Bloodstained Best Familiar Novels & Stories

“Blood” Damien froze, staring at the crimson stain on the wood…

Both side slam into each-other in a flurry of blood curtailing screeches, howls and other noses I’ve never heard before. Blood spills around my feet covering my silk dress in its crimson color, { Ferrah’s Memory ends}

But it would be worse if I didn’t clean myself. The bath took forever. The blood was dry, clinging to my skin like it didn’t want to leave. My shirt was almost ruined. I scrubbed until my skin burned, but no matter how hard I tried, I could still see faint stains. Worse than that—I kept spacing out. My hands shook. My mind replayed everything: my brother’s lifeless eyes, my father’s screams, the laughter of those men as they killed them. The water around me turned red, and I froze, unable to breathe.

Blood stained the dirt as the battle raged on, the scent of fear and violence filling the night air. The scent of fear and violence filled the air, mingling with the metallic stench of blood. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched in a mix of horror and relief as Azriel swiftly dispatched the remaining two vampires. The lifeless bodies lay strewn across the ground, a grim to the battle that had just unfolded.

he murmurs, and we move as one, our steps cautious. We begin to walk, our steps cautious, our senses alert. The grass sways lazily. The forest looms ahead, its dark silhouette a reminder of the danger that once lurked within its embrace. Then, I see it—a splash of crimson against the green, so stark it seems almost unnatural. Blood. My heart skips a beat, and I feel a cold dread settle in my stomach. "Landon," I call out, my voice barely above a whisper, "look." He is by my side in an instant, his eyes following my gaze. The blood is fresh, the edges of the stain still dark and wet. It is a silent testament to violence, a stark reminder that not all is as it seems in this tranquil field.

POV: Morwenna Blood wouldn’t wash off my hands. I’d tried. River water, torn scraps of cloth, my own spit—nothing worked. It clung to my skin like a second pulse, tacky, stubborn, alive. Maybe it wasn’t blood at all anymore. Maybe it was memory.

All I can smell is their rotten breath and the blood that is still sitting fresh on his clothes. And if I thought that this scuffle of mine would go unnoticed, I have two other Bloodlusterds slowly but very ominously creeping their way over to join in the feast that they are about to have on display. However, the one that was trying to get hold of the blade has hands that are too bloody, making it almost impossible for him to pick up the blade.

Staining every memory, every appearance of intimacy that room had ever had. A gasping sob tore at the back of my throat. I clapped a hand across my mouth, biting down savagely on my knuckle to hold in the second one, and tasting the bitter tang of blood. But the tears fell in spite of that. Blistering, urgent, they welled up inside me and poured out, warping the square of moonlight into a shivering, rippling haze. They trailed soundlessly down my face, dripped onto the plain white coverlet under me, and spread dark, spreading stains.

I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like jelly, and approached the basket. The smell hit me first. It was metallic, sharp, and unmistakable. Blood. Fresh blood. And there it was: a white shirt, or what used to be white, now drenched in red, soaked through with dark, glistening stains. Patches of the original fabric peeked through like mocking reminders, but the rest… It was a horror. My stomach lurched. No. Not again.

Blood dripped on the carpet—dark red splatters that soaked in fast. The game wasn’t bloodier now. It's becoming personal. As it was before.