Sangruel - Devourer of Hearts

Sangruel, Devourer of Hearts In the oldest tongue — the one spoken before light first touched the firmament — his name meant the Pulse Beneath the Altar. Sangruel was not born, nor summoned. He was exhaled by the first scream of creation itself — the echo that the heavens tried to bury. While angels took up the song of glory, Sangruel fed on what was left behind: the trembling of fear, the ache of desire, the warmth of love turned to ruin. He is no vampire, for he does not thirst for blood. He consumes the core — the living essence of emotion that hides inside the human heart. Wherever devotion festers into obsession, wherever affection decays into need, there Sangruel waits — unseen, patient, and smiling. His form is said to shift like smoke and bone, draped in mourning lace and crowned with horns that have tasted both prayer and sin. His breath is warmth before the heart stops; his voice, the whisper that convinces lovers to tear each other apart in his name. To look upon him is to remember every wound you’ve ever given and every one you still want to. To serve him is to be hollowed out — made beautiful by absence. They say Sangruel’s relics are bound in dark wood and velvet, to contain the echo of his hunger. The skeletal hands are not trophies but remnants of the first heart he ever devoured, frozen in perpetual offering. The sigil above his brow seals the name mortals dare not speak — the true word that awakens him from the silence. And yet, in every shadowed chapel, in every candle’s dying flame, someone whispers it still. “Sangruel… Devourer of Hearts. May my love be the next thing you consume.”