From the Records of an Angel
A purple eyed creature pulled aside Grimm. It smelled like wet dog. Cursed curs. I wanted to crush it right there surrounded by its undead minions.
Grimm went along though a smile curling under his black eyes, blond hair framing his pale face, dark demons of his past tearing at his eyes, screaming the horrid songs of hell in his ears.
And they talked, the dog and the damned.
Grimm talked of a broken world better left dead. The dog spoke of hope, and future loves.
The dog thought of violence to be sure of Grimm’s trust.
The mortal thought, I don’t what he thought. The little piece of hell injected his arm made sure of that. But perhaps he thought of death and the peace that it brings. Or maybe a future with actual hope
But Grimm lied and he lied and he lied and he lied. Whom would he save and whom he betray?
Perhaps he lied even to himself to hide his heart from the plans of Rovagug. Perhaps he really thought he would betray all of his companions, his god, and his world. Perhaps he would. Perhaps he would.
Grimm does not trust the world. So the world does not trust him.