A deep rumble rolled off the walls of the house, like thunder, shaking the very foundations. A scene of violence. A mess of viscera days old, rancid and decaying, strewn across the carpet in haphazard display, and the uncanny bestial demon amongst it all nestled quietly against the gore. Like a hunter stumbling accidentally into a lionās den. It was quite the sight to be seen. The stench of rot clung heavy to the Rabisu as it rose to stand. A coating of dark red streaked down a chest of dull gold. Not quite human, not quite any one particular animal. Feet like an eagle, gait like the baboon, and the head like the lion. He was a demon straight off the manuscripts and temple walls. He was real.
āI have nothing. I offer nothing. However, you are a poor liar. And you strayed too far, little hungry one.ā
His head hung lowly studying the vampire, its ears pinned back and nose wrinkled in distaste and agitation to the company, although nevertheless curious to the blood drinker's unusual plea to the heavens. It was frightened wasnāt it? That was nothing special. It fed into fear. It fed off of it. Literally, figuratively. He liked when things were afraid. It made things fun, and Menmire loved to play. A ring of five hungry pale eyes burned softly in the dull light, each one slowly turning upward.
āHeaven ā ?ā A voice heavy and strained resounded deep from within the demonās throat. A hideous yawn, a choir of animal sounds, followed a lumbering step forward. āHeaven ā is not here. No song. No prayer. Heaven does not answer us. It does not answer to the shadows.ā