haah, that might be the case, yes,” Fiore replied. “I’ll be out in a moment, just allow me to get dressed. Breakfast should be soon, right?” The brunette tried to squeeze by Archer’s question by immediately changing the topic, as she reached for her uniform, placed neatly on her night table. Which wasn’t there. For some reason, it had ended up on the ground, where it was collecting whatever dust the homunculi had missed during last week’s cleaning.
Perhaps she had moved it by accident while tossing about from her leg pains during the night? But that couldn’t be the case. She took her pills before bed, and what disturbed her sleep last night was no pain-fevered dream. It was-
A desire for red.
Shaking the thought away with a toss of her head as the last metallic tacks of her uniform’s shirt were buttoned up, Fiore managed the difficult action of putting on legwear unassisted with immobile legs before she reached for where the right armrest of her wheelchair had been positioned just last night-
And found only empty air once more. Her wheelchair had been pushed onto it’s side, out of her reach.
The morning was getting odder by the moment. Nothing made sense. If up became down in the next minute, her surprise would be less than what she felt now. After all-
She could not have tipped it onto its side. It was at the foot of her bed, somewhere only her lifeless feet could reach. There was no way she could have even touched it, and yet it had been moved.
It had to have been the homunculi again. That was the only possible answer. The ones responsible for cleaning did have keys for all but the most secret or hazardous rooms of the castle, as well as those belonging to Grandfather Darnic.
But homunculi were creatures of logic, with little that resembled emotions. They wouldn’t play such a childish prank, would they? Was it an accident while cleaning that they didn’t correct then?
“Archer, could you help me for a moment? Something seems to have misplaced my wheelchair.”
“I can certainly do as much, Fiore,” Archer replied as he once again entered the room, not a single sound in his dignified steps. His eyes seemed to survey the room rapidly even as they were locked on the problem at hand. With not a single unnecessary movement he corrected the wheelchair’s position, and pushed it against the side of the bed. “Come on then, let us not miss breakfast.”
As they finally left her bedroom behind, the sage who was ever observant dutifully read his Master’s signals to not question what had happened the night before. He spared a look out the window through which a decidedly overcast sky looked back. Fiore, too, held her peace as she realized just how odd her questions must have been to Chiron. As she kept her hands awkwardly folded, Master and Servant heard nothing but the footsteps of homunculi guards and the sound of wheels against the marbled floors of the Castle of Millenium.
If life had a color, on this day, Fiore wanted it to be red. But, if it could be described with any color, then it was grey. Greyer than a rainy day, greyer than the metal her utensils were made of, greyer than aged animal bones, cleaned of all their meat.
Those who lived in the Yggdmillenia stronghold could hardly be said to not eat well. Every day, for every meal, foodstuffs like those from a fine restaurant. French and Italian delicacies, fine Argentinian cuts of meat, all what one could require for a balanced, healthy and delicious diet was made readily available in amounts that could easily feed the host of Magi that lived within the castle’s walls.
On this day, to Fiore’s palate, she might as well have been eating raw pressed oats. She poked uninterestedly at her food with a fork, and whatever she actually put in her mouth felt like a grey ooze that struggled to even pass into her stomach. Anything she ate seemed to merely add to her hunger, but sending her plate back with so much on it would be rude even to a homunculus chef. Going by the fact that everyone else in the dining hall were enjoying their meal as much as anything else that was served regularly, it couldn’t even be a problem with the food.
Perhaps she was merely not hungry because of some illness that she might have caught? But that couldn’t be. Fiore wasn’t just hungry, she felt outright-
Empty.
It was like a hole had opened in her stomach. She felt so hungry that it almost hurt, and yet food was nothing but sludge on her tongue. Her glass of juice too was like someone had been cleaning pencils in it, a flavor that wasn’t disgusting so much as it was just utterly boring and tasteless.
As she said in silence, having let Archer take his leave to talk strategy for the coming days with the lord of this castle, Lancer, the one voice she both wanted to hear and yet didn’t came from the seat next to hers as a plate containing the same grey sludge as her own was set down on the table.
“What’s with the face, Sis? Were you up all night thinking about the Grail War?” Caules said, a light smile on his face, hiding the slightly dark rings under his eyes with the black rim of his glasses.
The notion was appreciated, uplifting even, but as she concocted a response internally, one thing stuck out in her greyed and bleak mind: Not even the words of her dear brother, who had stuck with her through thick and thin, could color the canvas of her world.
“I, just didn’t sleep well. I don’t know why, exactly, but it’s… it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll hold up.” Fiore tried to reassure him with a smile, but even as her lips moved, it didn’t feel like a smile at all. A smile was something that signified happiness, or a good mood. This was a grimace. A pale reflection of the face she normally wore.
