[Way Out of Milliways: A Girl's gotta eat]

If they had a name of the world from which they were banished from all those centuries ago, they don't know it.

They're not a particularly vicious race, by demon standards. Averaging about six and a half foot tall, they have retractable claws, and thick skin that serves as a kind of armour plate, impervious to nearly all weapons, natural and otherwise, wielded by the other inhabitants of this world. Moving in a pack of about a dozen, They are confident and secure as they approach the oasis, the only one in miles.

This calm is shattered as one cries out and collapses, a shower of brightly coloured sparks issuing from the soft chink in the plating at the nape of its neck. Its companions spin around, startled, then run off, better to be safe than face wahtever it was killed their companion.

In the silence that follows, the Slayer drops out of one of the trees nearby, and sprints over to the corpse, starmetal knife in hand.

These rutters have the best meat in hell.