The Duke has been to all the nice places in the world — the warm beaches of sunny Brazil, the snow white ski resorts of Alaska, the quaint Bohemian streets of Paris, the colorful metropolis of Tokyo, and the vast green plains of New Zealand, and those were just at the top of his head. He had seen the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Great Pyramid of Giza in its prime, the various Temples of Greece, the Roman Empire in its full power and decadent Versailles before the revolutionaries cut off Marie Antoinette's head.
He had never been to Manta Carlos, though.
Oh, he knew very well what it was. He took customers from every walk of life, but those who intentionally crossed his path were the sort that were invited and welcomed in Manta Carlos. He had always wondered, what was Manta Carlos? It was an institution, in an island in the Pacific, and somehow it thought it could pick the extraordinary people from the mundane. And the Duke quite liked extraordinary people.
He arrived on Friday evening, found lodging and decided to hang around at the beach on Saturday. He found a nice island-themed seafood restaurant next to one of its gorgeous beaches and decided to have lunch there. He chose a special terrace seat where he could take in the lovely sights.
And what lovely sights they were! Mages, werewolves, vampires, and psychics from all places walked the beaches by day, wearing appropriate skimpy beach clothing. He loved watching them all, from the tall, curvy women with nice, plump breasts to the handsome gentlemen with bodies like statues in Grecian antiquity.
The Duke switched his usual suits for something a little more casual — shades, sandals, a white, button up shirt with a decently thin fabric and jeans. He was having a nice grilled salmon and Greek salad for lunch, and he was on his second bottle of beer.
That was when he felt it.
It wasn't unusual to smell his own powers at work in places. He could barely walk down Hollywood without smelling his scent everywhere. But this was different. Raw. It wasn't through contracts. It smelled exactly like himself, but weaker, cut-off. But that wasn't possible. The only construct he made with his own powers was his current organic form.
Vacation mode turned off in his head. He was incredibly serious now. He might be a hedonist, but he was never irresponsible with how he used his powers. If something went wrong — and in the complete off-chance that it was his fault — he needed to eliminate it by any means necessary.
He stood up and walked to its direction, moving past the crowd. He located the source to a...
Half-demon abomination. It resembled his original form, in a way, and it smelled distinctly of him. He didn't have time to think, only to act. He grabbed its arm and forced it to look at him.
"What manner of creature are you? Answer your superior, minion."
He had never been to Manta Carlos, though.
Oh, he knew very well what it was. He took customers from every walk of life, but those who intentionally crossed his path were the sort that were invited and welcomed in Manta Carlos. He had always wondered, what was Manta Carlos? It was an institution, in an island in the Pacific, and somehow it thought it could pick the extraordinary people from the mundane. And the Duke quite liked extraordinary people.
He arrived on Friday evening, found lodging and decided to hang around at the beach on Saturday. He found a nice island-themed seafood restaurant next to one of its gorgeous beaches and decided to have lunch there. He chose a special terrace seat where he could take in the lovely sights.
And what lovely sights they were! Mages, werewolves, vampires, and psychics from all places walked the beaches by day, wearing appropriate skimpy beach clothing. He loved watching them all, from the tall, curvy women with nice, plump breasts to the handsome gentlemen with bodies like statues in Grecian antiquity.
The Duke switched his usual suits for something a little more casual — shades, sandals, a white, button up shirt with a decently thin fabric and jeans. He was having a nice grilled salmon and Greek salad for lunch, and he was on his second bottle of beer.
That was when he felt it.
It wasn't unusual to smell his own powers at work in places. He could barely walk down Hollywood without smelling his scent everywhere. But this was different. Raw. It wasn't through contracts. It smelled exactly like himself, but weaker, cut-off. But that wasn't possible. The only construct he made with his own powers was his current organic form.
Vacation mode turned off in his head. He was incredibly serious now. He might be a hedonist, but he was never irresponsible with how he used his powers. If something went wrong — and in the complete off-chance that it was his fault — he needed to eliminate it by any means necessary.
He stood up and walked to its direction, moving past the crowd. He located the source to a...
Half-demon abomination. It resembled his original form, in a way, and it smelled distinctly of him. He didn't have time to think, only to act. He grabbed its arm and forced it to look at him.
"What manner of creature are you? Answer your superior, minion."