It was not enough.

The lash struck, and with each crack, painted the air with sharp, crimson arcs. A thin, meager thing, lesser even than that of beasts. It was blood that could not nourish, could not satisfy the hunger of his kin, could not sustain his Family.

Long had his confessional grown cold, a hollow chamber housing the remnants of his decaying faith, resonant only with the faint echoes of his grunts. Vestiges of dreams, dreams of life, life so far from reach...

He could no longer still his tongue, not when it yearned with such fevered desperation to dart forth and taste that forbidden, sweet… sweet nectar.

Teeth clenched tight until crimson wept down his chin, spilling forth in silent penance - for the failures of his Father, for his own foolish trust in such cruel fallacies…

Was there still a chance beyond today? The whip held no answers, knowing only how to draw blood. And like that whip, Bloodfiends knew only hunger, a ceaseless craving that consumed all else.

Fractures were forming, and no amount of gaudy frills or gilded masks could conceal them. The façade splintered, bit by bit, leaving husks of once merry Bloodfiends. Months from now, they won't be able to veil themselves within the falsehood or complacency they've accepted into their hearts.

Gregor laments, his gaze sinking to the floor where his blood spots the dreary gray stone like paint drops. If the future compels him to gnaw on hemobars, stagnant and repugnant in their essence, he finds himself uncertain how much longer he can maintain this charade.

"Father, grant me absolution for these sinful thoughts that claw at my very soul..."

His lip quivers, his eyes tremble, and yet his mind wanders...

Oh, it has always wandered, only it never strayed from the path his Father paved. Not like this.

Gregor's shirt lay thoroughly slashed, frayed and hewn by the relentless bite of the whip, a string of his misguided attempts at atonement. His back drenched in the blood he so wished to share with his own.

"How much more...?"