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The Blood Moon

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The Blood Moon Empty The Blood Moon

Post by Demonhunter May 23rd 2021, 4:50 pm

The blood red moon beats down onto New York city, demons flooding the streets, devouring civilians by the dozens. This however, was not just a demon horde… this was an invasion. There was order to the chaos, or at least as much order that could be mustered from legions of demons.

A hell knight in shining, bloody crimson armor settles his horned helmet under his arm, watching the carnage his underlings were wreaking upon this filthy human city. However, above the screams of terror and pain, a shrill sound caught his attention and sent a chill down his spine.

“Reaver charge!” He shouts, slapping his helmet back on his head and drawing his sword. “Pole arm regiment, to the front, halberds up!” There was a bit of a scramble before a small line of little black imps formed, two ranks deep, each carrying a long pole with a spear point and an axe. They lift the sharp points up to form a wall of spears as the sound of hoofbeats grows closer and closer.

The undead horseman rounds the street corner, hooves tearing up the pavement as she rides, undaunted by the enemy lines. The hell night couldn’t help but blink in shock… it was just one reaver. Usually there were hundreds, but they seriously only had one? He also couldn't help but question her plan. She was charging right into an anti-cavalry line without a care.

Rai stands in her saddle, whip at her belt along with her scythe, estoc on her back and she pulls up her bow.
“Hold!” The hell knight shouts, watching his imps to ensure none got any ideas of breaking rank. Even if it was just one reaver, he couldn’t help the nerves seeing one up close gave him. He'd only ever seen them in Dis and they could over run whole squads. All he had was 24 imps.

Rai however, was using this to her advantage. Right in the middle, one imp trembled behind his halberd, his grip on the polearm was considerably loose and he’d be the slowest of the bunch. Just as the imps step forward to thrust their halberds into the oncoming stallion, Rai leaps, exploiting the one slow imp to jump over the first rank entirely, bow knocking as she is in the air. Grimmorah, on the other hand, bursts into a fiery puddle of sulfur and smoke before even touching the line. Rai fires a ghostly green arrow into the stunned hell knight as it jams itself into the crease in his shoulder’s pauldron.

The reaver has her scythes up before she even hits the ground, turning to shred the first rank of imps from the back, tossing one imp into the backline and impaling him on their halberds. The hell knight moves to advance before the ghostly squeal of Grimmorah echoes through the sky as he manifests back into the world a few feet away, sprinting away from the action, sickly green tether pulling taught and yanking the hell knight off his feet, forward and into his own imp line like an armored wrecking ball as he is dragged by the fleeing horse. Many imps ended up crushed by their leader, and those who weren’t a bloody smear on the pavement found themselves at the mercy of an angry, scythe-wielding reaver who was cleaving imps to pieces with relative ease as their organization was shattered.

Just as the battered and bruised hell knight finds himself freed from the beast’s tether and on his feet, Rai stamps her boot into the last imp’s back and pulls his head clean off his neck.

“Your imps are shit.” Rai growls, staring daggers into the armored demon. “And you’re shit for hiding behind them.” She spits, tossing the severed imp head at it’s commander.

“You’re outnumbered a hundred to one here, reaver.”

“And yet I do not hide behind imps.” Rai snarls, lifting her scythe as the dreadnought knight approaches.

The knight charges, sword swinging down like a massive cleaver. Rai ducks to the inside of his cement-splintering swing and cleaves up the side of his armor. Her left scythe clips the crimson armor in the side, cleaving half his breast plate off in the process. The metal clatters to the ground as red skin is exposed for future abuse. The commander recoils, grasping Rai by the arm and rearing back to attempt to land a punch into her face only for her to duck to the inside and slam her horned head into his helmet. The visor splinters and clatters into the ground to join the breastplate, sending the hellknight recoiling in shock, only to earn him a devastating slash across the body as Rai’s arm was freed. What flesh was exposed sliced and spilled blood and what was covered by armor found itself bare.

Rai was way too fast for the commander to match through strength, he’d have to resort on magic. His hand raises as Rai makes her advance, a torrent of flame bursts forth into the reaver. She winces, gritting her teeth and raising her scythe to meet the spell caster’s hand and cleaves through his gauntlet and through his hand.

In a panic the knight raises the other but Rai catches it, swinging to cleave it off too.

The commanding hellknight sinks to his knees as Rai spits a mouthful of blood onto the ground. She gently removes his shattered helmet, tossing it into the streets. “How did you get here?” her voice calls, deceptively soothing for a harbinger of death.

