Gothy
New Member
Zevrasi Alanis, Zevvy to his friends, was not the thing that you pictured when confronted with the word “demon”; sure he had horns, and glowing eyes but there was no forked tongue, no fire-and-brimstone, no red skin or tortuous, delicious, ironic vices. He was tall and lithe with rich tan skin and long strawberry blond hair. His eyes were a full bright yellow, standing out in even the darkest room and always, always, twinkling with mirth. Whether he was laughing at or with you was known only to him. This was a demon who did not take himself, or any other, seriously.
A pair of small horns -dark black, carved with delicate curlicues and swirls as was customary for his kind- akin to a rams' curled tight against his temples. What really set him out as demonic was the flat, long ridge of his nose, the dark circles of his eyes, and his angular cheekbones. At once handsome, and strangely uncanny; very clearly inhuman, but graceful. He wore well-fitting black trousers, generally paired with a shirt of some variety. Tonight, a flouncy white affair that belay his rather flirtatious and over-the-top manner.
A lot of stereotypes abounded about demons. Sure, a good chunk were lawyers, tricksters, and criminals. But not he. Zevvy was, in fact, a chef – and, quite a good one at that. Not mind-blowing, but vaguely well-known in the area if you enjoyed a good brunch and a well-brewed coffee; especially so if you were a demon, less because of the food and more for the company. Devilish Bites during the day was a nice café to visit. During the twilight hours, however, it was a meeting spot of sorts for all the denizens of the underworld where they could share good company and a bitter drink. A place where they could get away from the prying eyes of humans and where they could band together. Safety in numbers, yes, but also solidarity.
It had been a good while – around five years give or take- since the existence of the supernatural; demons, vampires, angels et al, had been publicly announced; and for the most part, their existence was taken at face value, and well accepted. But, of course, there were still those who would assume the worst. And those who would act upon the worst. The small cafe was somewhere Zevvy and his various friends could fraternise and feel at home away from the curious stares that tended to follow the preternatural.
Zevvy was just setting up the cafe for its evening activities. Today, music and nibbles for the mid-week soirée. The demon sat at a table just inside the café. Its interior was all stark black and whites, crisp linen atop round hardwood tables, and almost gaudy fake skulls – a deer here, a bull there, and a ram sitting front and centre above the bar- and lace; almost ridiculously self-effacing as it was earnest in its presentation. Zev leant into the stereotypes as much as he shirked them, mostly for his own amusement. The smells of baking pastry and rich gravy filled the establishment this night. He'd thrown together a beef stew for anyone who so chose to visit, and copious bottles of alcohols of all varieties lined the walls. He picked at an amuse-bouche with a long finger absent-mindedly, his actions languid and fluid all at once, while nursing a large glass of rich red wine in his other hand which he sniffed at irregular intervals, but did not drink.
He gave the appearance of someone not paying attention to what was around him, yet if you looked close into those deep mustard eyes, you'd see a shrewdness and sharpness to his flitting gaze that gave away how on edge he was. As of late, several of his friends had been taken. He wished he didn't know by whom, or where to. But, demon hunters had moved into the city. Fanatics who believed, for the most part, in persecuting him and his ilk and he'd heard rumours tonight about such a person -or persons- who had decided to come and play.
One such hunter was making her way towards Devilish Bites. Her name was Clara Reardon and by the way she moved through the night, you wouldn't be accosted for assuming that she herself was a demon. There was an energy to her presence and she moved with catlike grace, the dark vest-top she wore allowing the thin sinew of muscle that rippled through her shoulders to fully be appreciated. She was curvy in a boyish way, with an angular frame and delicacy to her figure. Her dark hair was knotted into a tight bun, she had a solid fringe that framed her face and her deep brown eyes. Some of the more nervous of her kind – humans -, would be wary of walking into this area during the dusk hours where the sun lit up the old buildings with a sheen of pinks, purples, yellows and reds. But, not Clara. She walked with confidence and also cockiness. Definitely, a tinge of arrogance; this was a woman who knew herself and wouldn't be told otherwise, and thought she knew others before she really did and wouldn't be told otherwise then either.
The street, Belvue Avenue, was clean. It was wide. It was well-lit with elegant street-lights and beautiful dusk-light both. Small oases of grass and trees whose leaves were just turning that bright autumnal yellow completed the refined, suburban look that drew so many. It was a handsome area, with storied brick buildings that gaped and gawped and told stories all their own with each brick facade. Several bars and restaurants called this area their home. The handsome, historical look giving the impression of regality and refinement that many in this city appreciated in their nightlife. Especially the demons who lived long lives and appreciated any reminder of their past.
But, Clara was not here for the history, for the architecture, or the nightlife. She was, in fact, here for the demons. It was nothing personal, to her. It was purely monetary. Nothing but pragmatics for her. Sure, she'd been taken in young and trained up in how to trace, track and then take in demons but she bore no ill-will towards them, unlike her benefactors. It was simply a case of: people gave her money to track down specific demons, she took their money and did the job, and didn't look back. She passed over her quarry and didn't read the papers when they wrote about bodies and mutilations discovered that matched their descriptions.
Some of her peers took more violent liberties. Some of them delighted in the cruel waltzes of vicious attacks and hand-to-hand combat that came with the job. Not her. Of course, she could fight and defend herself if the need arose but for the most part, she was swift and decisive and rarely needed to defend herself. She cared not for violence, just had an expensive habit that needed feeding, and a predilection for fine clothing and finer alcohol. She'd been taught and then released into the world and expected to follow the demon hunters' code, but she followed her own code, trod her own path. It just so happened that path involved turning in targets; she was essentially, a bounty hunter of those paranormal entities. She'd gotten alright at her job, even better at bartering for pay.
