The dark-skinned tribes of small jungle islands used to give gold and chocolate. In return he’d take their killers and rapists in their sleep. It was punishment for evil-doers, and they kept paying him for it until he would become tired of the climate and move on. In the North they didn’t do sacrifices. So instead he was the Arctic boogeyman; a tale to caution people on how dangerous it was to wander away alone in the coldest of the cold and dark months. He couldn’t be picky on what he ate there: he took anything he found for months then headed for the equator to thaw his hungering body.
But lately every time he tried to solidify, starting with a few souls taken here and there, growing his power slowly but surely, he lost the will to keep going. He would scatter again to the winds of time, blown away to linger and wait for the urge to hit him again. Months and months of existing off of souls was no way to thrive. It was a difficult hill to crest; he needed blood. He wanted the meat.
Maybe this time. If he held the memory of that food as a goal for going through with all the work of becoming fixed in the world, maybe he could see it through this time.
That first soul had been lovely. So pure, sweet. Completely untainted. How delicious the young ones were … their flesh was even better.
Yes, the souls were necessary; they were the vegetables that kept him healthy and going. But next to that he had to have the living, breathing, bleeding and still wriggling meat to make it all worthwhile. He only lived once every few millennia … he had to make it worth the effort.