The demon only grits his teeth and spits in her direction.

The reaver scowls, grasping him by both his horns.

“I ask again. Where did you come from?”

“Bitch born of death and horse piss.”

This was getting her nowhere. Just as suspected, questioning a hell knight would yield just insults. Thus she pulled as the reduced demon squeals like a dying pig. Both horns eventually give out as the armored knight goes limp to the ground, leaving Rai holding two halves of his head. Tossing both halves to the ground she looks into the bleeding sky filled with demons.
Post Mate
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The Blood Moon Empty Re: The Blood Moon

Post by Shadows of the Pale Flame May 24th 2021, 5:04 am

”Is it done yet, Scarlet?”

The voice was not a nice voice, the kind you’d expect to hear as your children were murdered in front of you. And this wasn’t far from the truth. It wasn’t an unpleasant voice; it was cool and smooth and elegant, obviously well-educated- or at least pretending to be so. It rang out clearly across the rooftops, the dulcet tones catching the attention of everyone gathered. It was a small crowd certainly, but nothing compared to the demonic hordes pressing on the city. Three pairs of eyes looked up at him; though there were six of them, not including the speaker himself, two were preoccupied and the third, well … she didn’t typically show herself unless needed.

They were all outfitted for war. That’s what this was. This was war. Just a casual glance down in the streets confirmed even the most skeptical opinion. Blood ran in rivers in the streets, the screams and cries of humanity painting the air with a cacophony of screams that made even the hardened heroes of New York shivered with anticipation. Who could fight this bloodthirsty horde? What could possibly stem the tide against such unstoppable hatred? They tried, and they failed, the ones who tried to fight. Their stupid imps and rank and file were nothing more than fodder for the more powerful heroes, but they had trump crad; or rather, several of them.

Hell-Knights, they were called, introducing themselves as such to the few heroes who survived an encounter with them. Powerful, evil beings, using their strength to dominate and their unstoppable force of minions to conquer the human world. Which, frankly, just wasn’t fair. Lax could have sworn he booked this weekend to destroy New York. Don’t they ever attend the biweekly Villains Anonymous? All jokes aside, they were formidable foes, especially with their relatively powerful minions. Trash tier, for sure, but his Brights and Smokes would be hard-pressed to fight them back. A snarl twisted his lips; he had lost too many good men against these damned demons. Not that he had any particular connection to the men that died; but they were an investment he had put time, money, and equipment towards training them, and now that was an investment lost; plus, he had to pay out to the widower’s!

”Not yet, my Master, but soon. I would get ready.”

Her voice was like melted butter, a whisper that penetrated deep into the mind and hung in the air for far longer than it should have. She was a beautiful woman, tattoos - currently glowing crimson - covering her neck and torso, mostly on display with the lowcut red dress that hugged every prodigious curve. Voluminous red hair was frizzing up from the heat of her magical preparations; and it was quite the spell. Balls of flame circled her head, almost grazing the bald head of the man next to her. He was one of those assembled that didn’t bother to look at their leader; no, his blue eyes were peering over what was left of New York and the invading army that had turned it into a battlefield. Their resident strategist, Johnathon turned towards Lax and nodded.

This was the only sign they needed, and any attempt at normalcy was abandoned.

Amalia ditched the loose green sweater and jeans, exposing her pearly-white body to the air for a brief moment before donning the gemmed armor. The black skirt covered her thighs, and a corset-like metal cuirass clung to her like a second skin. Ashy-black hair flowed behind in waves. Tattoos glowed faintly, her bare arms and backs covered, and though they were runic symbols no one could read, they told a story whispered in the mind. A weapon appeared, as if from nowhere, a massive double-headed axe that even a strong would find impossible to lift, but she carried as if it were nothing. She gave it an experimental swing, and the sheer force shattered windows down the block.

The other combatants were much simpler; no gear to speak of. Lax reached inside his leather jacket and felt for the amulet kept hidden there. The Last Heirloom of Isabella Teach. As his cool hands closed around the metal, a gasp - like that of a drowning person breaching the surface - filled the area, and a ghostly spectre appeared. She wore a tri-corner hat and a tattered dress, her ghostly form floated several inches off the ground; despite her state (that being dead) the hatred in her eyes were real as she glared at Lax.

”What do you want?”

