(Untitled)

[faithful_slayer]

Deep in the woods, a demon wearing a Slayer's face hunts.

There's blood on her teeth, and her shoes have gone missing.

She's a wild thing now, craving the hunt, and if she can't kill humans, she'll slake her thirst for blood on forest animals.

Small freedom is better than none.

Comments

[slayer_fray]

And similarly deep in the woods, a Slayer hunts a demon.

Once Mel was a thief, and a fighter. Then when necessity took her somewhere else, she learned to hunt demons, to track them.

The woods aren't a desert, and she's not the best tracker in the world, but she knows how to move quietly. And quickly.

She's been searching with this sense of urgency for hours now, but she knows she's getting close. She'll keep going all night if she has to. Her swater has been disgarded, and in torn pants and a tanktop she ignores the January bite.

She's not far.

[faithful_slayer]

The demon knows something's out there.

She thinks it's funny.

She perches in a tree, on a low branch, waiting for the Slayer to find her.

It will be a good hunt.

[slayer_fray]

It will be.

Mel avoids litter where she can, swinging from branches at places and treading on those tree roots taht stick up past. She has no weapon drawn right now, needing both hands to move, but her scythe gleams in the moonlight, and her gun is a comforting weight on her thigh.

Min Fal'hwell is dark and silent against her wrist.

[faithful_slayer]

The demon has no weapon, except the body she resides in. It will serve well enough, she thinks, for what is to come.

Melaka Fray is only half a Slayer, after all, and no real threat.