shut up you're talking too loud
#1
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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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#2
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     It had been the scent which drew the Aquila west. The sickly-sweet smell of dying flowers and rotting flesh; the smell of sickness, of disease, of the unmentionable and unnamable thing that had destroyed a pack, destroyed his father completely (though he believed that his father would have destroyed himself regardless). Something with the scent of disease was here, and he knew all too swiftly what that meant. His half-brother was not, as he had suspected, long dead and gone.
     Head low to the ground, he traveled along the rocky shore swiftly. Both ears swiveled forward at the sound of motion and he lifted his head. Squatted on the shore was a dark-coated man he would have recognized regardless of how warped the disease had made him. Twin scents of blood and illness warped over Samael’s own, and it perturbed the older man to find his half-brother in such a state. Something was terribly wrong with him; he knew that in an instant. Wary, but unafraid, the doggish male stopped and studied the coyote.
     “Samael,” a baritone voice said, remarkably detatched from its source.




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#3
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        The shadows would devour his flesh if he allowed them to. Eyes the color of the blood that glistened on his skin caught the moonlight as he turned his head. Another shadow was approaching--he could sense it. Fangs bared without him even realizing it, hair bristling along his neck and shoulders. His mane was again long and ragged, laying limply against his neck and back. It fell across his scarred face, hiding his features as effectively as the marks carved into it. The doggish creature approached, speaking a name the coyote hadn't heard since he'd fully lost his mind. It was unfamiliar, and yet lingered in his thoughts like the words to a song he couldn't remember. 'Gabriel, the Messenger of God,' whispered a voice in the back of his mind that he disregarded. 'Kaena's son, your brother,' it hissed in a mocking tone, but he pushed it aside. The voice was so soft he could barely hear it--drown out amongst the others voices that spoke much louder.
        "Who are you?" he asked, eyes narrowing. Samael was a title he didn't recognize anymore, and it more than likely showed on his face and in his voice. This creature held a particular air about him. He could smell fire on the air when he approached--could taste ash on his tongue with each approaching step. The coyote said nothing more, but simply studied the being in return.


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#4
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     It was as if the man before him had no recognition. The Aquila remained still, his body stiff, and watched. Samael was tattered and sickly, but Gabriel knew better then to underestimate the man. Both ears swiveled forward and he was only slightly surprised by the question. His father had not recognized him at first either. His father had believed he was Kaena.
     Gabriel’s mouth parted into a grin, though his eyes were mirthless. “Have you forgotten your brother so soon, Samael?” Perhaps it would be better that way. It would remove the burden of responsibility from him, that much was certain.

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#5
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        He grinned in return, smirking at the creature's response. "I am assuming I must be called Samael, or you wouldn't keep calling me that." he commented, allowing the name to repeat in his thoughts, aiming to remember it. Lykoi he knew, as it lurked beneath the surface, rising and falling again and again in his memory. And this was his brother? Again, he eyed the canine with curiosity, taking in his moonlit appearance. He looked like a dog, and far more wolf than Samael himself, that was for certain. Their blood was not entirely the same he could tell, but he did not question their brotherhood. Even as he peered at the other creature for the briefest of seconds he felt some remembrance, but it quickly fell away, once again replaced by the quiet, murky world of illusion he now lived in. 'He wears her crown,' someone said, and his head half turned as thought to listen, but quickly shifted forward once again.


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#6
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     Something changed behind Gabriel’s eyes, turning them dark. He tilted his head and studied the man, aware that for whatever madness was in his blood there was still order. Some sort of order, at least. A machine gone mad, but functioning. A machine that had maggots in the brain and would seek to slaughter those who opposed it. Had he not believed, as his instincts told him, that the man before him could not be trusted, he might have exploited this madness as he did with Hybrid.
     Hybrid, however, Gabriel understood—this thing before him, his brother, was something else entirely. A peculiar smile graced the Aquila’s face, though it did not meet his eyes. “That was the name your mother gave you,” he offered. There was tactic in his process, as there always was. Though Gabriel did not doubt he was considered barbaric and terrible, he was anything but stupid.

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#7
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        That mad, unnecessary grin remained on Samael's face at his brother's words. A cruel, clown-like expression that didn't make his features any more friendly, but if anything had the exact opposite effect. "And I bet you'd know all about my mother wouldn't you, seeing as you're my brother?" he replied, desire not forgotten with everything else. Her face and her scars were burned into his memory just as clearly as the Angel's. Her name might not be as lucid, but he knew he loved and wanted his mother. It was the disease that plagued him and clouded his thoughts, throwing his madness into a hinderance rather than a finely tuned weapon. Like plucking a thorn from his side the only way he would ever feel better and become complete would be to completely remove her from him, but Samael could never attain such a feat. Not while he longed so thoroughly for the woman who'd borne him as much as he did.




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