#wingedlightbringer

This was going to work. It had to. Alastor couldn't afford any mistakes at this point. Blood had been spilled. His home was gone. He had washed them all away with strike of a knife in a single crazed moment. The memory was still vivid in his mind. He could still smell the blood on his hands as it filled the air. The sounds of the knife he wielded as it stuck into his father's chest again and again and again and again. Until there was nothing left. Nothing but blood and his deep, heavy breaths and manic laughter.

Alastor had taken measures to cover up his deeds though at least this time. He'd taken his mother's body from the home and lit the rest of it on fire. Then he stood and watched as it burned to the ground, engulfed in flames against a dark, inky sky. The evidence of his father's murder erased with a burning heat that only stood as a metaphor for the hatred that he felt towards him within his soul. He deserved to burn in the worst parts of Hell for the deed he had committed. The life that his father had taken from this world. Alastor had nothing now. Nothing. And he would make sure that the world paid for that. The cruelty that he was given, he would return the favor.

Blood stained his floorboards now, smeared across wooden planks which fell through to the foundation of the little house he occupied on the edge of town. The carcasses that he had recently obtained in order to get his supply laid butchered on the floor nearby. Some nasty individual he had ran into on his way home one evening. The man, a drunk, had thought it would be a fun game to harass him. He'd been mistaken whenever Alastor lured him into the shadows and plunged a knife deep into his chest. Now here he laid on his floor, in pieces - his blood used to carve out the perfect sigils for his ritual.

A better man would go to pray to the Heavens for some sort of answer or guidance. But that was not what Alastor was after. He was no better man. He knew what he was and where he was headed. Alastor had no desire to be left with nothing though. He needed a sure fire plan for when he did eventually meet his end. He wanted to make sure that his future both while he was alive and in Hell were secured. And to do that, he would need the power of something greater, darker. He would need to conjure a demon or perhaps, even, the devil himself.

There were two things he wanted out of this. The first, to make sure that his future while he was alive would be without the stress of ever being caught. If he was going to continue on his path, he didn't want to be stopped until he took his last breath. The second, of course he wanted to secure a place for himself in Hell. He couldn't imagine that just anyone meant anything down there. It was likely that new arrivals to that realm suffered the most. That wasn't what he was looking for. If those two conditions could be met, then he would agree to give his soul up for it.

Standing from the painted floor he wiped smeared blood from his forehead onto his blood stained sleeve. Preparations were done. Now it was time to begin.