Odam's backstory
Odam They were still coming. I scrambled up from sitting against the brick wall and limped on. I pulled my hat down over my red hair though it wouldn't do much help. I needed to get them off my tail. My leg was bleeding badly, and I needed to stop it before I bled out or it got infected. I glanced behind me, taking into account the glow of the oncoming torches from around the corner and the sounds bouncing off the walls getting louder. I opened my lips to use the scent glands on the top of my mouth. They were close. So very close. The first one appeared in the alley entrance. I grit my teeth and took off running, not letting the pain in my leg distract me. I heard shouts behind me but didn't look back. No matter what the costs. I couldn't die, not here, not this way. I owed it to her. I needed to stay alive. Pink eyes. Soft smile. Blue fur. She smiled up at me as I leaned down to kiss her. Murmured words of comfort in her ear. Asked her to be my mate for life. Convinced her to go hunting here, even with the trials. Watched as they beat her. Screamed as she burned. Ran as they turned to me next. I ran. I forgot pain and I ran. And then I wasn't. I fell on my side as my wounded leg collapsed from under me. Couldn't move. The adrenaline receded and pain crashed over my like a wave. Couldn't breath. Couldn't port. My mouth was open as I raggedly drew breath. The scents told me they were getting closer, but I couldn't do anything. I lost my resolve. 'I'm so sorry.' My thoughts resolved around those three words. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' They found me. I closed my blue eyes, drawing up pictures of her as I prepared for death. No one really knows what it's like for the dead stay dead and can't tell their stories. I slid into the black and rejoiced as the pain, the sounds, and the smells, receded. ^^^^^^^^^^ I opened my eyes. Darkness broken with little dots of light. I sat up. Darkness but the pin pricks above me. I tried calling out but my mouth wouldn't respond and pain barely registered. Pain. Pain. So much pain. It washed over me. The dead didn't feel pain. Panic rose up with the pain. Pain and fear. Pain, fear, hunger. Pain, fear hunger, and blood. The dots above me disappeared as the blackness swallowed me again. ^^^^^^^^^^ I blinked my eyes open. The sky was on fire. No. The sun was rising. Did the land of dead have a sun? Did the day change to night here? Apparently. But dead don't feel pain. Right? I tried groaning but only a gurgled sound escaped from my unopened mouth. I sat up, leaning against the wall behind me. My whole body was on fire, but it centered around my unresponsive mouth. Dried blood on my pants. I tried moving my leg and it didn't respond. I tried scenting, but my mouth still wouldn't cooperate. Then it came back. My love. Hunting. England. The trials. Fire. They killed her. I ran. I died. Or did I? My mind was still foggy and the pain wasn't helping. Could I risk porting? Could I risk NOT porting? Hell was too far. Somewhere closer. I reached out with the natural ability of all porting demons and scanned. And ported. Thank Satan. This building was empty and vacated, by the looks of it. I was still sitting when I ported and the lack of wall caused me to fall backwards. Fatigue swept over me and I fell asleep once again. When I woke for the third time, the windows were dark once again, but my eyes were now adjusting. A good sign. I struggled to sit up and, with much pain, stood. I ported to a medical building nearby and ported back. I pushed away the spinning dizziness threatening to put me out again. My resolve was back at least. I sat on the closest thing to me, the floor, and wrapped my leg. I tore off the bloodied section of my pants to keep the wound clear. Mirror. Something reflective. Needed to check this persistent wound on my face. I hobbled through the building, up to the second floor, down to the basement, hoping that the squeaky stairs didn't wake anyone close by. The only creatures close were the rats, watching me with their curious yellow eyes. My stomach growled at the sight of them. Treat wound, eat, heal, get out of here. The mental checklist popped up in my head, a favored activity of mine that she'd always found annoying but cute. I removed blankets from portraits and furniture until a century-old mirror was uncovered. The lights didn't work. It was too dark down here, especially for my not-very-light-sensitive eyes. Genetics had taken a liking for scent over sight apparently. The mirror was too heavy to lift, even if I wasn't injured. A noise of frustration escaped the back of my throat. Fine. SLEEP, check face, treat whatever was wrong, eat, heal, get out of here. I could adjust the list. I'm flexible. I limped over to a previously uncovered couch and flopped down. The wandering of the building had left my still-weak body completely drained and I almost immediately fell asleep. I opened my eyes and recalled my list, habit made out of a century of obsessive organization. I swung my legs over the couch and sat up. No head spinning. Unfortunately, that wouldn't last long, but the relief was welcomed. I stood and walked over to the mirror. There were no windows in the 19 century European cellar. The black was stifling and I had to, mentally, tell myself there were no humans with fire hiding in the shadows. Cause fire glows. And that would give them away. So nothing there; just you and the rats. I put my hands over the floor-to-ceiling mirror and ported upstairs. Light filtered into the two-story entry way through the windows near the ceiling. Dust sprinkled down through the beams to collect into a thin layer on the floor. A fairly undisturbed floor except where I'd been the night previous. I leaned the mirror against the wall. I looked at myself and saw a smiling face. Blue fur. Pink eyes. Blood ran from her head, her arms, her body. Her fur ignited into a great flame and burning fur hit my nose. I gasped, which was more of a sharp intake through my nose, and stepped away, blinking. She was gone and something else stood in her place. A monster. It's dark blue eyes were haunted, telling stories of events gone. It's flaming red hair was muted by a layer of ash, dust, and blood. It's clothes were caked in rust and dirt. It's skin, an almost radioactive green, was turned brown from blood. It's black horns were grey from ash. But its mouth. Its mouth was covered in stitches. Black threads snaked from lip to lip, keeping the monster's mouth closed. Keeping it's teeth from sinking into me. I would've yelled, given some warning, but couldn't. I backed into the far wall. A small realization in the back of my mind finally got through the panicked thoughts of fight or flight. The monster responded to me. I lifted an arm, it lifted an arm. I stepped closer, it stepped closer. I moved my hand up to my mouth and it did the same, eyes never leaving me. I ran my hand over the stitches, feeling the texture the picture in front of me visually said. I felt dizzy again. I sidestepped, tripped over the stairs, and landed, hitting my head with a resounding crack. ^^^^^^^^^^ The mirror had been covered with a blanket as soon as I'd reawaken. I looked at the rats, lonely, hungry, my stomach protesting loudly. I'd die of starvation. I couldn't catch any of the stupid things. I couldn't hunt, my heightened sense of smell was gone. My mate was dead. The humans were probably still looking for me. It haunted me for the rest of my life. Why. Why did they leave me alive? Did they think I had died from blood loss after stitching my mouth? Had they planned to come back for me? Had another demon fought them off? I clung to my only sense of assurance. She'd fought them off. She'd saved me. Either from the afterlife or from the living world, she'd gotten the monsters away. It was my only rope to sanity. Or maybe I'd lost even that. My hands circled into fists. Them. THEY had killed her. THEY had let me live, MADE me live without her. THEY kept me alive when I could no longer eat. It wasn't enough for THEM to simply kill me, I had to die slowly through starvation. No. I stood up. They didn't know me, didn't know my species. We had personalities, souls, lives. I was English. I was raised to not give up without a fight. I ported.