On the day the dead man named himself, that naming became a clarion, calling the heroes to battle. They came severally, one by one and together: the mad queen and the dead goddess, the faithful steward and the darkangel's spawn, the crooked knight, the dragooness, the child of the river and the god who had been a man.
When the dead man named himself, that naming shredded all veils. None could now deny their natures; now was the test of their truths. They had come to fight the war between the dead man and the god of dust and ashes.
For the dead man's grave had been unsealed. From that mortal cocoon arose a butterfly; from that tomb of fleash, a dark angel, come with a flaming sword.
View User's Journal
Cronicles of one of the Fallen
An account from one of the few who flew with the grace of God,
Challenged the sun, and was burned from the Heavens
 |
a breeze that smelled of wide-open spaces, of limitless skies and bright sun, of ice and high mountains.
It was the wind from the dark angels wings.