The animal lifted his furry paw in the bright reflex of the roaring sun, shielding its narrow eyes from the harsh yet welcoming glare. It yawned, moving a tangle of heavy, matted fur from its vision and snarling at the intensity of the new morning.
"Abel!" A comforting female voice barked at his ears, pricking them back like a bloodhound keen on its hunt. He sniffed at the air and sighed over the sweet scent of morning, laced subtly with the scent of a heavy, sweet liquid it'd grown rather partial to over the last few hundred years, "Abel?! I won't call again!!" Threatened the comforting voice. Quickly it uncoiled itself from the foot of the large bed and scampered across the groaning floorboards to the side of the heavily leather clad woman, her long red hair wrapping around her like a long crimson ribbon, "Good boy," She praised, "Good boy."
"This target is slippery." He'd said,
"A real snake: Been evading us for years." Growled the aged man, the deep wrinkles carved into his face like the face of a cliff, "That's why we want to hire you two." He admitted painfully through gritted teeth, "Unfortunately they tell me you're the best." He sighed, lowering his incredibly creased forehead into the "L" formed with his thumb and forefinger, "God damn expensive f-" Cynthia placed the barrel of Despair against his temple, "Excuse me?" She asked politely, smiling sweetly as she fingered the golden latticed trigger.
The old man had made a decision, a bad decision, choosing to swear rather than apologize and as the blessed metal passed through his blasphemous skull Abel clapped enthusiastically, only to have a hail of bullets ricochet around his feet, "You shouldn't take pleasure in death, Abel." Frowned Cynthia, holstering Despair by her ankle and walking over to the table in the centre of the room, the black leather heels resonating off the walls of the tight enclosed room. She opened the documents and began to scan through them as Abel edged slowly towards the corpse, inspecting it like a curious puppy, "Abel..." Chimed Cynthia, not looking up from the details of the rather simple mission:
Claude Grégéré Gionvac, three hundred and twenty-two years old, currently hiding within the confines of the depths in the hopes that the sun's talons could not reach him. This is not so. Your mission is to turn him to ash and to take a sample for identification. Your pay will be approximately five hundred thousand dollars minus any damages that have to be paid for. Thankyou for your co-operation,
The Royal Association Of Night Hunter's (RANH)
A large, hairy hand tugged at Cynthia like a small child would tug at its mother, "How much Cynthia?" Asked Abel. Cynthia turned and cast him a judgmental and dismissive glance, "You're an awful ape, Abel." Mumbled Cynthia, completely blanking Abel's question as he bent forward onto his knuckles, a slow torrent of viscous, red drool flowing from his mouth, "You really can't help yourself can you?"