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Jezebel sat herself down on a large piece of driftwood hard, cursing under her breath as she lifted her left leg to cross over the other, pulling her foot closer so she could get a better look at the cut on the bottom of one of her pads. She had been walking along one of the Bay's many shores that afternoon, looking out across the waters as she held a stick loosely in her hand, trailing it behind her and leaving a long line in the sand; it was an almost unconscious marker for her to follow whenever she chose to turn back. Her day had started out fine, Jezebel leaving her home amongst the caverns of Inferni before setting out in the cool, overcast morning to just explore and let her mind wander freely over the past couple months and how much her life had changed in that time. The ashen woman's life had in fact not changed so drastically since the Scintilla War some three years before, forcing her and many others to grow up quickly and face the realities of life and the even harsher realities of death.
Many would perhaps not think of Jezebel as a veteran of war; her body held no signs of obvious damage from fighting—save for a few scars hidden by her dark gray and cream accented fur—and she seemed to be quite the petite, feminine creature with wavy, dark locks and a well cared for appearance. Once the obvious was looked past though and one reached the dark, blood red depths of her eyes they could see all the contained sorrow and fury the woman had beheld once she let her guard down. The emotions built up from weeks, months even, of death and torture. Watching the life from her comrades eyes slip away as they took their last breath, leaving behind dull and emotionless beads.
Now, today under the slowly dissipating clouds and growing heat, these emotions leaked through into Jezebel's eyes due to the pain she felt from the gash upon her foot and the blood that welled up all to eagerly. Tears slipped past her tight and guarded gaze, and with a low growl she lifted the sharp piece of seashell that had bit into her flesh and chucked it roughly towards the waters. It had seemed at first that finding a new home within Inferni and the reunion with her greatest friendship—Gabriel—could not mask or push back the feelings and terrible memories of her past. It seemed nothing ever would, and that her dreams were not the only place where these dark images could seep through and unfold before her very eyes.
Trembling now Jezebel took a few steadying breaths, leaning forward to rest her forehead across her leg, the cross she wore faithfully around her neck tickling the fur along her thigh. Slowly calming down she straightened, looking out over the lapping waters of the Bay as she tried to blink away the tears before staring solemnly along the horizon, catching mere glimpses of the land across the great expanse before her; dreading the hike back, which would no doubt be a long and painful one.
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It was the scent of blood that first attracted his notice. Like a shark in the water, the faint coppery tinge of blood on the air lured the coyote inexplicably onward, idly and lazily seeking the source. His pace was slow, as always veiled in his cloak to mask his scarred, mutilated face and appearance. He’d since cleaned up, bathing in a river and combing out his mane, but nothing could remove the scars from his flesh. Beneath them he was beautiful as no man was ever meant to be, with thin, perfect coyote features and a coat of pure gold and ebony. His eyes were a brilliant blood-red, as freshly spilled blood from an open wound. But this loveliness was marred by the pale, twisted scars across both sides of his face and wrapping up his arms and torso. His long hair hung loose, falling across his face and down his chest, aiding in the intentional shielding of his features as the hood pulled low over his eyes. Samael was vain, knowing his born beauty and disgusted at his own state of decay. A prince was not meant to hide himself, nor was he meant to be ugly and marred either. He still held himself in a royal, elegant manner otherwise, gliding smoothly across the sand and holding his movements to rather effeminate gestures.
