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[center][h2][color=#406f40]Joel Shcroeder[/color] [/h2] [/center]
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Location: Town Center
Interacting With: [@BlueSky44] [@Morose]
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His brow furrowed as he observed the chaos quickly unfolding around him; the screaming of civilians, the blood of a holy man spilt by his own creation, the attack of a hunter that was quickly and easily dismissed by the demon before him, both labels he had discovered through the screams and vocalizations of the rushing masses surrounding him, all in terror, terror caused by a singular being in an advanced state of decomposition. She looked to have once been in her early teens, albeit now she appeared to have been a centuries rotting corpse given the visibility of various bones and other sub-dermal physical formations. She also appeared to be rightfully distracted, allowing him time to consider his course of action. Retreat, attack, or confrontation. Many people considered adrenaline infused situations to be capable of two responses, a duality between Flight, or fight. In his experience, these were the most common responses, but far from the only options available. 

He stood calmly, buttoning his jacket and puffing slowly on his pipe as he further contemplated his choices. If anyone in the crowd was currently capable of mediocre forms of observation, they would have noticed the peculiarity of a middle aged man standing calmly in the calamity surrounding him. Producing a fine tip, black permanent marker from his inner jacket pockets, he began to carefully inscribe familiar symbols onto his palm, ten in total on each hand. One would be drawn at the base of each finger, and then below the one completed, as well as two on the base of each palm. After finishing the twenty-six [url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/60/bc/18/60bc18a7fecb69b3e2df2762fb5798e3.jpg]symbols[/url], he removed his knife from his pocket, ejecting the blade and creating small and semi-deep incisions above each symbol, allowing blood to stream onto them. He had never been a superstitious man, but in his line of work it was rare for someone not to develop a belief in one form or another.

He stepped forward, towards the demon, walking with purpose, the blade hidden in his bloodied hands. He had made his decision, if he died then so be it, but he would not allow himself to fall in line with the degeneracy and cowardice of his surroundings. Many a year ago, he had been taught that his heritage and biology required a sacrifice, a refusal to ignore the ability of his ancestors. Every man in his family tree had been a warrior of extensive capability, as well as a scholar. He came from a line of men that contributed both to knowledge, and to war, something he knew he would one day have no option but to rise himself to. His ancestors were the men that created and fueled the once powerful Roman empire, a force that once had conquered the entirety of Southern Europe and influenced the advancement of culture and war through the world over. In his blood were the ingredients that made men become gods, that immortalized men and set their names in stone to be remembered until the ends of humanity. And he would not, not ever, fall among the ranks of those that disgraced their incestrial heritage.

His pipe remained in his mouth as a look of stone fell over his face, standing palms away from the demon before him, who was now only a few meters away from him, likely to become aware of his presence in seconds, the following moments would define, and discern his survival.