Fear was weakness and fear was hindrance. Samael feared nothing—only the madness that seeped through his brain, down his spinal column and into his limbs invoked a restless, uncontrollable tension that hummed constantly in his veins. He couldn’t sleep. He could never sleep. Blackness and oblivion—for he never dreamed—were unsettling, and he couldn’t stand it for long. Always, he awoke after only a few minutes or so of rest, since he’d been young. Fear was a tool. He adored fear, inhaling the heady, repugnant fumes as they rolled off one’s skin in miasmic waves.
He was intrigued, and yet annoyed as the creature ignored his words, continuing to cower in the depths of the den, clutching at the rosary. He was god, and his subjects had to listen when he spoke. “You fear the angel?” he asked, lips pulling back into a sinister expression. “I show you my power, and you cower in the darkness like a wretched animal,” he continued, mockingly. “Prove yourself worthy and perhaps I’d bless you, but not unless you stand up on your own and quit whimpering like a beaten child.”