07-21-2009, 03:00 PM
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Intoxication was a beautiful thing, worn oh-so-elegantly by the masked man. The demons came out when his eyes were clouded—moreso than usual anyway—and he smirked over his glass, watching the shadows as they sought his flesh. They desired his blood, longing to drag him back into the depths of Sheol and tear him apart endlessly for the rest of Eternity, laughing and shrieking as he suffered a fate worse than simple Death. But the Prince of Fear was a heir of Hell itself and they could do nothing more than long so wistfully as they eyed his beautiful form with pits for eyes, grinding teeth and bone as they slithered across the floor. Wine glass was again lifted to his lips, the crimson liquid within catching the dim candlelight and gleaming like a bloodstained ruby. Shades twisted and danced from the fire itself, born from the light of the flame and racing across the walls and behind his body, shying from the brilliance. He’d once feared the darkness and the things it held, but Samael was afraid no more. Terror intoxicated his soul no longer, for arrogance rose above all else, leaving a faint grin dusting across his lips as he drank himself into another, less coherent state.
The cloak remained about his body, draping across the arms of the chair and to the dusty wood floor below. He was seated in an elegant armchair, surroundings reflecting a creature’s soul that preferred beauty to decay. Antiques littered the expansive room of the old, Victorian-style house, candles lit and scattered across various surfaces and sconces along the walls. Crimson eyes were blurred, watching the shadows as one might something they found truly entertaining, still smiling as bony, ragged, elongated fingers stretched and reached for his throat and heart. Mad was the man and would remain so until the day of his death, but he’d healed some now, leaving instability and decay behind for elegant, beautiful, methodical destruction—as was always meant to be within the monster from the moment he’d arrived in this world. Lifting the wine bottle, he poured another glass, sipping silently within the shadowed interior of the dark hood.
Intoxication was a beautiful thing, worn oh-so-elegantly by the masked man. The demons came out when his eyes were clouded—moreso than usual anyway—and he smirked over his glass, watching the shadows as they sought his flesh. They desired his blood, longing to drag him back into the depths of Sheol and tear him apart endlessly for the rest of Eternity, laughing and shrieking as he suffered a fate worse than simple Death. But the Prince of Fear was a heir of Hell itself and they could do nothing more than long so wistfully as they eyed his beautiful form with pits for eyes, grinding teeth and bone as they slithered across the floor. Wine glass was again lifted to his lips, the crimson liquid within catching the dim candlelight and gleaming like a bloodstained ruby. Shades twisted and danced from the fire itself, born from the light of the flame and racing across the walls and behind his body, shying from the brilliance. He’d once feared the darkness and the things it held, but Samael was afraid no more. Terror intoxicated his soul no longer, for arrogance rose above all else, leaving a faint grin dusting across his lips as he drank himself into another, less coherent state.
The cloak remained about his body, draping across the arms of the chair and to the dusty wood floor below. He was seated in an elegant armchair, surroundings reflecting a creature’s soul that preferred beauty to decay. Antiques littered the expansive room of the old, Victorian-style house, candles lit and scattered across various surfaces and sconces along the walls. Crimson eyes were blurred, watching the shadows as one might something they found truly entertaining, still smiling as bony, ragged, elongated fingers stretched and reached for his throat and heart. Mad was the man and would remain so until the day of his death, but he’d healed some now, leaving instability and decay behind for elegant, beautiful, methodical destruction—as was always meant to be within the monster from the moment he’d arrived in this world. Lifting the wine bottle, he poured another glass, sipping silently within the shadowed interior of the dark hood.