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10-06-2013, 05:27 PM
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Belial the Archangel The treachery of demons is nothing compared to the betrayal of an angel. Silver spiders spin platinum webs under the demon's watchful gaze, sunlit spectres leaping with poised grace from rock to rock at the hot spring's edge. Steam bubbles deliciously from the water below, but none of it catches on the spider's webs; frowning, the demon corrects this fault. It is perfect otherwise, the wide mesh net of captured light, a sprawling city for his eye-sized arachnids to call their own. It dances delicately in the crisp northern breeze, a triumph of perfect illusion his mother would have envied. The Seraph's son is bored. The hot springs offer blissful relief for bruised and tired muscles, but little by way of entertainment. Murky and wet, that's all they are- but hey, at least they're not just cold, like the rest of the Basin. In truth, the demon was skulking and sulking in the bitter water, discontent with a tragic world and disappointed in those he held as gods. Vast had been their failure, even if he had sent his Cherub running; swift had been their broad defeat, and the legions of hell had sulked away, he the tail of the wounded mutt. The unicorns had failed, Deimos had failed, and Belial had spilled the blood of his enemies to no avail. How? The skyrats were inferior in every way, a brigade of frantic halos and bedraggled feathers glued haphazardly onto the mutants of creation. Abominations and false prophets, they shed their swords in exchange for wings, forgetting in their greed that those without blades could still die upon them. The demon sighs his discontent, shifting weight casting waves in the murky waters, brown form stained black by seeping moisture and rising steam. He blinks his eyes and the spiders die, red blood pouring from their rended limbs, falling and catching on the webs they thought their sanctuary. The demon smiles, a tight curl at the edges of whitewashed lips, fierce and hungry and strangely void. The smile fades as the spiders continue to flinch in mock agony. Oh, Cinnoru above, but he is bored! @[d'Artagnan] |
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