When Angels Deserve to Die

[Astaroth Merula]

The daemon snorted with indignation at the snow that had collected on his suit jacket like a congregation of white-robed devils besieging him. He brushed the clumps off white flakes from his shoulders before walking into the pub, instantly in better moods once in the warmth of this human den of anger and misery, a perfect place for Astaroth to watch the humans make mistakes which were common to their pitiful race. It was better by tenfold than that one show with the low-standards orange people who did nothing but fornicate; there were so many more bad qualities to humans. But he had come to this small, out of the way pub simply because he needed a drink and the warmth of a fire.

As the well-shaped barmaid made her way to his table to take his order, he noticed her casting shy glances to a man two tables over from him. The daemon smiled as he saw the man discreetly slide a golden band off of his ring finger while the barmaid had her eye turned, such a cliche scene. Oh well, Astaroth ordered black pudding and some scotch and sent the barmaid on her way, happy to know at least one misfortune would come from this night.

The suited daemon let out a relaxed yawn as he watched over the pubs patrons, waiting for something slightly more interesting than a simple affair.

[Azriel Gideon]

He sat hunched at the bar, an empty mug clutched to his chest as if it were his newborn child, as he rifled through his pockets searching desperately for money enough to buy him one last drink. Azriel gave up after his search yielded only pocket lint. He looked up pleadingly at the bartender and asked "Put it on my tab?" The question was so ridiculous that the man could have laughed in his face were he not faced with the pitiful sight that was Azriel. The angel stank of vomit, piss, and the alcohol he seemed to have bathed in the way the front of his shirt was soaked with it.

Azriel reached over his shoulder to scratch his back and the stumps of where his wings had been. He knew it not, though he surely felt it, but the things were infected and wriggling with parasites. The booze deadened such a thing to him and all he could recall was that he had lost the beautiful appendages to disease, neglect, and misuse.

Azriel closed his eyes and one tear leaked from the corner of one eye at the memory of his fluffy white wings, an echo of the purity once present in his heart and soul. The angel radiated sadness and despair like some sort of... sadness and despair radiator thingy. He ran one hand through his brilliant blonde hair, still so radiant and perfect despite the awful condition his body was in. The whites of his amber eyes were veined with red and the skin around them puffy and swollen. At the pitiful sight of him, the man across the bar filled another mug and gave it to him, free of charge. That was why Azriel had come to this particular pub this night; the man behind the bar had a soft spot on his heart and was not likely to refuse him one last drink.

Draining the liquid greedily, Azriel wiped his face and stood up after finishing. After taking his weight from the bar, his world seemed to spin horribly and he stumbled toward the door, keeping an unusual sense of pride about him. This was the night. One last drink. Azriel Gideon had decided that on this night he would take his own life.

[Astaroth Merula]

As Astaroth ate and watched in silence, he kept an eye on one of the pub's patrons in particular; a blond-haired male at the bar who looked pathetic enough to be one of the shots on a SPCA commercial. Although his hair seemed to be in perfect condition, everything else about the man screamed of misuse and exhaustion, and everyone else at the bar put a little space between themselves and his foul stench... It looked like the daemon had finally found his source of entertainment.

Watching the male down his last drink and then try to stand to his feet, Astaroth pulled out a few euros and laid them on the table. The daemon then proceeded to stand up, put his suit jacket back on, and exit the pub. As soon as he walked through the door, the blond haired man stumbled outside behind him and Astaroth placed a steadying hand upon the other male's shoulder.

The daemon flashed this sad man a friendly smile as he lightly patted his back, completely ignoring the stench that rose from his body; he knew what is was like to smell like a sewer. "You okay mate?" Astaroth asked the blond-haired male with a clear Nothern English accent.