The Apex Hunter

Mason Carter | Rougarou | Bodyguard | King of the Werewolves | Lovecraft OC

[fromheretotheinfinity]

[rougarxu]

Despite coming across as a mild-mannered dork, Ezekiel would much prefer this to what he’d be capable of were he to embrace his true nature. He is, in no way, ashamed of his jaguar form, and has been known to consciously adopt it in his travels, but he is always cautious of his temperament, knowing the wrong thought, feeling, could set him off, so doubles down on his work as a precaution.

Though not an ‘other’ in the typical sense, Zeke is much more prone to his godly influence when the jaguar, and has been known to be swayed by tribute, prayer and sacrifice. While Zeke pursues truth and justice, the jaguar has an affliction for chaos and bloodshed, which may prove detrimental to his plans; or, in one case, beneficial, when a legal battle came to an end after a wild animal attack...

When he indulges any dark impulses, such as aggression or hate, it can be difficult for him to regain clarity, and leaves him susceptible to such emotions down the line. To account for this, he has a rustic heart monitor strapped onto his torso ( akin to Stark’s ARC reactor ) which allows him to keep his temperament in check, though, as time goes on, with tribes across Mexico singing prayers in his name, it becomes increasingly difficult to regain his footing...

[hellboysource]

Come on, let’s getcha game face on.

[memorivm]

@rougarxu​ | ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ  A dash of orange and white for his sea of green. “Careful–” She steps over the ring with bare feet into the grass. A hand lifts his chin from too far towards the ground on her way. “–of the spores, they can bloom in odd places. Behind the ears without a bath. In the esophagus if you don’t cook em first.” She smiled wickedly, though perfectly serious. In wider surroundings, great moth wings sprout from a familiarly furred coat, sporting eyes and stripes in all her magnificence. “Of course, I do mean you and your mysterious lady-bird.”

Eyelashes fluttered in his direction with the sound of bells to tease, “What were you thinking of?” With a snap of her fingers, she dared clothed him in his usual attire, albeit bedazzled with fairy dust. “Can’t have the Raven thinking I’m after her favorite wolf.” With a glance to the cabin windows, she made her inquiry, “Is she around?”

[rougarxu]

Wincing at the potential consequences, Mason resumes his full height, taking a mental note to keep his distance. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at sharing the bayou with others, particularly with certain magic types leaving shit at his doorstep, but, for the sake of Thomas’ regime, and steering clear of a turf war, he sees no harm in keeping the sparkly fuckers around. 

If they’re gonna make habit of messing with his clothes, though, they got another thing coming...

Having hoped the joke would land, he finds himself unwilling, unable, to clarify what he’d meant, opting, instead, for an awkward scoff of dismissal. Bonding with the rougarou may have spiked his sexual interest, but that didn’t mean Mason was at all on the same wavelength, lending him to awkward moments such as these. 

“ Can’t help notice we almost wore the same shit today. ” It’s an attempt at shifting the conversation along, offering a brief side-glance to the fae’s coat as he begins to pace down a foot-worn path. Never understood what value they saw in the remnants of his other, but, hey, if it keeps them off his ass, they can have all the fur they want.

“ Huh? " Lady b-? Oh. “ Yeah, I’m not exactly good with visitors after a moon like that. Kinda got me at a bad time there. ” Not that the woman’s company was at all offensive, he was simply coming down from a severe bout of hyper-stimulation. Senses out of whack, thoughts a blur, minor aches in his joints. Something he’d much prefer to nurse alone. “ Why, d’you got business with her? ” 

[rougarxu]

@memorivm​

Were he at all of a rational disposition, Ezekiel’d remind himself that what he’d set out to do was madness. You didn’t just walk into an Equinox facility and expect to come out unscathed, certainly not through the methods he’d employed. Yet, for what he sought to accomplish, it was a risk worth taking. 

The convoys, the schematics, humans disappearing in the night. All with perfectly rational explanations, he’s sure - gods only know he’s heard them before - but, in his line of work, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And, in spite of their public image, something about Equinox just isn’t lining up for him. 

There’s a story there. He can smell it. 

