This Rifle Was The Devils Favorite. He Slew Legions Of Angels With It In The War Of Heaven, Hungry Golden

This rifle was the Devil’s favorite. He slew legions of angels with it in the War of Heaven, hungry golden bullets that could crack universes and turn concepts into meaningless bundled words. It is beautiful. Metal so black it’s almost blue, refined onyx overlaid with silver, ivory.

You pulled it from dead hands. Victorious.

It feels perfect— familiar. Like an old friend. The sinking Sun descends and throws warm red light over everything, drowns this world in blood.

Somewhere deep down inside, you can’t help but feel that this weapon, this rifle— has been waiting for you.

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The Moon blesses me, rising into the sky in all its pale and hallowed glory, a howling face at my back against darkness.

Bones split, break. Pitiful human things to be discarded. My blood is an inferno and it burns against my veins, hot, flooding through the gaps in torn skin, turns snow crimson-black. Steaming.

I scream, and in turn my jaws shatter, buckling into a terrible snout. Teeth crack like sickening musical notes, flattering to the sidewalk as I lose them. Eyes bulge, midnight colored tears clouding my vision, until my sight glows with ethereal shadow unseen by any other eyes on the planet.

Spine broken before subsuming into something broader. Armored. Wings fuse outward, and then catch the wind, unfurling. Fingers mangled, lost, regrown anew in devastating talons.

My new jaws work, once, twice. Strong. Strong enough to bend iron, cleave flesh. Claws grasp in eager need, slashing at the cool air—

A howl in the distance. Familiar, and terrifying. Beautiful. My new face does not smile or grin, but even yet, I feel hungry joy.

With a flap like thunder, I sail into the night, searching for an old friend.

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I’m up.

There is a woman in black at the edge of the town, standing just off the side of the road.

The Sun is everywhere, bleaches everything that it touches, like this world is a scattering of bones turning ever paler under its gaze. But the woman stands, still as a mesa, her cloak defiantly still against any clawing desert winds.

Her wide hat plunges her face into shadow completely. You see no features— nothing except staring, golden eyes.

Watching.