Name: Azriel Brazenheart
Age: 18
Appearance:
Personality and Past: (It will be developed) As a member of the Protection Agency, Azriel has been hunting evil creatures since her parents were murdered by a group of demons when she was 12. Since her parents murder, she has been living with her uncle in the Protection Agency, training hard to vanquish the Earth of the ones that hurt her. Azriel is incredibly driven, confident; she has never faced a challenge she couldn't overcome. But, deep in her heart, she wants to be challenged, pushed to the point where she is almost snapped in two; she enjoys hunting because of the distraction it provides over the work. Saving people is just an added bonus on top of pushing her past down. She is fire, far too rash to react, her anger spreads throughout and quickly takes control. She likes to be in control of a situation and finds situations where she is powerless far too difficult to comprehend. There is only one demon she has struggled to capture and this RP will explore their game of cat and mouse.
Other: Skilled with a bow and a knife, prefers rooftops to the ground. Usually wears a mask when hunting. She doesn't like to show fear however, is afraid of failure and the past catching up to her
(First post upcoming then feel free to join as the demon she's hunting. I left it as ambiguous as possible but the world is set in kind of a steampunk victorian gothic kind of setting I tried to include images to explain) Look forward to writing! I like lengthy paragraphs and cruel, interesting antagonists so if you can fill this role in woohoo!
No acceptance of the demon character needed but would like a character profile so i can understand him and visualise him too. Please only join this if you're descriptive and enjoy tension between enemies!
Update: demon role has been filled!
Surely, his kind would call him foolish. Demons played with their food, of course, but they did it once the victim had lost all faith and the hope of seeing tomorrow had faded from their expression. Right now he should be either bearing down for the kill or disappearing from the vicinity, leaving her talking to the wind. Still, he stayed. How many times had they gone through this charade? Four times? Seven? But this would be the most they had ever talked. The memory of that dance still played in his mind.
She had been tall in the heels, but his lanky form still gave him a few inches over her. They had swayed back and forth to the music, some soft piano piece. To others, he was sure that they looked like a bashful couple. She was surprisingly graceful for someone who seemed two shots away from being blackout drunk. She wouldn’t look him in the eye, though, which he found mildly irritating. Was she afraid, or was she keeping her huntress wits about her even in this condition? Even with a few inches between them, he could feel the pounding of her human heart. When they had finally stepped apart, he half-expected her to come lunging for him like she had when they first met, eyes full of iron, but instead she had taken several steps, a grim expression on her face, and then stumbled. His hand had shot out to steady her elbow, not gripping as tightly as when he had grabbed her wrist, and they stood there. She had blinked, once, and then the hidden knife had swung out.
He couldn’t help the laugh that burst from his mouth, and he had leapt back just in time to avoid a swing. “Was I that bad of a dancer?” His mocking tone seems to urge her on, and they danced their way out of the party and up a roof. Well…he had danced. She had faltered and stumbled her way after him, which he would have found amusing if she hadn’t been so persistent. He had left her on the roof and vanished into the dark, still chuckling, when something that had been nagging in the back of his mind all evening finally occurred to him. He hadn’t killed a single person. His evening, which was going to be full of luring and tearing and ripping, had gone completely off track from what he had planned. It surprised him how little he minded. Maybe his hunter instincts had been too focused on the woman. Maybe it was the dress. The shine of her hair still shone in his eyes.
That was not the last time they had met, but none of the other times had been so quiet. He remembered how strangely calm he had felt, for being in the presence of someone who had the power to destroy him. It had almost felt like a truce of sorts, a pause in the game.
“Ah, yes…” he agreed. “Your throat. I will enjoy tearing it open.”
A thrill went through him hearing her speak his name. He had given it to her as they had danced, but he hadn’t expected her to remember it. Of course, he already knew hers. Azriel. The stalker-woman. The scarlet hunter. Her name was circulated in the underworld as one who was to be avoided. Demons had no love for each other, but survival was a necessity to any species.
“Mean? Yes. There’s a good word. Malevolent would work too. I’m also cruel, and a bit of a sadist. Some might even call me…despicable. Of course, I’m sure you have the lowest opinion of one such as myself.” Her bright smile, as false as it was, drew him out into the moonlight. “And I’m flattered you think me terrifying. How do you plan on killing me?” Her tease was amusing, but his ire wasn’t ignited. She would hardly call him gentle if she had seen the things he had done. The grey, heavy fabrics he wore disguised innumerable scars-- mostly from other demons. A few from (now dead) demon hunters. He stood before her, motionless as a statue, lit by the terrible moon. “Well, Azriel?”