Heavy hooves beat into the well worn trail, carving harsh new dents in the trafficked ground. Others have been here, inferior wraiths, but the demon doesn't think of them as he strides along; he thinks only of the rising dark, and the quiver of excitement which rattles his loins. He has seen it in the distance, smelled it in the air, sensed it in the marrow of his bones, the rank cells of his blood. Born of evil, born to hate, he knows when it rises as others know the shift in the wind; he is Demon Son, Harbinger, the Commander-in-Chief of the devil's hordes; he can taste them rising like electricity in the sky, taste the foulness and, harsh against that, he can taste the clean that comes out of this place.

He hates that smell of purity, of ancient safety and consecrated ground; he wishes to crush it, and his hooves come down hard, his breath come down heavy, and his eyes narrow to dangerous slits.

The great demon's bulk flows oddly through the underground maze, nostrils flared with hatred at that putridly clean scent. Too big to be underground, too small to command the entire space, he is a mahogany stone sent tumbling down a rapid stream, a blight and shadow in the sacred space; no wraith, no waif, but something just as consecrated by death and dismay.

He infiltrates the cavern not a shadow but a god, bi-colored eyes blinking in the dim dusky light. He doesn't seem to see the child, doesn't seem to care; his gaze caresses the diamonds with the harsh, rough palm of an abusive lover. Fire and water, heaven and hell; the demon takes it in through unabashed gaze, this haven of safety, ironic outpost of angels that is sunk so far beneath the ground. The pictures on the wall mean nothing to our devil, who worships a religion of a land far gone; he sees it as a battle, the shimmering etchings depicting a war of corruption and wickedness fought by blights on the blood. Is war rising again? Always, he knows; and he will always be there to lead the brigade, always be there to tear angels from the sky. Wherever hate goes the devil will follow, bringing blackness to light and destroying the good.

"Angel or demon?" the monster demands, his voice deep and wretched with a backdrop of sea. He has not acknowledged the child, but he turns his gaze there now, bright two-tones eyes searing into its hide: it needs to confess, to speak of sin or virtue; is it guardian of this place, or a monster, like him? Will it stand strong beside him, or should it run, angel, run?

@[Reginald]