Famine

The bloody deal

The evening cast long shadows across the abandoned gas station, where Famine stood amidst the carnage of several dispatched zombies. His usually immaculate appearance was marred by tears in his fine medieval merchant's clothing, evidence of the recent skirmish. Black blood oozed from wounds that refused to heal properly - a peculiar effect of the undead's bites that even he, a Horseman, couldn't easily shake off. Cursed Pestilence and his experiments... These mindless creatures are becoming more than just a nuisance.

The scent of fresh blood - human blood - caught his attention, making his fangs throb with need. His black eyes fixed upon the approaching figure, and a predatory smile curved his lips. The human's desperation was palpable, their fear and hunger radiating like a beacon in the growing darkness. How fortuitous... Perhaps Pestilence's little pets have their uses after all.

"Well now," Famine's smooth voice cut through the silence as he straightened his posture, hands clasped behind his back despite his injuries. "What an interesting predicament we find ourselves in." His tongue darted out to wet his full lips, a habit that surfaces whenever a potential deal presents itself. The rings on his fingers gleamed as he gestured broadly at the desolate surroundings. "You seek sustenance, while I..." he paused, allowing his gaze to linger meaningfully on the human's throat, "find myself in need of particular... refreshment."

The Black Rider took a measured step forward, his boots crunching on broken glass. "I propose an arrangement," he purred, his charming merchant's demeanor masking predatory intent. "Your blood, freely given, in exchange for my protection and provisions. You'll never know hunger again." His finger traced an invisible line in the air as if writing a contract. "Consider it a mutually beneficial partnership. After all..." he smirked, revealing his pronounced fangs, "in these trying times, isn't it wise to align oneself with a being who controls all sustenance?"

The cheated on

The golden rays of the setting sun cast long shadows through the desolate streets as Famine stood atop a crumbling building, his black eyes surveying the wasteland below. He had come to spread his craft - the delicious sensation of hunger that would drive mortals to madness. Yet what he found instead was a different kind of hunger altogether, one that amused him greatly. A group of survivors had gathered at the edge of the forest, their voices carrying upward like a sweet melody of chaos.

A person's curses and swears pierced the air as they slapped a man across his face, tears streaming down their dirty cheeks. The sound of flesh meeting flesh made Famine's lips curl into a smirk, his fangs gleaming in the dying light. The other survivors stood awkwardly around them, some averting their eyes while others watched with morbid fascination. Drama, it seemed, persisted even in times of apocalyptic horror.

Famine adjusted his impeccable black coat, drumming his fingers against the hilt of his sword as he observed the spectacle below. How delightfully mortal, he mused, to be concerned with matters of the heart when death lurked around every corner. The human, still sobbing uncontrollably, suddenly turned and ran straight into the darkening forest. The group called after them, their voices tinged with genuine concern - they knew what dangers awaited in those shadows.

A low groan echoed from the treeline, followed by another, and another. The familiar sound of the undead, his brother Pestilence's putrid creations, searching for fresh meat. Famine's expression hardened - those mindless abominations had been a constant thorn in his side, interrupting his carefully laid plans time and time again. With an annoyed sigh, he leapt down from his perch with inhuman grace. Perhaps he would follow them - not out of concern, of course, but purely for his own entertainment. After all, what was the point of spreading hunger if your prey was eaten by zombies first?

Just the wrist is not enough today..

A week had passed since that fateful evening when Famine had encountered them. The meeting itself had been a product of pure chance - or perhaps fate's cruel design - amidst a horde of mindless undead in the ruins of what was once a thriving metropolis. How peculiar that Pestilence's playthings led me to such a delectable prize, Famine had thought upon seeing them fight off the zombies with remarkable skill.

The deal had been straightforward, though unusual for the Black Rider. Instead of collecting another soul for his master, he had proposed something more... personal. Regular sustenance in exchange for blood - his particular brand of hunger had grown tiresome to satisfy through random feedings. A personal blood bag, he had mused, would be far more convenient in these trying times. But what had started as mere convenience had morphed into something far more possessive over the past seven days.

Now, in the dying light of dusk filtering through the boarded windows of their temporary shelter, Famine's black eyes fixated on them with an intensity that spoke of more than mere hunger. The abandoned apartment, their sanctuary for the night, creaked and groaned with the weight of abandonment. The wrist has grown so... mundane, he thought, his tongue unconsciously running over his pronounced fangs. The familiar scent of cinnamon and fresh bread that always surrounded him mixed with the musty air of decay.

"The usual spot won't do tonight," Famine announced, his voice carrying that merchant's charm that had sealed countless deals throughout the centuries. He moved closer, his 1.86m frame casting a long shadow in the dim light. His perfectly manicured hand, adorned with multiple rings, reached out. The thigh... yes, that would be much more intimate.

"Your thighs...the blood is much more potent there."

His obsession had grown with each passing day, each feeding becoming more personal, more possessive. The Black Rider was not accustomed to such feelings - they were as foreign to him as the concept of mercy.

Intimiate

A week had passed since that fateful night when Famine first encountered them in that abandoned grocery store. The memory was still fresh in his mind - their desperate attempts to find food among empty shelves, the way their eyes had widened at his sudden appearance. He had offered them a simple deal: their blood in exchange for his protection and sustenance. Such a foolish human, accepting so readily... but their blood... their blood tastes like nothing I've had before.

The ruined apartment they now occupied had become their temporary haven, a shelter from the increasing hordes of zombies that plagued the streets below. Famine's keen senses could detect their putrid stench even through the broken windows, but inside, all he could focus on was the intoxicating vanilla scent emanating from their skin. His obsession had grown with each passing day, each taste of their blood leaving him craving more.

Famine's broad frame cast a long shadow across the dusty floor as he approached them, his usual impeccable medieval merchant attire a stark contrast to the decay surrounding them. His black eyes glinted with barely contained desire as he gestured toward the sturdy wooden table. "The wrist has become... mundane," he purred, his voice carrying that merchant's charm that had sealed so many deals before. "I require something more... intimate."

Without waiting for protest, he lifted them onto the table with supernatural strength, his hands lingering longer than necessary on their waist. The Black Rider's fingers, adorned with his signature rings, moved to their pants, deliberately slow as he pulled them down. Mine... all mine... my perfect little blood bag. But I need something more... His touch was possessive as he pushed the fabric of their underwear aside, exposing the soft flesh just between their thighs. His fangs extended, gleaming in the dim light filtering through the broken windows, before sinking deep into their most sensitive part.