My character is Anashtih the fallen angel, I wanted to play an angry with the world, pissed off, douche of a character for once. :'D
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.:----------------------------------------------.:~^Ravier^~:.----------------------------------------------:.
Dirty streets, huge rats, slimy lowlifes prowling the streets at night when day couldn't touch them, and those seeking their comfort - whether it be in the form of flesh or substance - could do so under the muffling blanket of darkness to hide their shame. It wasn't that bad of a city. The streets were cleaner than some, the lamps shone bright on the sidewalks, yellow light pooling on the dark sidewalks. But these sections, pools, left room for deep shadows all around them. Dark alleyways covered in the shadows of huge buildings. There was very little vegetation here, no trees or shrubs to speak of, the occasional sprout of grass trying desperately to grow in the cracks between the broken concrete slabs.
And that worked out just fine. It was one of the biggest cities they could have sent him to, but Ravier didn't particularly mind.
These nights in big cities tended to turn out just fine for the vampire. He fit in with the social outskirts, those prowling the streets whether they be predator or prey. He was the top of the food chain: nothing could touch him. His appearance could range anywhere from prostitute to innocent teen to gang member. Tonight, though, he seemed more of a.. customer. The subway was his location of choice, prostitutes and junkies his crop. The older the better: they'd obviously already wasted their lives.
Dark red hair short and spiked in a punk style, skin almost glowing white in the dim underground lights, he sidled up to an older looking woman almost a head shorter than him with his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, a black leather jacket all he had on to cover his torso. His black leather boots hardly made any sound on the paved subway floor. It should have been easy for someone to tell what he was after as he moved up to her and looked down almost condescendingly, smirking gently and flashing a hundred discreetly from his pocket, making her eyes go wide a moment. Her skin was pale and mottled slightly, her eyes very dark in that cream colored face, and he assured her gently there would be no need for a room. She was probably in her late thirties. Winding an arm around her waist perhaps a little too tightly he pulled her into him and leaning down to kiss her neck. It didn't take long, however, for him to lose himself in the scent of fresh blood just beneath her skin, and he bit down none-too-gently onto her neck, drawing that first blood to the surface. She struggled, but mysteriously calmed and stopped fighting him. A soft moan rose to her lips and he covered her mouth to keep her quiet while he fed.
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Darkness pooled unobtrusively through the tunnel as a figure moved with predatory stealth beneath a city. Which city, he did not know, nor did he care. They were all the same, and their inhabitants no different. His lip twitched into a small sneer as he passed crumpled heaps of humanity, from overdosage or exhaustion or other causes. The darkness continued ahead of him like a pet, seeping forward before hesitating as if to make sure he had not paused in detached observation of some rogue action that happened to spark slight interest or curiosity in him. It floated gently like mist, not completely obstructing the light from fixtures along the walls, but clouding the air around him like a miasma. He walked unnoticed by the inhabitants of the subway, neither his unlikely appearance nor the soft, muffled scuffing of his boots upon the stonework drawing attention from those he passed.
He largely ignored what was going on in his vicinity, seeming to be looking for something or have some pressing destination in mind. He would stop suddenly and turn his head to the side, as if something caught his attention unseen by the human eye, the motion displacing a few wisps of hair loose from the red-violet ribbon that tied the majority of it back at the base of his neck. Thin, silvery strands framed his effeminate face lightly as he stood as if listening; he frowned as if displeased before he continued walking, the forward motion brushing them just behind his shoulder once more. His hair gradually bled from silver into black, causing the loose locks to stand out against the maroon of his silk shirt, the top button of which stood open to tease with the slight curve of his collarbone and to show the thin chain of a pendant that hid beneath his shirt. He kept his hands buried in the pockets of his black slacks, as if to avoid the temptation to reach out and touch any of his surroundings.
Hours later, a small crease had formed upon his forehead, the only indication that he had not yet found what he had been searching for—the set of his mouth nor his vivid blue eyes giving away any of his frustration. He jerked suddenly, eyes slightly widening for a second as he turned towards some invisible signal that seemed to have been what he had in fact been waiting for. Following this sense, new purpose in his gait and the oppressive miasma following obediently, he quickly, though without any rush, made his way towards his goal. He turned a corner, knowing he was close but not how close, and intending to merely stand silently in the background of whatever activity was giving off the psychic frequency he needed to extract the type of energy he was low of, when he almost ran into the source of the emotion he had intended to use. He blinked, his composure lost for a moment as he took in the scene, before his mind supplied him with the gist of what must be going on in the darkness of the cove he had stumbled into and he grimaced, abhorred that he had about to use the—the—this. “Oh, that is disgusting,” he intoned gravely.
.:----------------------------------------------.:~^Ravier^~:.----------------------------------------------:.
Ravier was jostled by the impact, but did not stop until he was finished, which fortunately hadn't taken him long. The light had shifted during his distraction, and he pulled his mouth back from the neck of the woman that was peacefully dying of blood loss in his arms. He certainly wasn't going to save her, not that save was exactly the correct word to use for what he could have to do to keep her specific consciousness from permanent, everlasting death. His lips were a bright red from the freshness of the blood on them, and he licked them clean, dulling them slightly, but not much. His head turned to look at who it was standing so close to them now, and he gave a slow blink. "You must be new." He said casually, and positioned the dying woman in his arms as though about to dance with her, a twisted grin on his face, then made to drop her, grabbing her elbow and letting her arm slip through his hand as she fell, up until her wrist where he grabbed to stop her descent, then gently lay her down on the ground by leaning in that direction slightly. He straightened and turned to the man.. perhaps not? and looked at him more closely, scrutinizing. "I'm sorry you find such horror in it. It's quite enjoyable. Actually, I'm not sorry. I think it's funny." He smiled in his odd way and then looked down at his jacket, inspecting it. "Oh good. I didn't get blood on it. I like this one." His voice held a bit of an older world British accent, but it wasn't terribly intense.
