***The one-shot "Preying upon Predators" acts as a prologue to this story. I would recommend you read it first!***
Passions of Hunting Demons
In the lands of the Earth, there were many entities — collectively called "monsters" — that would harass, attack, or even consume the native race of humanity. The most powerful and dangerous were the beings from the Belowlands, known collectively as "demons". Immortal, nearly unkillable, and as varied in their abilities, temperaments, and appearances as could be, they were the most feared of monster kinds. The only bright side was that they were the generally least common to encounter, except for the very weakest who were relatively simple to handle.
Other things, though, were twisted and corrupted beasts of Earth, or "gifts" from demons to sow destruction and discord.
One such kind of monster was the straga, the fresh corpse of a powerfully ambitious human that was touched by demons and empowered to rise again and stalk the land, gaining power as it fed upon the blood of the living and turned its victims into underlings, mindless servants devoid of pain or conscience.
Outside the village of Mangrove, protected by walls of ash trees grown by an ancient white witch to protect their place of birth, a male straga was grinning. His hair was long and dark, his deathly skin pale except for large blotches of brown-red discoloration that resembled a deep, rusty fever blush. His eyes were coal black and bloodshot, wide with greed and lust for power. He was dressed in the clothes he had been buried in, a cheap suit that was all his relatives could have afforded. Worthless farmers.
The trees around the village, carved with flowing runes and blessed with restorative and protective magics tied to the natural world, were wilting as he sent his underlings to rush the circular grove. The power of the trees repelled the undead creatures and sent them hurtling back with bolts of power to smoke and crumble to dust, but each strike drained the power of the protections.
And when they fell, this place would be his to feed upon. Or maybe "its" was more appropriate, now.
The garbled language of an underling spoke behind the straga and he/it glanced backward to listen. It spoke of a lone female who had been spotted trying to make it back to the village and its protections. The straga smiled with bloodstained teeth at the thought of a warm meal to fill his cold belly. He raced away in a blur to track down this new prey, screeching into the night to summon half of his underlings to accompany him.
Sustenance was all well and good, but a game would make it even better.
The wind that raced through the straga's hair was tainted with the scents of rot and rust and tainted earth. He snarled with perverse joy at the thought of a hunt, and catching the scent of a woman heady with perfume spurred that lust for power and blood. He snarled backward and the underlings split up to surround the woman and keep her contained. He stopped and listened to the wind. Wait for it …
He grinned far too widely at the sound of a deliciously feminine scream. He sprinted again, undead body untiring, and found the woman backpedaling away from his minions, only to freeze in place at the sight of him.
"Well, well …" he chuckled darkly. "What have we here?"
He blurred behind her and pressed himself against her, feeling no back in the woman's dress under her cloak. "A poor lost little ewe? With no shepherd to protect her from the big, bad predators?" He sniffed her hair and reached around to grip her breasts. "Such a shame."
"Please, don't," the woman gasped between hiccups, writhing against his touch.
"Who could stop me?" he leered and gripped harder as he took a fistful of her hair and bent her forward. "You?"
Then he heard steps and whirled around, dragging the woman with him. A tall figure in a long, dark coat and wide-brimmed hat was walking forward, weapons drawn and gleaming in the light of the half moon. The underlings tensed and crouched to protect their master, only held back by his will.
"Ah. The shepherd, I presume?"
The figure said nothing, only kept walking with measured, deliberate steps.
"Walking into the wolf den to retrieve your ewe. How noble." His voice was heavy with mockery and scorn. "But more so, how pointless. Now you will watch me take your ewe," he grinned ever wider, "and then feed upon her." Not a word, only the rustle of the grass he stepped upon and the howl of the wind.
And then the figure lifted something gripped in his hand … and the black of night turned to white.
White light poured from the figure and washed over the ground and into the night like a physical thing, rolling over the underlings and searing them to ash and dust with the briefest cries of agony. The straga hissed and ducked behind his prey, still feeling the searing heat of the power from within her shadow. His hair singed away and his skin burned … and fear gripped his unbeating heart.
Then the light was gone and the forest was still. Pride and confidence welled back within the straga and he stood up — and then talons slashed through his throat so deeply they gouged into his spine. His head flopped backward to hang from a thread of flesh and he spun in place, his undead eyes still functioning.
"To answer your question," the woman said with a cold, sweet smile, lifting her hand to show her three inch talons covered with his black fluids. "Yes, me." She shrugged. "And him." With a sweeping kick, the straga was knocked to his back, his head again flopping to settle on the trunk of his neck. His undead flesh tried to knit back together, but it was slow.
