You are Raynare, and you are dead.
It is a fitting name, the 'Power of Destruction' – of your body, there is no longer even ash. You did not feel a thing when Gremory smote you from on high; one moment, you were, the next, you were not. It should have been the final death. You have already rejected Heaven, and Hell killed you. At best, you could have wished for oblivion. So it is quite understandable, you think, to be absolutely fucking confused about the fact you are currently waking up in an alley. Your friends are dead, Azazel could not have defended you even if he'd known—even if he'd cared—and you would know if you'd been resurrected by a Devil. There was nobody and nothing to save you.
And yet, here you are, discarded against a grimy wall in the gloom like the trash you've always been told you are. You shove yourself to your feet out of pride if nothing else, your body uncoiling with the lithe arrogance that marks you as something more than human. Specifically, something more than the human who stumbles into the alley right as you are flexing your wings. Short, squat, and distinctly Japanese, you can smell him from here, and it's not entirely because your senses are far superior to any mewling little mortal. You wouldn't be surprised if the last time he bathed was before you took your first breath.
He, on the other hand, looks quite surprised at the sight of a woman with wings. It even drowns out the lust you imagine your form must inspire – you are, after all, the most beautiful thing he will ever see. And possibly the last; you shouldn't let him leave knowing what you are, and even if there are other, easier methods, you've just woken up from impotence and humiliating disgrace.
There's nothing like a little murder to make a girl feel better about herself.
In the end, though, you decide against it. You have better solutions at hand.
That problem taken care of, you stride out of the alley, pulsing its filth from your form with a burst of your Light as you seal your wings beneath your skin. The buildings around you are vaguely familiar – you remember passing them once or twice on your way to and from the church. Whoever or whatever dumped you did so on the opposite side of Kuoh to the Devils, for which you are briefly and silently thankful for. They've already killed you once, and you'd rather they not do so again.
Though you wouldn't mind a rematch against that brat-turned-Red Dragon Emperor. He only beat you because he had a fucking Longinus and you never took him seriously until it was too late. Next time you'll just stab a spear into his brain in the first five seconds of the fight. Let him Boost out of that.
(You are vaguely aware that you are suppressing an existential crisis with scorn and sarcasm, but what else is new?)
If you recall correctly, there are a couple of restaurants nearby. And hotels. You need a place to stay, and you suspect your stomach is five minutes away from performing its best impression of a chainsaw. You don't need sleep—you just want privacy—so you're thinking food before shelter. Mostly because you're really fucking hungry. Humans, for all their flaws and general worthlessness, are actually pretty good when it comes to cooking. You'd like to enjoy the first meal of your new life, and while you've never been that fond of Japanese cuisine, there are plenty of foreign restaurants in Japan.
As far as you can remember, there's an Italian restaurant somewhere in the vicinity. You've always enjoyed Italian – in part because the idea of the apoplectic fits the Church and their lackeys would descend into at the idea of a Fallen Angel sitting down to a nice meal somewhere in Rome has always amused you. Given the Vatican's proximity, it would likely be a final meal, but you'll take what humour you can get at times like this. You figure you'll decide which hotel to pass the rest of the night at after you've eaten. None of them will be terrible, and you'd be an idiot to stay somewhere particularly fancy: the higher-class the establishment, the harder it is to turn up without warning and book a room. The mortal tendency for bureaucracy has always amazed and disgusted you in equal measure.
Point is, it's time to head off. There might not be any money in your pockets (in part because your outfit doesn't have any pockets) but that's not a problem. Mittelt might have put your sorcery to shame, but that didn't stop you from stealing a trick here and there over the years.
Your strategy decided, you turn down the next street, cracking a theatrical stretch that flexes your arms, arches your back, and causes a traffic accident in the process.
Still got it.
A/N: If anyone was wondering where I've been, look no further. This is the first chapter of Of Gods And Monsters, a Raynare quest I've been running over on the Sufficient Velocity forum instead of working on Sidereal Sunset. I've decided to cross-post the story updates only—without the votes or their results—over here, because I've been told it's fluid enough to work that way (we shall see), and because I am an attention whore.
Mostly because I'm an attention whore.
I'll be posting at least two chapters a day until I catch up to the backlog, at which point I'll copy over updates shortly after I post them to the thread. If you want to catch up faster than I will, the thread is waiting.
Friendly warning: if you're read Sidereal Sunset, this Raynare is going to seem fairly similar at times, because the character creation votes ending up picking literally every option inspired by the same.