The violence of his home was never forgotten. It could not be, so etched into his skin, muscle, bone and mind. How could you so easily discard yourself, when your whole history was one of war? Such an act was made softer by shame however, as those scars proved more than just skill in combat, but also sins and hatred levied against another living being, struggling inevitably to stop the slow silencing of the light so deep within their chests. No, what he saw was not glory, memours of well-fought battles, what he saw was a curse, an affliction, and above all that, shame. He saw his soul filled with hate and rage, reason unchecked in a single devestating moment of deadly fury.
 
He hated the Moon for this reason. Under any normal circumstances, he was hidden behind a vener of civility, and could pretend he was normal, lie to himself his past was just a delusion, one he could forget if he simply regarded it as a dream. But under this cruel glow, this haunting echo of silvery light, scars and tattoos from a life so long forgotten revealed themselves. Snaking patterns of black ink wound and wove all across his body, every inch home to a design so intricate that only the deftest of small hands could work them. Adding to this somehow, gruesom scars wound and streaked as jagged bolts across his form, deep blemishes of cuts and wounds whos pain he felt in his very soul. What could he do to ignore it, when each one was someones life he had ended?
 
And it was under this moon that his history repeated, endlessly.
 
He was not the only one with secrets the moon showed. Others too existed, who tried to hide within plain sight, whos monsters yearned to break free. And in the night, while the sun hid, sick from this disgusting world, that they crawled out from their decrepit shelters of humanity. Creatures so disgusting that there could be no more apt word than abomination to describe them. They were Werewolves, they were Vampires, they were Demons and ghosts, they were zombies and madmen, but worst of all, they were fallen souls who embraced the hatred and rage that scored its' self a hundred thousand times across his skin.
 
His name was Xillian. He chose no second name, first or last, only a single name that made its' self known by the fists of a man who had nothing left within, no hope for a better tomorrow, no love for the coming days, and no will to continue with his life of battle. He was a man of skills varried and diverse, he could disassemble and reassemble even the most advanced contraptions, he could fire his gun and hit a target four hundred yards away every time, and he could craft spellwork so intricate and devestating he was renowned for his abilities with the energies of Lightning and the Storm.
 
And so we find our hero, loath as he would be to be called such, standing high above the Gothic streets of Avabruck, leaning off a weather-vane, the silver moon burning away his desceptive magics and showing his true self, his golden eyes glaring down at the streets, patterns across his skin winding up over and around his face before diving down below his collar again to worm and line the rest of his body. A heavy coat rested on his form, flapping in the wind, warm garments beneath shielding from the cold he didn't even make to notice. His hat sat firmly upon his head, ignoring the gust that almost wanted to rip it from him as a jellious child, "If you won't share you won't have at all!" But that was not his focus, not the gnawing cold on his ears, they were atuned to something else. Not the tingle on his neck, that was a symptom not of cold but of something more dire. Not the numbness of his limbs, that was from a reluctance to move forth and do what must be done. Not from anything the world could do.
 
Five meters away, there was a crash of glass, a scream of terror, a snarl of hunger and shouts to take arms. It was happening again, it was happening tonight, and it was happening so close. This time, he would not move with care nor with steadily-measured steps, with no saunter of lazy lethargy, nor cocky self confidence. Letting his grip fail, he fluttered two stories down to the ground, hitting it running in a powerful roll that made a resounding snap as the mans hands and feet hit the cobblestone hard enough to take the impact off his spine and head. He was up in that movement, sprinting full-tilt with every ounce of power his weiry muscles possessed, his feet slipping off the dew-coated rocks with suck break-neck recklessness you almost expected him to forget his pace and trip to a catastrophic end.
 
No, there was no failure available to him, Xillian could not waste time. He was moving almost parellel to the ground, low and occasionally using his hands to aid in moving around an obstical. A stray carage, left behind in a hurry by its patrons eagerness to get within the safe confines of their homes, posed no worry to the sprinting man. Reaching out with both hands, his knuckles punched the stone roar and his feet pulled up, slashing forwards in a kick that added momentum in a powerful slide under the wooden jocky, the wooden beams inches from his forehead. No time to measure his actions, time was running out as the beasts of the night invaded the homes of innocent bystandards in the war of civilization and horror.
 
