@starvedwclf || Continued from here.
Those words, when they are repeated back to him, linger in the stagnant air that all but consumes the thick forest. Skies painted an almost rust-red at the dying flicker of the sun as it slowly faded beyond lines of vermilion trees and their fleshy, twisting roots dyed a deep beige against dark soil. This land heaved bloodshed and death - decay clinging to nearly every blade of grass or barren patch of infertile dirt. The stench of blood mingled peacefully on the gentle breeze that rattled crisp leaves and licked at worn bark; both present here and carried for miles from countless wars and thousands of unnamed battles that mankind would scarcely remember, if only because the survivors were few and far between. Rot nestled its way into the very heart of this country; eroding it bit by bit as it took hold. Bathed in violence and hate for so long, it had started to corrode - a shell of what it could have been and may have been before. Both a shame and a blessing in the very same breath - mankind made mountains out of mole holes and monsters out of men. Humans were always teetering on the edge; walking a thin line between the divine and unholy no matter the hands that slipped in to push or pull them between the two. Both mailable and resistant to change. A claim he could make from having spent so much time observing them (and that’s often all he did - observe from afar rather than reaching out sharpened claws adorning ebony armor).
But for every wretched, godless thing he was; for seas he had created from burning scarlet instead of frigid blue, he was oddly sentimental. Perhaps he cared more for mankind than he may have let on, and he was more concerned with the affairs of demons than his almost unwillingness to get tangled up in worldly affairs might imply. Sacrilegious beasts that they were, they were still within his domain even if he did not typically find himself in this land nor had he played a role in its creation or current slope. Yet, though death and destruction were woven into his very design, he appeared to possess some level of compassion. He had leveled whole countries in the past; fought in countless wars mankind would never know about nor ever thank him him for despite the countless times he may very well have saved their skins from monsters and holy abominations they weren’t even aware existed. A tireless and thankless job he had taken up more times than he can count; his own battles having never once ceased despite the millennium he had been alive. The dead are dead, indeed, but he hears their cries every hour; every minute; every second of his very existence. He keeps their company in the depths of the underworld where they weep and scream and shout at the faintest of the things - their souls entirely unable to sleep. He can string tombstones about his throat like some humans wear medals. He knows their stories like the back of his hand - he had memorized the faces and names of an infinite number of tortured souls. It is his duty to remember; his duty to keep strangled voices alive where nothing but murky shadows can touch them; where he is their only solace.
“The dead are dead, indeed,” he echoes. Every broken promise and every unfulfilled wish. Every labored breath and every shallow sob. Every scream that paints lungs red and raw, and every silent prayer that the skies refused to answer. They’re all burned within his memory. They coat the very walls he calls home. And it is just as much theirs as it is his. To most, the dead are simply gone - devoid, no longer present. To him, they are a constant presence. “But I remember each and every one of them. From their dying whispers and desperate murmurs to their heartfelt prayers that always go unanswered, I am the embodiment of their hate, their rage, and their agony. The dead are dead, indeed, but their memories are very much alive and well.” Six wings stretch out from his back - an array of gleaming feathers beneath amber skies that are mixed white and black. Grime clinging to their otherwise beautiful forms - caked crimson so dry and aged that it appears nearly black. The wind rustles their massive frame; licking at sharp pinions that look both tainted and blindingly bright depending on which set eyes fell upon.
“Perhaps they are, but those fading echoes serve to shape this world and those who have been left behind to suffer in it.” He had little interest in getting involved in the affairs of this country - it wasn’t under his jurisdiction to begin with, but the demons who had been crafted here do catch his interest, as most tend to. Curiosity, then, the faintest spark of it, had brought him here simply for the chance to learn of them. “Remembering them is my purpose, as is keeping them alive though they may be nothing more than fleeting voices upon the wind. I remember, no matter how many I have slain or been witness to their passing, so that they will not be forgotten. I remember, so that they may live forever more within me.”
