An aged man with hair as black as night and black onyx eyes resting upon his pale face, sat upon a gold throne tapping his finger nails against the hard metal armchair. His clothes were made of velvet as soft as cat fur and just as black. Strapped to his black belt was a sword with a gold glittery handle.
A young man with curly jet-black hair down to his shoulders always looking wet, black eyes resting upon his pale as the moon face, strode in with a slow pace. He stopped a few feet away and kneeled down on one knee his black leather trench coat touching the ground. Underneath his trench coat he wore a black faded tight shirt which you could see almost every ripple of his muscles, black leather pants with stitches around them, and black boots. On his belt rested four loaded guns with ammunition strapped on the back of the belt and strapped on his ankle is a small knife.
As he bent down, a few strands of his hair fell into his face gently touching his pale cheeks.
"Good evening, my lord," he speaks in a deep tone with a tiny hint of an English accent.
"Good evening to you too, Damien. I pray that you bring me news?"
"Yes, my lord. We have found no trace of the Darklings or the heir. It is like they disappeared from the surface of the earth. We cann-"
"And are you just going to give up?" The man on the throne asks sharply.
"N-No, my lord. Darklighters never give up."
"Good. Now! I want you and three others to go out and hunt in the forest."
He raises up and looks to him, "Yes, my lord."
"Do not fail this time."
He nods softly and turns around sharply on his heels and walks quickly from the room.