“More importantly Caules, I can see that under your eyes. You were sitting up all night yourself, weren’t you?” Instead of cowering under what felt like a questioning in the making, Fiore pushed back, as she let the nagging part of her Caules always complained about rise through the grey mud that was her consciousness. “You were using the computer again, weren’t you? I told you that you shouldn’t use it too much.”
“Yeah yeah, I get it. Magi shouldn’t dabble too much in science, this and that, yadda yadda.” Caules said, taking a bite out of his sandwich while leaning his head lazily on his other hand. It was just another reprimanding, nothing out of the ordinary, a near routine, a part of the daily greyness.
It was something Fiore could only sigh at. Fiore rejected the sludge on her plate with a half-hearted poke of her fork again as she dejectedly gave up trying to correct her brother’s behavior. She’d have scolded him for being so distracted during a time as important as the Grail War normally, but she could hardly claim to have her head in the game herself. Everything was greying before her eyes, and she was hungry as she’d never been before, yet she felt no desire to eat anything before her.
Everything was unappetizing, it was utterly uninteresting, like what she’d imagined nothingness tasted like. The world had lost its color, and turned grey.
Once more, even if it was just a dream, a blissful illusion, Fiore would like to taste it.
That enchanting red. The color that she wanted the whole world to have, all because of a single dream. An eternity of red in every shade, every fragrance.
“Sis? Sis?”
And then like a hypnotist clapping his hands, she was awakened from her stupor. The voice of the person who had never failed to be by her side cleared her thoughts.
“Oh, was I spacing out?” Despite being fully aware of just how the world had blurred before her eyes, her voice still came off as surprised with a touch of hoarseness.
“You looked like you were about to pass out on the spot. Maybe you should get some more sleep? You don’t seem that hungry either. You alright?” For once, he actually sounded worried. She knew he was never uncaring, but rarely did her carefree brother sound this way.
“You’re right about that, Caules,” Fiore replied. “I don’t have much of an appetite this morning, it seems. I know that won’t do at all, but… I can’t force anything down. Perhaps I’ll have better luck with lunch. For now, I think I’ll just go back to my room. Tell Grandfather if he needs me he can find me there.” She forced an utterly unconvincing smile again. “Please clean up after me,” she told one of the homunculi attendants on the way out.
Fiore left a befuddled Caules behind. He wondered if had even spoken to the sister he knew so well. Such thoughts would bother him all morning. She must’ve slept as little as I have, if not less, he thought. Could someone who was so bad an actor even be said to be imitating my sister? Of course not. Because-
Only the real thing could pull off such an awful job at pretending to be herself.
Hours passed, and as the clock on the wall continued ever forward towards entropy, not a thing changed. The hundreds of tiny holes in her stomach had joined together to form a gaping pit, and her hunger turned outright painful. A headache chipped at the inside of her head with a pain almost worse than any her legs might’ve normally inflicted upon her. The disgusting fluid that came out of her room’s faucet was certainly not the water it usually held. Instead, it was grimy sewer fluids with a decidedly grey color. She couldn’t bring herself to drink.
Even when she thought of clean water, she was disgusted. Her memory of it was grey and dulled, and despite her thirst, she didn’t care for thoughts of water. Her lip had cracked hours ago from a lack of moisture, and the inside of her mouth was as dry as sand. Even so, water was something she recalled only as grey and lifeless, cloying and heavy, nothing to take relief from, utterly unwanted.
Fiore wanted something that could end this pointlessly painful state, but nothing would do. Nothing in the world could relieve of her of this headache, of this hunger and this thirst, of the pain that built in the pit of her stomach as she stared into empty space in her living room.
Only one thing, a thing of her dreams, could relieve her all of these pains. A thing she had only known of since last night. A thing that now utterly dominated her existence, despite being so new to her.
Its color was red.
What was it?
Its color was red.
Why would it relieve of her of suffering?
Why was it red?
Why was everything that wasn’t red so very grey?
Fiore was hungry, thirsty, utterly exhausted, and yet unable to rest. A cruel, tantalizing dilemma with a cure that she could not understand. It was a feeling much worse than any pain. Pain was a warning the body gave one about danger, one Fiore was familiar with ever since she was a child who had to endure the burden her conception had forced upon her. Yet, she would gladly redo her entire day burdened by the endless, burning pain of her legs instead than endure even a second more of this indescribable suffering.
Another interruption, not a cessation that she so very much wanted. Fiore’s today was a song that could only be paused, the tape never to be ejected. Archer had appeared before her again, ever dignified as he bowed his head slightly in greeting.
