Xander's Cross, Oregon: a small town ringed with forbidding mountains and misty forest. The sky may be gray, but the townspeople are welcoming to people of all kinds...and things that are not quite human as well. Here the native shifters, aliens, werewolves, and witches live in peace. They have yet to find out the new business owners encroaching on the land are also vampires.
The peace has been broken by murder, however, and things in Xander's Cross are about to become quite a bit darker.
Welcome to your new home.
is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?
August 20, 2020
The mayor, Rowan Starkwood, was found dead less than a mile from his home. Rumors say his body was mutilated, but the state of the body has not yet been released to the public.
Post by Dorian Blackwell on Apr 28, 2021 0:30:30 GMT -5
Three Days Grace blared out the windows of an old Toyota pickup. The driver, a one Dorian Blackwell, tapped one hand against the steering wheel while the other was pulling away the cigarette from his lips as he blew out a puff of smoke. Despite it being nearly midnight that warm summer night, he wore aviator sunglasses. He looked a bit worse for ware, but was actually in a rather good mood. He was down right exhausted, and he could finally taste the end of the road. There was a light at the end of his long dark tunnel of murder and bloodshed. At the end of it? His brother. Finally...after two hundred and forty years, he could see Tobias.
What he would do for his brother.... He'd proven it over the centuries, and his task was nearly at an end. All that was left? Tell the puppeteer, that his little puppet was ready to have his strings cut.
The entire Blight line, was eradicated from the planet. Not one still held breath in their lungs. They were wiped out. By Dorian's hands. The shadow hunter is what they'd called him, and he'd come for them all.
He pulled off to the side of the road as he came up on a cross roads. He shut the engine off, but left the lights on as he pulled the aviators off his face, tossing them into the seat next to him before he placed the cigarette between his lips. Climbing out of the cab he caught a glance at his face, scowling at seeing the tired bags under his eyes, and the healing black eye he had received from his last target. There was a small cut near his eye on his upper brow, and his lips were cracked. His left ribcage was a bit sore as well, but nothing a bottle of Ibprophen couldn't fix. He reached the back of the truck and got into the storage compartment, pulling out the needed materials he needed, he walked to the middle of the cross roads. No one was insight and the full moon was high in the sky. Not yet reaching it's apex.
With no one around, Dorian began drawing his pentagon with the chalk. Large enough a grown man could fit into it if they laid on their back. Once the circle was complete, he tossed the chalk to the side and then started to chant in latin as he stood before the pentagram in the middle of the crossroads. Once the chant was complete, he let silence fill the air save for the crickets. He stood patiently waiting for a time, though after a few minutes he began to grow annoyed, and let out a small sigh of irritation. Turning to look down at where the truck sat, and he glanced down one side of the road. There was a sudden slight breeze then that felt like someone was running their cold icy fingers down his neck, and he turned his head towards the circle.
He pulled the cigarette from his lips and let the puff of smoke out lazily, before he made a deliberate tap on the cigarette to let the ash fall to the ground. "Bout time..." He said with a raised brow.
Azazel liked to keep people waiting. He liked to remind mortals that he held the power here. Though they were his only way into their realm, that wasn't because he wasn't powerful. Oh, no. It was because someone, all those years ago, had been trying to protect their tiny, fragile lives from him.
After more than a century, however, this particular mortal had forgotten that rather important detail. And apparently, a little waiting didn't remind him.
Azazel folded his arms over his chest and forced a smile at Dorian Blackwell, his favorite little henchman. The body he'd borrowed was that of a petite bleach-blonde woman, wearing one of those horrible contraptions to make her bust look larger. Her clothes were bloodied and torn, and her throat gaped open where it had been cut. Azazel blamed Dorian for picking an area so close to a dumpsite. In spite of the borrowed flesh, however, Azazel's voice was his own.
"̴O̷h̴ ̶r̵e̴a̸l̴l̸y̷?̸ ̸Y̶o̶u̷'̶r̵e̴ ̵f̴e̸e̶l̵i̶n̷g̸ ̵i̸m̶p̵a̷t̸i̵e̴n̵t̶?̸"̶ he asked with false curiosity. "H̷o̴w̷ ̴f̸u̷n̶n̷y̴,̴ ̶s̷o̷ ̴a̷m̸ ̵I̸!̴ ̴E̵x̷c̵e̶p̷t̴ ̷I̸'̴v̵e̶ ̴b̶e̸e̵n̶ ̷w̸a̵i̶t̶i̵n̵g̶ ̸m̶o̵r̵e̵ ̴t̵h̸a̷n̵ ̷t̷w̴o̸ ̶h̴u̸n̴d̷r̵e̶d̴ ̵y̷e̵a̸r̶s̵ ̴f̵o̵r̵ ̴y̴o̸u̸ ̴t̵o̶ ̴f̸u̸l̴f̵i̴l̷l̸ ̸y̷o̴u̵r̷ ̶p̸r̸o̸m̴i̶s̸e̸,̵ ̴B̶l̸a̷c̶k̵w̵e̸l̵l̸.̸"̷ The humor fell out of his voice and his twisted smile gave way to a scowl.
Post by Dorian Blackwell on May 4, 2021 23:20:50 GMT -5
Well it certainly wasn't the most offensive thing Azazel had in his wardrobe, of the things that Dorian had seen the demon possess. He took another drag from his cigarette, listening to the gravelly sound of his voice. Over the years this had become a habit for Dorian. Checking in after each kill he'd made, or some important piece of information about the Blights he'd learned. He was but a good minion that liked keeping the boss in the loop no? More then that, it was for Dorian's sanity. If he could show Azazel that he was successful, then that meant they were nearing an end goal. And with the recent kill?
Just one. More. Left.
Pulling the cigarette away, he tilted his head back and blew the smoke up and into the air before he let his head fall back down. Dark eyes landing on the possessed corpse. "Isaac Blight's dead." He declared. Tapping a finger against his cigarette to get the ash to drop off before he brought it back to his lips. "And...If what you're feeling is right," Dorian didn't want to sound to hopeful, nor eager so he kept himself from smiling. "There's only one left." He'd done it. Finally.
There was hope at the end of this tunnel, and Dorian could practically see it. But something else, maybe it was a gut feeling, or a premonition, told him this last one was going to be his most difficult one yet.