icmasticc
Neziul
Kirah
Scrawl Banditta
SkyeOfStars
Not a Sayan
Shmoopsydude
Bugman
celeskiss
Hos
Some would argue that the end of mankind was always going to be brought about by their own transgressions and the massive responsibility of free will. Others would argue that the end of mankind had always been written in the stars - flesh and bones unfit to survive the simple test of passing time. But the outbreak of war between the angelic and demonic factions on Earth ignited without any interference from mortal beings, leaving desolation and despair in its wake. Humans, innocently caught in celestial crossfire, were left fractured and despondent, scattered across the country with no defenses left. Only through sheer resilience and a desire to survive despite odds heavily stacked against them were they able to rebuild and reconstruct. These districts and communities resulting from a fragmented restoration were merely ghosts of the lives they once knew; but humans persisted, nonetheless.
Even with renewed senses of… not exactly hope, but something akin to it, humanity as a whole was tired and wary. Years of trial and error, accompanied by trickery on behalf of the more intelligent immortals, had taken its toll in the form of body counts. Betrayal was a common prank played by angels and higher-ranking demons alike, and while pupil color would usually be a dead giveaway, sophisticated celestials were still plenty adept at deception and disguise. It was this skill that most rendered them dangerous, and caused much distrust amongst humans who did not have much experience in distinguishing the creatures from their folk. And so it was with this air of extreme caution that the hunters of Resalire spread themselves across the desolate plains of the country, striking down any enemies encountered and rescuing humans that had been snatched by them.
Still, experienced hunters were emotional creatures, after all. Though suspicion became instinct, the opportunity to experience adrenaline for something other than fear was a natural inclination. It would not be considered a fault in the pre-war era, but this would prove to be detrimental in the current condition of their shared reality. Resalire’s principal tracker had been one such example of this error. Anaïs Fenton had been fooled once; she had sworn she would never let it happen again.
As dusk settled upon the neighborhood in which she had arrived with her steed an hour or so ago, the air was warm and still. Only the sounds of chirping of far off birds as they took flight through tree leaves underscored the scene. Abandoned and disintegrating, homes lined both sides of the street, full of memories likely long forgotten. Foliage had begun to win the battle against concrete, and a mixture of greens and browns could be seen peeking out of cracks in the pavement.
The hunter slowly emerged from the doorway of the faded red house in the middle of the street, twirling the handle of a small silver Bowie knife between her fingers in thought. The faint traces of the hell spawn they had followed had led them to this deserted abode; though it seemed they may have become aware of their tracers and moved on from the vicinity. They haven’t been here in at least a few days…
Anaïs resheathed the hunting knife in the leather holster wrapped around her right thigh. On her back hung another sheath, strapped around her torso and hiding a long, sharp, silver blade engraved with an R by its hilt. Standing at a height of 5’9” in her worn boots, Ana, though human, was not an unimpressive specimen. Her muscular figure was hidden behind draped layers of thin dark fabric, which was then covered by a flexible armor-like material that covered her midsection and chest. Bracers were affixed on her forearms, the cracks in the black leather apparent as she raised both hands, fingers splayed, to push her long raven hair behind both shoulders. It fell down almost to her hips, and though it was rare to see it hanging freely like this, it was always a treat for her to feel its comforting weight against her back.
A black shire exhaled through his nostrils, his head lilting up and down slightly as Anaïs approached him at the intersection of the front yard and sidewalk. “Looks like we just missed them, Enzo,” she murmured to the creature under her breath, one hand reaching up to caress the side of his face. The horse lifted his foot and tapped on the ground once, twice, then a third time, signaling his hunger. In response, she moved toward his rear where the saddle bag rested and reached into it, pulling out one last red apple. “Ah, last one, my friend. Make sure you enjoy it,” Ana chided in jest, voice still low, as her eyes flickered back and forth along the street, casually still at the ready.
Even if she couldn’t see where the fallen angel was currently positioned, she knew he would hear her voice carry in the silence of the block. Taking a breath and folding her arms across her chest, Ana leaned against Enzo as he snacked on his apple and spoke in the direction of the house. “So. What do you think? It’s likely been four or five days since anyone’s been here. Means we’re not too far behind…” Her voice trailed off as she glanced down the street, having heard a not so distant rustling from the tree line ahead.
Even with renewed senses of… not exactly hope, but something akin to it, humanity as a whole was tired and wary. Years of trial and error, accompanied by trickery on behalf of the more intelligent immortals, had taken its toll in the form of body counts. Betrayal was a common prank played by angels and higher-ranking demons alike, and while pupil color would usually be a dead giveaway, sophisticated celestials were still plenty adept at deception and disguise. It was this skill that most rendered them dangerous, and caused much distrust amongst humans who did not have much experience in distinguishing the creatures from their folk. And so it was with this air of extreme caution that the hunters of Resalire spread themselves across the desolate plains of the country, striking down any enemies encountered and rescuing humans that had been snatched by them.
Still, experienced hunters were emotional creatures, after all. Though suspicion became instinct, the opportunity to experience adrenaline for something other than fear was a natural inclination. It would not be considered a fault in the pre-war era, but this would prove to be detrimental in the current condition of their shared reality. Resalire’s principal tracker had been one such example of this error. Anaïs Fenton had been fooled once; she had sworn she would never let it happen again.
As dusk settled upon the neighborhood in which she had arrived with her steed an hour or so ago, the air was warm and still. Only the sounds of chirping of far off birds as they took flight through tree leaves underscored the scene. Abandoned and disintegrating, homes lined both sides of the street, full of memories likely long forgotten. Foliage had begun to win the battle against concrete, and a mixture of greens and browns could be seen peeking out of cracks in the pavement.
The hunter slowly emerged from the doorway of the faded red house in the middle of the street, twirling the handle of a small silver Bowie knife between her fingers in thought. The faint traces of the hell spawn they had followed had led them to this deserted abode; though it seemed they may have become aware of their tracers and moved on from the vicinity. They haven’t been here in at least a few days…
Anaïs resheathed the hunting knife in the leather holster wrapped around her right thigh. On her back hung another sheath, strapped around her torso and hiding a long, sharp, silver blade engraved with an R by its hilt. Standing at a height of 5’9” in her worn boots, Ana, though human, was not an unimpressive specimen. Her muscular figure was hidden behind draped layers of thin dark fabric, which was then covered by a flexible armor-like material that covered her midsection and chest. Bracers were affixed on her forearms, the cracks in the black leather apparent as she raised both hands, fingers splayed, to push her long raven hair behind both shoulders. It fell down almost to her hips, and though it was rare to see it hanging freely like this, it was always a treat for her to feel its comforting weight against her back.
A black shire exhaled through his nostrils, his head lilting up and down slightly as Anaïs approached him at the intersection of the front yard and sidewalk. “Looks like we just missed them, Enzo,” she murmured to the creature under her breath, one hand reaching up to caress the side of his face. The horse lifted his foot and tapped on the ground once, twice, then a third time, signaling his hunger. In response, she moved toward his rear where the saddle bag rested and reached into it, pulling out one last red apple. “Ah, last one, my friend. Make sure you enjoy it,” Ana chided in jest, voice still low, as her eyes flickered back and forth along the street, casually still at the ready.
Even if she couldn’t see where the fallen angel was currently positioned, she knew he would hear her voice carry in the silence of the block. Taking a breath and folding her arms across her chest, Ana leaned against Enzo as he snacked on his apple and spoke in the direction of the house. “So. What do you think? It’s likely been four or five days since anyone’s been here. Means we’re not too far behind…” Her voice trailed off as she glanced down the street, having heard a not so distant rustling from the tree line ahead.