Armed with an over-shoulder Polaroid and facial disguise, the freelancer balances upon the chain-link fence with nimble step, sussing out any patrol routes and surveillance. Keeping low, he makes his way along the perimeter, remarkably nimble for a man of his stature, before dropping to the balls of his feet, no audible trace of his presence. 

From there, he sticks to the shadows, weaving in and out of containers, dodging the cameras. At one point, he’s even left hanging upside down as two guards make the rounds. A close call, by all counts, but not without its reward, for, as fate would have it, he’s stumbled upon some grating, and makes his way inside. 

What he’ll encounter within the facility, however, remains to be seen...

[rougarxu]

NPC - Ezekiel ‘Zeke’ Dufort ( Werejaguar )

An investigative journalist with a flair for the supernatural, Ezekiel hails from a cult of werejaguars known as the Black Sun. As the only child of his generation, as so prophesised, he is believed to be the reincarnation of an ancient god and their harbinger of the apocalypse.

Born in the jungles of Mexico, he was collectively raised by the Black Sun tribe into believing that he would, some day, bring ruin to the world. Convinced they were descended from Tezcatlipoca, the jaguar-formed Aztec god of sorcery, night, chaos and war, the cult had resorted to incestuous practices in a bid to preserve their bloodline and, some day, produce a mortal vessel for Tez’.

Bizarrely, in spite of the tribe’s numbers, Ezekiel was the only child born after mating season, and soon hailed as the Destroyer of Worlds. From birth, he was granted an extensive education and regular combat training, intended to fuel his inner warmonger, however, Ezekiel harboured an inquisitive streak and found himself drawn more to strategy and reason, an interest that would only grow with age.

The tribe, throughout his youth, continued to pay tribute to Tez’ before a stone-carved jaguar shrine. Though all were capable of shifting beneath the moon, they sought to share his image in readiness for the apocalypse, and would bring human sacrifices in offering. Upon spilling mortal blood, the orange flame of the statue’s eyes would turn blue, and, on drinking, grant the cultist full control over their shift. 

Ezekiel was forced into the same ritual at the age of sixteen, though it came with the added pressure of being expected to lead the tribe. Drinking from the blood, having reached sexual maturity, he assumed the form of an enigmatic black jaguar, and, as foretold, remained this way for six extensive days. There, he received considerable worship, which strengthened both his form and resolve, though, whether this was simply him adjusting to the shift or proof of his divine nature is fairly ambiguous. 

On the seventh day, where he was expected to lead a hunt upon mankind, Ezekiel used the form of the jaguar to flee from his duties, opting, instead, to explore the world he’d learned so much about and gain distance from the tribe. Many years later, having traded an endless sea of green for a labyrinth of grey, he finds himself an investigative journalist in the heart of New York, focused on the supernatural and outing the harsh truths to the people.

[rougarxu]

"Are we telling Thomas about the pack, and if so, would you invite him over?"

For a moment, he says nothing, visibly weighing out the options at hand. He was under no obligation to share their existence with Thomas, for he’s but a mere employee, but, in the long term, he wouldn’t want the pack to be some dirty little secret, either. Then, there’s Equinox, which would be a whole new can of worms.

“ Not ‘til they’re ready. ” His final word, unwilling to be swayed. The pups were still finding themselves, gathering their strength. If he can get them to work together, operate as a cohesive unit, then, and only then, will he consider bringing Strigus into their affairs. In the meantime, their well-being, efficiency as a pack, will take priority, just as it should.

The next question draws out a short-lived chuckle, arms folded in dismissal.

“ You ever see Strigus leave his ivory tower? All the time I’ve known him, he’s never once set foot down here, and that ain’t about to change. ” 

[rougarxu]

Swinging on a wooden swing she had built for the tree in front of their little cabin, a ring of mushrooms bloomed where it stilled and the faerie queen smiles upon him. “The fates are too kind, they bring me such rare and impossible things to admire and grow.” from Titania @ memorivm

@memorivm

See, everyone’s convinced, being the Big Bad Wolf, that Mason’s life must revolve around nothing but hunting and bloodshed. And, sure, that power lends itself to his natural talents, but, in times such as this, with the sun piercing the canopy, a warm breeze to the air, he finds himself prone to a nice stroll through the swamp. 

