<a class="username" data-user-id="240" data-username="@Austin121" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/240/">@Austin121</a><br/><br/>Cresil knew himself to be brutal, cold blooded killer and that was exactly how all of the towns folk perceived him. But Cresil preferred to think of himself as someone with a hard outer shell with a soft inner core. But that inner core was rotting and dyed black with hatred of everything and anything that breathed and spoke with words. Life was hard growing up on his own, having had no parents to raise him. Years of suffering hardships and abandonment, followed by a nasty break up with his girlfriend of several years left him a raging ball of anger and dejection. But he hid it so well, veiling his hurt and frustration with faux smiles, forced playfulness and a fear of confrontation. Alcohol was his only friend now, having pushed away his family and friends after his break up. But a part of Cresil was glad to be single, for it meant no longer worrying about someone and rather trying to fend for himself. The nights that he spent alone were nights that Cresil would frequent the bar. It was always easier to drink his troubles away, rather than dealing with his inner demons. The days and nights were beginning to blur together, and Cresil felt that his sense of reality was slowly deteriorating as he settled into life as he knew it. Sleep. Drink, Work. Repeat.<br/><br/>It was another dark night in the lonely little rural village Cresil resided near, doing the same old thing that he had done every night. Another pair of demons were killed, their lifeless bodies on the ground, their bodies slowly dissolving into soot that was as black as the midnight sky. Equally, Cresil's hands were died black with the blood and soot that soiled his hands. But it always washed off, and Cresil was always quick to forget about those he slaughtered. He didn't care if people thought of him as a monster. He didn't care that people thought little of him for being a half breed demon or a demon hunter. None of it mattered... He had himself. And that was all he could ever want. It was the early end of a long night for Cresil, who was finally on his way home for the night. Cresil enjoyed taking walks through the woods, the sounds of bats scampering about and hearing the leaves as they crinkled underfoot... It brought him an odd sense of peace. At this point, these walks of solitude at nightfall were his only source of solace... But tonight would be different. Because now, Cresil was sure he could hear someone following him, or at the very least, watching his every move. He could see it. Feel it. Sense it. Something was lurking among the shadows, a pair of eyes locked onto his back. A pair of stealthy feet sneaking around him. This person must think they are so clever, Cresil thought bitterly... But he knew there was someone there. No one could fool him. Finally, Cresil could not stand the constant feeling of being followed. In response, he turned swiftly on his heels, turning around and holding out a gun, his angry voice booming among the forest. "Alright! Come out! I know someone is following me! So just show yourself already!"<br/><br/>Cresil would be lying if he didn't admit to himself that he was fearful at the thought of a potentially powerful being following him around. The energy he felt radiating off of this other mysterious figure had Cresil practically quaking, and considering a way to escape before he ended up finding himself a victim of a surprise attack. Yet, Cresil was in no mood to play games, especially now that he was recovering from a hangover. These hangovers were frequent and enduring, as Cresil had now succumbed to his drinking urges. Nothing else mattered anymore.