He could see the lights of the manorhouse, a derelict fountain overgrown with foliage, clogged with dirt from lack of care wizzing past as he skidded to a stop. Within there was a crash, and a pained scream of the soul being torn from its mortal coil unwillingly. The pulse of the new arrival quickened, action needed to be taken and it was needed now. Xillian wasted not a second moment and ripped off his jacket, tossing it up over the window with it's shattered glass and leaped up, grabbing the ledge and mantling with practiced ease. He arrived in a scattered dining room, a shredded turkey and various veggetables tossed with no mind. The mulched table  was in more than four pieces, legs and sections of the flatbead forgotten in the haste of escape, a smashed door betraying the path chosen by those who fled.
 
Reaching into the hem of his coat, the new comer drew a long, ash-handled pistol with a bellow-like device below and a secured striking hammer held back tight on either side of the device. Moving swiftly, he stepped over the long daggers of wood that once made up a sturdy door. It was a dark wood, that much he could tell at a glance, and must have taken a multitude of the brutes to destroy, that or a very old and very powerful one. Either case, this night was more climactic that anyone could have fortold.
 
He moved further down the hallway, paintings and mirrors lining the walls. They were expensive, gold-ornimented and brilliantly well crafted, a sure sign of Aristocracy within this house. Not much father, there was a body here, a male, younger. Likely an older son or cousin of the houses owner. Xillian wasted not a second longer, and was moving purposefully down the hallway, a turn making the destination from kitchen to upstairs bedrooms, a second scream guiding the gunman. He took the stairs twice at a time, pouncing the last four in an agile leap, landing on all fours as he scanned for his target.
 
There was a shatter of wood, and a form moved through a doorway. It was too late to squeeze off a shot now, he needed to get closer. Moving with brisk speed he approached the doorway and looked within, his pistol at the ready.
 
A massive brown-furred beast that stood upon two legs, some parody of humanity as a wolf mocked its victims in some deviant form between the two. A shivering woman hugged two children close, a crawling man with gray hair trying to escape, a futile manuver partially in thanks to the heavy foot on his back. The werewolf raked its right claw along his spine, ripping flesh and elicting a scream of terror and pain, before the left whipped around and tore the head from the spine, the terror-stricken look forever frozen on the elderly ones face. The Wolf turned to attakc the last three when Xillian made his presence known.
 
No words spoken, no conversation, nothing. Battle was joined with a deafening clap that hurt Xillians ears and likely caused the werewolf no small ammount of anguish, right before the bullet tore into its back. It howled in indignant pain and spun, beady red eyes filled with primal hate. The other hammer fell and a second shot rocketed into the Werewolves shoulder, the creatin shuddering as it moved against the force, it's opposite arm reaching to grapple with Xillian.
 
The gunman rolled away from the stairs he had ran up as the Werewolf lunged face-first into the wall infront of it, it's target long gone. Xillian meanwhile cranked back the two hammers and put a second dose of priming salts into the pan, looking up in time to leap backwards as the abomination raged in uncontrolled anger. Spinning on his heel he belted for the window at the other end of the hallway he was in, a rooftop just outside. Sprinting for all he was worth, hell hot on his heels, he fired a shot at the window, then a second, and with a mental note of the idiocy of this, crashed out into the night, taking the Werewolf away from its would-be victims and on a merry chase.
 
The beast was all-too happy to comply, roaring in its bestial tongue as it leaped out the window onto the rooftop as Xillian crested the slanted roof, chancing a look backwards. His pistol mated with its holster, a clack securing it as a magnet snapped together, and off he was, taking the rooftops as his own personal highway, a caravan of grim conflict speeding across.
 
He danced forth across the alleyway, his feet moving in a fanned fastion, his arms held ready to catch himself as he landed on the other side, hitting the ground running. No time was to be wasted, for the werewolf was all the more able for running down prey than Xillian was at out-sprinting it. The rough terrain was his saving grace, more mobile he was thanks to a lifetime of training. Another roof out of the way, and another to come, he could not fail now, the monster so close to him. As he readied to leap across this roof to the next, a shingle gave way, and with a yelp, down Xillian slid, shingles popping out in a crazy spree, the alley approaching quickly. The Werewolf mounted the apex of the roof, watching with enjoyment as Xillian suffered his poor footing. It charged forwards, leaping over Xillian and landed on the other roof as the man was dumped unceremoniously into the dark alleyway.
 