Tonight, she tracked down two demons accused of corrupting her employers' young daughter and leading her astray, as demons were well-known for doing. Whether or not it was actually true was by-the-by, because her benefactor believed it to be true, and she was getting paid based on that belief.
A pair of small horns -dark black, carved with delicate curlicues and swirls as was customary for his kind- akin to a rams' curled tight against his temples. What really set him out as demonic was the flat, long ridge of his nose, the dark circles of his eyes, and his angular cheekbones. At once handsome, and strangely uncanny; very clearly inhuman, but graceful. He wore well-fitting black trousers, generally paired with a shirt of some variety. Tonight, a flouncy white affair that belay his rather flirtatious and over-the-top manner.
A lot of stereotypes abounded about demons. Sure, a good chunk were lawyers, tricksters, and criminals. But not he. Zevvy was, in fact, a chef – and, quite a good one at that. Not mind-blowing, but vaguely well-known in the area if you enjoyed a good brunch and a well-brewed coffee; especially so if you were a demon, less because of the food and more for the company. Devilish Bites during the day was a nice café to visit. During the twilight hours, however, it was a meeting spot of sorts for all the denizens of the underworld where they could share good company and a bitter drink. A place where they could get away from the prying eyes of humans and where they could band together. Safety in numbers, yes, but also solidarity.
It had been a good while – around five years give or take- since the existence of the supernatural; demons, vampires, angels et al, had been publicly announced; and for the most part, their existence was taken at face value, and well accepted. But, of course, there were still those who would assume the worst. And those who would act upon the worst. The small cafe was somewhere Zevvy and his various friends could fraternise and feel at home away from the curious stares that tended to follow the preternatural.
Zevvy was just setting up the cafe for its evening activities. Today, music and nibbles for the mid-week soirée. The demon sat at a table just inside the café. Its interior was all stark black and whites, crisp linen atop round hardwood tables, and almost gaudy fake skulls – a deer here, a bull there, and a ram sitting front and centre above the bar- and lace; almost ridiculously self-effacing as it was earnest in its presentation. Zev leant into the stereotypes as much as he shirked them, mostly for his own amusement. The smells of baking pastry and rich gravy filled the establishment this night. He'd thrown together a beef stew for anyone who so chose to visit, and copious bottles of alcohols of all varieties lined the walls. He picked at an amuse-bouche with a long finger absent-mindedly, his actions languid and fluid all at once, while nursing a large glass of rich red wine in his other hand which he sniffed at irregular intervals, but did not drink.
He gave the appearance of someone not paying attention to what was around him, yet if you looked close into those deep mustard eyes, you'd see a shrewdness and sharpness to his flitting gaze that gave away how on edge he was. As of late, several of his friends had been taken. He wished he didn't know by whom, or where to. But, demon hunters had moved into the city. Fanatics who believed, for the most part, in persecuting him and his ilk and he'd heard rumours tonight about such a person -or persons- who had decided to come and play.
One such hunter was making her way towards Devilish Bites. Her name was Clara Reardon and by the way she moved through the night, you wouldn't be accosted for assuming that she herself was a demon. There was an energy to her presence and she moved with catlike grace, the dark vest-top she wore allowing the thin sinew of muscle that rippled through her shoulders to fully be appreciated. She was curvy in a boyish way, with an angular frame and delicacy to her figure. Her dark hair was knotted into a tight bun, she had a solid fringe that framed her face and her deep brown eyes. Some of the more nervous of her kind – humans -, would be wary of walking into this area during the dusk hours where the sun lit up the old buildings with a sheen of pinks, purples, yellows and reds. But, not Clara. She walked with confidence and also cockiness. Definitely, a tinge of arrogance; this was a woman who knew herself and wouldn't be told otherwise, and thought she knew others before she really did and wouldn't be told otherwise then either.
The street, Belvue Avenue, was clean. It was wide. It was well-lit with elegant street-lights and beautiful dusk-light both. Small oases of grass and trees whose leaves were just turning that bright autumnal yellow completed the refined, suburban look that drew so many. It was a handsome area, with storied brick buildings that gaped and gawped and told stories all their own with each brick facade. Several bars and restaurants called this area their home. The handsome, historical look giving the impression of regality and refinement that many in this city appreciated in their nightlife. Especially the demons who lived long lives and appreciated any reminder of their past.
But, Clara was not here for the history, for the architecture, or the nightlife. She was, in fact, here for the demons. It was nothing personal, to her. It was purely monetary. Nothing but pragmatics for her. Sure, she'd been taken in young and trained up in how to trace, track and then take in demons but she bore no ill-will towards them, unlike her benefactors. It was simply a case of: people gave her money to track down specific demons, she took their money and did the job, and didn't look back. She passed over her quarry and didn't read the papers when they wrote about bodies and mutilations discovered that matched their descriptions.
Some of her peers took more violent liberties. Some of them delighted in the cruel waltzes of vicious attacks and hand-to-hand combat that came with the job. Not her. Of course, she could fight and defend herself if the need arose but for the most part, she was swift and decisive and rarely needed to defend herself. She cared not for violence, just had an expensive habit that needed feeding, and a predilection for fine clothing and finer alcohol. She'd been taught and then released into the world and expected to follow the demon hunters' code, but she followed her own code, trod her own path. It just so happened that path involved turning in targets; she was essentially, a bounty hunter of those paranormal entities. She'd gotten alright at her job, even better at bartering for pay.
Tonight, she tracked down two demons accused of corrupting her employers' young daughter and leading her astray, as demons were well-known for doing. Whether or not it was actually true was by-the-by, because her benefactor believed it to be true, and she was getting paid based on that belief.