Cooly, languidly, he leaned off the railing. A burst of yellow energy and Isabella flinched backwards; she had been on the receiving end of his Pain before. But he wasn’t attacking her; as if made of flame, his clothes fizzled and faded into yellow shreds, like paper burning, only to be replaced. Black and yellow armor covered his body, spikes lining the arms and the shoulders. A wicked helm covered his yellow hair, horns swept back like a demon himself, only revealing his glowing yellow eyes, like a predator in the dark. A spark of yellow, and more metal formed, connecting it to the rest of the armor. Another spark of yellow and then it was as if the world collapsed in on itself in his hand, reality warping and then- a blade, long, thin, and with an edge shimmering with energy. His Nightmare Blade.

”There are demons attacking this city. I know how you hate the living. I figured I would give you a chance to earn your freedom.”

Though barely visible in the red light, her violet eyes burned with desire. A ghostly sabre, formed from the ether and glowing ectoplasmic green, leapt to her hand, and she bowed her head, the most he was going to get from her.

”I … appreciate the-”

But she was cut off by the hectic whispers of Mistress Scarlet.

”I am ready, my Master.”

Blue fire now flickered across around her, 12 fireballs burning with intense fire. The heat of it was almost too much for her, the skin on her arms blistering and peeling away. Though her face is twisted in pain, she held until her Master said so. He knew best. As fire seared across her normally flameproof skin, she let out only a single whimper before, with a nod from Jonathan, Lax gestured. The twisted, tribal-like tattoos flared for just a brief second and then each of the fireballs burst from her at insane speeds. Though they screamed with magical energy, they moved so fast that the demons barely had time to register before the magical flame consumed them. Each one was immense, easily covering several city blocks, and burned with enough force to turn even the hardest metal to slag.

For a second, Mistress Scarlet was suspended by the force of the spell, but then she collapsed, caught by the too-careful hands of Jonathon. As he carried her from the edge of the building, the four others leapt into action. Lax and Amalia were twins, suspended in midair for a moment as they leaped in a perfect arc before twisting in midair; it was their landings that was different, Lax rolling to a gentle stop while Amalia, the force of nature she is, just slammed into the ground, her immeasurable strength leveling buildings for blocks around. She stood, unfazed, her beautiful visage like a goddess of war.

”Cannon, Scarlet. Stay there and protect the base. Nicholas, I want you taking out as many imps as possible. Disaster, try to study those portals. We need to close them and make sure they don’t again. Valkyrie, go with Nicholas. This atmosphere is seething with magic, you should have no need to get worn out. Protect him, and kill any Hell-Knights you meet in the way. Blackjack. Go with Disaster. Make sure no one gets to him.”

He gave orders with the practiced air of a general, and without question most of them immediately followed along with the orders. Only Amalia hesitated as she saw Lax walk away, casually throwing a spike of yellow energy through an opportunistic imp; the screaming of the demon brought a smirk to his face.

”And what are you going to do?”

The accusatory tone was directed at Lax, and were it not for her power, Lax would have given her the same treatment as the imp, currently writhing in agony as the spike of energy sent ungodly pain through his body and spirit. He came to a temporary stop, glancing over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes was enough to make even Amalia think twice.

”Why, I have a task to take care of.”

That was all the explanation he gave before he was off, the sound barrier breaking a second after he took. Amalia watched him go with a strange mixture of emotions, then shook her head. If anyone could handle himself, it was their leader; it was the reason she followed. Anyone weaker wouldn’t be worthy. Hefting her axe, she jumped following the twisting form of Nicholas into chaos.
He had gotten started already. The imps had almost pissed themselves laughing, seeing the lanky, scarred, shirtless form of a man, with long, dank hair and scars all over his body. He seemed almost dead, an unhealthy pallor to his skin, his teeth gross and rotted and his eyes rolling crazily in his head. They mocked him, throwing insults and jeers at the man. The man stopped just outside the range of their spears. The Hell-Knight in charge roared at them, his whip cracking, but their was something about the man that had them hesitate. It wasn’t until the Hell-Knight screamed loud enough to hurt their ears that one entrepreneurial little imp darted forward, impaling on the man on the end of his spear and running him through! There was a relaxation among the imps; it was only logical that this late in the game, any opposition to them would be a last resort, a being of insane strength that no one could hope to defeat. But it was just another weakling.

