World of Darkness ~ High School RP

[Frisk E. Coyote]

Nero was laughing malevolently. "Limiters! I remember those from the sophomore year, eh Mian?" He nudged the elf with his elbow playfully. They couldn't be removed unless permitted by the one who had issued them, and lots of magic didn't work on them; they couldn't be transformed, or phased through, or even shrouded in illusion! Nero had been issued the rings no less than thirty-seven times in the past, leaving him with only his brute strength and natural demonic ability to cope with. In one instance, he had even been issued eight, one for each finger, and another to be worn around his neck like a collar. He had long since toned down from harassing (mutilating), abusing (raping) and disabling (dismembering) schoolmates since, and hasn't worn a limiter ring since the first half of his junior year.

"Sorry sir," Nero said, fishing a rather demonic looking lexicon out of his rucksack. It was bound book, the back and front cover seemed to be made of aged leather patched with human skin and sewn together with sinews. The spine of the book was composed of bones, and it was bound and chained with leather and bone. There was a strange black stone at the center, and what seemed to be stitched eyes and a mouth in the front. There were words printed in dark red at the front: DAEMONICON: Grimoirum et Arcana. He stepped forward and placed the book on Glen's desk. "That could be the culprit, I forgot I had it with me. I was just tryin' to brush up on my Demon Lore, n' that book kinda eats magic. I musta' brushed my rucksack against the doorframe when I came in. I'll leave it with ya and grab it later." He grinned apologetically, and headed back to his seat casually. The book was a family heirloom, he had acquired it over the summer. He trusted the Professor with it, he was far too powerful for the book to manipulate. It had a tendency to control minds.

"I tried the flea collar, it was okay, but it didn't work for long. Dire fleas tend to... counter attack." He recalled, having once tried on a collar only to wake up the next day with it in pieces. "The shampoo really bugged me. My nose's a lot stronger than yours. And fleabaths just made me look like a giant walkin' koosh." He was a demon, but he had pride in what he was, and what he looked like. That meant keeping his fur clean and stink free, his claws nice and sharp, his fangs white and pointy and his mane longer than the short ones his race usually had, they resembled hyenas with the shortened manes, Nero liked the 'hair' look better.

The Dire Wolf's eyes flickered toward Damien, and a predatory smirk etched itself on his canine muzzle. He exchanged no words, but instead, winked at him. He knew this guy when he was a Freshman, a dragon hybrid or something. He never got to do anything to him, but maybe that'll change this year, or not. He was trying for a less bloodstained career. He tilted his head back forward to pay attention to the Professor.

Nero froze, his ears swiveling backward; a sign of aggression. He had been ignoring Mochi to the best he could because it seemed to annoy him more than anyone actually paying attention to him, all freshmen and juniors either wanted attention, or none at all, and Nero showed those attention seekers what kind of attention they could actually attract. Mochi called him a dog.

"What did you call me?" The demon asked dangerously, his blood red eyes glowing a feral crimson, the whites of his eyes (sclera) turning black. "Are you just lookin' to make enemies, half-blood!?" He snarled, releasing a rather heavy killing intent, the pressure of which ruffled papers, clothes and hair, the sensation of being cornered and ready to be consumed by flames, or mauled by beasts, a slow, painful death, drowned out all other emotions with terror and anxiety. What Mochi said was a great insult to him, his race, and every other Supe that resembled an animal or looked nothing like a human. Whether the halfblood knew that or not, Nero didn't care; he was going to pay with blood. "You oughta know better than to piss off a senior, kid, especially when its me." He added, growling, his voice now sounding like there were two others speaking with warped voices as he spoke. He raised and muscular, furry forearm, and with sickening cracking sounds, his ulna snapped out of his forearm, drenched in blood, shaping itself into a sickle-shaped jagged bone blade that protruded from his wrist. More jagged and bloody bone sickles jutted out of his forearm until there were four, two foot long blades lining his arm from wrist to elbow.

Chompenrau took a seat furthest away from Nero. He was familiar with demonic rage. They just stopped thinking rationally, a form of being berserk, and focused on a single target that they were wrathful toward. That way, the demon could go crazy and still make intelligent moves in a battlefield. Chompenrau witnessed this only once, a demoness had been frustrated by a letter, so she had shredded her mailbox apart. It was a frightening sight.