“Good afternoon, Fiore. I trust you were well in my absence?” His voice was soft and cool like a tropic evening breeze that blew the flakes of inattention off of her. A light smile was perched on his face as always, inviting even the foolish and the lost to share their all.
“I managed just fine,” Fiore said, with a slight quiver to her voice. Revealing just how she felt was probably not the best of ideas. She knew Archer only ever meant well, but to invite excessive concern so quickly after she had established herself as reliable was undoubtedly bad. A glint in Archer’s eyes told her her efforts had dubiously successful results. “I trust the planning with Grandfather and Lancer went smoothly?”
“Unpleasant as Lancer can be, he is undoubtedly a man well-versed in the arts of war. No matter how strong the foe may prove to be, his tactics are sound and his desire to win absolute.” Fiore had met Lancer, the king that was forever remembered in Romania, only a handful of times since his summoning, but each one could hardly be described as pleasant. Though he had warmly extended his hand in greeting, his entire being exuded the feeling that he was a man who would gladly slip a spear between one’s ribs at any offense to his being.
Though she had no doubt of his abilities, never could she feel safe in such a monstrous person’s presence.
“The strategy meeting between the Masters shall be tomorrow by noon. Until then, Lord Darnic advises that we all rest and steel ourselves while we still can.” Archer concluded his report concisely, almost like a secretary.
“I see,” she said, so quietly it almost escaped beneath her breath, “I guess there’s nothing to worry about if that’s the case.” She remained utterly unconvinced of such in regards to herself, but it wouldn’t necessarily be impossible for Yggdmillenia to win the Great Grail War like this.
To win as a starved, bored and utterly lifeless person, though, was not a victory she desired. What was being able to walk on her own two feet worth if she was too weak to even stand? What would a painless, burdenless life be worth if she could find enjoyment in nothing but something that lured her in her dreams?
No. No, that was a delusional assumption. This was merely a passing illness, severe as it might be. If worst came to worst, the family’s extensive resources and store of knowledge would provide for her enough to ensure that it would go as quickly as it came. Her Servant was even one famous for teaching a great healer, though to rely on him would only intrude on his kindness more than she already did. She’d simply let her sickness run its course, and hide that weakness from everyone.
“Fiore? Are you paying attention?” Archer’s questioning voice snapped Fiore back instantly, as his eyes seemed to regard her like a person who could barely even be called awake.
“Ah, erm, not entirely. I’m sorry, Archer, were you saying anything?” A hoarseness had begun bothering the back of her throat, making every word almost painful to let out. She unsubtly tried to clear her throat but it made no difference.
It was then that Archer said the words that she didn’t want to hear: “I suspected as much beforehand, but you seem unwell.” She froze as she had been seen through, her true condition exposed. She knew of his medical skill but to be seen through with such ease was unexpected, and vaguely unwelcomed. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”
“I’ll be fine.” Fiore replied, intending to sound reassuring but instead came across as dismissive, as if nothing was wrong and these were just the ramblings of a doomsayer.
“With all due respect, Fiore, I believe your health is of great importance-”
“I’ll be fine, Archer,” she said with a little more insistence, and a little too quickly. “I’ve been fine with worse. It’ll pass in the morning, I’m sure. I’m healthier than I look.” She felt like a spoiled child too prideful to admit she’d had her fingers in the cookie jar. Fiore defiantly gave a toss of her head as she utterly rejected her Servant and weakly crossed her arms over her stomach.
Via his experiences with far more arrogant students of his in the past, Archer managed just barely to keep his composure from the change in attitude. He let out a small sigh. “And that is your final assessment, Master?”
Noticing that the change of terms may have meant she went just a bit too far, Fiore tried to ease her tone a bit. The sting of regret in her stomach was deepening as her bond with her Servant seemed to weaken. “Really, Archer, I’ve had worse times because of these burdenous legs. I can’t have you fret over just this. I’ll take my medicine and try to sleep this away. In the meantime, please ask Grandfather to pardon my absence for the rest of the day.”
Though he seemed to ponder his thoughts for a moment, an expression of mild sadness upon his face, it seemed as if Archer eventually gave in.
“If that is your verdict, then I suppose I cannot question it. Just please, Fiore, don’t keep unnecessary secrets from me. I only wish you the best.” His normal smile returned, and Archer’s physical form dispersed into particles of light as he left the room.
The first problem with guiding someone is that the person must seek help. If Fiore did not desire it, then he could only sit by, regretful as that may be. Even the greatest teacher could only produce talented people if he had willing students.
With the pain of being just a guide in his heart, Archer could only hope that his Master would be fine.
Fiore’s shoulders finally relaxed as he departed, having desperately tried to not show all the ails that she suffered that had only intensified during her talk with Archer.
Her throat was hoarse.
Her lungs felt like they were in diving depths.