As the imp scoffed and jerked to remove his spear from the chest of the man, he found he suddenly couldn’t move. All eyes assembled looked as one to the scrawny fingers holding back the entire bulk of the imp, for no matter how much he tugged and braced he simply couldn’t get it free. And then, slowly, inexorably, the man began pulling the imp closer. Inch, by inch, by inch it was dragged, the shredding of flesh and cracking of bone ignored, pulling the spear into his body and through the other side. Blood pooled down the spear and over the hands of the imp, but just as the creature tried to let go, the inexorable fingers gripped his with such insane pressure, every bone in its fingers cracked. And through it all, Nicholas wore the same expression of maniacal happiness, eyes bulging and face split in a smile.

”So … hungry …”

A tongue far too long to fit into his mouth licked up the side of the imps face, and in the next moment, something horrible happened. His face split, the corners of his mouth stretching and stretching and stretching as he opened his jaws, like a snake unhinging. Skin stretched and monstrous lengths of bone connected his lower jaw to his skull. A monstrous, spiked tongue darted out, secondary to the one tasting the imp, and impaled his prey through the chest. The blood was sucked like a straw from his body and when there was nothing but bone and skin left, he opened wide and swallowed the being whole.

His transformation didn’t stop there; muscles and skin writhed and split, blood sprayed across the ground as his body remade itself. Tendrils wrapped around bone, bone replicating itself to make longer limbs, stronger ribs; blood and tissue sprayed out, covering the cowering imps in guts and particles as his monstrous form took shape. A bloody mist surrounded him, obscuring him, but the crazy eyes stayed, shifting from grey to black to brilliant, screaming red, like the cries of the damned. It only took a split second before the shape within grew to ridiculous proportions, several stories tall and easily broad enough to block the street. But he was more than a muscled monster. His left arm was shaggy, like the broken arm of a lion, while his right the claw of an eagle; a snakes tongue flickered in his mouth, and each of his legs came from a different creature. A wicked horn adorned his forehead, and, as he sweeped the bloody mist away from him, he roared the terrifying roar of a predator, shattering the windows around him.

As Amalia landed - it only took her one jump - the carnage had started, the blood of the imps staining the greyish-green scales of Chimera and sticking to the metallic boots she wore. She grimaced; the blood of the weak always smelled so gross. Suddenly, a flash of understanding, and she whirled, her boot sending a group of imps flying and splattering on the nearby walls. Amalia scoffed to herself; what weaklings. She only listened to Lax for the opportunity to fight the Hell-Knights; there was nothing else here to satisfy her. Even now, as the creature urged his minions on to take on the grotesque form of Nicholas, the Hell-Knight hung back, hoping to exhaust this beast so he can slay it with one blow. Yes, that was the way to do it, his grin said. Even as Chimera impaled three imps on his horn and sent another score flying, his pride wouldn’t let him engage.

But that wasn’t stopping Amalia.

Here, at least, the sloppy ground was a benefit; a burst of strength and her massive blade cleaved straight the Hell-Knights horse, sending him on his ass. A howl of rage filled the air around him as the demon leaped to his feat, the only thing wounded being his pride as Amalia smirked at him; but to a Hell-Knight, that was as bad as losing a limb. For a second, the Hell-Knight paused; this was no Reaver, no denizen of Dis! How dare it think it could do anything but die at his hand? Pathetic woman!

”So you have volunteered for sacrifice?”

Its’ voice like sand on glass crackled out and Amalia shivered in disgust; a warrior she may be, but her culture demanded they look their best. That was apparently not a thing in demon culture; blood caked his sword, and his armor, though shining, was ill taken care of, as if he’d been letting it sit, or had one of these incompotent imps polish it for him. Opposed to Amalia, in her glimmering black-scale armor studded with gems, he was nothing more than a blight on her record. In fact, Amalia was almost disappointed; Lax had said they were these big and bad villains capable of destroying heroes. Tch. This just proved hero culture was nothing more than fancy moves and scripts. Yet another reason to despise them.

”I’ve slayed more powerful demons as a child. I doubt you’ll even scratch my armor.”

With a howl of rage, the Hell-Knight charged, a highly telegraphed move that Amalia easily sidestepped. Her blade moved with her, easily knocking the demon to his knees with the sheer force of the blow; it again didn’t hurt him except for his pride, but that was more than enough to send literal flames flying out of his ears. While a cool aesthetic, it wouldn’t help him much here, and so he calmed himself, pacing back and forth, testing, like a scorpion waiting for the right time to strike. Amalia was almost impressed, if it weren’t for the fact that that was what every swordsman did. It was obvious this guy was nothing more than a novice, and instantly, she was bored. Couldn’t rush it though; a novice with a sword was, in a way, even more dangerous than a master. He struck, but Amalia easily dodged, skirting on her heels like a ballerina doing a particularly elegant pirouette.

