.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
07-25-2013, 01:02 PM
He watches the sea and sees past the ocean. Far away his mother is watching, waiting for a sign of her youngest son's success. Leader of angels, the Seraphim is walking into the ocean, feeling an icy chill upon her fragile hocks. She raises a chiseled head crowned with horns into the nighttime sky, and calls a greeting to the errant son. On the shores of Helovia, the Demonchild replies. His voice is heavy in the frail moonlight, casting shadows in the darkness with its hauntingly melodic depth. The ocean picks at feathered hooves, seeping into the groove between broad toes, leaving sparkling salt in the black of his legs. The monster's pale mane glimmers iridescent under the weight of the moon; it reflects strands of pale ocean blue and cold, uncaring white. Beneath the woolly weight of a winter's coat, dapples gleam metallic bronze, hardened armor of the warrior descendant. His mother watches from eons away, and sees that he is worthy, and smiles. A storm begins to brew, a distant threat in the East that tears bitterly against the child's skin. Rough ocean winds rip at his mane and leonine tail; clouds boil overhead; the ocean picks up, gentle current now a crash of waves. Threat and despair, the elements rebel; yet naught can shake the child's stance, the strength of his horns or the bright of his eye. He has found his flesh, his place, his home. The storm gives him strength, and he devours it greedily. For once in the span of a restless, relentless life, Belial has found peace, and he will hold to it with all the ferocity of a starving beast. Belial the Demonchild Even the devil was once an angel |
table by whit
