Vampires ténébreux, l’étreinte des ombres. J’
Vampires ténébreux, l’étreinte des ombres. J’étais l’un de mon nom, Tristan. Description d’une église qui s’écroule, du sang sur les murs, sur le sol
The air hung heavy with the stench of decay and something far more sinister. The once-proud spire of Saint-Martin’s, a beacon of hope for generations, lay shattered, its stone teeth gnashing against the blood-soaked sky. I, Tristan, was the only one left to witness this unholy spectacle.
The wind, a mournful dirge, whistled through the gaping holes in the crumbling walls. It carried with it the faint echo of agonized screams, the guttural cries of the damned. Inside, the church was a charnel house, its gothic grandeur defiled. Crimson stained the ancient stone like a weeping wound, spreading across the pews, the altar, the very floor itself. It was a tapestry of terror woven by the creatures of the night, the Vampires Ténébreux, the shadows that clung to the darkness.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum in the echoing silence. Every shadow seemed to writhe, every creak of the crumbling stone a chilling whisper in the darkness. The air grew thick with an unnatural chill, a palpable presence of something malevolent. I felt it, a cold breath against my neck, a prickling of fear that crawled under my skin.
They were everywhere, these creatures of the night. Their eyes, like twin embers in the darkness, gleamed from the corners of the ruined church. They moved with an unnatural grace, their shadows slithering across the walls, mimicking the movements of their masters.
My gaze fell upon a figure huddled in the remains of the confessional booth, its back to me. A single candle flickered in the gloom, casting a sickly yellow light upon the blood-soaked confessional. The figure stirred, slowly turning, revealing the face of Father Bertrand, his once-kind eyes now empty sockets, his face pale as death, lips stained crimson. He was one of them now, a lost soul trapped in the embrace of darkness.
Terror froze me in place, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. This was not a simple act of violence. This was a ritual, a sacrifice, a dark communion. The church, once a sanctuary, was now a sacrificial altar.
A tremor shook the ruined building, a low growl resonating through the stone. A creature stepped into the flickering candlelight. It was tall, with eyes like burning coals and skin that seemed to be sculpted from night itself. A single, cruel grin stretched across its face, its teeth glistening in the gloom.
It was the leader, the one they called “L’Étreinte des Ombres”, the embodiment of the darkness. He spoke, his voice a raspy whisper that slithered into my soul, “We feast on the light, Tristan. And you, my dear, are the last light left.”
My breath caught in my throat. The air grew cold, the shadows seemed to press in on me, suffocating me with their darkness. I was trapped, surrounded by these creatures of the night, their eyes burning into me with a hunger that was both terrifying and alluring.
And then, in that moment of utter despair, a flicker of hope ignited within me. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of taking my life. I would join the light, I would become one with the darkness. It was the only way to stop them, the only way to avenge the souls they had devoured.
As the creatures closed in, their claws reaching for me, I let out a primal scream, a scream of defiance, of anger, of the very essence of light. I would not go down without a fight. This was not my ending, it was my beginning. The fight against the shadows had just begun.