And then the other figure drew closer and the straga recognized the attire of a member of what he had known as the Golden Swords. The men and women who hunted down monsters in the name of the crown and in the service of the people. The Shining Sun.
"Rest in peace," the man said, removing a long pole of ash capped with a wicked iron point and slamming it into the straga's sternum. The creature wailed as black fluid burst from the wound and the core of his power and undeath was torn asunder. The wound grew and spread with sickening noises as he decayed within moments to turn to putrid mud.
"Ew," the woman, Willow, said as she wiped her now-talonless hand on a kerchief.
"Meh," the man, Hunter, said with a shrug as he removed the spear from the ground and opened a jar of purified oil to spread over the mud. A lit match later and it was a roaring blue-white fire.
"So what about the minions?" Willow asked.
"Underlings," Hunter corrected.
"Whatever they are," Willow said with a roll of her eyes, "what do we do?"
"Without their master, they're purposeless," Hunter explained. "Without humans in their line of sight, either they'll stay in place like statues or they'll turn on each other and rip each other apart." He pulled down the kerchief that covered his lower face, revealing the scar on his cheek and the gap between his teeth when he spoke. "Either way, the sunrise will burn them to ash."
"What about the villagers?" Willow asked.
"As long as they do as instructed and stay within the village grove," Hunter said, jerking the spear out of the ground and hefting it over his shoulder, "they'll be alright." There was pause as both of them considered those words, then they shared a look. "We should probably make sure," he said tonelessly.
"Mm-hmm," she said, before racing back toward the village with unnatural speed. Hunter sighed and began a loping gait to slowly catch up.
"Much gratitude, Goodman Treader," the head of the village, a tall, thin man with a thick moustache and dark farmer's tan, said enthusiastically using the local term for agents of the Shining Sun.
Hunter and Willow, though the village head didn't know their names, had arrived just in time to prevent a small child from innocently stumbling out of the protective grove and into the clutches of the underlings. After Hunter had swept the child into the trees and ordered him to stay, the duo had massacred the remaining undead with swipes of spear and talons. They had wandered back into the village as dawn arose, covered in undead gore and tired as could be.
Hunter accepted a large bag of coins in payment and nodded. "I'm … happy to help, of course," he said through gritted teeth hidden behind his kerchief-mask.
"Feel welcome in our village anytime," the headman said with a grin as he turned to tend to his people. Hunter turned to head for the village edge, and stopped before a group of about half a dozen women. They stood close together like a flock, all giggling into hands and blushing. Hunter tried to keep his posture non-threatening, no need to scare them, and veered his course to move around them.
The women weren't having it.
They spread out along the dirt path and blocked his way without actually threatening him, then closed in like predators and surrounded him on all sides. "Hi," one said.
"Hello, Handsome," another crooned.
"Thank you for saving us," one breathed in his ear from behind.
"Ladies, please let me pass," Hunter said, his voice tight with discomfort. "I have a companion to return to."
"She's not here," a fourth said coyly, fluttering her eyelashes.
"We just want to thank our hero," a fifth sighed.
Hunter was able to maneuver onto the toes of his boots and catch sight of Willow's wagon, and of the woman herself. His mask hid his grin at the sight of her puffed out cheeks and rigid, folded arms at the sight of him surrounded by other women. He could imagine her eyes glowing poisonous green behind her spectacles.
"No thanks are necessary," he bit out, and his tone gave them enough pause for him to slip out of their grasp. "Good day, ladies." He jerked the lapels of his long coat to straighten it and continued on toward the wagon. When he finally made it, Willow was checking the horses.
"I think we should leave, now," Willow said neutrally.
"Alright," Hunter said with faint amusement, "let's get them harnessed and we can go." Ten minutes later and they were on their way, Hunter at the head of the wagon directing the horses and Willow beside him watching the countryside filled with fields of grain slowly creep by.
"Have you ever done it?" Willow asked out of the blue.
Hunter glanced at her in surprise. Neither of them had spoken in hours with a somewhat tense but companionable silence. His hat and coat were off and stowed in the wagon — leaving him in his laced white shirt, cravat, and dark trousers — so he could breathe in the fresh air and soak in the rising sun. "Done what?" he asked.
"Taken up an offer of gratitude?" Willow asked with emphasis. She didn't sound angry, just … curious? She fisted the material of the skirt of her loosely cut, emerald green dress that did little to hide her curvy frame, her short cloak also in the wagon.