Were he at all forewarned of her presence, he would’ve, perhaps, considered some underwear, jeans, simply as an act of respect. But, as he rolls back his neck, taking in a deep lungful of air, he decides that, no, its his land, his post-shift unwind time, and continues on as intended.

“ I wouldn’t hold out too much hope there, Your Majesty. ” It’s a comment made in jest, snorting at the sexual implications, but, once he let the joke run its course, he draws his attention to the mushrooms, lowering to his haunches for a closer look. Pretty, no denying that, don’t think he’s ever seen anything like it, but, compared to the rest of the bayou, which he hoped would keep the humans at bay, it was decidedly…non-gloomy.

“ Not sayin’ you got a future in interior design, but, far as mushrooms go, that’s one helluva ‘shroom. ” 

[rougarxu]

lord-strigus‌:

Slowly, Thomas lowered the horned mask and revealed his eyeshadow-laden face, silent for a moment to see if the reference of his costume was understood - then responding to the young vampire’s introduction when it became apparent that Labyrinth was something beyond his range of knowledge.

“It’s quite alright,” he waved off Mason’s remark of bowing, “While I enjoy the title of King-of-Kings, many of the finer traditions accomplish little more than inflate egos and waste time.”

Before continuing, he took a moment to finish the drink he had acquired. Unlike the rest of the attendees who relished in decadent blood consumption, Thomas had sought out a different kind of refreshment. The head waiter was surprised at the request, but had indulged him, ending up finding a respectable brandy in the back of the store cupboards (presumably kept for giving the well-behaved blood slaves a little treat now and then).

“You are Roman’s fledgling, yes?” as if he hadn’t already intently researched Mason and concocted a plan to open his mind, “How are you finding it? Not to be too self-congratulatory, but I don’t think there’s ever been a better time to be a vampire…”

It occurs to Mason that, for all intents and purposes, he should be grabbing the nearest stake and driving it through Thomas’ heart. It’s what he’d been raised for, was born to do. Yet, as he takes another drink of the blood, one arm folded across his back, he can’t help but feel an air of...detachment from such motives. They’d been the goals, purpose, of one more foolish than he, the echoes of a self long since dead. Now, he knows the truth, that the humans were always meant to fall, and, meeting Thomas’ gaze from beneath the mask, can think of nothing more disturbing than killing his own kind.

No sense in denying what he is. No point in clinging to a life he can never return to. Whoever he was, a blind disciple of the Dragon, had bled out in the streets of the French Quarter. What arose had been wiser, stronger and distinctly less human, baptised in a river of blood. He’d stood on the side of champions while his brothers perished, gorged himself on humanity while the creatures arose. And, y’know what, he’s quickly come to accept that.

“ If y’all’re lookin’ for egos, you've come t’the right place. ” With any luck, future events won’t be anywhere near as exhausting, but he won’t deny finding appeal in the ‘zero fucks given’ levels of excess. Loud and garish, perhaps. But, not a single fuck in sight - to which, he’ll take another drink. Again, flashes ring through his mind, echoes, whispers, feelings, all pertaining to Strigus’ rise to power. By the time he finishes off the glass, he may well just grant him that bow.

“ That’d be me, ” he, again, nods, this time, with more conviction. In doing so, the very edge of his lips twitch in the tell-tale signs of a grin, though he never allows it to get so far. Instead, his gaze briefly falters, allowing Roman’s pride for him to run its course. “ It’s...a lot, ain’t gonna lie. No crosses, silver, stakes, gone an’ put me outta business! ” A chuckle, not without its reservations. “ But, ah’m just grateful ta live t’see this ‘brave, new world’ ya forged for us, Lord Strigus. ” 

[leepace71]

Eric Northman (Alexander Skasgard).. True Blood..

[rougarxu]

@lord-strigus​

Mason couldn’t dance. Simply hadn’t found the time, nor had it been a priority of the Order to teach him. So, when Roman’d announced a masquerade ball in honour of the uprising, it was fair to say that he’d been bricking it. Only so long you can linger around the punch bowl before folk start to notice, y’know? And, given the company he’d be keeping, regardless of the mask, he was sure to stand out.

