[center][h2][color=cyan]Sander Lorraine[/color][/h2]
[img]http://i65.tinypic.com/28hztyw.png[/img][/center]

The towering monster was reduced to a mere annoyance in the matter minutes. Just as the creature’s arm broke off, Sander pulled on the wires with a sharp movement, snapping them right off. Finally free, he took a few steps until he was right in front of the doll and drove both of his arms into its eye sockets. Thick, white fluid splattered, but he didn’t stop until he was elbow-deep in porcelain flesh and gore. Grabbing a handful of whatever strange organs the creature possessed, he tore them out over and over again, and didn’t stop until the doll ceased moving. 

When it finally did, Sander slowly stepped back, seemingly in a daze. He choked down shallow breaths, eyes glued on the ruined head that was all his doing.  Just minutes before, his limbs pulsed with strength and fire, but now they were starting to weaken. The fire in his veins was dying, the heat he both despised and desired was slowly fading. Frost crept under his skin, like crawling bugs, and he was shaking again, desperate. He needed the warmth. He needed the fire to kickstart his heart again. And before he knew it, he had begun to seek out the heat. Its scent was thick in the air, the potent aroma of coffee caught his senses in a steel grip. 

[i]Frantic pulses beat right beneath his lips. He can’t get enough. He just can’t…[/i]

He swallowed thickly, staring at the red patch on Christmas’ ruined leg as Lawrence tried to help the wounded boy. Somewhere, a part of him wished to help, but he did not dare to. He wouldn’t just stop at ‘helping’. Still, he found himself moving toward the closest source of warmth, feet dragging at a snail pace compared to what he was still capable of. His mind was waging a war on itself, hurling thoughts and desires and rationalizations in every direction like a dysfunctional household. Between his inner conflicts and the thirst that was ramming its limb down his throat, Sander barely realized he was still taking shaky steps toward Christmas and Lawrence’s general direction. 

Then a strange calmness clammed down onto him, thick and heavy like a cloak. The tension bled out of his limbs; the need to main, to kill, to tear, to plunge himself deep in blood and gore was suddenly extinguished. He came to a halt, looking befuddled and confused. The craving remained, but it was reduced to nothing but an incessant yet muted nagging at the back of his mind. For the first time in years, he felt its hold on him loosened. However, instead peace, he found only despair. Without the animalistic bloodlust to spur him on, Sander floundered. Without the supernatural rage to propel him, he was lost. Once again, he was just a scarred kid in a broken world, alone and adrift. It didn’t matter how much he struggled against the hold of his addiction; it didn’t matter how much he blamed his power for dooming him to a life of imprisonment. Take this war away from him, and he had nothing. It was pathetic. 

Like a puppet with its strings severed, his knees buckled and he slumped, kneeling just one step away from Lawrence and Christmas’ prone body. Something caught his eyes, prompting him to take a closer look at his hands. He was engulfed in a strange white light, and once he looked up, so was Lawrence. His eyes widened, but whatever rage managed to bubble up was easily extinguished by the lethargy that currently coated his limbs. 

“[color=cyan]Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop.[/color]”- He managed, but didn’t meet Lawrence’s gaze. Instead, he scanned the battlefield, taking in all he had missed. So far, it seemed his team had managed to take down most of their assigned targets. There was many more remained, but they were managing. There were already casualties; he winced briefly at the battered bodies, not used to witnessing gore without the filter of his bloodlust, but they were managing. He shouldn’t put them into more danger than they were already in, right? 

[i]Who was he kidding?[/i]

“[color=cyan]I can’t just sit here, can I?[/color]”- Sander muttered, glancing back at Lawrence. Kusari’s words echoed at the back of his mind, but he himself knew enough. He was tired. So tired of fighting this losing war. While winning was never a possibility, surrendering was not an option either. The choice was never his to make. 

“[color=cyan]I need to get back.[/color]”- After a short pause, he continued – “[color=cyan]I can get even stronger. I just need a little bit…more.[/color]”- His eyes fell back on Christmas’ bloody leg. While the wild look was no longer there, the message was clear.

What he didn’t expect though, was for the brown-haired boy to offer his own blood in Christmas’ place. It made sense, since the blond boy was hardly the picture of health at that moment and Sander silently berated himself for suggesting such thing in the first place. However, this time he did not dove straight for the offered hand. Which said a lot about the strength of Lawrence’s magic. Again, he had no love for manipulators, but at least with Lawrence, he would get a warning. 

“[color=cyan]Just tell me when you get dizzy. I will…[/color]”

[i]stop[/i] 

His mind helpfully supplied the right words, but he didn’t want to make any promises he couldn’t keep. Drinking under the influence of this magic was entirely new to him. However, Lawrence was quite ready to risk it, Sander couldn’t back down. He didn’t have that choice. 

“[color=cyan]…not hurt you.[/color]”- He finished, reaching out to close his fingers around Lawrence’s wrist. 

“[color=cyan]Don’t hesitate if I do.[/color]”-Sander eyed the shotgun momentarily, before turning back to the welled up blood. The thirst was dull, not deaden. He could drown again, so easily. Maybe he would like that.