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Chapter 1 - Warped Justification

Sand for as far as the eyes could see, just large dunes of sand that shift in the winds of the African desert. Like waves their tops turned to wisps as the dry, harsh and hot winds graze their tops, sending clouds of sand tumbling from their resting places. Most crucially they were hindering vision for a brief moment. Long enough that the reprieve before the next gust was slight, barely enough to grant a glimpse, a small opportunity to get your bearings correct.

An even more furious set of events were unraveling within this place however. Feet... human feet, hastily trample through the sands. They climb the curved edges of the dunes in the blistering sun and through the stinging blasts of sand. These feet had a sense of urgency about them; sometimes they even found friends in the form of hands that came in the hopes of aiding their speed and agility when the surface of the sand grew too steep or instantly whenever the sand gave way and slid because of a foot placed in err or simply with too much force.

These weren't just one pair of feet. No, six pairs. All traveling in the same direction with no respect for the harshness of the desert itself. In these parts and at this time such haste was by necessity, not by practice. The desert has no back doors, just like the sea. No reprieve, no sympathy. It is just a harsh, dry land with a Sun that seemed to begrudge all. These men and women were seasoned travelers, they knew the creed of the travelers, they understood this land better than most people and yet still there was sufficient reason for them to purchase into haste.

One of them glanced behind their shoulder. Briefly. Just a glimpse into were the sand was being blown. Just to confirm, that behind his many scarves across his neck and the cloak protecting his body that something was there. The desperate rush continued with strained muscles, feet and scorched hands that dug into the sand and dragged body over dune and on the other side, provided friction and balance as they slid down the other half.

That brief glimpse had revealed that haste was still needed. That... THING! The reason why they were fleeing was still giving chase. It had been minutes now, so long in this blazing heat that it had felt like hours. It was a chase that surely if they could just make it to town, they would have quite the story to tell. Each of them one after each other, with no unison what so ever, stopped, turned and looked back up to the top of the dune and as if they had chosen their place to stand and fight they all drew their weapons.

Sword slid from sheath and gun from holster as the sand tumbled down their side of the dune, forcing many to adjust the scarves across their face to make it easier to breathe. They had enough trouble on their hands at the moment and rather mother-nature co-operate with them just this time.

"It's coming!" one of them yelled, as if the others needed to hear the words that were already going through their own heads.

"Listen to me! Just close your eyes! Do not look at the beast!" another yelled to the others, wishing to protect them from whatever it was that was coming.

"Non-sense! You believe in a lot of superstitious non-sense! How else are we going to fight against it?!" a feminine voice disregarded his comment, shielding her face and eyes from the sun and sands with a clothed arm.

"You all don't have to! It is here for me. I will be taken but you all don't have to die as well!" the man stepped forwards. A look over either of his shoulders made him notice the fatigue in the group. His actions reeked of a doomed man, accepting his fate and sacrificing himself for the sake of the rest of the party.

"I won't-" the woman's voice staggered as the beast itself reared its head over the dune before them.

"SHIT-"

"DO NOT LOOK!" the man yelled, pleaded with them to not let the sight be burnt into their minds "This Barghest... Daemon dog has come for me! It is said that who-ever sees it will surely die in three years."

His words fell on deaf ears; the visage of the massive beast was already etched into their very beings. The sight of something as revered as, even more tenacious and more successful than the Reapers themselves had already left an impression on the group who steadied their weapons in preparation as the beast descended from it's perch above them, circling like a whale around a small school of fish.

From claw to shoulder the beast had to be at least six feet tall. With the body of a wolf yet still its stomach had large scales, appearing tough like a dragon. It's head was straight from a Norse fantasy, curled horns of a ram that point right back into it's wolfish ears, large fangs that deform it's lips as the massive jaws vise closed and in its eyes seemed to dance a ravenous flame of distilled rage. Yet still it appeared calm, it's long thin tail stretched for as long as its torso and then some more, ending is an elaborate trident that seemed to the naked eye, no less dangerous than its jaws or the beast's claws.

Even more terrifying was the fact that the beast seemed fine. Not a wheeze, nor a pant. Simply not bothered by the chase for what must have been miles. This was the hunt after all, and it seemed to thrive on the hunt itself.

Without hesitation a rifle was lifted to waist, gun powder exploded and shook the contraption as lead rocketed off at the beast. The men thought it was better than to linger and try to bargain their lives with such a beast. As swiftly as they had done the same, so too did the beast disappear in a grand lightning as legend foretold, arcing through the raging desert.

