The Black Prince

Wrong side, wrong side. Baphomat is on the wrong side.

He lingers like blackened obsidian, moving on wings of silent despair, the King of Darkness slides within the ease of oil upon water, form wrapping and shaping within the tender caress of the shadows who have bathed and raised his powerful form since the day of his birth and the weakness in his Mother spared him the kindness of her jaws. He glides across the earth upon silent paws as fingers of darkness knead his pelt and snatch at the cloak of ebony he wears, hiding him, concealing him within the Kingdom he had mastered so long ago. Following....following, with emerald eyes so dead and devoid, breath rising hot in frigid air to slither from parted lips like smoky snakes with rasping fangs as he lingers behind the other, following, following, head twisting, snaking, like a child with a shiny toy, dead eyes focused upon the form of the other as he blunders with foolish descent deeper and deeper into the East, seemingly unaware he is pursued. Tobias does not come to the east often, no, no....it is light, it does not hold the chill and darkness of the caves of the west and within these forests are the ones who Glow white and rage, spearing at him with their brightness, burning his eyes with their pelts so vile and the sun that burns his blackened form until he is driven back again and again into the darkness of the bowls of the earth he resides within, returning to his mate, wrapping his powerful form so beautiful, so fine around her frame so pale and white, sheathing himself at her side, her sword, his shield against a world who had tried time and again to tear them apart. His. Aaliyah is his, no other, no other may touch. Never and yet such is the nature of a male so broken and shattered that his mind cannot help but twist and turn, focus and obsesses upon fractions, moments in time and in this moment is is focused upon another, following...following that trail of weakness and blood with eyes as blank and dead as the gems they resemble.

Tobias cannot be summoned, he cannot be called- for he has no Master. Moladion’s plague is not a toy nor a weapon to be used by those undeserving and She, only She may use him- no other. He is foolish, the dark one, King he may be....but Demons do not have Kings, true demons do not bow and he lures only his own destruction from the dark as the powerful creature slithers from the embrace of the shadow to loom from behind, blank, dead, devoid with jaws parted and fangs aglow in the straining light of the moon as his breath rasps within his chest and hunger burns within his veins. He smells only decay and blood and food, saliva pools within his jaws to leak from his parted lips and cascade down his chin into the blackened fur so thick, so rich, yet hiding beneath it a patchwork of scars, torn and savaged across his neck and throat, horrific scars, so many, so many, hidden beneath the curve of his chin from the Fangs of Angels who tried and failed to rid the earth of the plague of a creature so unstoppable, leaving him only with the furless slashes of moonlight blades that dance upon his throat to be seen when he lifts his muzzle to the sky, though he never does, never. He cannot, his mind does not perceive the howl of others, cannot understand this sound, cannot form these notes within his depraved mind and nor will his mind allow him ever again to upturn his throat, no, no. Perhaps he cannot feel the emotion of those who dare call themselves his own kind, yet mind and body remember pain and never, never will his throat lie exposed again.

“Crack......crack....”

Words, broken, fractured, repeated again and again as he steps forward, coming from behind like a blackened angel of exquisite glory to rise behind the other in a column of shadow, pausing, eyes held against those of the other. Like him. Yes- but no, no. His mind is unsure and uncertainty makes him wary, the creature seeming undecided as he looms with snarl coiling in warning within his throat, heckles lifting as he moved forward, doing as nature intended and no more, forcing the other back, aiming to press Baphomat back in a yield. For none deny him this, none, none my hold dominion of that which is Tobias and those who do not bow.....are weak......if they are weak....they are food. Yet the droning continues as he comes, lips peeling back from bloodied fangs as the exquisite creature presses on, dominant, aggressive, forceful, words whispered in tones of angelic glory yet darkened, dead all the same.

“Crack.....crack....crack.”

Repeated and repeated before he stops abruptly, pausing, head tilting once more as if to view the other from each angle, wary, wary, yet pressing all the same, aiming to force his yield and hand to he, The Black Prince, control of this moment. If he is wise he will yield, if he is wise, even he, Mighty Baphomet will bow to a creature so much darker then himself as those lips part once more, pulling into a grin so bizarre and twisted it is surely a sinful thing as he smirks in a manner almost crazed, rasping laughter, a chocking, grating sound echoing into the trees.

“Sound you make....when all your bones break.”

And forward he comes again......pressing the other back until he bows or until his blood runs down Tobias’ jaws as so many before. You called for a Demon, Bapomet- and a real one answered. Bad Luck.


t o b i a s
6 years ~ Owner of Aaliyah ~ Stalker of None ~ Loner