Thirst and exhaustion and hunger all plagued her body and mind.
She would stifle those sensations with her narcotics. She rolled over and took the plastic bottle on her bedside table with a practiced motion. These were the kind of painkillers anyone in the medical industry would consider excessive in sheer intensity.
But Fiore’s leg pains were severe ones delivered directly to her nerves through her misshapen Magic Circuits. An utterly insufferable pain that made it impossible to even think. Therefore, this kind of medicine had become routine for her, as natural to her daily life as brushing her teeth or showering.
At least, it was supposed to be routine.
Now, her precious medicine was akin to a drug addict’s escape from abstinences. The haze of what anyone could effectively describe as substance abuse was what Fiore resorted to in order to get a grip on her life. It was not as such to her, of course.
For Fiore, this was merely an attempt to escape from the grey world of life into the red, perfect world of her dreams.
Fiore shook a dose of pills more than twice her usual amount into her hand, and she immediately slung them into her mouth and swallowed them dry. If she hadn’t been so desperate she’d have scolded herself for not even checking the amount, but that reasonable part of her was long since gone.
Soon, every part of her would follow, as her excess caused an immediate reaction. The dampening of the senses her pills provoked soon healed the hole in her stomach and let saliva once again moisten her mouth. They could not make her world red, but they could shut her eyes from being exposed to the bleak outside, from life.
Never before had drugging herself been such a relief, and not a chore. The feeling of the relaxation of every cell in her body so intoxicating that she only got to lay down in her bed for a few seconds before her head dropped onto a pillow that felt as if made of angel feathers, and a deep sleep washed Fiore’s consciousness away.
Though her curtains were pulled down, when Fiore awoke her entire body felt enriched, as if she had bathed in the rays of the sun for every moment of her sleep. Every part of her was invigorated from the moment she became conscious. It was like her entire yesterday was a grey cocoon that had marked her last step before becoming a colorful butterfly, free of all worries and ready for the impending conflict.
She got up, found her wheelchair where it should be, had a warm bath, brushed her teeth, dressed in her usual uniform. Everything was going perfectly. Just as a test to make sure this was not an illusion, she flipped the switch on her Magic Circuits, feeling Prana run through her legs without discomfort.
It was almost unreal. Compared to yesterday, it was like she was an all new person. Maybe sleeping 14 hours, looking at her wall clock, was just the thing she needed, just this once. The grey world was a distant memory that she could barely even imagine had been felt with her own senses.
Archer was not nearby, though that was to be expected. He knew of her need for the medicine that drove her into deep sleeps, and had instructed him to not waste his efforts with her protection in that timeframe. He should be noticing her movement soon, however, so there was no need to call him.
Upon finally finding no more minor details to correct about herself, Fiore decided to leave for an early breakfast. Food was the only thing left on her current priority list. Today was undeniably gonna be a good day.
It was then, as she exited her sleeping chambers, that Fiore stumbled across the sight of her quarter’s living room.
She who - for some reason - had desired red so much, had gotten exactly what she wished for.
Floor, walls, ceiling, the armoire, the chairs, the table, the lamp, chandelier; everywhere she looked the color shimmered at her with the glassy sheen of freshness. Deja vu, nostalgia, reality and fantasy mingled together to form the sight before her.
The sight of wildly tousled white hair told Fiore that it had formerly been one of their homunculi. That which remained on its head was white, and that which had been torn out in tufts had long since soaked up the color that surrounded it, like dye.
Its head was twisted around, utterly removed from it’s natural position as it tilted to the right.
Its throat hadn’t been merely slit - it had been torn open so wide that it looked like a second, jagged, misplaced mouth wide enough that Fiore’s entire hand could reach into it and touch the windpipe with ease. To make matters worse, the uniform it wore was partially-popped and ripped. If Fiore took the time to look, she was sure that she’d find stray buttons under the furniture or in the corner. Claw marks and bruises adorned its exposed flesh.
The thing had clearly struggled in its final moments. They were normally passive, obedient, and even if exposed to simple violence, they would never fight back. But it seemed that not even years of thaumaturgical knowledge, careful selection of all traits from demeanor, fitness, and physicality, and living an empty existence purely in service to its masters could fully rid a homunculus of primal survival instincts.
Anything would respond the same way if they were preyed upon.
In response to this all, Fiore made the natural choice of one struck by fear and repulsion. She screamed. Screamed like she never had before, screamed as loudly as she could, like the gaping visage of the homunculus girl’s broken corpse.
Red - that hue which graced Fiore’s thoughts had erupted forth from her dreams to color the nightmare before her.
Prologue
Chapter 1: Sweet Red
Chapter 2: Tales Told in Blood
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Originally Posted by Thedoctor