Which only served to worsen matters, really, for this, among other things, would be his first official foot in the door of vampiric society. All eyes were bound to be on him, they’d all want a glimpse of the newly-turned hunter, so, figuring he couldn’t put one foot in front of the other, he’d taken it upon himself to revise the guest list, opting instead for some half-assed attempt at conversation. At least, then, he’d be fitting in.

His fellow fledglings, he could sense, were greeting guests in the courtyard, purely for a show of face. It was the humans, of course, who were in charge of coats, parking and excess baggage. Roman was busying himself with the more prestigious guests, per usual, already cracking open a bottle with a select few over matter of politics. While Mason, hoping to slip in later, was finishing off upstairs, refining the last touches of his ensemble.

He’d chosen it himself, in so far as being influenced by your sire’s blood can be considered personal choice. He wouldn’t have been seen dead in it in a previous life, but, well, he’d long since burned those bridges, and, if he were being honest, it very much complimented his natural airs. Every last inch of fabric had been specially tailored for the night, seeing him fitted in an ash grey waistcoat, burgundy velvet tailcoat and high-waisted pants, all lined with gothic embroidery.

He still wasn’t complete, however, for there was one final piece to the puzzle. An excessively designed box off to the side, with some words of encouragement from his sire. Within, a meticulously crafted, full-face mask carved from only the finest gold. Nothing less would do for Roman’s progeny, he’d been assured, but, even then, he was sure that it had to be worth more than all the clothes on his back and everything in the room.

Still, eager to make an impression on those he’d come to regard as his people, he slipped on the delicate gift and made his way to the hall. This, thankfully, wasn’t as nauseatingly classy, but, under the circumstances, Mason found it to be no less exhausting. The main staircase branched off into two side-cases, granting access to an upper level that was lined with balconies. Below, various arrangements of tables and chairs, a bar with only the finest blood and a vast space to, well, dance. 

Roman was there, he could sense him. And, his fellow fledglings, too, off to the sidelines, partnered up with the prestigious guests. All eyes on him, as expected. The silence beneath the concerto was deafening. Yet, glancing across the hall from his perch on the balcony, a small part of him came to rationalise that this would not be his first social event, nor would it be the last. And, if he’s to live forever, as so promised, then there can be no harm in making the most of such moments. 

So, knocking back a glass of blood from a passing waiter, he began his descent, practically floating down the stairs with graceful step. Some of the guests began to part as he crossed the floor, others reached out for a curious touch, a closer look, but Mason, seeing through the crowd, found himself drawn only to Roman, much like a magnet. Their hands met in the centre of the hall, all eyes, again, upon them as they entered a particular stance, but, this time, he felt something almost akin to pride.

They’d come to leer at the hunter, revel in his misery, but, armed with what he knew, at Roman’s side, he felt untouchable. So much so, he almost didn’t realise that he’d been drawn from one end of the hall to the other, weaving in and out of the other couples with remarkable pace. Muscle memory, he came to rationalise, but, deep down, he knew it to be something more, something to that glint in his sire’s eye.

Breaking off to find other partners - damned social courtesy - Mason busied himself with another glass of blood, but, unlike before, where it granted him confidence, vigour, he found himself briefly jolting with...well, what he can only come to describe as understanding. It was as if someone’d played a rapidfire highlight reel within the depths of his mind, all pertaining to a certain regime...

At this point, he came to pivot upon a heel, head slightly cocked with an inquisitive brow. Sure enough, standing before him was the Vampire King himself, his presence tangible beneath that horned mask. Mason hadn’t bore witness to the Strigus broadcast, unlike the others, for he’d been six feet beneath the St. Roch cemetery, but, from what he’d picked up from Roman and the other fledglings, this man was responsible for their rise to power, their claim to the world.

“ Fergive me if ah don’t bow, ” he confessed, offering, instead, an acknowledged nod of the head. “ Ah’m still getting the hang of all this. ” After all, if Roman taught him everything, where was the fun in that? “ But, ah hear you’re kind’f a big deal ‘round these parts. If it won’t for you, I wouldn’t be standin’ here. ” 

[rougarxu]

Carpe noctem lamia. Decet diem exsecrari.

