Every Cloak Rolled In Blood Novels & Stories

While waiting for Luhan, i decided to look at what was inside the bag that was with my horse. I poured the meat on the ground and the only thing i saw there was a cloak. This cloak is unique because it is not black in color. The cloak of vampires is only black or red. I picked it up and kicked it. When i opened it was there is a fallen paper. I picked you up immediately before the wind blew away. I read what was written there that i was sure was Luke's handwriting.

Blood soaks into fine golden fabric, under the cover of a dark green traveling cloak. I look up and I see the ramparts of a castle frosted with snowfall. Felix stands before me, the same wounded expression marring his handsome face. His hair is shorter now, neat and evenly cut just below his ears. His brilliant emerald green mantle embroidered with twining red roses is stained with blood. He reaches out to me, and I once again feel the pain stab into my chest.

A large, tall figure, with broad shoulders and a red cloak that somehow feels familiar. An ear piercing scream leaves my father’s mouth and I’m pulled back to reality. I rush to my teeth and push past the figure that separates me from my father. The man defending me, was faceless, his face hidden by the cloak, but his arms poked out from under the cloak, long clawy fingers wrapped around my father’s arms, talons sinking into his flesh, letting warm blood drip and stain the ground.

I said, pointing toward a dark shape about twenty yards away that looked like a crumpled heap of leather and steel. We walked over to the debris, and I recognized the jagged remains of a Rauvenhollow supply pack and a shattered crossbow that could only have belonged to one of Draeven’s men. I kicked over a pile of broken wood and found a cloak caught in a crevice of the roots, the fabric stained with a dark, sticky fluid that didn't look like normal blood, but there was no sign of my uncle or the shadow-caster who had been with him.

The dawn did not bring light to Black Ridge; it only revealed the extent of the carnage. The snow was no longer white, but a bruised purple, stained by the toxic ichor of the Blight-Wolves. Rhea stood in the center of the courtyard, her chest heaving, her crimson gown now tattered and soaked in a mixture of her own blood and that of her enemies.

There was only one other supernatural who had the ability to slip past werewolves unnoticed and a love of literary references. No one. When she opened the door, the room was empty save for some kind of jacket draped over the back of the donor chair. She picked it up hesitantly to reveal a sleek red velvet cloak with a golden chain across the neck. The material was exquisite, but it had heft, and the gradually worn texture of the cloth made it clear that it was very old. She draped the cloak over her arm and reached out to pull out the wooden stake that had stuck a piece of parchment to the chair, just like the note the Family had impaled Hunter with.

He laid it reverently upon the table. King Eryn gestured. “Take them.” Aaron stepped forward first, unfolding his, the red cloak spilling like a drop of blood across his hands. Alaric followed, holding his own. The fabric was heavy, dense with meaning. “You will wear these cloaks into Selvane,” the king said. “And you will return with them still on. They will be your guide; what shields you, what binds you home. These cloaks mark you as the sons of Eldoria and Veridia alike. Not prey. Not martyrs. Warriors who live.”

Her clutch tenses that the wound in her arm seems to open and began to bleed again. “Adira,” Diego uttered and quickly drew back. His hands stretched onto her drowning cheek, wiping the tears that were rolling uncontrollably. Hitting the same scenario that had happened decades ago. “Don’t let go, we have to escape from here,” the lady in a hooded green cloak yelled as she held a man’s hand so clinch. Her hair was dripping water. Her royal-like crimson red dress and the jewels on her neck topped up her aristocratic status. “But there is no other way out, Adira,” replied a man in simple commoner clothes. Bearing the oceanic-blue orbs and chiseled jaw. He’s all covered with mud and splash of pa

In silence. In choices. In ghosts no one saw but me. The candle I lit sputtered before catching, its flame twitching like it, too, wanted to flee. I didn’t blame it. I moved to the armoire, pulled out the green velvet cloak stitched with the sigil of my mother’s bloodline. Not royal. Older. Wilder. The wolves that ran before there were thrones. My fingers lingered on the embroidery, the serpent with wings, swallowing its tail. I draped it around my shoulders and fastened the clasp like armor. Not for warmth. For warning.

All i could see was blood. Blood that pooled from his side's, from his eyes, from his nose and honestly every single part of him that could bleed was bleeding. My heart constricted in fear and pain as I took a step close. I knew that I was told to run away if I saw someone else that wasn't them that I knew but the figure in the black cloak was the least if my worries as all I could see was Lorenzo who was so still, it looked like he was dead.