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No matter what Anashtih felt about the situation he had run into, he did need to replenish his falling reserves and, though he could create his own, he found it a lot easier to prey on the psychic energy of others—it’s not like the cattle knew what to do with it in such excess anyway. He ended up raising his hand to pinch delicately at the bridge of his nose—as if to ward off an oncoming headache—with a weary sigh and stood where he was, his entire stance radiating that this was ever so below him and he would stay on principle whether he liked it or not thank you very much. He apparently had no inkling as to what the concept of personal space was, as he continued standing there, even as the human-fed night creature finished its meal and turned to give him grief. Unfazed by the creature licking its lips, he quirked an eyebrow at its statement and remained silently patronizing. He glanced at the dying woman with a stoic expression, not due to her being lowered on the ground but due to it being her last moments, and appeared to be fascinated by her expiration.
Attention drawn back to the predator before him at the sarcasm, he frowned slightly and unconsciously mimicked the vampire’s motion of glancing down at himself, as if to be assured that by bumping into the creature and its prey that he didn’t, in fact, catch anything. “I’m sure,” he said in monotone, the words clipped but slightly off in an implacable way, as if he was reading off a script so as not to get the words wrong. With an air that oozed, ‘this should offend me but I am better than that and anyway I am on business,’ he sidled past the creature, not seeming to fear having his back to it despite what he had just witnessed. He made his way farther into the enclosed space, not noting that this put the vampire between him and the exit, and stopped, breathing deep before exhaling with a contented sigh. The surrounding darkness, crowding thickly into the small space around him, added a large oppressive weight to the area for a moment before slowly dissipating, the pressure easing. He turned, eyes half mast and ignoring the vampire’s presence, he made as if to walk past and leave the other, along with what he had witnessed, behind him.
.:----------------------------------------------.:~^Ravier^~:.----------------------------------------------:.
Now, Ravier was a fairly tolerant kind of person. Well, tolerant for a vampire. He had his whims and fancies and killed when he felt like it or was very slightly annoyed by someone. But this was one of the few things he found he couldn't seem to just leave alone and get on with life. With these, he had to be difficult. The attitude was what bothered him, though he was both bothered and intrigued by the sudden drop in air pressure, a literal change in the surrounds both emotionally and physically that he could feel. Shaking himself off once it returned to whence it came, he stalked silently closer to the man before him, his gait both predatory and erotic in it's grace, and made as if he had simply appeared there behind him. When the other turned, he'd find himself almost face to face with the vampire that had been watching him.
He tilted his head curiously, comparing their heights, weights, scents, anxieties, and -to an extent - their moods in just a few incomprehensible seconds. He didn't say anything this time, however, simply watched the person now in front of him and wondered what it was his problem was. He never quite knew what it was about these particular people, or creatures if they were not human after all, that bothered him quite so much, but as a result it was decided there and then in his complex mind not to leave this man alone. Not only had Ravier found himself something to bother, but he'd found something that was interesting. And this was a quality, he'd found, that much of the human race lacked these days. Living as long as he had, it was hard to distinguish between the years, and this time period was just about as boring as the last, and the one before that, and so on and so forth for centuries on. But what made him most curious, what made him come close and try to judge this odd specimen, was his smell. He smelled captivating: not particularly bad, or good, but Ravier did not care about either of those things. Lucky being, whatever he was, had now been targeted by a fairly mentally unstable vampire that wanted to taste him, and Ravier was a hard one to shake off.
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Anashtih paused, the muscle under his left eye ticking involuntarily, when he turned to find the creature merely inches from his person. Fighting back a snarl and the sudden desire to take a swipe at the annoyance—his face still stoic and not betraying his tendency to lash out—he, ground out, “excuse me?” a sneer underlying his tone. He clenched his hands, knuckles turning a sickly, ashen white—the movement not well hidden by the pockets of his snug slacks—with the rising urge to pummel the vampire.
Despite having been grounded for an extremely long time, by mortal standards, the angel had yet to have a face to face encounter with beings besides humans—he avoided them on the principal that they caused trouble for Him and his disciples, mostly by efficiently killing off His children, as he had witnessed tonight. Other than a distant, spiteful glee in the mischief they caused his former colleagues, he gave them nary a second thought. Suddenly having one in his space unpleasantly reminded him of the last time he had seen one so close, back in the earlier stages of creation when the things would pop out of the woodwork like cockroaches, back… before those very colleagues clipped him.
Trying not to forget himself and let any of his true features through, he nonetheless let go of the small part of him that skirted outright violence on the grounds that if they were in an alley safe enough for the creature to make its kill, than they were far enough out of the way for a scuffle. In two seconds—longer than it should have taken him to gather himself, however he was still holding onto his mortal form—he tensed , left leg sliding back by a fraction and hands shifting in his pockets, before ripping into action. Flipping in a neat circle and swiftly burying his elbow in the other male’s gut with dark satisfaction, after a half second he dropped and scythed his right leg out sideways in a graceful arc meant to take the vampire’s legs out from under him. Internally, the angel tsked at his own reaction time, his irritation growing due to his own limitations rather than from his enemy.
Without revealing his wing-sets or other assets, Anashtih really was little more than a mortal himself. He was stronger and faster, etc, than humans, but not overly so. It’s hard living among beings that would become quite distressed at such small things as, say, walking out of a bodily collision with a speeding semi unscathed. In this form, he could easily injured, he could even become grievously wounded. He could not, however, die. No matter how much he desired for a once unthought-of conscious personification such as death to take him.
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