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  • Ian wasn't always an incubus, but what does that matter. He's an incubus now. A young incubus. An incubus for not very long. Six months ago, he wouldn't have been able to live with himself had he drained a person of their blood. But he doesn't have a life to live anymore, he was just fooling himself six months ago. He couldn't try to live a normal life. The thirst, and the pain, were too much.
    So he left that half life, and he drank blood. Human blood. People blood. The blood of someone who thought, who felt, someone who loved and was loved.
    The darkness surrounded Ian. It was always there, even during the brightest of days. And the cold, oh the cold. It was always there as well.
    Even at the pinnacle of August, Ian wandered, unfeelingly, his soul curled up into the fetal position inside of him. The forests of France were no different than in the dead of winter, to Ian. And it was winter inside of him. So he wandered, and he drank the blood of the Franks.
    Or as the natives would say, ce sang.
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