Sanguim suga, belua. Debet pravum exsequari.

Inquiem perpetuum dona nobis, Satanas.

Bestia diaboli, dona nobis damnationem.

Bless the night, vampire. Curse the day.

Drink blood, creature. Pursue wickedness.

Oh, Satan, grant us eternal unrest.

Demonic beast, grant us damnation.

Seize the Night (Carpe Noctem) - Tanz der Vampire

[rougarxu]

NPC - Roman Baudelaire

Born in July of 1692 in the city of Rouen, Normandy, Roman Baudelaire was the third son of a Norman baron and a self-professed founder of New Orleans. Raised Catholic under the Jesuit order, he was scheduled to receive his First Communion at the age of twelve, however, drawn to a life of adventure, he became a cabin boy on his uncle’s ship, trading fur between France and Acadia. Several years later, he became quartermaster on one of his father’s ships.

As part of the French expansion, seeking to forge an empire and cast the English out of America, the minister for naval colonies and affairs tasked Roman’s crew with finding the mouth of the Mississippi River, something previous explorers had failed to achieve. At the age of twenty-two, he set off with three ships, sailing along the Florida coast and into the Mississippi Delta.

During his travels, he made a brief return journey to New York City where he sold nine thousand furs, granted to him by French-Canadians in exchange for being hauled up the river. Convinced of its potential as a trading route, as well as offering full control away from Spanish and English settlements, he joined other French traders and explorers in founding La Nouvelle-Orleans in Spring of 1718.

A far cry from his regal upbringing, the majority of the population at the time were considered to be the dregs of humanity - deported galley slaves, trappers, con-men and sex workers. However, this failed to deter Roman, who, convinced he’d done enough travelling for one lifetime, chose to remain behind on the colony, enticed by the riff-raff and a life of debauchery.

During this time, he caught the eye of Matteo Solderini, a four-hundred year-old vampire of Florentine nobility. Solderini believed that his purpose was to spread his brood to all corners of the earth, creating a world of immeasurable darkness and sin to appease the Ancient Ones. Sensing a kindred spirit in Roman, having noted his work for the French expansion, he offered up eternal life, love, as a reward for his efforts, and, after a night of spectacular passion, transformed him into a vampire.

Unlike most with a preference for the innocent, Roman, through Solderini, found there to be a particular kick in the blood of sinners, and, together, began gorging themselves on the Orleanian colonists. For over a decade, his life consisted only of feasting and sex, travelling up and down the Mississippi by the side of his sire, turning the river red. However, with the break of the Anglo-Spanish War, Solderini found himself called elsewhere, and left Roman behind to continue his work.

While Solderini may have been working towards a larger goal, Roman didn’t fully share his sire’s vision. Much like him, he yearned for an era of vampiric domination, and viewed humanity as little more than cattle, but, having inherited a possessive streak, he came to regard New Orleans as his own fully-fledged territory, and all the people within. While this didn’t directly clash with Solderini’s plans, it laid the groundwork for Roman’s own rise to power and an obsessive claim to the land.

Following Britain’s victory in the Seven Years’ War, the French colony along the west of the Mississippi, including New Orleans, was ceded to the Spanish Empire in 1763. When the Spanish governor eventually arrived in 1768, Roman, having subtly sewn seeds over the years, manipulated the populace into forcing him out in what became known as the Bloodless Rebellion. When he returned a year later with armed forces, Roman tore through the army single-handedly, though seduced one of the soldiers to his line of thinking.

In the Spring of 1788, with Spanish influence at an all-time high, Roman set fire to the city, hoping to burn the Empire out of the colony and rebuild New Orleans in his image. All of the buildings were rebuilt with bricks, replacing the simple wooden constructs of Spanish reign, and he’d bricks shipped in from Normandy to construct the French Quarter, including the still-standing St. Louis Cathedral. 

[rougarxu]

🩸 Crimson Droplets { VAMPIRE }

A member of the Order of the Dragon, Mason was stationed in New Orleans in the weeks preceding the SPN uprising. Believing there to be preparations underway for an attack in the French Quarter, he was tasked with keeping tabs on the Louisianan council – not in person, but through a sniper’s lens, several blocks away!