Three bodies stood ablaze, paralyzed as they were, rifles still at hand with their triggers depressed. Between them weaved a trail of glass on the ground and the sound after wards... magnificent. Like a crack of fork lightning had struck on ground zero, the sound alone twisted and construed their bodies, flinging them in every which direction that the laws of physics deemed pleasing.

Those that had not been hit were dazed and confused, flung and discarded at the bases of different dunes by the compression and shock wave from the near-by Thor-like event. The others were not so fortunate. It looked as if they had passed through the jaws of the beast itself. Torn asunder. Limb from blazing limb. The hell-fire itself having weakened their bodies to such an extent that the compression event left their bodies like a scattered dump of blazing mixed meat across the scorching hot sands.

With this show, this display of power, blades were deemed all but useless. So it would seem from an onlooker as the remaining dragged their bodies from buried inches within the sands. Some watched with horror as the beast landed on another. Teeth gnashing upon a body and as life left another of their comrades the fear within those that were left behind told them to flee for their own.

Except the beast was faster. The chase was only to tire the prey. Their only chance to survive was to stand their grounds and yet still they knew that they could not. As the beast turned from the two halves of the man that it had created with a sadistic grin seemingly glazed all over its face, its gaze was set upon the final two who pointed their blades as if trying to shoo away a wild beast.

The beast took straight for them, ignoring their yells and pleads. The energy, the heat from its previous strike still rode the air with it. A furious flame raged upon it and as the beast leapt into the air, above the dunes itself these flames retreated about its body, appearing like great wings. Great purging wings. And it would be the last thing these two would see before the beast landed behind them. Blades swung in vane, seconds too late as the beast turned around to the sights of the flame engulfed bodies rolling and thrashing in the hot sands that soon melting and turned to glass.

It returned with an eager pace, grabbing the still alive and burning bodies in its jaws and wolfed them down. Its massive jaws and throat desiring little need to chew its contents. Moving on to do the same with what was left of the others. It seemed that this chase had left the beast hungry. Or perhaps this was part of his routine.

As brutal as it is, when the beast turned to return from whence it had come, none could tell that a scuffle had taken place, except perhaps for the glass. Its massive paw prints would be erased in brief time by the sands, almost as quickly as the beast laid them. More importantly, the _urge_was gone leaving it quite satisfied and after each success there was always time to contemplate on its actions.

Some people like to hunt. They pick up their rifles or perhaps their scepters, whatever they prefer to use to get the job done. They make a sport out of it. At the end of the day all sorts of comparisons are made. Perhaps today it's the largest, perhaps it's the most on another day. They smile and they laugh as they slit the throats of their victims, or put a bullet through their brain. It's a joyous occasion either way. They've got a kill! A kill! Let's hang its decapitated head up on the wall in our house; it'll sure make for a nice conversation when we invite a few friends over, right?

For me on the other hand, hunting is my life. It's not a sport and I don't take the heads or carcass of my opponents as trophies to put on display or as medals to spice up the conversation around the dinner table. Humans like to say that it is my job to do what I do. The superstitious fools. I am part of something bigger than the Reapers. I'm sure that you've heard of them, the ghasts that reclaim the very souls of those whose time is expiring. Or perhaps you consider them to actually have a hand in orchestrating the timely or rather untimely death of them. However you read into it, it doesn't matter. Not to me, throw as many buckets of water into the sea as you'd like, you won't be able to see it rise.

What I am is something beyond them. More powerful and independent, we exist in a place that you all call Limbo; between Heaven and Hell. We live in a place where the spectral from above, 'angels', thread lightly and another where the demons prefer to roast rather than to take their chances. We are the regulators; like vultures in a spectral waste land. Just as the wolves control the number of deer, we do the same. To everything. Everything in this area, Limbo, is as dangerous as it gets, nothing exists here without constant pressure. Death lingers at the doorstep, around every corner, above and below. Nothing is sure, but confidence is arrogance.

Remember these things. I hope you understand part of my pressure, part of what I am and where I am from. What I represent is far more terrifying than the Reapers themselves. When they see me, they are to know that their times are up. No bargain is offered, no escape, no return, no magic, and no help. No way out. Where Reapers fail, we do not. I am called a Hell-hound.

