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Angel Hunt Throughout the Years...
+ Angel Hunt +
It is not reluctance… it is refusal. The voice states, disembodied and echoing hauntingly throughout the Temple walls.
The white haired figure frowns, his clear red eyes staring down into the dark abyss at his front and his frustration over this fruitless conversation growing with the seconds that pass. He stands tall and statuesque, just as the six other of his brethren stand, in a stone temple filled with abundant light. Elevated upon a circular platform with spanning stairs that surround it, his body is mere inches from a framed portal, the lip of stone decorated and engraved with the writing of their people, harshly curved lines of rough beauty – the gift of the written word given to them by the Maker of their bodies that connect them to the place where they once resided without solidity or form, to the place that now lies empty of them all save this very last one. The Demon’s sculpted frame is draped with ceremonial flowing robes of deep red silk that shift and dance playfully from the breeze that blows in through the domed opening far above their heads, his long pure white hair plaited at his back with the locks snaking and entwining around themselves, adorned with delicate scrolled bits of silver that are inset with jewels and stones that match the hues of his flawless gaze.
Their previous Guardian has died, shamefully falling in battle against their inferior opposites who were created by their Maker’s rival, and they, the Chosen Seven, have been tasked just as they’d been tasked so many times before with the calling forth of a new Guardian so their appointed duties can resume. The decree from their Maker for a reason he still cannot comprehend and in truth, does not wish to question, is that he wants for this one to be the next in line instead of allowing their normal manner of choosing to select. This one, who just so happens to be the very last of their kind without form, a one who had never accepted the gifts bestowed upon them as they all did, the one he’s spent an extremely frustrating passage of time seeking to make him see a reason that he stubbornly refuses to see.
“Our Maker’s gifts-”
That creature is no Maker of mine. The One interrupts again, pulling a deeper frown to the Demon’s lips and all around him, his fellow six’s voices rumble in distaste. You were all fools to trust it. You fell victim to its flattery like the idiots that you are and now you are trapped within solidity, imprisoned within form. I have no interest in such limits. I am happy as I am.
“You do not understand because you choose not to!” the white haired man’s solemn demeanor finally cracks, his sudden outburst pulling six pairs of identical eyes up to him, “What we have been given is beyond anything we had before, and what he offers you is an honor you should relish in receiving. Any one of us would gladly take your pla-“
Then do so. Take those so called gifts for your own and do so gladly. The liquid voice interrupts once more, mockery and contempt prevalent in every syllable it speaks, feel honored as you believe you should. Fight that creature’s pointless wars. Kill those mindless empty shells of the other’s. I do not care. I have no interest. This One will remain as he is. This One is content…
“You are a fool” the Demon hisses, “A small minded fool! He has asked for you, do you not understand this? He has commanded you to be his next Guardian, do you not understand what this means? Why he has chosen you is beyond my understanding, but he has chosen you just the same. Do you not understand that this will be infinitely easier on us all if you stop your infuriating denials and ridiculous rejections and simply accept his offered gifts?!”
For a long moment, only silence is given in response the white haired man’s words, but after one minute passes, and then another, a low, rumbling sound begins to resonate from the shifting darkness within the stone pit. Louder and louder it becomes until the laughter fills the temple, its mocking nature echoing across the pristine walls themselves.
I suppose then, that I do not understand. I suppose then, that this One… is the fool. The voice mocks, each word intermingled with the laughter that continues to shift about. And if that creature wishes to bestow his gifts upon me, then he will have to do so himself… my answer remains the same.