When the time came to dispose of its members, however, he was crudely knocked from the rooftop by an unseen force, falling to the cobbles below. There, he was confronted by Roman Baudelaire, an eccentric Confederate and political leader of the New Orleanian vampires. Convinced of a war brewing on the horizon, Roman believed a hunter-turned-vampire to be a valuable asset in the war against humanity, and, having observed Mason’s recent activities from afar, found himself drawn to the rawness of a man built for conflict.

Too weak to support himself, Mason, bruised and disoriented from the fall, attempted to ward off the creature with a silver-laced cross. However, thanks to Roman’s age and questionable faith, his efforts were in vain and the vampire took hold, draining him dry in the street. In doing so, Roman gained access to Mason’s very soul – every repressed memory, his darkest desires, deepest fears – as well as fragments of his personality and the Order’s plans. In turn, on drinking from Roman, Mason gained an intimate look into his two-hundred-year existence, as well as traits from his sire, greedily feasting upon the blood.

However, before he could fully process what had transpired, his neck was snapped, putting an end to his mortal existence. From there, Roman had him buried in St. Roch under the Baudelaire mausoleum, fully clad in Crusader attire, waiting for the opportunity to show his hand. This occurred seven weeks later with Strigus’ broadcast, marking the dawn of both the uprising and the SPN union.

An emaciated corpse, Mason rose from the dead with the rest of Roman’s fledglings upon command, lumbering along in a fogged daze. While the others took to the streets, Mason, whether of his own accord or implanted idea, converged upon the hunter base, gaining access through concern for his health. Instead of a pleasant reunion, however, he found himself drawn to the pulsing of his comrades’ veins, the beating of their hearts, and, drawing back his lips, began tearing into their throats.

At first, it was a manic affair, gorging himself on the nearest living thing. Strength. Youth. Restored in the image of how Roman perceived him. But, as if compelled by a whisper in the back of his head, the attacks became more covert, his victims calculated. He wasn’t just draining them of life, he was hoarding all the Order’s secrets and plans for himself. His sire. And, with the squadron wiped off the board, he now held their entire history, every strategy, within his blood. A living archive.

[rougarxu]

corvidvme‌:

 Yet another puff, and it occurs to her, maybe…just maybe, her Mason had less of a regard for his mortal life without her presence on the Earthly plane after all. Needless to say, she intended to make every remaining hour count. Kira rolled over onto her back to lie comfortably in his lap. Wings folded in into nothing but black smoke against her shoulder blades. “I spent every day for two hundred years wondering if the world I’d fallen into was this, wondering why fate dragged me into every ethical conflict and told me to bridge peace–between broken families, divided communities, different species, wondering why I had to fight against the grandest disasters.” A clawed hand carefully caresses his cheek, sorely tempted to travel to his lips. If she could have her way, she’d spent every second loving him. But at the least, she owed him an explanation.

“Haven saw it immediately, who I am, the demon who tried to keep me his through a contract. He saw that if I didn’t claim the throne, I’d die that hero and be damned for it anyway. I just didn’t know my grandfather held the crown first, the morning star.”

Large and calloused though his hand may be, Mason’s fingers ran their way through Kira’s hair with more grace, such delicacy, than they’d any right to. They’d broken skulls without breaking a sweat, snapped necks with so little as a thought. Yet, there, in that moment, he was caressing the woman as though she were made of glass, granting her all the attention she frankly deserved. 

It’d been easy for him, in all honesty. He’d been ‘born’ into a pro-SPN world. Had every opportunity on hand. Caught Thomas’ eye the moment he’d come to be. Yet, somehow, despite having rarely dwelled on her past, he knew Kira hadn’t had it so well, that she must’ve endured some real stinkers in her time. So, how, then, could he stand by and watch her be resigned to such a fate without so much as checking in, offering support? 

Loyalty, above all else, matters most. 