It was a rather lovely woman that turned out to be the source of the blood, bleeding from a wound in her hind foot caused by the jagged, knife-like edge of a broken seashell. Tears stained her pale cheeks, an obvious sign of the pain radiating from her wound, and perhaps a little something more not quite so obvious. “It’s too lovely a day to cry,” said the Prince of Hell in his most charismatic manner, allowing the narrow muzzle that protruded from his mask to smile softly at the girl. “Do you need help?” he asked, his light tone filled with concern. But beneath the charming surface was madman, hidden eyes all filled with hatred and lust. This female was quite beautiful after all, with a coat rarely seen in their kind, leaving her like some rare, coveted jewel in the beast’s eyes. He smiled oh-so-elegantly, the proper deceiver as he aimed to gain some measure of trust from the dark-furred woman, seeing where it could lead him. She smelled distinctly of his half-brother, but that did not deter Samael in the least, for even if the woman was claimed by his older sibling, that did little to stop him from gaining what he wanted—especially on unclaimed, neutral land; the king’s reign only stretched so far.
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Jezebel was content for a time just listening to the soft lapping of the water against the nearby shore as her nerves slowly calmed and the last few tears slid down her wet, cream hued cheeks. It was then that a mysterious, hooded and cloaked man appeared suddenly nearby, causing Jezebel to take a sharp intake of breath as she clutched at her wooden perch with strained hands, balancing herself as she quickly lowered her leg to the ground, then gingerly placed her foot into the grassy sand. The sand and debris would no doubt cling to the still congealing blood forming there, but Jezebel was more worried about having her feet planted firmly upon the ground with the masked stranger nearby. What Jezebel could see of the man was the long, well cared for hair that masked most of his face and trailed down his lightly muscled chest, which was mainly covered in gold and brown fur. He was attractive from what she could see of him, but who knew what lay hidden beneath the dark fabric he concealed himself with.
His soft, masculine voice caused her to look sharply up from the downward trail that her red, glossed-over gaze was taking her, to stare into the dark depths of his hood where only his sharp nose protruded. She remained silent as he first spoke, resisting the urge to play idly with the cross that rested neatly above and betwixt the soft mounds of her bosom. Could she trust this mysterious stranger? Even though he was clearly a coyote he had no distinct scent of a clan, only his own musky, masculine scent with the vague mingling of something familiar.
Remaining seated for now, the ashen woman offered a tentative smile to his own elegant display, half expecting him to bow and offer her his hand so she could stand gracefully. The thought brought a wider smile to her face, lighting up her already angelic features though she tried her best to push it back, happily succeeding. “No, I should be fine.” She assured, shifting uncomfortably beneath his hidden gaze, silently cursing herself for not coming with some kind of weapon. Although he seemed kindly enough she couldn't help but feel that there was something off about this unnamed man and even though she knew how to defend herself she was quite petite, where as the cloaked stranger had more bulk to him. Wasn't there some unwritten law somewhere that dictated the smaller opponent deserved some kind of upper hand?
She was looking to far into it though. The stranger before her could just be a kind passerby, with perhaps a valiant heart and a small stash of candy for the cute kids. Ri-ight.
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Fear was her first reaction to his presence, breathing in sharply and clutching at her seat as she sought to ensure she could rise quickly should need be. The quick, metallic scent of fear that briefly permeated the air intoxicated him and he himself inhaled deeply, watching her through hidden, half-lidded eyes. He was the Prince of Fear, and that single emotion was his drug, drinking it in like one would a bottle of fine wine. But her composure was fast regained, smiling and politely refusing his simple offer of help to the wounded girl. Even so, she remained unsure of him, perhaps because of his masked exterior, but the lovely Prince couldn’t stand his mutilated features, veiling them like some sort of crime. And yet they were—the first mark slashed by his own brother, proclaiming him a liar and the second when he’d sold himself to a man for nothing more than pleasure to try and forget what truly plagued him. The Prince of Hell had fallen to nothing more than a simple whore, allowing anyone to touch him and mark his flesh where they pleased, and all because he longed for someone he could never have. It was disgusting and he knew it, and so he covered his face and hid his wounds, knowing they could never be erased.