"A few times," he admitted with a grimace. "I'm a regular guy and temptations can hit harder after tough jobs. I'm not proud of it." He smiled a bit and nudged her side with his shoulder as he held the reins. "But never again." His cheeks pinked a bit and he focused back on the road. "Unless it was your gratitude."
Willow kept her face straight, but her insides melted at the words. In the month they had been traveling together — for his job and on her wagon — she had come to realize that he was a socially-stunted man, terse and to-the-point, but he could be very charming, too. At least, to her.
Willow scooted over and relaxed into Hunter's side, looping her arms through one of his and resting her head on his shoulder. He didn't settle into her offer, but she felt him relax a little.
And so hours more passed until the sun began to set and they, in turn, set up camp. Hunter had been camping, albeit alone with only a horse, for his entire adult life and Willow had been using the wagon for twenty years, ever since she'd met her teacher who had left it to her. After weeks of travel, it had become routine to strike up camp.
As the last of the sun fell past the horizon, its final rays fell upon Willow stirring a pot of stew, made from Hunter's rations and seasoned with spices from her stores of dried herbs. Willow lifted the spoon and tasted it with a hum of delight. With deft, practiced movements she doled the stew into two ceramic bowls and handed one to her companion, who nodded his thanks and dug in.
As they ate in silence on opposite sides of the fire, Hunter noticed Willow seemed to slowly grow … less comfortable. She'd reclaimed the cloak that hung from her shoulders, but she was fidgeting as she ate even as she fought to keep a straight face.
"Willow," he said, drawing her attention, "go on."
No further explanation was needed. Willow smiled gratefully and unfastened her cloak to let it fall before two black, leathery wings too small for true flight unfurled from her back. She sighed with relief and hitched her calf-length skirt up and tied it at her hip to allow a sinuous black tail tipped with a heart-shaped spade free from wrapping her hips beneath the skirt. She released her talons and delicate horns emerged from the corners of her forehead to curl backward and she sighed again, this time the sound thick with something more than simple relief.
Now it was Hunter's turn to tense as the power of a succubus, a demon of lust and carnal desire, rolled over him like a chilly, gentle breeze. He felt himself growing hard in instinctive reaction to her power, tightly braided with his genuine feelings for her. With an effort of will, he walled that part of himself away and returned to his food.
Willow, on the other hand, ran her hand through her chin-length hair and her smile turned from sweet to spicy. She moved around the fire, her hips swaying, and settled on her heels before her companion. She leaned forward until her lips were less than an inch from his forehead and halted. She waited patiently, and then Hunter closed that gap and she kissed his forehead, slow and sweet and loving. Full of gratitude and … other things. And she couldn't help her other side from indulging, from drawing the smallest thread of life energy from him and into herself as her kind did to feed.
That was why she paused, why she refused herself from initiating any contact too close to romantic without his explicit approval. They both knew that if their emotions got the better of them — emotions that had been deepening from both ends since they'd met — she might lose control of herself. And that could lead to Hunter's death and Willow's eternal grief.
"Thank you, Hunter," she whispered against his skin, her breath cool like a breeze in summer.
"It's nothing," he said.
"No, it's much more than that," she replied firmly. She gently took his bowl away and set it aside before cupping his face in her hands, her talons gone. She stared into those deep brown eyes, like the cacao beans she chewed to help maintain her discipline, with her own that glimmered like emeralds. "Thank you for bringing me along. Thank you for sparing me that second night, even though your duty told you not to. Thank you for trusting me."
Hunter placed his hands on her waist and, without words, they settled their foreheads against each others', one of the few acts of intimacy they could safely have. "You are so very welcome, Willow," he breathed. "We may not have known each other for long, but … it's hard to imagine life without you anymore."
Willow's smile turned to a smirk. "Is that all that's hard?" she asked. Hunter jerked backward in surprise to find Willow covering her mouth, eyes wide as saucers. "I'm sorry, I don't know where that came from."
"It's … okay?" he said, though it was more like a stunned question.
Embarrassment gave way to awkwardness and they were silent for a time. Willow's face twisted with regret and she rose to leave and clear her head when Hunter's hand was around her fingers in a faint grip. "Was that … part of your nature?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," she replied.
He rose from his seat and drew her into a stiff hug, still unused to these kinds of actions after a full turn of the moon. She melted into the contact and settled her ear against his chest, soothed by the steady beat of his heart.
"Good thing we won't have to remember what it was like," she said shyly.
Hunter smiled at the thought. Any day now, they would arrive in Heartsvale, the capital of the country of Rasmos. There lay the king's castle and the headquarters of the Shining Sun. And there they would register Willow as a Dawnbreaker, a non-human that served alongside their corpsman to hunt and destroy malicious monsters.
