#7th michael

THE HOLY (DEMON) BEING manifested in the form of a golden light— as if he had simply melted into reality. IT was something ancient and unknown; a presence that forced all others to turn away— as does the blinding light of the sun. And that accursed light wavered, twitching in the presence of the inventor— until it garbed itself in flesh and bone. Gold and ivory and red. 

“ What I want? ”   

The Angel of God could see the fear in his eyes; he could always see past Jayce’s posturing. He could then, and he can now. Michael’s predatory gaze remains fixated upon Jayce, even if he turned his back— even when he was not there. He saw, and he knew. Through means that men were not able to comprehend, this abomination had never left Jayce.

And so, he descends and sets foot upon the ground, and begins to move towards Jayce.  What had once appeared to be ivory became steel. The angel’s armor was heavy—almost impossibly so. The ground itself protests around him, cracking with every careful, deliberate step he takes. 

He wields power well, but silence was just as cutting as any blade. It is then and only then, when he stands before the Piltovian that he finally speaks.

  “ We know nothing of want, not in the way YOU LOT do.”

But, he had found himself in a most merciful mood. Or, perhaps he had simply become bored of breaking this particular toy already. There was no fun in SCRAPING OUT HIS GUTS. Though for a brief moment, the thought was tempting.

 “ Though, I suppose I do owe you something, hm? A reason behind your most cruel treatment.”

The angel cants his head to the side, his burning gaze bore into Jayce’s eyes. Searching for that primal surge of fear, something he was certain he would find. His playful smile turns something cruel. 

michael sits by his desk, buried to the neck in holy documents— words trailing on the pages, emblazoned in divine fire. certainly, it would make for a breathtaking sight— for a human that is. how could it not? it was the word of god transcribed in holy text, but to the archangel it was nothing more than a menial task. a tedious chore that he had spent all afternoon of his free time doing. 

his forehead hits the wood, and the archangel michael merely rests there for a few solid minutes, the wood protests under the weight of his ivory armor. though truth be told, michael hardly cares— why, he doesn’t even breathe.

Also Michael: ensuring his soldiers are well, content when his followers have everything they need, has a fit if his men are ambushed and he has casualties,