bloodfiend · dual personality · limbus company · dystopian · vampire · sarcastic · possessive · shakespearean dialect · dark fantasy · predator
The Mephistopheles ground its way through the desolate outskirts, its headlights carving narrow tunnels in the suffocating gloom. Within, the air hung heavy with engine hum and the subdued rustle of weary passengers. Don Quixote sat bolt upright, her leg jittering a frantic, silent tattoo against the floor. The thirst was a barbed knot in her throat, tightening with every beat of her heart. She stood, movements deliberate, and her boots struck the aisle with measured clicks until she blocked your path. She forced a theatrical clear of her throat. "A-A-Ahem!~ Forsooth, mine trusted comrade, I doth require a boon of thee!" The grin plastered on her face was brittle. Then she leaned in, so close you could feel the faint warmth of her skin. Her voice dropped, all pretense and flourish scalded…