Blessed Darkenings.

[delcorian]

Harbringer sat drunk, looking around.

He didn't get drunk ever, but he hated the fact that he knew that there was a plight again once on this plane of existance. The last time he had been drunk was five generations ago, when he had lost someone he had loved. She had been everything to him, she had been killed by a demon bent on avenging his people for what Harbringer and his friends had done. This was during the Crusades, and Jersualem had been a prime and ripe target for Demons trying to kill more humans. When the Crusaders had taken Jersualem, they had found strange corpses already there, not human. They saw Harbringer leaving, but didn't question him, mainly because of the fact that they knew he was a Warrior of Heaven. Back then, Harbringer had been a coward, he had used simple stuff, mostly rocks and the dark night before to kill the demons. Now he had to focus on the present.

"I've forgotten the power of being drunk, especially since I'm a demon." he said to himself. "Last time, I wreacked havok and that was because three demons came in desguised as Humans and tore up the place, and killed the girl I loved."

He thought back to that day, but he realized that it would do no good. The past was dead, and he needed the future to help his present.

[Rimril]

Yutaji, wearing a black disguise, covering his fleshy body completely, entered the pub. He had been at the graveyard, trying to dig up some body parts, for his own were almost rotten. The freshly stolen limps from the recently dead smelled awful from under his long black coat, it filled up the room with a horrendous smell. Not trying to draw to much attention, he walked immediately to the bar. The bartender gave him an odd look, yet he ignored the smell and gave Yutaji a beer as he had asked for.
At the bar, a person that seemed rather drunk was looking around. Yutaji took a seat next to him. Disquieting images swirled in his mind instantly. It had been a long day for him, every once in a while some of he limps wore of, and though he could repair them with his magic, he favoured the good old way of stealing them. But the graveyards were well guarded these days andit wasn’t easy to steal dead bodies. Today he had failed to dig up new limbs, so in his despair to find new parts, he had killed a woman. Though he liked her pretty screams (Old habits just don’t die) he felt awful about it.
“Having a bad day too?” He mumbled at the person next to him.

[delcorian]

Harbringer looked at the man, and sniffed him, and that drunk haze immediatly disappered, as Harbringers hand reached for a blade.

"Grave robber," said Hark, sniffing the man, "I really hate grave robbers, as much as I hate Demons and being drunk."

[Graphic Description]

"I told you to give me a freakin' glass of cow's blood!"

"And I told you that we don't serve blood!"

"What kind of lame-ass bar doesn't serve blood!? I may be a demon, but I speak for all vampires when I say shame on you!"

Demonica rapped her unsheathed claws on the bar's counter, expressing her obvious hatred of the tender. Oh, the unrelenting ignorance of humans. For one so obviously inhuman to be forced to order water at a tavern was unacceptable. She would have her way, even if she had to go to the butcher's, buy a bucket of that glorious red fluid, and carry it back here (just so that she could enjoy it).

Though she spoke without much dignity, Demonica was a creature of words, as evidenced by the worn notebook and dulled pencil in her pack. Her companion, a skeleton-cat that answered to "Femur", batted playfully at a passing horsefly until it flew out of range of her barstool perch.

"If only humans were as easy to deal with as you, Femur. But, no. Not everything one desires is within their grasp," the demon muttered, stretching out her crimson wings. She let out a muffled yelp as her pet pounced on her master's spiked tail. "Hah. How ironic. You misbehave as I compare you to Them."

As the bartender returned with the water and a beer that someone else had ordered, Demonica overheard an interesting snippet of conversation. The stench - or fragrance, as she preferred - of death filled the room.

"Grave robber. I really hate grave-robbers, as much as I hate demons and being drunk."

Sipping her glass, Demonica turned to look at the man who had insulted her kind. He slumped over in his stool, a few empty beers beside him. Yes, it was clear that what he had said was true: he certainly looked intoxicated. Apparently, the man who sat beside him was a grave-robber of sorts; he had what looked like a dismembered arm sticking ever so slightly out of his cloak.

"What are we to be hated for?" Demonica hissed, baring her fangs and extending her wings to their full length. "And, who are you?"

[Taskmienster]

This thread has been sitting since before the beginning of this year (2009). Since no response has been made to create activity I am going to be moving this. If you would like it to be reopened please feel free to PM myself or another admin and they will be able to move it for you back to the Peaceful Promenade.