Why has she called him? He cannot understand this, cannot perceive the sound of her siren song, the grief within her soul that screams for that tiny, fractured piece of his own that has dragged him from the darkness this day to loom before her like blackened angel of destruction as bloodied knives glint within the sun and dead eyes rest with soulless depravity against her. Perhaps she too is unaware that it is she who has summoned him from the bowls of Moladion, the demonic entity having slide forth from the caves beneath the craters he calls his own, dragged writhing from his darkness to come to the scream of her piteous soul as his broken mind twists and contorts in it’s attempts to understand what never it will. He will never be made to understand the imprint, his conscious capable only of accepting her as something not to be consumed, or at least something that for now he cannot taste and tear. He will, yes, yes, he will feed from her slain form one day, for her blood has become an elixir itself, a call he cannot resist, a temptation he cannot take and that alone fuels his morbid obsession with the white creature, so pale, so pale- but not an Angel, no, he does not feed upon Angels yet she is not one of them. For eating, yes, one day. Why he cannot slay her he does not know, his mind incapable of producing such judgement and yet this does not mean he will not try time and again, that he will not tease and tug and taste until he finds a way to slide violent fangs past the barrier that protects her, unaware of the bond that ties his existence to her own, that to slay her would be to slay that final part of himself that holds and fraction of perceived life. It matters not.
Dead eyes continue to stare as he sits before her, body unmoving, eyes unblinking, the rise and fall of his chest, a sickening imitation of life and nothing more the only indication he exists within this plane at all as it moves in rhythmic motion, reptilian gaze following the ghostly creature as she remains pressed against the den, clinging to stone and earth as if she believes the spirits of those long dead will rally now to the cause of her shattered soul. No, no, only demons come now, true demons, for that is what such broken souls call forth. Her voice is raw, grating, his ears sliding forward with the tone as another growl keens low within his chest, a screech of protest against the vile sound of words before his lips fall back once more, features blank, dead, staring again as his mind attempts to process these words she says. Mainland means nothing, it is not a word that exists, breaking apart like the fragments of smoke on the wind. Sealion means just a little. Fresh. Fresh causes his head to tilt and twist with sickening depravity as if to look upon her from every angle before he stills once more, voice blank, cold, void and yet- there is a note within it in this moment, a thread of something more as he speaks, repeating words heard long ago, twisted and knotted together to form the phrase he offers with blank expression.
“Waiting, waiting, waiting…….for Salem to die. Then fresh. I will wait- for you to die.”
It is perhaps one of the longest sentences the demonic hellion has ever been given to construct, rasping deep voice rolling over the words, yet each one holding a note all it’s same, the words of others, three or four at least, thrown and tangled together to form the sentence, his vocals flicking slightly to mimic the note of each within with sickening clarity. His jaws close abruptly, emerald eyes falling upon her once more as he sits and waits, just as he said he would- for her to die. If he cannot slay her, time itself will, and for a creature with no ability to perceive such a thing it matters not how long he must wait. The wind blows once more, teasing and pulling at the deep ebony tones of his pelt, the fading scent of Jaye entertained within such breeze as his features contort a final time, a flickering of memory moving somewhere within his skull before he speaks one move, the words sudden and abrupt- gone as soon as they start, a repeat of something once more, forced forward by the touch of her sent to be jolted from his lips.
“Jaye. Grandmother. Not for eating.”
He falls silent again, staring, waiting, waiting for her to die so he can feed…..