Demon and Priest

I find it interesting when a writer creates a character that is undeniable evil yet still palatable enough for the reader to accept  despite their lack of regard for humanity. Though it’s not to important if the demon’s fully palatable in the first scene I’d like to hear how palatable or unpalatable she is. Had fun writing this one hope you have fun reading it.

 

 

 

The wind caresses the demons bare skin, dry bark grinds along the center of her feet.  She bends down, the chalky red paste that runs along her lips contrasting against the cool night breeze.

Her blade curves along the edge of the limb as she blends into the night. Bark grabbing her bare legs as she watches the three figures walk in the moons reflections. She presses the tip of the curved steel into her foot. The swelling that built over her releasing as waves of elation that curl off her shoulder’s settling into her toes. The men’s sweet and salty scent’s basking across her tongue.

She descends, bathing through the underbrush, the men’s scent mixing with the moist smell of the evening woods. The plump one’s sugary breath curling around her tongue.

She moves along the woodland, one with the wind that blows over the grass, a cool breeze whispering along their necks.

“Delicious,” she thinks the sweat laden taste of iron and salt basting along her tongue.

She bends between the tall grasses, hands gently parting the reeds.

Tall robes and laughter, her nose twitches, a fat squealer, she thinks eyeing the large belled man that stands between the others, his plump jowls jostling as he laughs, nudging the closest of the rabbity ones. His hands and face much older than his younger companions. She creeps along the edge of the muddy path. Days of sweat coils underneath their heavy cloaks, moistening them like the ripe blood that seeps from a rabbit’s nape. The curved iron of her blade quivers with the grass, her heart shaking in her lithe form, spasms ravaging her arms.

Her muscles ball up along the forest floor, tendons ratcheting around each other as the men’s iron crosses jostle along the white of their inner cloaks.

She flicks her blade, a flush of grass shuffling within the bushes. They turn toward her.

She bats the grass again, the two gamy one’s come forward. The younger of the two walks to the edge of the road. Another bat, just above the undergrowth. He lowers himself.

The salty brine of his breath wafts along the grass, she part’s the dry reads, pale hand grabbing his shoulder, his eyes expand her yellow eyes shimmering in his, her blade rivets along his stomach, working its way through him.

She sinks her teeth along his neck. The salt and iron tang washing along her throat. She twists her blade along his body with the spasms of ecstasy that trickle down to her arm. The two watch as she slips forward sliding the blade from her first victim, blood trailing down her arm.

Mud squelches beneath their boots as they turn. The sound, to the demon, as clear as the chirps of crickets.

She springs forward, her pale grey hand grasping on to the second youth. A black iron obelisk sprouting from his back. She leans her head against his, basking in his cold sweat. Leaning in as he chokes on the evening air. She looks to the plump one, he stands along the path, cross in his hand. Eyes shut to the world, lips nibbling each other.

She walks forward, eyeing up her feast as she rips her blade from the second body, running the blooded edge along her lips, deciding how best to elongate the feast before her, saliva dribbling down her chin. She presses her face to his, the piglet’s jowl’s basting in a cold sweat. She licks the side of his mouth the salty brine curling across her tongue. She presses the blade into his stomach, licking the last bits of salty pleasure from his lips, the muscles along her arm wind back.

“Any pleas?” the women whispers, blowing her native tongue down his ear, his sweat now ice along his skin. She eases the sword into his belly curling across his side as she edges it forward.

“One thing,” the monk pleads the tip pricking the fat of his belly, “One thing,” he repeats holding up his finger, “One thing,” he whimpers, his own native tongue landing on the woman’s ears, his voice coiling across her tongue.

She steps back, blade swinging by her mudded feet.

The man watches her, through the rays of moonlight, a monster that killed as she saw fit, that though looking like a fair maiden drew ecstasy from the last gasp of tortured men.

He kneels on the ground, bringing his hand in a circle in front of him. One, two, two lines cutting the circle into four balanced pieces.

His lips part like a rabbit nibbling the grass, offering a prayer to the sky. The demon shifts her head to the side.

Finger beating across the nape of her sword as he reaches into his robe. He looks up, meeting her cocked face, her fingers coiling across the naked hilt. He holds his hands in front, opening them wide, turning the cloak toward her as he reaches in with two fingers. She licks the saliva from her chin, testing her feet against the ground.

He brings his fingers out, a single bottle balancing between the two, he shuffles forward, his hand quivering as he shifts toward her, the green liquid of the vial bouncing between his fingers. In the moon light he could see her smile. A sutured wound unraveling as her blood lust rose to the surface.

He holds out the vial, its thin profile slipping along the pudge of his fingers. Pressing down on the cork, he cradles the vial toward her.

She holds it up, testing it to the moon light, the green liquid congealing along the edges.

The demon flips the vial back to the shivering monk whose green eyes shake like leaves, She steps forward pushing the vial into his hand, “Not enough,” she says whispering into his ear.

He steps back popping the cork from its glass enclosement.

 

The demon saw men crumble in tears, offering family and treasures, anything to escape her play. They would call out in her native tongue, “gold, money, jewels, riches,” anything she could desire. They would repeat these words again and again as she pondered which way she would cut, which limb should be severed first. She stood listening, letting her meal stew itself to completion. She would let them tattle on letting them whisper their pleas into her ear, listening to their last gasps of life as they chocked on their blood…. though this piglet.

This piglet shivered but did not plead, he offered, yet… what was he doing? A ruse she thought adjusting her grip.

The man pours out the liquid along his fingers, the floaty petals of wild flowers and the gristle of fat dispersing through the air. He rubs it along his fingers, looking to her. His eye’s clear.

The demon cocks her head to the side, watching his finger’s make a circle through the air, cutting the circle once through the middle and again down its center. Cutting it once again, into four even pieces. He meets her yellow eyes, their inhuman glow watching as his muscles contort around his mountainous neck, he steps forward. Pressing his finger against her windpipe.

Her blade launches forward, curving toward his bowels.

“Peace,” he says her native tongue rolling across his tongue, he slide’s his finger off the crevice, the nectar of wildflower’s lingering in the air. Her blade hovers against his belly.

“May the light shine on you,” he says marking the oil across her right shoulder, “May it watch over you and keep you from harm,” he says marking her left shoulder.  He raises his finger to her brow inscribing the circle cut in four, “May the darkness flee from you.”

The priest’s eyes that had been as still as the tree’s, bows to the ground. The wildflower’s scent covering the irony taste of his sweat.

“I have made my peace,” the monk says, her native tongue still falling across his lips.

 

The demon’s blade falls to the ground, black nails caress the layers of this priests fatty cheeks, she raises his head, watching his green eyes that hid forests swinging in the morning air. She presses her nose against his, their eyes encompassing one another, “You will be mine, and I will be yours.”