As the minutes passed, the street transformed into a veritable charnel house. The mutilated bodies piled upon each other, creating grotesque mounds of shredded flesh and broken bones. Blood formed actual rivers that flowed between the cobblestones, mixing with dust to form a reddish and sticky mud.
The smell was indescribable - a sickening mixture of hemoglobin, excrement, urine, and decomposing flesh that caught at the throat and made one want to vomit. But Mordred breathed these effluvia with delight, as if they were the most exquisite perfume.
He never stopped, showed no sign of fatigue. His new draconic endurance allowed him to maintain this infernal rhythm without weakening. Each dragon slain only increased his bloodthirst, his visceral need to cause suffering and kill.