We strike down, without limitations, without warning, without hesitation, anything that persists that should not. But it isn't about balance or any of that superstitious hog-wash that is touted into the ears of the mundane and the gullible. Make no mistake. The world is not about balance, it is chaotic. Everything is about destruction and death, in the time it has taken you to understand just what I have told you, countless lives have been lost, all of them are not human. Beasts, Daemons, planets, stars, you name it and the score is all the same. Surviving and propagating is the most important factor in all of these things.

Anyone who thinks any different has deluded themselves into thinking that other things matter. To my amusement humans seem to thrive on delusion. Spinners, liars, thieves, righteous, heroes, I hunt them all. None of these ideals or crafts matter to me. All die. My goal is to become the most monstrous and above all else, to survive.

As you can tell, my rap sheet perhaps isn't the most pleasing to look at. To argue that I am somehow worst than the ones that pop on a sporting cap with a weapon across their shoulders; heading out to bring home and stuff a skull to mount in their living room such that they could have stories to tell someone that probably would not even come to their aid should they be called in an emergency, would take quite some work. I merely have a clearer perspective on things; the things that actually matter in life.

Machines are different however, tin beings that up until one point did what they were told to do by their creators. They were the perfect slaves. Peculiar contraptions, with metal spinning against metal and conduit taking electricity across sheets of metal in such a manner that they can sometimes appear to mimic life itself while carrying in their wake a dull eerie low frequency grind instead of a pulse. Replications of actual life... except seemingly completely devoid of it. I have heard rumors of their 'intelligence', saving information presented to them from the world and sifting through it to arrive at solutions at a fast rate... essentially replicating biological life itself to an uncanny measure. Fascinating. How exactly do they work? Can they out survive even me? What about the humans? What are their limitations? Even though most consider them to not be biological, they are made of the same materials as you and I. The dust of the stars. They are Beings chiseled and animated by grand minds that not even I understand. They certainly appear to be alive... they perceive, adapt and make choices. These things interest me, even as a labeled 'tool of destruction' even I can appreciate the oddities and rare things of this world that we all occupy.

I however have no doubts as to whether I would destroy one or not. Sure; without hesitation. Survival of the fittest. Even machinations without parts or with poor programming will crumble and wither away in the harshness of time. Being unfit for competition, to survive, is a danger that even they will have to tackle. They will have to learn to evolve as all living things do, or time will ravage them like the sun on desert lands.

Before you judge, other Daemons are without question also within my scope for termination. Trust is a fickle thing and non-existent between liars, thieves and murderers. One must dominate; know when to shut up and when to be bold; when to take advantage of an opportunity; when to join parties and when to hold back. Survival is a delicate balance of all these things, but there are more things to be considered as well.

As you can imagine, I live a secluded and selfish life. Alone but not displeased. Perhaps I have never had friends or maybe I have already killed them all or perhaps worst yet, watched them die. I'll let you decide, since your opinion on such things matter not.

Either way, I am not a true mercenary. I receive no pay, nothing of worth for my deeds except satisfaction in the knowledge of where it is that I stand in cycle of things. Where Reapers fail, I see a challenge to over-come. My satisfaction comes from an urge that we get to destroy, it is a feeling that even I do not understand quite yet... almost like I have a job to do... subconsciously exciting the very fibers of my being to commit murder. If I spend enough time thinking about it then it would surely bother me as to how much I need to do it.

This urge is so powerful that it can prompt migration from continent to continent. All to seek out a target that I could not have known, smelled or perceived before however I know they exist and somehow I know all the traces necessary to track them down. Often afterwards I would wonder whether I was still slave to a more basic of instincts to hunt and seek out exotic prey but I like to think that I use my brain. I like to think that I am not called to action by tradition or the prehistoric habits of my ancestors before me but the call is powerful and mesmerizing. The call to wreak havoc has been one that I have yet to be able to ignore.

That is enough about me and my nuances. I never did quite mention what happens to the souls that we catch, did I?! They are destroyed, torn limb from limb, burnt and scattered as ashes. It is as though they never existed, sure the denizens of Heaven and Hell keep record but we are where that record stops. I would love to pretend that we had the ability to change time itself but that is fortunately not the case. We make things disappear... an illusion created through death and complete consumption.

Enough of that philosophical stuff, I am a practical man as well. They say that Daemons are all beasts, uncivilized murderers and oppressors but we are the by-product of harsh lives and harsher times. Life is to be lived, but remember that a fool's head is easily parted from his shoulders. It is also interesting how that statement also applies to the weak.

As for me, with that urge sated I am heading off to the next place. To a new place where there is much to be observed and another building urge to be quelled through a hunt.