With a howl, it summoned its kin, before taking to the hunt. Xillian scrambled for the gutter as he fell, but to no avail, his body reacting in a roll to keep from breaking anything. He was up in a flash as the Werewolf landed directly behind Xillian, exactly where he was moments ago. He had not a breath to waste as he again took to a sprint, his ragged breath heaving as he pushed himself hard as he could, rocketing out of the alley, sliding on the slick stones, the beast unceremoniously scrabbling for perchase on the cold rock. Xillian dove up into the window of the same carrage he ran under moments ago, going in one window and out the other, landing in a roll and keeping going. The werewolf crashed atop it and pounced after Xillian, destroying the roof and causing a wheel to collapse, the rattle of it forgotten among the mayhem at hand.
 
He was in the open now, and the Werewolf would run him down faster than he would care to admit. He had to stand and fight, there was no other option. Spinning, Xillian felt his momentum carry him a foot more, sparks dancing through his fingers as he prepared his spells. The Werewolf noticed the change, and not forfiting it's momentum rocketed at the human.
 
Xillian bent in the knees, falling backwards as the Werewolf went over him, and rolling back onto his feet as the Werewolf landed, spinning fluidly and pointing a middle and index finger at the creature, his thumb and ring figer tucked in, pinkey curled. With a thought, Xillian swiftly shifted the hand-figure and there was a crack of energy, both middle and index pulling apart as the pinky unfurled, the thumb shooting upwards. A bolt of electrical power surged through the misty night, taking the Werewolf square in the chest, knocking it off its feet for a moment. This gave Xillian the time he needed as he prepared his next few spells, ready to react.
 
The Werewolf was up again, and even more angry than before were that possible. Bounding forwards it lunged to bite at Xillian, who reached forwards and grabbed the Lycanthropes neck, yanking down hard as he tossed himself over its back, tossing it off balllance, and yanking hard tossed the beast again to the ground. Xillian made a quick figure in the air, and brought his foot up, snapping his heel down in a flash, eletricity dancing from his core down his legs and streaking from his foot. The pulse made the Werewolf shudder as it convulsed in pain, uelping from the shock. A quick spread fingered spell multiplied the effect, hair burning at the point of impact as Xillian backed away again. The brute was too much in a strait fight, and Xillian was in no mood to be eviscerated.
 
With a stagger, the Creature rose upon shakey legs, head likely pulsing fromma splitting headache. Xillian knew his spells well enough to know this was hurting like a right bitch, and was more than eager to make the murderer pay. With a gutteral scream, Xillian charged forwards, energy bleeding off of him as he closed with the monster, its face one of astonishment that such a small creature could weild the thunder and lightning of the sky. It's shock was more litteral moments later as thousands of volts courced through it, the abomination screaming a long, pained howl of pure pain as Xillian's masterstroke ended it within moments.
 
Xillian looked at the smoking corpse. Soon, death reversion would take hold, and the man it pretended to be would be shown. But what of its kin? Xillian heard the howl, it was calling its own to dine with it, to follow the hunt. Turning, he saw four powerful killers slowly padding towards him, snarling.
 
"That's hardly fair," Xillian said in a deep, smooth voice, "Four on one? I'm not sure this is a good idea for you lot. I just killed your pack-lead."
 
One snapped at him, and charged. It ignored the tattoos and scars slowly moving, coming to life, an eldrich energy pulsing bellow them. It ignored the golden eyes growing in intensity, forgot the whisping hair the moment it noticed it. It was hence surprised beyond all possible predictable limits when the lines and scars shot into bright reds, blues and whites, fiery light blazing from the mans eyes, as it screamed aloud, the shock of Xillians voice litterally tossing the Lycanthrope backwards through the air, knocking back those three who stood nearby, watching.
 
"I think it's time to even the odds." Xillian said, in a quiet tone, his tattoos and scars silencing their movements again, his eyes leaving their burning mist behind. The meaning of his words had no context; was his shout evening the odds? Was it some magic to weaken them? Or was he boasting?
 
With a crash, a forked rift appeared above Xillian, and in an explosion of light appeared a massive figure. With a roar of fire and fury, the dragon spread it's wings and limbs, a jet of flame flickering into the sky. Landing on its rear legs, the dragon came to all fours beside Xillian.
 
"As you have called, Comrade," spoke the dragon in a powerful tone, his eyes on the four werewolves, stunned at the arrival, "So answers Arix Ordragc."
 