“You’re from Inferni, correct?” he stated, half asking because he already knew the answer. She smelled of the coyote clan and of Gabriel, leaving no other place to be her residence. “At the very least I could walk you home,” he offered, again that falsely friendly smile crossing his features. Samael extended his hand toward the dark pelted woman, allowing her to take it if she so chose, planning to help her to her feet and escort her back to the clan’s skull-marked territory if she’d allow him. “But first, won’t you allow me to look at that cut?” he inquired lightly, already lowering himself to a crouch before the girl’s feet. She’d planted her paw back onto the sand, allowing dirt and grime to stick to the drying blood, and it would need to be cleaned to avoid infection.
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Her heart was still thundered from the fright Samael had given her, though it was slowly calming to a slow, deep pulse beneath her ribcage. Jezebel still felt as if she could not trust him, but he was giving her no reason to do so, so she just continued to smile pleasantly and silently scolded herself for jumping to conclusions about the hooded man. His question caused her to quirk her head curiously to the side, an ear flicking forward as he spoke. “Yes,” she affirmed, with a slight nod. He must have been a part of these lands for a while to have been able to dissect her scent and place where she belonged correctly, or he was just perhaps a very curious newcomer. The latter she doubted, so she felt slightly less distrustful and more intrigued then anything else.
When he spoke next she raised her hand hesitantly to her cross, looking back towards the general direction of Inferni, then back towards his outstretched hand. Before she could answer though his hand dropped to his side as he offered to take a look at her wound, lowering himself into a crouch near her feet. “I don't think it's to bad,” she began, raising her leg with its wounded foot to cross her ankle over her opposite thigh. She was experienced with medical treatment herself, so she doubted the male could tell her anything she wouldn't already know of. Looking at the bottom of her foot and brushing the sand off the drying blood with a gentle sweep of her palm, she looked at the shallow cut a moment; “I should just need to wash it off, perhaps cover it with something.” She said before her fiery gaze returned to his hidden one. Pausing to think a moment she uncrossed her legs, though kept her left foot hovering above the ground.
“If you don't mind, perhaps you could help me towards the water?” Jezebel asked, trusting him enough to aid her though not enough to toy around with her feet. A girl had some boundaries after all. She slowly swayed into an upright position, balancing herself on one leg as she let her opposite foot just hover above the grass strewn sand. The water was only a few feet away and Jezebel was ready just to hop/stagger over, not really planning on letting him snake his arm around her for support. She could do it herself after all, independent woman and all that jazz. Though she wouldn't mind if he caught her in case she did a face plant.
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He’d learned the basics of first aid at an early age because he’d been trained to be a killer from day one by his mother. Such a life naturally meant many wounds and scars, and so he’d taken up the art of learning to care for his cuts out of necessity rather than a desire to help others. But the deceitful beast would use it on others when the need arouse, such as now with this dark pelted woman. He could have cared less about her hurt little paw or the mistrust that continued to course beneath that pretty exterior. It was all nothing more than a ploy to gain what he wanted, and what he wanted this girl surely didn’t. His nails tracing crimson lines across her flesh, bringing color like that of her eyes to the surface as he tore out her throat. Or to momentarily sate the eternal lust that drove through him, causing his sanguine eyes to drift across her curvaceous form, taking in each and every detail and imagining what he’d like to do with that elegant, beautiful body. She was independent enough, rising to her feet and allowing him to give her minimum help in getting to the water’s edge. He smiled beneath his hood, smirking at her self-reliant nature. So she could take care of herself—he liked that in a creature, not some helpless bitch that’d fall easily beneath his fangs, barely putting up a struggle.
“Certainly,” he replied, offering his arm to the dark haired woman. Already he could tell she wouldn’t appreciate if he touched her further than aiding her a few steps across the sand, and for now he respected those boundaries. But he didn’t intent to hold back forever, even if the game lasted beyond this day and into the near future. Waiting only made the prize far more desirable and satisfying in the end when it was finally obtained after a worthwhile battle. Once the water’s edge was reached, Samael bent down and took the edge of his cloak into his hands. Tearing a fairly large piece of the cloth away, he then tore that in half, leaving one slightly thicker than the other. Lying one beside him, he took the bigger and soaked it in the ocean before turning to the girl. The salt water would help the cut, cleaning away the blood and helping to wash away any lingering bacteria and contaminants that could possibly cause infection. “Allow me?” he asked innocently enough, turning his shadowed face toward her and proffering again his clawed hand to her sliced foot.
