He waits for the weak to fall at his hooves, waits for them to cast themselves upon the soldier of Heaven and find themselves broken. Belial feels no fear as he marches into war, not the tug of anxiety or the sting of dismay. Why should he? The enemies are frightened angels, pitiful things in this realm of dark, heaven's rats on ragged wings. He gazes upon them with youthful contempt, his mouth a smear of disdain on the white-washed face, his eyes windows to nothing but a distant gleam of the whirling void. Heaven will fall to the hounds of hell tonight, ragged forms cast broken and bleeding upon the dark sand that they call their home. He will snap their wings and black their eyes, tear the fragile beating heart from between a cage of shattered lungs. His breath comes heavy, hard and fast; he wants to begin, to make the twisted corners of his mind into bleeding reality; he wants to bite, to break, to kill.

He sees the cherub descend from the skies, and the smirk transforms from smear to stain, a vibrant shock of bloodlust upon the whitewashed face. You will be my prey tonight, the feast I devour as our kingdom is born. She is a falling star of dirt and cream, crash-course bound for earth, his new found lover and friend and foe. As her form descends does the demon rise, staunch legs dragging languidly through the sand. Oh, but he is a devil behind the fruitless wall, using its shadow to defend his form; it is their defense that shall aid their downfall, and this blight of fate pleases the beast. He pulls from the bulwark on quickened steps, the thrill of this chase raising the beat of his heart, a surge of adrenaline in the void of his soul.

He runs.

The cherub wears a shroud of dust - ashes to ashes, dust to dust, soon your body will be crushed - a reddish haze that blurs her form, but he can see that she is small, an inelegant thing of stocky build and hollow wings, shrouded with shadow in the lacking light. She does not face him, but not away: her left side is in his line of sight, a thickset target equipped with gruesome wing. He wants to skewer that bulbous flank, to drive four horns between the lines of her ribs. He wants to watch the white of her side grow dark with blood.

Large head pulls tight against his chest, neck arching to account for the vast difference in their height, the four swords wielded as a knight's lance; he charges her on cloven hooves, his nostrils flaring and his bright eyes wild. He wants to catch the soft flesh beneath her wing, to slice away at tendon and muscle and render her useless, rob her of the right to call her self divine. Forward he draws, a massive form streamlined with silver and brown: he could crush her easily beneath the muscle of his foreleg, could stomp out the lights that live in her eyes. The thought is delightful. He wants to hear her crunch

He wants, he wants, he wants. He will. He braces for impact against her form, the mahogany behemoth and the chubby cherub, the son of a Seraph come to conquer the daughter of mongrels and usurpers. Body turns, arcs to the right, his neck thrown wide in a forceful thrust; he wants to drag his weapons through her, carving her form from shoulder to rump. Will she bleed in shades of black and blue, smelling as putrid as she appears? His tail lashes out behind, a whip sent flying to deter her yellowed teeth. Will she scream in the shock and cower before him, begging for mercy from a merciless god? He pulls away, swinging his rump away from her wings, backing abruptly to face his foe. He wants to see her face as she falls, the dismay in her eyes as she faces her better and knows she is doomed.

[ 680 words, post 1 of 4 ]