1, 2, 3.

1, 2, 3.

1, 2, 3.

His pattern was simple; sweep, sweep, slash, with nary a moment’s waste. It was perfect form, the blade whistling through the air, each one close enough to almost hit her, giving the Hell-Knight enough confidence to keep going. Of course, it was nowhere near, Amalia wouldn’t be that stupid. And honestly, she was so bored. Her initial assessment was a bit off; he was no amateur, sure, but had no originality. No pizzaz, no uniqueness to make him at all threatening. If this is what the invading demons were, the heroes they faced must have been nothing. Less than nothing.

With the type of sigh that denoted she was more than bored, she suddenly stopped spinning to avoid; rather, she stood her ground, meeting every strike of his with one of hers, delivered with a casual, contemptuous air, as if she wasn’t used to it. The Hell-Knight quickly realized that he was outmatched, but before he could do anything more than screech in rage and fury, Amalia finished it in one blow. Her armored gauntlet slammed into his face, crushing his face muscles; as he reared back, she slammed her head into his with enough force to splatter his brains across her helm and the floor. She let his body drop; there were more important prey.


He seemed a simple target, a hunchbacked, old man with veiny eyes, unbrushed white hair, and a general air of frailness. He was wearing only simple clothes, and didn’t carry any weapons or armor, save for some weird metal gloves adorned with flashing lights. He had appeared out of nowhere, behind enemy lines, holding some weird flashing device in his hand aimed at the portals. It was impossible that any mere human could break their barriers, but still, anybody getting behind their lines like this couldn’t be allowed. So why was he still there? Well, the answer was simple.

Anybody or anything that came too close died.

Sometimes, it was obvious he was the one responsible; a group of imps would charge, shouting and weapons raised, and then suddenly they would simply fall apart; and not psychologically. No, it was as if whatever bonds were holding them together stopped doing so, and they fell into a pile of slop, full of organs and skin and bones. And if they tried a sneak attack, well, they would never get far; somehow, they’d always alert him. Someone would sneeze, or kick a rock, or trip noisily and alert him, and the same thing would happen. It was absolutely impossible to even get close enough to harm him! And all the while, his device was scanning, and beeping. Maybe only a Hell-Knight could defeat him? The problem was, of course, getting their prideful asses to engage an old man in combat.
The red-drenched sky sent beams of light towards the ground, illuminating motes of air, rotating like tiny planets, affected only by the movement of the bodies around them. As Lax moved through the crowded streets, a purposeful, determined stride, pausing only to conjure spikes of pain through any imps stupid or blind enough to challenge a man whose spirit shone like the sun through the darkness. But he was not a holy avenger or a force for good; he was not merciful to the imps he impaled. They did not die. A trail of tortured, suffering imps followed behind him; impaled through the legs, tangled by vines of yellow energy, impaled by a thousand knives, but they weren’t dead. They were suffering the pain of a million tortured souls, every nerve in their body, every inch of their soul burned and cut and branded all at once. And Lax held no sympathy for them.

They come into his city, his world, and conquer and destroy and rape and pillage without even having the common decency to knock first. But can you blame them? They were the blind leading the stupid. At least the blind were somewhat capable, but as he parried the third thrust, he quickly realized he was being held up here. A sudden burning in the mind as he cast a spell, and the Hell-Knight froze in terror, just long enough to slide his blade through his armor. Kicking the head out of his way, still twitching, he began to walk again, unimpeded by any imps who just watched their commander casually get killed, by this strange man in the black and yellow armor. He almost seemed a demon himself, the way he revelled in their pain, the way he was absolutely determined to get to his goal.

He had seen her arrive, on a horse with hair like molten metal, with eyes that glinted with power and fury. A naked blade in her hand, pale skin contrasting with black hair- he fell in love the moment he saw her, coated in blood, squish the Hell-Knights head with her bare hands. It was like he had found his heart again, after too-many years quieting its pounding and refusing his yearnings. Heat had suffused his body and, for just a moment, the flush of pink coated his aura. He needed to meet her, to talk to her, to make her his, even if he had to rip apart this entire damn city with his bare hands. She was the one, he knew it; no other woman could compare.

