The stone brick ground was slick with cavern dew and the walls resembled a wrinkled face. Deep in the bowels of the Angelic City's sewers was a town only the wretched walked, which the peace of the mourning citizens of the outside kept calmly through the wake of its existence. Where the air tastes like limestone and smells like freshly cut grass and wet rock. The Arches that lead off deeper into the town held goyles above them that cooed at wanderers.
My name is Anabeth Custavio.
My heels click on the textured floor, and the leather of my tight pants and jacket squeak as the damp surfaces rub against each other. On each of my hip is a shiny cross bow, and slung around my back, the quiver. My head was covered by a thick cowl, brunette curls peeking out at my jaw line. I was returning after my weekly rounds. Though I have lackeys to do my rounds for me, the feel of lifting ones soul from their mortal body may possibly be the only thing that brings me utter joy these days.
I am the Grim.