A city plagued by darkness and desperation. A city plagued by fear and pain. A city left decrepit and desolate, with its defense gone, and its calm streets and buildings replaced by ruin and flame. The citizens are dead, dying, or gone, fled to a safer haven than their old home. The walls and buildings, the concrete jungle of the city, now a graveyard and playground for the thralls of a primeval darkness. While this may seem to be a horrible sight to many, for one, it was the perfect night for a Hunt.

These, and many others, were the thoughts of the last bastion of this desolate urban playground for beasts and demons. His comrades were dead or gone to another city, another kingdom, his lover had abandoned him during the chaos, leaving him alone in a city full of darkness and despair. His home was destroyed, burning down, with flames all around, and the dark grays of concrete and metal colder than the icy peaks of the mountains to the north. This night, this desolate and depressing night, felt almost a blessing to him. He was free, with no worry of collateral damage or civilian life. He did not have to hold back, and he could, if even only for a short while, fully let go.

This particular huntsman preferred to blend with the shadow, and he also chose to do so with a classical sense of style. He dressed in black dress pants, ankle-high black boots, with a white shirt and dark red vest. Over this, he wore a bandolier, which housed his first set of weapons, two revolvers, along with extra ammunition, and a second belt, which housed even more ammunition, along with a few bombs and traps, along with other equipment. On his thighs, he carried his second set of weapons, two bayonet-styled knives, their long blades almost as long as his forearm, along with even more ammunition and spare dust. Over this, but under the bandolier, he wore a leather coat, dyed black as shadow and left unbuttoned, with the sleeves tucked into long leather gloves, dyed a dark gray, that go up the length of his forearm. A slim tricorn or bycocket cap, accompanied by a black scarf, finished his attire. This huntsman was a reaper among men, a gothic guardian, feared and respected. He chose to hunt at night, and tonight was the perfect night. He began to walk, his heavy steps sounding as loud as sledgehammers on the cold, hard concrete. The first start of his hunt, was about to begin.

The huntsman made his way along the dead and dying streets, his pace casual and calm. He was not afraid, he was almost eager for a fight. Almost at his mind's command, he spotted his first quarry: two Armored Beowolves, out on a hunting party. The huntsman drew the knife from his right thigh, and held it by the blade, taking aim. Neither of the beasts had spotted him, and he had the advantage. With one fast movement, he threw the knife forward, shooting across the air a long distance, right into the arm of one of the creatures. The beast recoiled in pain, and the two turned towards the attacker, who was still in his throwing motion. Before the wounded beast could react, the huntsman flicked his wrist, and the knife changed, turning into a razor sharp longsword, splitting the arm of the beast directly off. The sword, moving with the flicks of the huntsman's wrist, began to tear at the creature, slashing its body in pieces, while the other roared and began to charge. The huntsman drew his hand back, sending the sword flying back towards him, and drew his revolver, aiming it forward just as the beast got close enough to strike. On the Beowolf's downswing, the huntsman shoved the revolver deep into the beast, and fired a shot, blasting through the beast like a shotgun round. The beast fell, rolling away, but not dead. Sword in hand, the huntsman grasped it firmly with two hands, and chopped through the fallen creature like a butcher's knife through fresh meat. The creature fell to ash before him, caking his boots and pants in its remnants. The huntsman sheathed his weapons, and continued forward.

With this first battle complete, the huntsman sought for higher ground, and easier tracking of prey. He made his way up through an old office complex, reaching the close-knit rooftops of his city. The towering rooftops and winding roads and sidewalks embraced the entire valley around him, an urban maze of concrete, accompanied now by smoke, flame, and destruction. Buildings lay desolate and broken, skyscrapers lay crashed or burning beacons, warnings of anyone who could see them, that the city was lost. It was little more than a gauntlet for him now, an arena for him to release himself and rampage against the terrible monsters that plagued all those he knew and cared for. He was not done, there was much more hunting to do.

The hunter made his way now above the streets, through desolate buildings and abandoned rooftops, searching for more creatures. His movement caught the attention of a Nevermore, a powerful bird-like beast, which struck fast from above. The beast shot down like a spear, landing hard directly behind the huntsman, knocking him off his feet and rolling across the rooftop, away from the concrete crater the bird had made. He drew his weapons, choosing to arm himself with both revolvers, his knives back on his thighs, and waited for the Nevermore to show its face. The roof was cracked and crumbling, almost shattered by the impact. The beast unraveled its wings and flapped at the huntsman, who was aiming his weapons forward. It cocked its head, studying him, before darting forward. The huntsman rushed forwards to meet it, sliding underneath the beast's first strike, and unloading his weapons into the underbelly. The shots from his revolvers fired like shotgun blasts, propelling the beast askew from its position, giving the huntsman time to reload. The bird took to the air again, and darted upward, going for another strike. It took aim below, and darted down, shattering the concrete rooftop, and sending the huntsman, along with the rubble, down onto the floor below, which almost shattered from the impact as well. The huntsman was trapped beneath some of the heavy stone, his body exposed and defenseless, with a hulking beast towering above.

The bird tore at the huntsman, pecking and scratching away at his clothing and body, cutting and scratching him as he struggled to free himself. The bird pecked and pecked, before hitting a volatile mixture of Dust, causing an explosion, which knocked it off its perch above the huntsman. Now trapped with him in an indoor environment, the huntsman had a moment's respite, the explosion clearing some of the rubble, albeit also causing him extreme pain. He rolled from the rubble and flicked his wrists, his revolvers returning to him. Blood oozed from the many cuts from his body, and he fell to a knee, panting. His vision began to fade, to turn black, but it was not death that would embrace him. Instead, he had called forth his power. His pistols fell to the floor, and he stood with renewed vigor, his eyes glowing red, like the Beowolves and Nevermore before him, like the other Grimm he had fought and killed. The huntsman approached the Nevermore, which was trying to free itself from the concrete prison it was in, and ran for a punch. The beast, seeing its assailant, struck as well, going for a bite to finish the human off. In the end, this was little more than a delay, as the huntsman gripped the beak of the beast with one firm hand, and yanked it forward, throwing the beast off its balance, and onto the floor completely. Using this newfound momentum, the huntsman raised his first again, and smashed it through the bird's skull, ending the beast. The Nevermore screeched its final cry, before turning to ash as well, caking the huntsman entirely. With his foe vanquished, he reclaimed his weapons, and returned to what was left of the roof, blood dripping slowly from him, but not as bad as it previously was.

The huntsman reached the rooftop, and again fell to his knees, clutching his chest and uttering low growls and grunts. He clutched a grouping of black feathers together, a gift left by his lost love, his last keepsake of their time, and let out a guttural roar, echoing across the city. The ash from the Grimm had now fully caked and mended his wounds, and his essence, his power, now emanated and flowed through him. He was no longer just a huntsman, was no longer truly human, he was a Hunter. Before moving on from his vantage point, he etched his message to any brave or foolish enough to venture into his dead domain, while it still remained his:

"Embrace the Ash, do not fear it."