It is here. Through his newly developed limbs, in his veins, it flows like the darkness flows through the night. Wicked sins all rolled into one body. How delightful it must be to know who you are before your first breath. To be so assured of ones self before you even can walk, or smell, or move because your brother is stretching out again. Too close, he comes too close for this infernal creature to tolerate. A swift outburst, a shot of a tan painted limb, a flashy toothless grin from this twisted little thing. Had he lungs to laugh with in this moment, rather than continuing to “drown” in this thick syrupy liquid, he would have been cackling. In all things dark there is a melody, in all things there is a rhythm. It is through Alchemy that one can find this rhythm, this beat, like a war drum over and over and over he hears this. A curl of his lip...thud-thump, thud-thump, thud-thump. It never ceases and this is perhaps where the first sin rears her nasty head. Wrath, that insufferable wench that welled inside him so much he wished he could break free of her prison. How dare they trap him! Do they know not who he is!? He is Them, and he calls Them by name, and already he knows Them to be friends, tools, weapons, and the backbone he has come to develop. Rather odd, is it not, that something supposedly so innocent has come to know sin better than his own brother. He knows so much, there is so much knowledge inside his mind he has unlocked so many doors within his own isolation. So many doors that should have been locked from the inside are all open, but will he ever show this? No. He is the prideful liar, the envious glutton, the angry lover, the one who lusts for anything he can get his greedy paws on. And at the end of the day, when the dogs have been fed, and the trash cleaned away, he will be the most slothful of all.

It is not often he shows this...slower side of him, for he must always remain in motion. For too long here he has suffered, gathering his anger, gathering his pride, realizing that these are also tools if used correctly. Everyone can claim they have mastered something, but this tiny being, he is the true master of everything. He rules all, he is their alpha, their omega, their beginning and he will be their end. This he knows to be true, for They have told him such, he understands the slithering tongue they use, instinct has brought him this Pure language. He is the one not wholly demonic, They chose him for Their vessel. It cannot be said why, but the blank mind seems to be a breeding ground of some sort for Them...something about idle paws. He would have done nothing great with the life he has been granted. His mother sparing him so she can raise him in an “alternative home.” How thoughtful of Them to ensure he lived, a wonder then that he shall forever bear the moniker that had seemingly brought into this world, Alchemy. For that surely is His trick, turning what was coal into fine and glittering gold. How nice of him to pour that work of wonder into this tiny mind, to craft from him a weapon that can only be wielded by himself and no other. A creature not born of dominance, nor any line of alpha, nor any particular branch of the Demonic family tree, though he does share a single stick in the entire Inferno Clan. He is not Death on wings, an Angel of Mercy to come, nor is he Hell on Earth. He is simply Alchemy in his purest form, not yet hardened against the world. Should Death come, surely the demonic Hellion could recognize his own kin. Perhaps, not of blood, but of origin. It will be his claim to legend, his way into the pit of despair, to survive first his mother's gauntlet. For surely she will harden this blade she has forged from blood and bone, and she will do it with fire and ice as she was meant to.

It is nothing to do with the way she brings them up, only the way she purges the weakness from his body as They have done to his mind and spirit. He is himself, he is Them, he carries her legacy – and his – and he will be the one they look to when the feared come. He will be the one they blame when they fall to misery, but it shall be him to deliver them from it. His Pride demands it. Wrath demands she feeds on the sinner, Lust..we know his deal already – though his way in this case is simply power. Gluttony, with his ever exceeding thirst for everything. Greed not staying her hand with her want for more, and Sloth not saving the innocent should they be in the way. He cares for nothing, for no one, and he never will. But, always Envy will want that which they possess. Love, power, bonds of the soul he does not truly possess – all this he will want and seek. Their life, their breath, their love, and their deaths. He needs it, craves it as nothing has been craved before. It will be his for without Them he fails, and he will never be without Them. Alchemy sleeps now, nestled deep in the confining spaces of his mother, listening to that racket they call a heartbeat. It enrages him, this noise, this incessant noise that he cannot stop. He wishes to scream, but he settles for merely kicking and pushing out so his paws are on both of her sides, stretching his little limbs and pushing out so that he stretches this space a bit. The walls are too close, she is too close to be touching him in such a manner. He despises this sensation, of having something pressed against him, of feeling another's pulse and being unable to cease the same irritates him, but then...it doesn't take much to get him going. How many would fall before him? How many would be so unsuspecting of a pup, innocence shining false eyes? It can be uncertain, and he could very well take a liking to killing and taking them.

"Speech!"