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Will fight you if you aren't kind to yourself.

There is nothing else remotely interesting about me that I could write here.
No, that's literally it.

Message to Readers

Hi!! Would you say this piece fits the prompt 'write the opening of a story in which something unexpected happens'?
Have a great day :))

The Angel's Sin

February 23, 2021


It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

(On the contrary, it was mild for mid-October, with a high of 17 degrees dropping to 6 around midnight.)

Skulking about a long-forgotten rusted playground upon a graveyard that had been forgotten even longer, were two demons. They'd been commended for their skulkery; they skulked with purpose, and they skulked with menace. Suddenly one of them stopped, casting a yellow eye to the church upon the hill opposite. 
“I don’t want to do this,” Grigor hissed. 
She was a duchess of hell. Tall, handsome, and chiselled, she sat upon the right-hand side of the adversary known as Lucifer upon a surprisingly comfortable pillow. Now, however, she was sprawled across the top of abandoned monkey bars like a smug child; the King of the Castle.  
The other figure grunted unresponsively. 
“Oh come on, Az. You’ve got to at least comfort me,” Grigor moaned, rolling to her front, wincing as the bars crushed her ribs.
“No, I don’t think I do,” the other replied brusquely. Two horns poked out of red hair cascading down their back, which was considerably closer to the floor than their companion's. 
“She's barely a councillor of hell. She's not even threatening our jobs!  We can’t blame a councillor for letting Him out. It’s... it’s-”
“Sinful?” Azazel offered deviously and smiled.
 It was the type of smile that could light up a room. Except the room is on fire, and that smile is etched across the face holding an empty bottle of turpentine. When Azazel smiled, humans were overwhelmed with a primal sense of trepidation, one that had been instilled into the human race since the first storm bruised the first flowers.  
“Well, yes!” Grigor said scathingly. 
“...delightful,”  came the reply, “you ought to be honoured. Besides, this will solve all our problems; we get rid of her, I get a promotion, and we bring Him to remove the Lord. If we can...dispose of the Lord, we can reign victorious over hell. It's our, mind my language, divine right.” 
Grigor sighed. Gingerly, she took a metal ball from deep within the pocket of her trousers and tossed it expertly into a  green plastic bin with a morose silhouette of a man demonstrating how to recyle, before swinging from the bars with grace. Grace, she'd found, was the only angelic tendency she hadn't managed to shake. 
“I suppose so,” she said deflatedly. Then, after clearing her throat, she spoke a tongue unheard on earth since before the days of King Arthur. It began slowly, all consonants and phlegm, before building up until she was bellowing across the empty playground, loosely translating the Latin she spoke in her mind:
A warrior, a demon of past and present and future-” a cruel wind leapt from the shadows to circle the pair, and the bin glowed blue like the edge of Zeus’ bolt. Grigor’s voice carried perfectly across the night, abetted by the storm. She sang like a banshee out of water, harsh, mangled, and irrefutably the mark of evil, “-your time is now. Nothing prevents victory. Your revival is our life, our death, our purpose. RIse!” 
As beautiful as forest-fire, the wind and demon fell, one shrinking back to the shadows and the other to their knees. 
There Grigor sat, regret already seeping from her steely gaze. Because, where the ball had previously sat, a man- no, a thing- like no other seen since the creation of Adam crouched on the tarmac. The charred remains of a bin sizzled at the base of the roundabout. 
This was no duke of hell. It wasn’t even a prince. 
This, even by the standards of hell, was evil in a conscious form.
This was the dregs of hell’s demons, and older than the sewing kit in heaven’s bottom drawer. 
This was Röchken, The Executioner. 
Dread curdled in Grigor's stomach, the acrid stench from steaming rubbish already permeating the air. 
Röchken drew himself to his full height (rather tall, in Grigor's opinion); Azazel threw themself into a subservient bow.
“Praise to The Executioner, respect to the true master,” they muttered, inching closer. Grigor rolled her eyes, already irritated by Azazel's incessant grovelling. 
Röcken chuckled, focusing red eyes on the squirming figure below him, surveying them with amusement.
Then he stood on their neck. 
Grigor gasped, hands jumping to her mouth. Azazel mewled pitifully and stilled. 
Unsteadily, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted to the trees, praying (something done by a demon only in the direst of circumstances) He had not seen her. 
Reaching the first trees, she cursed the curiosity that made her fall. Arcane knowledge meant nothing if she knew nothing was what she would become.
Furtively, she glanced from her hiding spot amongst the trees. Her heart stopped. Azazel had already joined the legions of the dead below them.
The playground was empty.
Realisation dawned on Grigor and her face was placid as she turned back. 
“Why did you kill them?” she asked the monster breathing down her neck. He sniffed deeply.
“They were in my way. You won’t be,” He answered in the scratchy voice of one who had not spoken for several millennia. 
“Why not?” Grigor asked, aware of the fist closing around her wrist like a vice. Forcing herself to look at Him, Grigor was met with dead eyes. Grigor shuddered despite herself as the dull red eyes drained her strength. 
“Because you will take my prison back to my father, and you will tell him what you have done. And then, if I know my father, you will no longer be a problem. But if you don’t, and you run,” He leant in until nauseating breath soured Grigor’s hair, “I'll find you. And you will wish you had begged for my father's mercy.”
 He released his hold and threw Grigor sprawling to the dirt. Though she had expected evil to come with consequences, she had not expected to deliver them herself, nor did she expect retribution so quickly. She thought she'd have time to get out, get away. 

As the storm set course for Everywhere, a demon staggered into the trees and begged for forgiveness. Of course, forgiveness wouldn't come. Being a demon is being damned, and being damned is all they can be. 
At that moment, the church bell on the hill chimed three times, deep and sonorous. It chimed over the dark playground below the living and above the dead. It chimed beneath the rolling storm clouds and the faraway growl of the thunder. It chimed three times, and it chimed under a new command. 

Röchken looked over his new dominion, as master of all, and He thought it...good.
Guys guys guys. If you read this bit here, can you please tell me if this would fit a prompt which is; 'tell a story in which something unexpected happened' ? Because you're a living legend??


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