Évrard D'Aboville has been the lethal left hand of King Sabien Arceneaux for centuries. Using his deadly skills, he's indiscriminately killed and maimed at his master's behest. He had never once been disobedient. That is until he was asked to kill a...
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Évrard D'Aboville-The Creature
If I wanted to feast on the large intestine of the President of the United States during his State of the Union address; I could. And I'd escape without his secret service getting one bullet into me.
Side note: I would still like to write a stern letter of complaint to my manufacturer. Because though I can walk through bullets and swallow fire, take knives to various unfriendly parts of the body; none of which would kill me. And all of which I would heal from over time. I still feel pain in equal amounts to the living.
Once I was strung up on a hanging tree in a modest square in, Picayune, Mississippi. I had to sit calmly with that blasted rope tied round my throat for nearly six hours before they through me in a ditch. I know I should be grateful for being the apex predator this food chain deserves but sometimes I wonder...
Évrard...This is not my real name. I don't have a real name. I have borrowed and lived in such colorful variety for so many centuries that my fanciful creations are more home to me than the assignation of my prior blood. I say prior blood because what soldiers through my choked veins now certainly isn't human. I meant centuries in the literal sense, by the way. I am by definition very old. But that Mississippi debacle and the others I've had to endure like it...well...those are never fun.
I don't know what or if anything could kill me. And though I long for death, some of the more exotic notions I've simply not allowed. Would some extremely sharp object piercing my heart directly close me out? Perhaps. But anyone who has tried didn't have an arm to extend when I was finished with them.
Despite my hopes of this cycle being my last, which will doubtless be a dream that disappoints. I have traversed enough time to deserve the right to end it on my own terms. You should know reader that there are a few sects and orders that hunt and albeit at times successfully dispose of things which go "bump" in the night.
In my case, consistently and unsuccessfully. Most annoyingly the Ridley boys out of Modesto. A bunch of string bean, mophead stoners who stumbled upon some knowledge they have no business involving themselves in. They vowed never to sleep until I am dissected properly with a Gaelic axe.
