((Here we go, Angel!!))
Dark, stormy nights never bring good tidings. For one, you can't see where you are going, and secondly, evil things tend to be out. Any self respecting non magical human knows that. And yet, the messenger from the Central Calgate Manor was out, riding, riding, in the bleak foreboding weather.
The rain lashed his clothing, drenching his cloak, and acting as a better whip than the leather reins he held in his hands. Incredibly slippery – both the reins, and the path – it was all he could do control his steed, and to prevent himself from falling off every time they hit a stone, or uneven ground. And yet he pressed on. Whatever the message was, had to be important, if the lord and lady had sent their personal messenger out.
Whatever the message was, Daemora cared not. All she was interested in was the job, the money. Cold blooded and hot headed, calm, yet incredibly impulsive, she was a paradox of juxtapositions. OK, so it pissed her off that her hair was drenched, but at least that demon leather suit she'd invested in kept her body dry. The droplets of rain ran down the sleek black leather like scuttling beetles, polishing the material until her jumpsuit gleamed, a shadow of jet in the cold, cold forest.
Perching in the branch wasn't her favourite way of spending her time, but it beat the usual shoot em and run scenario. Damn demons and humans. She was hated by both sides. Hated by humans for the demonic blood in her veins, and distrusted by the demons because she killed her own kind for money. She was probably the most racially tolerant being out there – race mattered not when there was a metaphorical bulls eye splashed across their chest, and a big bag of gold hovering above their heads.
At the moment, she was in one of three ancient beech trees overlooking the bridge, the most strategically advantageous position to be in. The river would be a good place to dump the messenger's body. It might even send him home. Shifting on her haunches, she grasped the handle of her modified weapon tighter. It was black, shaped like a...well, nothing the residents here had ever seen before. It was a mod, a blend of magic and metals unknown to this land, but common in the lower level of hell where one of her birth parents had come from.
Aha...the faint clippity clop of hooves...
"About time too," she said through gritted teeth.
There he was, coming down the path, in plain sight. She wouldn't even grace him with a view of his killer. One shot, and the weapon discharged an electrically charged black ball of her very own magic, which hurtled straight for the man's chest. The shock from the ball killed him instantly.
Daemora dropped to her feet, cat-like, and grabbed the horse's reins. She was no good with animals; horses to her were only fodder for her stomach. The best flared its nostrils and panicked, so she shot the horse and it too, fell to the ground, dead. Daemora kneeled beside the dead man, and rifled through his pockets. Clasping the letter in triumph, she unzipped the top of her suit and slid the letter into a pocket, before zipping up and giving the man and his horse their final send-off.
"Welcome, paycheck," she said.
---
The next job came from an advert in a shady tavern, one she rarely frequented. She was in the process of picking up a partner for the night as a source of relief from the work. Physically demanding was the job of a freelance mercenary, but then again the perk of it was a very finely toned body.
Cigarette smoke trailed the air lazily, creating a haze of suspended animation in the bar. Sat in a corner by herself, sipping a drink, her eye travelled to the notices on the wall, one of which definitely caught her attention.
"Repel a demon invasion in village North of Terrin Mountains, six figure pay-off. Someone please, help."
The notice seemed to have been there for a good few months, so she judged that either the bar-keeper had been too indolent to remove it, or the attacks were still plaguing the villagers. Or maybe it was over, and the demons had won, so no one had been left alive to inform the tavern here that the notice wasn't needed anymore. Or maybe even, the notice was a lure for unsuspecting mercenaries.
Snorting to herself, Daemora slung her bag over her shoulder and left the bar, thoughts of hooking up forgotten. That was definitely intriguing, and something she'd have to check out. If there were no people left, and therefore no reward, then she could always join up with the demons. But if not, then there was some serious cash at hand.
((Hey, haven't posted up Daemora's profile yet, but will do as soon as possible. When you post, let's have it jump forwards in time to when your charrie is already there at the Mountains, surveying the damage of the village and we have Daemora join him. Well, it's only an idea but let me know if you have any you'd rather do!))