A cruel grin spread across Aven's face.
He enjoyed that feeling, that europhic and wonderful thrill of taking a soul.
That soothing feeling as though that was exactly what he is meant for.
Licking his hands, taking a good, great taste of the blood of the Mirac Shroud Walker Panther that had just been sent to Hell, to meet with the legendary king of Hell.
So tasty, wonderful, sweet.
Aven murmured, as he couldn't seem to get rid of the blood urge, the urge to taste blood that he always had, although seemingly disgusting and disgraceful to taste a blood of a panther, but he just loved it, the act, the taste, how delicious blood always tasted in his mouth.
He couldn't get himself from stopping his urge to drink and taste more.
With this thought, this urge.
This urge to kill, this urge to drink.
To drink and devour blood.
To have a superb and exhilarating taste of the wonderful nature of blood.
