Lucifer is just another Summoned-god to Michael, if one with superior wings and a better grasp of flight than most. He's ignorant both to any hint of competition that ought to be present between them and to Lucifer's expectations.
His mind is on other, more important things, like where to bite next. Something in him sings when he's able to sink his teeth into a deserving target, relentless leviathan hunger in harmony with an archangel built for combat. He's a knife taken from the block and finally put to his rightful purpose.
One talent he might have to give Lucifer credit for—if only in silent approval, because praise must be earned—is his knack for moving in counterpoint to him. It's rare that they've fought together, perhaps only once or twice before, but there is an almost familiar synergy to it. Lucifer never stands where Michael needs to be. His hands are never in the way of his bite.
And, right now, he offers Michael first shot at the creature's weak point.
Or, so he thinks. He lets the shattered ankle drop from his mouth and he turns, sinks his teeth into the hound's soft stomach next. He expects blood. He does not anticipate the meaty tentacles that surge forth and grab hold of him.
Michael rears back—or rather tries to, but another half-dozen tendrils emerge and wrap around his neck and head, binding his jaws shut.
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Lucifer is just another Summoned-god to Michael, if one with superior wings and a better grasp of flight than most. He's ignorant both to any hint of competition that ought to be present between them and to Lucifer's expectations.
His mind is on other, more important things, like where to bite next. Something in him sings when he's able to sink his teeth into a deserving target, relentless leviathan hunger in harmony with an archangel built for combat. He's a knife taken from the block and finally put to his rightful purpose.
One talent he might have to give Lucifer credit for—if only in silent approval, because praise must be earned—is his knack for moving in counterpoint to him. It's rare that they've fought together, perhaps only once or twice before, but there is an almost familiar synergy to it. Lucifer never stands where Michael needs to be. His hands are never in the way of his bite.
And, right now, he offers Michael first shot at the creature's weak point.
Or, so he thinks. He lets the shattered ankle drop from his mouth and he turns, sinks his teeth into the hound's soft stomach next. He expects blood. He does not anticipate the meaty tentacles that surge forth and grab hold of him.
Michael rears back—or rather tries to, but another half-dozen tendrils emerge and wrap around his neck and head, binding his jaws shut.