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She glanced at him sidelong with her crimson eyes as she limped over to the waters edge, ears flicked back and towards his direction to catch any sudden movements or sound as she rested her hand on his forearm, which was deceivingly firm despite his streamlined appearance. Slowly but surely he was gaining a small amount of her trust, though Jezebel never fully trusted anyone, especially someone who hid their appearance, their identity. If she had known the thoughts running through his mind, the way his eyes drifted over the contours of her body, she would have run screaming long ago, but then again she wasn't a mind reader and she settled herself neatly before the waters edge, sitting and resting the heel of her injured foot into the damp sands.
She watched with a distant interest as he tore at the edge of his cloak, wondering if she should protest him damaging his garment, though she figured he would assure her that it was no problem in the gentlemanly mannerisms he had so far shown. So not wasting her breath in such trivial niceties she looked on as he soaked a larger piece of the cloth in the water, then turned with his hand out asking her permission to tend to her wound. She wondered if now would be the time to protest and take the cloth in her own hands to clean the wound, but as she gazed curiously into the mysterious, shadowed face beneath the hood she couldn't help but shrug. He had lulled her conscious like a vampire might glamor its victim and without much more hesitation she gave a slight nod, raising her foot so he could wipe it clean.
She watched in silence as he went to work, head tilted to the side as she leaned back and rested her weight on her hands, which she placed upon the ground. “My name is Jezebel,” she said to fill the ensuing awkward silence, pausing in hopes of receiving his name as well. Gazing on as her muscles slowly relaxed, though her ears remained warily flicked back, her features curious yet conscience well armed to anything that might happen. She hadn't survived the Scintilla War and the years that followed based on luck after all.
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Had he been granted a holier soul Samael may have been a kind enough person, but fate had turned him otherwise, leaving his purer attributes to be nothing more than a tool to gain what he wanted. He’d been destined to be a monster before he’d even been born, and despite any other aspects of his nature he would always be nothing more than the hellish demon prince from Gehenna. This woman, like Gabriel, held a different faith than Samael, if basically the same. But they were on opposing ends of the same spectrum, with Samael the beastly devil and each of them the heroic, avenging angels. The cross around her neck had long since attracted his notice just as his half-brother’s scent had and again crimson eyes briefly held the religious symbol within their sight. Faith alone would not burn the devil, chasing him away back into the shadows, and he’d laugh and scoff at any supposedly higher morals from the woman. But the deceiver was just that—appearing as an angel of light until his darker, truer nature was exposed, luring unguarded, careless souls into his deadly grasp. He’d attempt to lure this woman into the darkness with pleasantries and a warm smile, taking her wounded foot and gently washing the blood away with the damp cloth.
He again soaked it in the tide creeping across the sand, dripping briny liquid onto her foot before carefully cleaning it and wiping away any lingering grime and crusted blood. Once satisfied the cut was clean enough, he took the other piece of cloth and wrapped it around her foot tight enough to prevent further blood flow, but not enough to cut off the circulation. Tying a tiny, simple knot below her ankle, he surveyed his work as she offered her name. Jezebel—the immoral queen thrown from her window to the street below to be devoured by dogs for her actions. He smiled faintly at this, curious if this name derived from ancient scripture held any connotation with the dark-haired woman. “Samael,” he replied, supplying his own title as well. Yet his name wasn’t without old storybook tales either, holding a title given to an ancient demon from the bible. But he was just as much a monster as his name suggested, reveling in murder and discord as he sought to destroy the world.
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