THE HUNT BEGINS (ZOMBATO)

HELL HOUNDS OFFICE, OUTER EDGE, NEXERIA

      A cloaked man enters the office of the Hell Hounds. He looks around the quaint office, noticing no one else is around—only an empty desk, four rooms, and a stairwell with a sign that says “TO THE UNKNOWN” near it. A cracked office door emits the sole illumination.
      He thought, “This seems like the place, just like those weird whispers mentioned.” The place had a creepy vibe, but scared or not, he will complete his mission.
      The cloaked figure opens the door, entering the office. Immediately observing what appears to be a sickly man, looking green, relaxing his legs on the desk. Wearing a dark tank top, dark pants that looked cut up in different places, and his face covered with a conical hat.

     “Welcome to the office of the Hell Hounds in Nexeria; I hope it wasn’t too difficult for you to find. You may call me Zombato. The others are out on another case. So, if you have the payment, we can get started on the hunt.” Zombato lifts his head towards the potential client; if it wasn’t enough that he was missing his nose, his undead eyes feel like they stare directly into your soul.

     “Yes, I have heard of your unusual requirements: Bloodphires.” The cloaked man pulls out a handful of bloodphires, red crystals with a naturally occurring fire design inside them, putting them on the table.
     “These are very common stones; why do you take them? Is your boss a vampyre?”
The undead man looks down at the bloodphires.
     “Oh ho ho! Look at this! I see someone’s hunger for evil is as big as mine. Now to answer your questions: One—what is common for some is rare for others; we have a unique use for it. Two—we have no boss, but we have a founder; who is much worse than a vampyre; they're quite the horror themselves. Now, elucidate me on what vexes you?” Zombato says, raising an eyebrow; staring at the shadowy blankness of the client's face.
     “These three monstrum of madness…” He pulls out pictures of the three people that are interfering with his way of life.
      

      He points to the middle picture of a tall, handsome, dark-skinned, demonic man in a sleeveless long coat with armor plating, and black jeans.

        “Lord Itellier, the worst of the bunch. His parents apparently wanted him to grow up arrogant because that’s his name, not his title. His charisma is as big as his ego; stories say that he can convince you to do whatever he wants, like something simple: making a grilled cheese sandwich, or something hellish: selling your soul.”

     He moves his finger to the next picture of a sexy, average height, dark-skinned, demonic woman in a half-black and half-white jacket with armor plating, a two-toned shirt and skin-tight leather pants.

     “Itellier’s sister with a name just as arrogant: Lady Lyligan. Stories say they are an incubus and a succubus, and where they have been, bodies were found drained of life. People would be crazy to turn down an offer from her. Though her intelligence is her deadliest weapon; she has gotten the outlaws so much money through sweet-talking and using her looks.”

     He moves his finger to the last picture; pressing violently on it. It’s of a pale man with his teeth showing, dressed gallantly in a militaristic, double-breasted uniform with a cowl, who looks like a vampyre.

     “Vamyn Pyrellor, rumors say he is the first Vampyre; but those are rumors. We photographed him just fine, and he comes out in the daylight. Though whenever he’s around, there have been bodies with holes in their necks after he’s done with them.” The Client says.

     “The three of them have entered my city of Nexeria, and the already high body count has raised dramatically. They call themselves the Deathborne; they're worse than the mob. My police force can barely stop their crimes; I came here hoping to find help to actually save my city.” He slams his hands on the table.
     “Because I can’t bring any of these savages to justice. They outmatch me at every corner! More elusive! More powerful!” His fists clenched, ready to slam the table again.
Zombato puts his hand on the cloaked police officer’s shoulder.
    “Heh heh... Don’t worry, I will sate my appetite for evil with The Deathborne, and when my belly is full, you’ll have no more worries.”
      The police officer rubs his hurt hands, then smiles at Zombato, knowing his trust is in the right person.
     “Thank you so much. The whispers were right about you.”
Zombato takes his hand off the officer’s shoulder.
     “The whispers? It’s unfortunate you won’t see justice be done.” In the blink of an eye, Zombato’s bones rise out of his hands, transforming into sharp blades. Using these newly formed blade hands; he cuts the so-called police officer into multiple pieces, with blood, bone, and body parts spurting out all over the office.
     “Only the malevolent can hear the spell of the whispers. Which gives me an unexpected appetizer; how delightful!” His hands transform back to normal.
     “I had a feeling you were just overacting, trying to make me believe your sob story. You obscured your face for a reason! You probably don’t even work for the police!” He yells at the messy chunks of the client around his office.
     “Look at me, talking to him like he’s still alive. Mon, I’m just a schmuck who likes to talk to himself.” He says, picking up the bloodphires, giving them a once-over.
     “The Black Duchess will be happy about these. Even though they’re common here in Nexeria, other cities don’t have them like we do, and they help a great deal.” Putting away the bloodphires, he looks over at the files of the Deathborne.
     “I’m glad Deadhead’s whisper spell brings the malevolent here; far easier than hunting them. However, this information is probably all hogwash, besides the pictures. The Deathborne are people he wants eradicated. I’ll go investigate them and see if this was fact or fiction.”
Zombato takes off his hat and places it on his desk. He goes over to the coat rack and puts on his long, dark coat with no sleeves, with the Hell Hounds insignia on it. He stares at the pieces of the former potential client with disgust.
     “That made me hungry; wish I remembered to leave their brains intact. That's undeath for ya. A little piece won’t hurt; you know, five-second rule.” He picks up a piece of the splattered brains and drops it into his mouth.
     “Mmmm! Evil brains — nothing quite like the taste. My favorite!” He heads towards his office's entrance; looking back at the disaster area, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
     “I hope this case doesn’t end up like my office, a bloody mess.”