Xillian smirks approvingly, "You take those two?" he asks, his arms caked in electricity.
 
"Nay, You'll have to fight me for all of them!" roars the Dragon Warrior, as he charges forwards, crashing into the fountain and turning it to gravel. Xillian acts immediately and lights up two of the Lycanthropes, stunning them. Arix rears to his rear two feet as a werewolf rises to slash, and casually catches a paw in his crushing talons, and whips the brute around as a makeshift flail, bludgeoning the two stunned Werewolves into a neat pile.
 
The remaining Werewolf pounces upon Arix, but he reacts readily and drops a hand, kicking out with a foot and battering aside the primitive. Xillian hurls a spear of lightning at it, punching through its chest and sending it into seizures. Arix spins, ready to continue, as the Werewolves untangle themselves. As a pack, they charge, and as a pack they prepare to take down the mighty dragon, ignoring the mage behind them. Arix rears up again and takes a deep breath, before exhailing with a sharp, high-pitched whine, fire exploding in a massive collumn that punches the pack in half, catching one werewolf on fire as the other two dodge to the side. Arix takes a step back, then another, as the Lycanthropes pounce from both sides. He slashes with a single talon, batting aside an attacker, and whips up his tail-blade, the bone snapping open into a sharp triple-pointed blade that scewers and minces the last attacker, a downwards talon strike ending the beast completely.
 
Arix rocks backwards and slams i to the ground as the last werewolf, the one that had been immolated, makes a deathcharge and slams into his face. With a powerful chomp, he tries to remove the beast, but it hold on and prepares to rip apart the dragons face. It is stopped however by a spear of ice that punches theough its leg, which spreads into a hard ice prison, its own body frozen solid. With a screaming jet of flame, the werewolf melts atop Arix, who rises to find his ally Xillian grinni ear to ear.
 
"One more," he says, and turns to the final Lycan, who is backpeddaling, rethinking its chances, "Too late to run now, buddy. I gave you a chance."
 
The Lycan roars in indignation, and charges, right for Xillian. Arix moves to intercept the creature, crashing next to Xillian who is preparing one final spell.
 
"Same as last time?" questions the dragon, already knowing what is going to happen.
 
"Exact same." Responds the human with a smile, "Ready when you are."
 
Arix rushes forwards as Xillian raises his hands to the sky. There is a massive crash of thunder, and suddenly, Arix flickers out of existence. The Werewolf, surprised, tries to stop and look for it, but before it can, Arix re-appears right behind it and lunges forwards, his jaws snapping the monster in half. With a jet of fire, the werewolf shudders as it comes apart, wimpering in final resignation to its fate.
 
The scourge of Avabrock was dead. The werewolves were gone, dead, defeated. With a sigh, Xillian looked up at his friend, who was smacking his chops to try and get rid of the wretched taste of the fiends. With a chuckle, he walked over to the dragon who was twice his size and leaned on a large, scalie leg, rippling muscles relaxing from the easing of the conflict.
 
"So, do we count this as a kill for me, or you?" he asks playfully, teasingly.
 
With a chuckle, Arix, looks about for some source of water, "Get me something to wash this out with and maybe I'll let you take the glory of being there to watch me."
 
The two friends share a laugh as Xillian motions down a street, and the Dragon pads off to aleviate his rotten taste. With a slight sigh, he looks around. Five Werewolves in one night. This was indeed a monumental event. The people of Avabruck would forever remember this day as a day when good triumphed over evil, when the darkness was defeated by the light.
 
Part of Xillian wished that was true. He was no better than these lycanthropes, truely. They atleast had no choice in being monsters. He however was trying to scrub himself of his own sin, and in some form, this was but a down payment of blood for the final toll to be payed.
 
Walking over tothe carrage, he rummaged around on a belt pouch for some jerky or nuts, before looking up, and stopping dead, shock the picture of his features. Was this true? No, it was not possible.
 
"Arix!" Xillian cried, "Come quickly!"
 
A few moments, the dragon crashed into the square, his heavy bulk landing gracelessly from his short flight, "What, what have you found?"
 
Xillian raised a finger to the werewolf he had killed first, the pack leader, "Him." he said. Death reversion had come and gone, and now there lay, naked, the corpse of the Mayor of Avabruck.
 
"There is more here than at first thought," Xillian said, distantly, "My dear Arix."