Another Fight
He wasn't a good man, nor was he an evil man. As the facts stood, he wasn't even a man.
The being firmly pressed it's hand against it's arm in an attempt to clot the bleeding, but to little avail. It didn't care so much for the bleeding, or the pain for that matter, but it didn't wish to drip blood all over the furnishings of the apartment, any piece of evidence it left of its presence would simply lead to unneeded questions. The last time that it had left a blood trail, the investigators spent 10 months simply trying to analyze the blood origin. Despite what some might say of it, it didn't like to make others do pointless work.
It surveyed the scene one last time, attempting to make sure that it had left as little evidence of its presence as possible. The furniture was neatly arranged around the room, the flowers in the Persian vase on the dining room table were arranged, and the corpse of David Stalen hung from a firmly attached noose to the company rooms chandelier.
-I hope I left enough money in the meter this time, my insurance has sky-rocketed lately due to these things taking longer then expected. With that though in its head, it carefully opened the window and leaned out the ledge.
-So much easier com'in in then goin out.
With that, the being jumped from the window and firmly tucked its legs in towards its stomach. It let out a small grunt as wings ripped through it's backs flesh and caught the wind. The leathery wings managed to catch an updraft at just the right moment and propel the being to the roof of Carlos Market on Scranton Street. No one noticed the being perch itself unto the building, any who did see it glide down simply believed it to be a trick of vision or a floating trash bag.
Waiting for the being on the roof was a tall thin man with skelton like hands and a long jaw. He wore a slick black trench coat with a long rimmed hat and a long cigar in his mouth. In his hand was a golden lighter with the emblem of an angel engraved into it. The man slowly lit his cigar and blew a puff into the beings direction.
"You would do well to take a lesson in subtlty my friend."
The being gave no reply. It stared at the man as a scowl grew on his face. It clenched its fist as its wings slowly retracted into the beings back. Sweat rolled down the beings face as the leathery wings cut through its flesh, leaving scars that would never heal on its back.
"One of those things that doesn't get easier with time it'd seem. Oh well, I suppose a little pain isn't too much to ask for one such as yourself." The man inhaled deeply on the cigar and placed the lighter into the inside packet of his jacket. The man let out a large cloud of smoke and quickly raised his hand into the vapor. His eyes glazed over as he let out a chant under his breath and the cloud began to take a new form. As the man continued his chanting, the smoke elongated itself to about half the length of the man and began to turn a hue of brown. It then began to solidify in the hand of the man as he mumbled the last word of his chant and removed his hand from the last bit of the smoke vapor and grabbed hold of the now solidified object. It was a parchment, made from the sun dried flesh of from one of the sinners of hell, a lesser known desciple by the name of Judas Priest.
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