Which meant they would be together, doing what they had done since they met. And that thought was soothing to both of them.
"Let's finish up and … head to bed," Hunter said.
Willow nodded against his chest and slowly, reluctantly, drew away to resume her meal. But rather than take her previous spot, she retrieved her bowl and returned to Hunter's side of the fire, sat at his actual side, and let their knees touch as they ate.
And Hunter smiled with her as they did.
No human had ever been to the Belowlands, and lived to tell the tale, and only a relative handful of mages, witches, and sorcerers had ever seen glimpses of it.
The land was jagged and broken, all black rock and ashen sand. Rivers of molten rock and metal flowed down craggy obsidian mountains, and into the cracked plains that gave way to stiff grey grasses and twisted, barren trees. The cries and wails of the damned and of native beasts echoed against the dense, dark clouds that always hid the sky, flickering with red lightning.
Some said there was no sky at all, merely a stone ceiling like an impossibly massive cave. And in the end, it wouldn't have made a difference.
In the Belowlands, only one thing mattered: strength. The strong, the smart, and the ruthless survived and thrived. The weak, the foolish, and the kind were crushed underfoot into the rocky soil and eaten alive to feed the strong. Often literally.
In such a barbaric world, it was no surprise that the land was ruled by what amounted to a collection of feudal lords. There had not been a king of the Belowlands in living memory, all greater demons too ambitious and paranoid to elect or maintain a monarchy. Each demon lord or lady ruled over a territory, or demesne, that they had carved out for themselves in the olden civil war. Incursions to claim the territory of others was not uncommon and territories were fought for viciously. The lords and ladies commanded, through fear, the loyalty of all who scratched out a life in their realm.
One such ruler was Lady Odalia the Blight.
At the moment, Odalia sat upon a throne carved of jagged, violet crystal and stared into a mirror. She took the humanoid form of a tall woman with voluptuous curves — common for powerful demonesses — and mint green hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her facial features were sharper than a dagger, her eyes icy blue in contrast to the dominant colors of her home realm. Violet scales covered her body from her bizarrely clawed, cloven-hooved feet to her delicately clawed fingers and ending just above her cleavage and under her shoulders, reminiscent of a strapless off-the-shoulder dress, with the rest of her smooth skin milky white.
Odalia hummed as she absently stroked her breasts, focused on the image in her mirror. One reason she was so powerful and so feared as to carve out her own sizable demesne is that she had a talent for demonic oracular magic. Not foresight, true skill in that had always eluded her. But she had a real gift for mental communication and domination, as well as scrying to see and hear distant locations. Knowledge is power, and Lady Odalia could gain knowledge.
At the moment, her favorite scrying mirror showed the image of two beings on Earth.
One was a tall, leanly muscular young man with ash-blond hair, fair skin covered in scars, and dark circles under his eyes. He was a fine specimen of human male and slept lightly, though he snored a bit through the gap in his front teeth. He slept only in trousers and his arms were wrapped around a woman.
The woman, sleeping with her head and hand on the man's chest, was a somewhat short one with curves to rival Odalia's and a fine balance of chubby fat and hard muscle, also with fair skin and large eyes now peacefully closed, as well as dark hair cut at her chin. She slept in a loose, sleeveless nightgown and a pair of spectacles sat on the bedside table in their little wagon.
Had they been awake, she would have seen that their eyes were deep brown and emerald green, respectively.
And she knew that while the man was fully human, if very strong for their kind, the woman was not. She was a succubus who had attached herself to this mortal.
Odalia knew that … because Willow had been one of her subjects years ago.
"Oh, dear sweet Willow," she purred with a small, cruel smile, "what are we to do with you?"
Several people who read my story "Preying upon Predators" asked if I would be continuing the premise, and then the ball began rolling and an entire plot began to unfold in my brain! And so, here's the first chapter of a full-fledged story for this AU.
My greatest thanks to EldrichRaven, who was instrumental in building up and polishing this concept into a full saga.
*Yes, the straga is basically my take on vampires. And yes, that scene was based upon the opening scene of the "Hellsing" manga.
*To be clear, the technical term for an agent of the Shining Sun is "corpsman" and they themselves refer to it as "The Corps." But different regions of Rasmos refer to them as different things.
*The nation of the setting, Rasmos, was named after the Greek word for "boil," as in Boiling Isles. The capitol of Heartsvale was named after Belos's castle in canon being located above the heart.
If you like what you see, please do leave a review! They always make me happy! And may your inspiration flow freely!