He sees it all.
From his station in the shadows, where he is most comfortable, he watches.
He drags in a thin breath, feels a tendril of something dark snake its way through him, and watches. He studies the dead thing through the dark. He can smell the blood even from here. But he makes no attempt to intervene. There is no flame that swells in the parched column of his throat as he studies her, the hunter.
He is no hunter, this Messiah.
He is no coward, this Messiah.
She discards her kill. And he moves forward out of the shadows. Though the halo likely would have given him away even before the sound of a branch snapping underfoot as he moves toward her. He folds the wings, big and heavy and leather, tightly against his sides and never shifts his focus from the hunter’s blood-slick face.
“Look at you,” he purrs, the voice smooth, thick like honey. Something more suited to the halo that casts that heavenly glow down across the ridge of his brow than to the monster that lives beneath it. The fire in his belly. The magic in him that can destroy on a molecular level. “Beautiful,” he murmurs and then he simpers. Because he knows. Knows that underneath all that feline flesh, she's just like him.
@[sochi]