It hadn’t taken him long to reach where he knew she was waiting, watching the blood-red sky send spikes of crimson into the hearts of those that remained. He had naught a drop of blood on him, but behind him, like the petals of a macabre flower, five imps were impaled, decorated in various states of extreme pain. The helmet, for all its protective qualities, obscured his vision, so with a flick of his hand he banished it, like shreds of burning paper. His hair was bright yellow, matching his predatory gaze, but more importantly, freed from the confines of his construct, the burning glow of the yellow energy rampant in his soul was more than enough to mark him as different.

With an almost indifferent flick of his wrists, spikes erupted from him, creating a wall big and large enough to curve over and block out the blood-red moon. The wall was yellow and shimmered with energy; any being unfortunate enough to come close enough to it would suddenly feel as if their deepest, darkest fears had come to life.

”You are quite impressive.”

He spoke first, his words complimentary, for sure, but the voice itself was not a kind one.

”Ah, but they die so good, do they not? Like squashing bugs under your feet.”

There was a savage pleasure he took in squashing life and causing pain and suffering.

”Of course, they’re not all dead. They must learn the error of their ways, and what better way than through cleansing pain.”

He chuckled and threw Rai a smile, a look that did not at all go with his face.

”But, pleasantries aside, I am impressed-” He paused long enough to watch the massive form of Chimera in the distance rip a building up by its roots and throw it through a portal, no doubt causing untold amounts of damage on the other side. Tearing his gaze from the sight, he continued his sentence as if he was never interrupted. ”-and red is a splendid color on you. I’m Lazarus. I lead the Pale Flame. You wouldn’t have heard of them, we keep things discreet.” An image burned itself into the air as he introduced himself, of a stylized flame of a pale yellow color, and in it three inscrutable symbols.

”And I do believe we are destined to meet.”
Shadows of the Pale Flame
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The Blood Moon Empty Re: The Blood Moon

Post by Andrew June 18th 2021, 2:14 am

"So this is what a quiet evening feels like?" Andrew almost joked. sitting in Halo HQ. Vira had been busy with work. He was still putting things in place for his assault on Deity for the inevitable war. Something inside just hadn't been sitting right. When a city that doesn't sleep sounds like it's taking a nap, the wake up is usually loud. He sipped his water as he dabbed the sweat off his forehead. Training this evening in the facility. He pushed himself. He had to keep pushing himself. Especially knowing what was around the corner.

This evening on the other hand was a curveball waiting to be pitched. As he turned on the news he started putting on his suit to be ready for this evening. It was a warm evening in particular. He was used to heat. He forgot what being cold truly felt like. He put his black cloak over his shoulder and grabbed his bo staff. Retracting it, he shoved it into his belt. The mask over his face the final piece. The sky started to change color.

"It's literally. Always. Something." he shook his head. His head swiveled to the TV as the alert started sounding throughout the headquarters. There were literal demons going on a pillage.
"You got to be kidding me."
AIVIAN beeped twice more.
"Halo H-001 to alert scene."
in a flash he was on a building looking down.

A few imps saw him appear. And made a mad dash for him.
That was a mistake The Patriot slammed his knee into the face of the first bastard before, backflipping standing on his hands and spinning his legs into the faces of two more. As the all took a step back the were confused.

"I don't normally kill. It's a principal of mine. It seems offing you will only send you off to hell. Rather. Back to hell. So let's go for a dive? He buried a fist into the chest of the two on either side of him before leaping a wrapping is legs around the head of the one with a hanging jaw. As the plummeted to the asphalt he put his hands in front of him. Ice was coating his arms and he fired the two off his sleeves before landing through the prick he had his legs around.

It seemed he wasn't the first to the party. He formed two ice axes in his hands before tossing them into the skulls of two more.

He made his way to the two that seemed to be on his side forming a great sword of ice. His hood up. Slashing a few demons before standing amongst the two. "I didn't expect hell to literally break loose tonight in this city but I can't expect much from this place anymore. Name's Andrew. Or Patriot"
He spun and slashed another goon in half.
"Either of you have any idea what's goin on?"

The Blood Moon Untitl10
Mega Poster!
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Status :

Quote : "We Fight For Those Who Can't."

Warnings : 0 Warnings
Number of posts : 617
Location : Beantown
Age : 26
Job : Vigilante
Humor : Franklin Guidaboni, Grown men who argue with teenagers, Adam Paxton, and Dominus
Registration date : 2011-12-22

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