The Fallen

The heat was sweltering, and had a thickness so heavy that it was comfortable to suffocate in it. The low, black clouds seemed to boil, churning forth white-hot bolts of lightning that were cooling if you were close enough to feel them, and created a stunning contrast of ice blue in the black and red atmosphere.

     Though he was in the underbelly of Hell, the fallen angel was perched on a lofty pedestal where he could easily disturb the clouds by simply lifting his fingers to them if he so desired. Both of his feet, clad in black boots, were solid on the slick rock that held him above the Unworthy, where he was comfortable in a crouch with his forearms resting over his thighs. In one hand he twirled a ruby studded dagger with a sort of dark leisure, compelling the dense muscles of his bare arm and shoulder to flex and shift. His hair, black as the darkest ink, hung around his face, covering his hellish gaze and hiding his exquisite features. 

     To an onlooker, he might have appeared bored, or perhaps only pensive, but he was the one onlooking; The Unworthy screaming below, wanting back their silly human lives, regretting the sins they had committed, they entertained him. He prized them, as they were, after all, his trophies. It was he who coerced them to descend into the haunted cellars of heaven, he who locked the door behind them, then dragged them to their new home.
     He watched them, a small mass below, looking up at him with tormented faces as they tried to scale the slate of the pit. Many of them had been there for so long that their appearance had begun to distort, becoming exceedingly grotesque, the image of the demons they feared to be on Earth. Others, however, were recent, their pretty skin still smooth, and their hands yet to be singed.
    The fallen angel longed to touch them, to caress them sweetly, as a woman would her lover. But instead, he simply permitted a wry smile to settle on his lips.
     After a very long time of no movement other than the twirling of his blade, his thick black wings raised above him, the glossy feathers rustling as they unfolded. In a fluid movement, he stood, the low clouds fleeing as his aura pushed against them. Tilting his head back, he rolled his shoulders about, loosening the muscles that had become tense during the hours he had been still. He stood still, then, taking one last look around, a stale breeze unveiling his face and revealing a pair of hard eyes that seemed to know all, that seemed friendly and charming, yet dangerous. Soon, he outstretched his wings to either side of him, letting his lips stretch with them into a dark smile that was a perfect finish to his aesthetic perfection.
    Thunder shook the heavy belly of hell, and at the precise moment that lightning flashed behind him, the fallen angel vanished, off to consume his next trophy.

Author's Note

Please comment! Any critique will be welcomed here.

Reviews

[A. H. Pinley]

Sounds like a great intro. I would consider breaking these sentences up a bit.

[A. Amos]

Compelling and enjoyable read. Well done!