AsmaelWithin the blinding light of justice, his figure seemed pitch black as the night. And yet, the more that one looked at the black center of the sun, the more a hint of an expression could almost be noticed. Its eyes looked sad, full of pity, and his smile was that of a gentle savior. There was truly no malice in this being, none at all, and yet the heavenly wings, whose feathers were like swords, were stretched wide and poised to shower down an impending doom.
Black strands of his hair's shadow whipped around his face, and he smiled reassuringly.
"Do not be so grim. To be frank, I don't like battling. The sound of the bodies bursting, the smell of death, the moans of anguish and outcries of sorrow all only bring great pain to me."
To stretch his wings so, to fly above the war-fields and scatter death, to look down on everything, no matter how horrifying. How many years, how many eons did they think he had to endure such a torment? There was no deception to this, he truly detested battle. He truly loathed to raise a weapon. And once, he was merely a weak and meek archangel, one who did not even inherit the power of light, flight or strength of his brethren. A weakling who could not even kill an insect.
So when did that change? When- but did that even matter, when considering one as old as him. The holy sun only had to smile once to reveal the depths of his intent, his love, his pain, his madness. Amidst al these emotions, there was only the gentle, warm embrace of superiority, the view of one who looks down on his foe with naught but pity.
"However, killing a Demon is another story. That's the duty and pride of the Seven Archangels, and my father's wish." And with that grim reminder, he raised his hand with a fatalistic grace.
"Farewell, may you be reborn into a just soul."
And thus, a hundred sacred feathers, each large enough to be wielded as a weapon, descended in the span of a second. These hundreds of blades were now carpeting the area with the fervor of a holy sword, shattering and piercing into whatever was in their way with burning passion. There was no escape, there could be none, from this angle, from this intensity. A single volley would be sure death for a demon.
But he missed.
Out of the hundred blades, which now painted the battlefield with a scalding white, not a single so much as grazed the demon.
"My, my. I must have underestimated you. To think you would avoid my strongest attack." He said simply, while the light slowly began to dim and the black silhouette returned to its original resemblance.
