Aryn sat perched on a tree, his wings curled around him in protection from the wind. People like him-different- had been run out of civilization weeks ago after an accident happened, one he hadn`t heard about. He himself used to be one of the different, a copycat, able to do anything witnessed. He was still different, still a copycat, but now an outcast from the outcasts; he was a demon. A fallen angel. He hated himself but he couldn`t kill himself. He`d tried, of course, he didn`t belong here on the earth plane anymore. Yet he was still here, still alive. Injured, but not dead. He sighed, brushing his bloodred bangs out of his eyes. He hadn`t dyed them; it had occured when he fell, his black fringe changing color, like his eyes; Molten gold, glowing in the night like a cats`. His face was narrowed slightly, framed by his shaggy, shoulder-length hair. Falling from Heaven had done him a favor: he still had the radiance of the Angels. His body was athletic and sculpted like a runner`s, strong but not muscle-bound. He had stolen a sword and a long hunting knife two days ago from a collectors` house in perfect condition. He was jolted out of the memory by movement below him. "Who`s there?" he called, drawing out his sword slowly.