“ What about you? ” He shifts his posture somewhat, so that one hand’s protectively resting upon her waist, the other proceeding to sift through her hair. “ Sounds like you’ve had a lotta people claim it was all leadin’ to this, that it’s all set in stone. But, what d’you make of it? This somethin’ you actually wanna do, or somethin’ that’s just expected of you? ”

[corvidamned]

@rougarxu | 🐺  On instinct, she can’t help but shush the poor dear. As big as he was, she was certain she could handle him if it came to it. Hesitating to break to his binds, gaze drew to his chart. If he’d spare her a moment, Kira would hold up one index finger and pull a phone from her inner suit pocket to photograph his name, his stats, what exactly they gave him, and how long they expected him to live. “Konstantin.” She noted aloud, to commit to memory.  She returned the clipboard to it’s shelf, then took her chances. With unnatural strength, Kira plunged her fist through concrete to free his silver alloy shackles off its hinges with a hiss as they stung her fingertips. Whoever he was, she needed to get him to Mason. 

[rougarxu]

Thanks to the woman’s efforts, the beast was released, collapsing to the floor in a heap of malformed limbs. It came with a sharp whine, stumbling once, twice, thrice in an attempt at balancing upon all four paws. However, instead of extending his gratitude - a concept far beyond the beast he’d become - Konstantin’s lips drew back to reveal crude, yellowed fangs, slowly circling the room with a resonant growl.

Smells off. Different. Not like humans. But, this does little to deter him - if anything, it sets his eyes ablaze, mangled patches of fur standing on end in an attempted display of dominance. Too much aggression to think rationally. Too many sharp instincts to think human. Only hunt. Only kill.

And, with a glob of drool hanging from his maw, it very much seemed he would follow through with it. Except, upon prepping his hind quarters, the pup let out another sharp whine, bare flesh and bone protruding from his back. Whatever Equinox had done to him, he wasn’t your standard were, but a tragic, malformed creature, lost to himself and the monster he’d become. The name Konstantin didn’t even register, as he attempted to gather himself, springing into a second attack.

[corvidamned]

@rougarxu​ | 🔥   The clock chimed for the first hour, and her gaze remained sharp as ever, even if her irises adopted a pale candlelight yellow. She brought her tea to her lips. She did warn him, and she hates repeating herself. It was not a traffic report. It was a promise.   At his admission, Kira’s brow rose. Her heart softened and her feathers smoothed out from being bristled in stress. She lowered her cup. Her cause usually always diverged into a solo mission. It made the flames in her halo rise to hear he’d want a part to play.   “If one more person starts using the name of my realm as a unit of measurement, I may have to charge royalties.” She managed to smile. She’s okay, she’s learning to be okay. Placing down her porcelain, she got up to sit at his side and confide in him. Her wings leaned in, sorely tempted to shroud the two of them as she eagerly spoke,

 “I’m learning my jurisdiction–punishment, penance, forging demons, assigning earthly temptations, scheduling disasters and apocalypses.” Her eyes falter, heavy to keep her faith that good can overcome her challenges, and evil could reform within her system. Her gaze perks up to offer a more positive note, “And, there’s a lot of things I’m able to do now that no human or vampire could.”

[rougarxu]

As far as first impressions go, gotta hand it to her, she’s holding up pretty damn well for someone who just added Satan to their resume. To think, in a previous life, he’d have feared nothing more than winding up in this place, damned forever on some minor indiscretion. Now, it barely even fazes him that he’s stood within the depths of Hell, regarded as nothing more than a rendezvous between old friends.

Sure, some aspects of her visage had changed since their last encounter - the wings, for starters, in ‘human’ form, and the flaming halo upon her head - but he wasn’t going to sit and judge someone who’d never judged him. Why she’d went down this path, why she’d taken the role, he won’t pretend to fully understand, but Kira’s reasons are her own, and, so long as she believes in them, trusts in her ability to see this through, then he’ll stand by her decision, whatever the cost.

“ Yeah, I’ve been hearin’ about that. An apocalypse a day keeps the doctor away, right? ” There’s a sardonic glint to his eye as he draws another breath, figuring the smoke wouldn’t faze her in a realm reeking of sulphur. “ That right? And, there I was, startin’ to worry you weren’t gonna take to this. Far as bein’ the Devil goes, you seem to have it all figured out. ”