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Hatred is thick, a red fog that clouds judgement, and hot, burning in one’s veins. Hatred is fire, burning and passionate, easily able to swallow you whole if you don’t set it aside. Hatred spreads like wildfire, rousing and loud, the clap of thunder.
Where the cinders and embers that light the fire are impatient and desperate, grabbing at whatever they may find to remain alive, hatred is patient. Hatred is a seed pod, hiding in a stagnant bog, content with discontent and relishing in it, waiting to flower and spread its venom. Hatred is a destructive thing, poisoning the one who harbors it just as it poisons the others surrounding its host.
Yet it is disgustingly sweet, to the point where it is delicious. Hatred, while clouding the mind, gives focus. It sends you on a hunt, after the object that created it. The festering bud, once awakened, sends you on the path of ruin.
Hatred is something demons love to toy with. After all, men are more likely to destroy the things they hate themselves. They won’t find excuses or search for sacrificial lambs, instead opting to take matters into their own hands.
I am far from a demon. The enduring powers in my family, fighting defiantly against the weathering of time, have taken root in me. I have very little in the way of demonic gifts, but I can light a spark. I can smell the budding seeds of hatred in one’s heart, feel the feeble heat on the palms of my hands, and I can stoke the fire.
Small hatred goes a long way.
The farther back your demonic ancestor lived, the less of their power you had access to. I could do little more than smell hatred, thick, cloying, delicious, which was handy in its own way.