Azrael’s Vengeance
Posted: Tue Mar 13, 2007 12:38 pm
I don’t know how he found me. Well actually, that is a lie: he found me through sheer dumb luck.
I was prowling the streets. I take Ron’s comments to heart, and I can usually catch the scents in the air before the winds of change actually happens.
The fight started out simply enough. Two drunks beating on each other in an alley. Or rather, one huge drunk was straddling a smaller one and beating him with a tire iron. I tried to separate them as quickly and as efficiently as possible, without drawing too much attention. In other words, I grabbed the larger one by the throat and slammed him against the dumpster, leaving the other one cowering for a few moments before he realized he wasn’t being pounded anymore.
“Go get yourself cleaned up,” I suggested as kindly as possible, considering the circumstances, and suggested he go to the hospital. He meekly complied. I watched him go, keeping my grip around the other’s neck so hard all he could do was yank fitfully at my fingers.
“And you,” I growled, turning to face him and removing my glasses and baring my fangs. “What are you doing here?” I thrust him hard enough to dent the steel of the dumpster. He just growled and refused to answer.
“I suggest you talk, filth,” I hurled him deeper into the alley, where I would be free to interrogate him. “The longer you talk, the longer you live.”
“You’ll let me go if I do?” he asked timidly. I shook my head negatively.
“No. You die whatever happens. So I leave you with this last choice: sooner or later?”
He snarled and lunged. I brought my knee into his stomach, stopping him dead in his tracks. He wheezed painfully, his hands clutching his abdomen. I didn’t wait, kicking him as hard as I could in the face; he clattered against the fire escape before falling to the ground. Then he evaporated, and the flood of rats fled my presence.
I hate Bogeymen.
That’s when I heard boots scrape against the ground. I turned to see a young man walk into the alley, staring at me. At least . . . I think he was young. He had long, gray hair, but looked physically active and his fair skin was unlined. His eyes were piercing as bullets, and his demeanor was expressionless and cold. He wore a gray duster and black, knee high boots. The rest of his outfit reminded me of a soldier from the south during the civil war. I could see the large hilt of a finely crafted sword at his back.
“Ready to die, abomination?” he sneered, fingering the thorn-like piece of steel at the sword’s pommel.
I instantly knew the figure.
Azrael.
I was prowling the streets. I take Ron’s comments to heart, and I can usually catch the scents in the air before the winds of change actually happens.
The fight started out simply enough. Two drunks beating on each other in an alley. Or rather, one huge drunk was straddling a smaller one and beating him with a tire iron. I tried to separate them as quickly and as efficiently as possible, without drawing too much attention. In other words, I grabbed the larger one by the throat and slammed him against the dumpster, leaving the other one cowering for a few moments before he realized he wasn’t being pounded anymore.
“Go get yourself cleaned up,” I suggested as kindly as possible, considering the circumstances, and suggested he go to the hospital. He meekly complied. I watched him go, keeping my grip around the other’s neck so hard all he could do was yank fitfully at my fingers.
“And you,” I growled, turning to face him and removing my glasses and baring my fangs. “What are you doing here?” I thrust him hard enough to dent the steel of the dumpster. He just growled and refused to answer.
“I suggest you talk, filth,” I hurled him deeper into the alley, where I would be free to interrogate him. “The longer you talk, the longer you live.”
“You’ll let me go if I do?” he asked timidly. I shook my head negatively.
“No. You die whatever happens. So I leave you with this last choice: sooner or later?”
He snarled and lunged. I brought my knee into his stomach, stopping him dead in his tracks. He wheezed painfully, his hands clutching his abdomen. I didn’t wait, kicking him as hard as I could in the face; he clattered against the fire escape before falling to the ground. Then he evaporated, and the flood of rats fled my presence.
I hate Bogeymen.
That’s when I heard boots scrape against the ground. I turned to see a young man walk into the alley, staring at me. At least . . . I think he was young. He had long, gray hair, but looked physically active and his fair skin was unlined. His eyes were piercing as bullets, and his demeanor was expressionless and cold. He wore a gray duster and black, knee high boots. The rest of his outfit reminded me of a soldier from the south during the civil war. I could see the large hilt of a finely crafted sword at his back.
“Ready to die, abomination?” he sneered, fingering the thorn-like piece of steel at the sword’s pommel.
I instantly knew the figure.
Azrael.
)
