shut up you're talking too loud

[Samael Lykoi]

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Slowly and precariously he had nailed himself to the wall. Blood streaming from the steel inserted into the palm of his hand and the flesh stretched from his limbs, he could have appeared to be some martyr sacrificed for his cause, or a sinner hung to rot for his sins. But the only cause he believed in was in his head, made real by demons no one else could see or head. The sinner was closer to his true nature, though he did not believe himself to be wrong. To him, he was right. Kaena had taught him right from wrong. Taught him to kill and maim and murder in cold blood--to torture and destroy in beautiful, perfect desecration. Why would his mother have created him to be wrong? The Angel had chosen him, that ethereal seraph who’s presence could cause devils to weep. His destiny had been laid out before him long before he was born. Hell had made him, entrusting him with the soul of a demon, but heaven had handpicked him, raising him up above his simple demonic origins. The Angel was proof of that. He had descent from Heaven, after all, just for him.         Slowly, he tore himself from the wall. The pain shot through his flesh like electricity from a live wire, shocking his mind and body into a frenzied state. Eyes glazed over, foam rimming the corners of his lips, the coyote fell to the floor. He lay still a moment; blood seeping from his skin and matting his gold and black fur with darkness. He’d done it simply for the pleasure the pain brought him and sheer boredom. Slowly, the coyote crawled, claws gouging trenches in the dusty floorboards. Shadows crept into his vision, speaking in whispers as they told him what they believed he should do next. He laughed, a soft, broken tone that emitted in a hoarse growl. Fangs bared as he smirked ruefully, lazily batting them away with clawed hands.         Blinking, he quite suddenly found himself standing on the edge of the sea with no memory of how he had gotten there. He could not recall walking, or even moving. But this was commonplace in his mind as of late, and so easily brushed aside as nothing major. Memory went missing, space and time merged into a single blur. Moonlight shone on the waves as they crashed into the rocks, dampening his face with brackish spray. He seated himself in a crouch, one hand resting on the ground between his feet and the other on his thigh. Mingled with the salt and other scents was again the familiar odor: coyotes and something else, something unique--something that again reminded him somehow of mother. He lowered his muzzle slightly toward the soil, inhaling the scents and attempting to pick apart memory and illusion.

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