(I do not own anything except the OC's, fat tubby raichu not included.)
Azrael walked down the sidewalk with a confident stride. His black leather trench coat fluttered about him, his red chest horn betraying him to be a gardevoir. And why shouldn't he walk confidently on the streets of the city who knew and feared him? He had just taken out the leader Bisharp of the Broken Switchblade. No easy task for a psychic like him but of course, he smiled as he wiped off the last speck of black blood, even a Bisharp can't do much against a stiletto in the right spot. Yes! Today was a good day, Amon would be very happy. The Broken Switchblade had been a thorn to the Brotherhood long enough. Now with that moron out of the way, and the guild in chaos, the Brotherhood can put in charge whoever best suits they're interest. Azrael shook his head from the dust, his thick hair flying. He turned down one of the many alleys that cut through the heart of the massive Castoren city. A rickety old sign, "The Spun-Out Spinda" jutted out from the side of the wall. "Stupid name," he muttered as he opened the door. Azrael was greeted by a symphony of clinking glasses and drunken laughter. The bar looked like something out of the old times with rustic furniture and knick-knacks covering every available space. There was even a quagsire in the typical bartender outfit polishing a glass behind the counter. Azrael cut through the throng as crowds parted for him and others gave him respectful nods. A woman in a dark purple cloak and hood stood in the back corner, inconspicuous, yet standing out like a sore thumb from the common rabble. Azrael made his way to her. A crash of a table made him jump back as a fat, tubby raichu with teal-ish ears almost mowed him over, screaming about skitties and being lynched if he didn't hurt Nic enough. Azrael shook his head, "Some just can't handle their pints," He made his way to the other gardevoir in her cloak, as one could see her red chest horn.
"Dear Rae," she smiled," You're still alive? I assume you succeeded? Or did you chicken out?"
He scoffed, "Haha, you're a laugh Mordred, I'll have you know that I took out the fool of a guild head with two thrusts."
"Stiletto?"
He let a smile play on his lips as he balanced his favorite dagger on his fingers, "Everyone has a chink in their armor, even a bisharp!" he frowned for a moment, noticing another spot of blood.
"Amon will be pleased," she purred, her voice like thick honey. Though her Azrael had long resisted its effects.
"Ya know, I think I might have this ol' stiletto engraved or something, it deserves a name"
"Maybe when you have time, right now you'll need to go to Amon dear Rae,"
"Amon? He wants me?" Amon almost never talked to any of the members, what could he possibly want?
"Ineed, something big is brewing, I suggest you to get the meeting out of the way, I am eager to hear what he has to say." She grinned.
Azrael nodded, "Yeah I guess I better," He spun around and walked behind the bartender, nodding his way and opening the liquor cabinet revealing a door. He looked back and stopped for a moment, smiling like an idiot as he watched what was sure to be an event. A machamp staggered over to Mordred, he couldn't even keep his drink in his cup.
"Heysh ladie? Whatcha doing by yerself all here?" he gave a crooked grin and laid a hand on her shoulder. His hand had barely touched the fabric when a crackling blast of energy threw him like a ragdoll across the room, summoning a rousing cheer from the patrons. Azrael smirked and walked into the secret door, feeling jittery all of a sudden.
This is only an intro so its rather short