| Backlash. |
[06 Dec 2007|12:18am] |
To mere mortals, there was something about the taste of blood that bordered on offensive; like sucking on a rusty nail or a dirty penny. So unpalatable was it's flavor that it would rather be spit out than swallowed. Elian couldn't possibly begin to fathom why such creatures killed for the taste. Then again, there were many things that he didn't understand, like how the hell these people even existed to begin with.
At least, he used to dwell on such things, but lately it seemed that more and more he found he cared less and less. As stubborn as he was, Elian was starting to allow himself to accept the fact that vampires and things that went bump in the night were actually here to stay.
That didn't necessarily mean he had to like it.
And so like almost every night, his own blood was spat from his own mouth, or wiped from his brow, or soaked into his clothing. He narrowly escaped his own second death every single time, and ignored the taunts of the creatures he stalked, continually being ridiculed that only girls could be slayers, and he certainly wasn't man enough for this job.
They could talk all they wanted. Their words only fueled Elian's fire. Slayer he certainly was not, but he was indeed a rather large man with an even larger hate-on for the walking undead.
( I fought the law, and the law... kicked my ass. )
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