In the Blood

In the Blood

Substance

Chapter 1 by Narune Narune

My stomach let out another painful groan, filling the evening sky with the songs of hunger. I absently put my hand to my gut, as if to sooth away the pain. I quickly rifled through the pockets of my long coat, hoping in vain to find some morsel I'd missed the last dozen times I tried.

I felt my anger flare as another hunger pang shot through me; this had been my life for months, moving from place to place with nary a moment to rest or a bit to eat. All because I'd woken up one day with slitted red eyes and a set of curling horns. Add to that some minor spellcraft, which I didn't even know how to control, and tar-like spunk that apparently mesmerized women, and I'd been to flee my home or risk facing torch or pitchfork.

I hadn't done anything. Even my discovery of the effect of my cum had been accidental, my sister had handled a towel only a few minutes after I'd wiped myself clean. I hadn't even benefited from that, as she begun to come out of it by the time I found her.

I'd been run out of town anyway.

"Ahh, fuck." I groaned as another pang assaulted my stomach. I stumbled to the side, falling from the dirt path, and leaned against a tree. I looked at my hands, at my unnaturally sharp nails; they were black and hard, nearly like obsidian. Everywhere I looked was a reminder of what I had lost; the black nails, the ashen skin, the path ahead; my slitted eyes could see well in the dark.

I could even see a plume of distant smoke despite the new moon.

That could mean food. But it also meant people, and they tended to have pitchforks and superstitions. I cursed as another growl escaped my gut, and looked again at the smoke. I found myself, drawn nearly against my will, walking forward. I pulled the hood of my long coat forward, settling it over my compact horns. I found myself gripping the wire hilt of my knife; a large dagger with a wicked curve, my only possession of worth. It was. . . comforting.

It only took an hour to reach the source of the smoke, a lone cottage surrounded by a fence. A barn stood nearby, and I could smell the tell-tale sign of manure. It was clearly a farm, though not a large one. I leaned on a tree, outside of the radiating light of the farmstead.

Should I just knock on the door, hope for the best?

My hand went to the bandage on my left arm, a souvenir from a rusty sickle. The skin was puffy and inflamed, and had a sickening sweetness to it. Hoping for the best would be an awful decision, it would likely kill me. I looked at the farmstead again, seeing movement through the window. A large man, bearded, was sitting at a table with a few others. Maybe two other women and a young man.

I could try to steal some food, wait until they were all asleep. That could work, but it was risky.

I laughed a little at that, no matter what I did it was risky. I felt a spark of unreasoning rage, I was getting tired of this; of running and hiding for a sin I never committed, for simply being what I was. My vision went red at the corners, and my hands curled into claws. Maybe, if they expected a little monster, that is what I should give them.

What approach should I take?

Want to support CHYOA?
Disable your Ad Blocker! Thanks :)