Phyran

The fire crackles quietly as the sun sets. A man nudges the embers with a stick, while his companion fidgets with some device.

"...Hunter?"

The man looks up with a quiet grunt.

"I've a strange question."

"You're full 'o those, Markus."

"Yes, well… what does Death look like to you?"

The man is taken aback. It takes him a moment to respond. "I can't… rightly say, if I'm honest."

Markus nods. "I understand. Not too keen to show you, if I'm honest, but I am curious."

"You've seen 'im?"

"Well, it's not a him, it's… lots of things. Usually birds. Sometimes a man, I think, I'm not sure he's…"

He takes a breath to reorient himself. "When I die, say from a shot, the world just… stops. A moment before the final blow, the bullet hanging in the air. There's always a bird, and it's singing, though the tune escapes me like grasping at a dream. It leads me to the edges of the Hunt, and I just… wake back up in my room."

The two are silent for a while, the dying flickers of the fire the only interruption. The birds have long since nested for the night, and the shambling corpses that dot the Hunt had all been cleared out, or wandered off. Even the wind faded, as if it were listening to Markus' story.

"...Well, Markus, as I say, you are a strange one. Tell you what, if ever anyone manages to take me down, I'll be sure to tell you what I see."

A soft chuckle from both. A somber, somewhat knowing chuckle.

"You'd best. The Hunt is awful lonely without you, Hunter."

"Same goes for you, cat. The world's not got enough of you. Too much evil, and selfish intentions. Not enough people to sit and watch a fire die in peace and quiet, when it doesn't profit them."

Markus scoffs quietly. "Well, I wasn't… always like this. I've done a lot I regret."

"What man hasn't?"

They sit in silence for a moment more.

"You're a good man too, Hunter."

"You always call me that, why? You know my name, it's-"

"It's more proper." Markus says firmly. "…I'm sorry, that was harsh. It feels wrong, every time I try to refer to a Hunter by any other name, I feel… a hitch, in my throat. I don't know how you manage to call me by name without it, but it's… nice."

"Well, I say again, you're odd."

"Makes me interesting."

Another chuckle. In the distance, a furious scream shatters the silence. An Immolator, likely.

"...I'd best be going." The Hunter said, getting to his feet. "Nights out here aren't kind."

"I do think I'll stay a little, honestly. You know the horde tends to avoid me."

"Well, you take care then, Markus. The world needs more like you. Be a shame to lose you."

He shoulders his rifle, and heads off.

"Hunter?"

He stops, looking back. "Yeah?"

"...I'd better see you tomorrow."

"...Wouldn't miss it for the world, friend."

<>

It's quiet in the swamp. It's never quiet, so it's an oddly refreshing change. No gunfire in the air, no screams of the undead or the dying, just… the breeze, and the birds.

Off in the distance, a brief exchange of gunfire, the sounds of a Bounty being claimed. Customary. Oddly comforting, almost. That is the order of things here.

Another burst of gunfire, what sounds like three or four guns. Likely a squabble over something. Some Hunters are vicious.

Markus keeps moving. The Hunt is all he remembers, and he's seen enough Hunters that the vast majority see him as an ally, or at least to be ignored. Still, there are a handful that thirst for more bloodshed than even this hellish career gives.

Hours pass. He's set up shop, same spot as always, against a copse of trees, where plenty can see him. His wares keep many alive, and kill many others. Traps and devices to feed the Hunt.

It's quiet again. Must be a smaller hunt today.

A heavy thump in the trees behind Markus startles him from his sunbathing. A body, the weight of someone exhausted, or dying, or dead.

"Markus…"

A deep groan, a familiar one, but one of deep pain, labored breathing.

"Hunter!"

He's on his feet in a moment, running to help the man from where he'd collapsed.

"Oh Christ, what the fuck happened?!"

The man is drenched in blood. Bloody holes have his torso emptying into the grass.

The Hunter coughs heavily, a spray of red that hangs in the air for a moment. "Got a Bounty. Some others… weren't a fan of that."

"Christ, Hunter, just, just hold still, are they near?"

He holds up his hand, showing a black, swirling mark on his palm, and grins. Teeth stained red. "Nope."

"Damn you, you stubborn bastard." Markus says, tears blurring the gorey sight before him. "Those things are worth dying for?"

"Worth taking a few with me for."

Markus knows there's nothing he can do. Those healing syringes are miracles, but… it was already a miracle the Hunter had come this far, missing so much of his midsection.

"...Markus?"

"Yes?"

"I… I see the bird you were talkin' about."

A full sob rocks Markus' chest.

The Hunter goes on.

"Markus, p… promise me. You'll keep goin'. This place needs… more like you."

He nods. "I will, I promise I will."

"Good… good… I've… done a lot I regret. I hope I've done… enough good."

"You have, Hunter."

"...I hope… I see you tomorrow…"

With that, a single hitched breath passes his lips.

And he's gone.

"...I wouldn't miss it for the world, friend."

He sits like that for a long time. He does eventually lay the body down, but he still doesn't move, not for hours.

A party of three emerges slowly from the trees, their weapons trained on Markus. All they see is him covered in blood, with a dead man soaking the dirt before him.

Markus rises to his feet, his eyes downcast. Facing the men, but not looking at them.

They don't fire. They recognize him, this is Markus, there has to be a misunderstanding, he wouldn't kill a Hunter. Not without reason.

Markus draws a pistol from his vest.

The men tense.

Something… changes, in Markus' stance. A twitch, so slight, before he raises the pistol to his eye level. From inside the barrel, a swell of flame erupts, tracing back down the weapon to his body, and in moments, his black fur is aflame, a roiling inferno hot enough to burn from where they stood.

The men stumble back, one tries to flee. The last thing they ever saw was a pair of eyes opening from within the flames, and a geyser of fire erupting from the barrel of his gun, setting them all ablaze.

Nothing is left.

Many Hunters died that day. Many of them saw a bird, one that led them away from the Hunt, and far away.

In his tethering between the borders of insanity era

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.  

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

Well, that settles it. Whoever, wherever, Todd is, he’s clearly missing out. The demon will just have to be her grandson from now on.

This is my OC, Io (they/any pronouns)! They're what is called a "Starborn", a custom race of shapeshifting humanoids who come from celestial objects!

Cherry is not one to cry, but encountering that White-Eyed "Steve" was... something else.

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Meet my Minecraft OCs and rendition of Minecraft Steve :3

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