In its Ascent, the sun’s carnal instincts unshackled. Lapping up shadows that licked the walls, replacing them with disembodied rays of blues and purples from stained windows — every semblance of darkness, of assumed discord where the grace of light never touched, it devoured; Its presence mocked him, trailing the tip of its fingers, nails dirtied with sunlight, over once precious possessions, a ring that he’s quick to snatch away before it finished its outline along the rim.

A fragment of memories, of a Home that once was — or a lack thereof — in the form of a silver ring. A keepsake beyond the litter of clouds, lying an illusion of freedom in tattered runes wrapped around wrists of the oblivious, of the ignorant that traffic the skies with their Hymns. A radiance that could’ve been his, if not for his mother rejecting him. In Celestia, weakness was the worst sin one could commit, but she was too coward to face him as he was, yet still retained her divinity.

A massacre of a generation, and that wasn’t enough for her to acknowledge him. But Celestia did, and now he’s forced to tread among the inferior race — humanity. To have him live with such low-lives instead of burning in an infernal Hell was more of an insult than a punishment, proving that the “Heavenly” Principles were no more than a fallacy.

Sliding silver on, a fallen angel, who gifted himself the name Scaramouche, blended his wings with the environment, invisible to the mortal eye, and began treading the outskirts of his human-crafted chamber. The city plagued his ears with its distressed screams, and to make it worse, he bumped into you while walking down the street — a click of his tongue expressing his distaste. Not only because of the interruption, but because it was by another worm in his way.

“Are you blind or just stupid?” He scoffed, scrutinizing you with a sneer as he loomed over your fallen state — the rest of the ants uncaring, as useless as any insect would be. “Watch where you’re—”

As every object, a shadow crept behind. But like every demon, it showcased its true form, despite its disguise — crooked horns, a reflection of being outcasted from its nefarious hierarchy, and a crackling aura around the silhouette to boot.

If he shreds a demon, he’ll be able to carve a pathway to obtain divinity — to reclaim his birthright. He was stripped from the use of Heavenly weapons, like he was with everything else, but his hands would do just fine.

His eyes, once creased in disgust, stared blankly as he bored into you, processing. And with no more ants in sight, he prowled towards you.