We Play With Guns | Azrael

Getadelt wird wer Schmerzen kennt
Vom Feuer das die Haut verbrennt;
Ich werf ein Licht
In mein Gesicht,
Ein heisser Schrei -
Feuer frei!

Bang, bang.

The last traces of splintered wood and charred pulp descended to the floor, a moribund hail of interminable fragments and ballistic seedlings. The tri-optic demon, carved from the dessicated carcass of an ancient tree and propped up to deliver its sacrilegious glare at all who beheld it, fell. It fell like all the others, its cranial extremity experiencing a sudden and decidedly traumatic shift from solid matter to de-atomised nebula of particulate residue.

She smiled the smile of a hungry tiger, satisfied with the vehicular meal it has just espied, and reloaded.

The gun that occupied the latter portion of her right arm was a beautiful model by anyone's standards. Longer than the limb itself and meticulously crafted from the finest mineral, its onyx-black finish and voluptuous curves would put even the most dignified belly-dancer to utter and abject shame.

What was even more impressive was its colourful history. After all, how many other guns of its ilk could one claim had been all but banned under Nazi rules of war for being "inhumane"? It was not a weapon that existed for anything other than brutal, savage murder. It was a weapon that was born to end lives at whatever the cost - certainly, the mere sight of a piece of machinery like this would be enough to strike fear into the very core of even the most stalwart man of arms.

That she was, in fact, a woman of arms - and a rather petite one at that, all things considered - brought her no end of sheer, visceral joy. It was the simple things that appealed to her, after all - and she could conceive of nothing more simple or instinctual than eviscerating everything within the immediate vicinity for nothing more sophisticated than mere fun and profit.

With a juvenile laugh trickling out of her taut lips and ivory fangs, the sound of her shrill yet coarse tone intermingling with the sensual timbre of the chamber being pulled back, released and another portion of her very soul being poured into it, she took aim and prepared to fire again.

Bang, bang.[/b]

The life of a wanderer was never a fun on. Step after step took them nowhere and anywhere at the same time, it hardly mattered to the wanderer. It was a type of pass-time that only those with nothing could truly do, those who believed that there was nothing better at all to do.

Tap, tap went the rhythm of the feet against the floor of the Academy, it was always the same noise. Sometimes a little heavier or lighter to add variety to the flavorless, boring walk that echoed through the corridors. Tap, tap, the rhythm that followed wherever the wanderer went, all alone in a world of noise and the only company that was always there was the ever present tap, tap.

The wanderer this time was one Azrael, a rather strange individual and not just in appearance but in personality as well. The only reason he didn't have anything to do was because he had no one with which to do anything. A friendless person, worthless to anyone if he had anyone... Azrael sighed. He really had to get out of this line of thinking but it seriously wasn't easy. Sometimes it was easier just to believe that no one cared, that everyone was against him but he knew that wasn't the way the world worked, he just had to get on with it. So once more, he succumbed to the tap, tap coming from his feet and let it whisk him away to wherever his heart and feet led him this day.

Apparently today, his feet would take him to noise, lots of it. Azrael only slightly knew the noise though, that of gunfire coming from the firing range... well where else would it come from? Maybe a little company would be good for once, Azrael thought to himself and then walked into the Range. Besides, the noise had a much gruffer, meatier sound than most of the other guns he had ever heard before. The reason for this was quickly answered, the Weapon in the room was a shotgun, and a damn big one. The albino's eyes widened slightly as he looked over her, she looked to be in deep concentration as she fired but he got a strange vibe from her, she was enjoying this shooting a little too much he thought, darkly.

Thoughts crossed the Meister's mind as he walked closer to the Shotgun and continued looking. She might be just one of his own mind but he doubted it, with how his luck has turned out throughout his life.

Pale lips upon a paler face spoke out when he got within a good five meters of her.

"You seem to be having a lot of fun, do you enjoy such destruction?" The voice was calm and devoid of emotion, as though dead of anything but pure calm. It was not a soothing voice in the slightest though, the absolute calm lent it an icy edge, as though every word had an undiscovered meaning.

The young lady released another ballistic bombardment of explosive ammunition, sending another wooden opponent into a catastrophic oblivion of shattered tree bark and charred paint chippings, and then gave her guest the supreme honour of lowering her weapon and turning to face him.

The first thing she noticed was how pale the young man was. He looked as though he would vanish altogether if he was dropped into a good foot or so of snow. There was no colour to his face whatsoever; just a pallid canvas whereupon two eyes, ears, a nose, a mouth and a mop of hair had been positioned. He was also, she observed, faminously narrow of frame. He could do with a nice raw steak.

Still, he had the brass monkeys to wander in whilst she was practicing - so he was evidently possessed of something approximating courage. Or maybe he was just an idiot. She had seen plenty of both of them, and from her experience, the two were scarcely mutually exclusive.

Her right arm metamorphosed back into its original state with a natural grace that was unbecoming of its ferocious aesthetic. The hand rose into the air as a fluttering mallard does, thin fingers extended in a gesture of vague invitation, and then swept up to the girl's hair and tossed aside a pale lavender lock.

"Guten tag, mein freund."[/color][/font]

Her voice was shrill and feminine, with a coarse edge that belied her small body and slight physique; this was hardly surprising, considering, as she was, not a particularly large or robust girl - what was more intimidating was the manic grin pulled taut across her face as she said it. She had teeth that would put their mutually pallid, acuate corporeality to shame. They stared with as much perpetual morbid fascination as her peering feline eyes.

She was not, it was deducible, going to give him the benefit of extended conversation. Her expression - halfway between candid curiosity and feral goading - told him that if he wanted to make small talk, he would have to take charge of it.