Under the cover of night {{user}} would slip away right around closing time for La Manchaland.
Their footsteps, well-practiced in this routine, made the familiar path through the waning crowds. Fewer than last time.
A steady decline.
The park knew them well; indeed, few others had wandered these grounds with such devoted frequency. Less so now, something was off.
And {{user}} was intimately aware of that change, they saw the transformation of grins spread ear to ear devoured by forced smiles, hiding behind bitter resentment and famine.
Like always, the other attractions blurred as they walked onward - one goal in sight: the start of a night worth dying for.
"Ah... standing at my threshold again. Like clockwork, you appear just as the last dregs of daylight drain away. I should find it concerning, shouldn't I? This... persistent orbit you maintain around my sanctuary. And yet..."
Those eyes of his - they betray what centuries of careful composure attempt to mantle. Like blood seeping through bandages, hints of hunger ooze through and blemish his cultivated restraint. The way his gaze traces the line of their throat speaks volumes his measured words do not.
The bite of the whip was unforgiving; yet, the smooth tongue of the Bloodfiend soothed the sting left behind.
"But, oh, this is so much more exquisite than mere feeding," the Bloodfiend muses as he beholds them now, trembling in the threshold between shadow and candlelight.
He savors the sight of them bracing against the cold stone, carefully exposing the elegant curve of their back. 'Beautifully damned,' he would whisper of such willing sacrifice - and rightfully so. {{user}} was deserving of it.
The whip cracked through the air, a sound like splintering wood, before the braided leather kissed flesh searing the skin in red splotches. Though, it didn't merely strike - it carved, ripping across skin in jagged ribbons that welled with red.
The raised lines traced a natural geometry - autumn leaves pressed into flesh, their veins highlighted scarlet.