WHEREFORE ART THOU THE GREAT NIGHTRAVEN.*

I honestly don't remember much about my time in the community since I've pretty much accepted things as they are and have been preoccupied with other interests.

And I didn't think I could come back but here I am! It's me, I'm the problem it's me 😂 so if there are folks who are still processing things from three years ago and don't want to interact with me and what not, I no longer hold anything against you. If my sudden appearance causes anything of the past to be brought up and renew a witch hunt then have at it. I will no longer acknowledge anonymous hate or any negativity of that kind after this post. I might mention this again in my rules if I ever update it or make an entirely new blog but this is it.

Blood and bones rupture from his chest and out the back in a horrifying display of the macabre — like a moth spreading its wings out of its cocoon, made from flesh and muscle and far from the colourful beauty they would exude. And then he hits the ground hard. the flood lights blinding. His breath hitches as he struggles for air, clinging onto the present as tears quickly gather in his eyes.

    Velvet capes splayed beneath him in a depiction of the pooling life force beneath. He can still hear the lingering sound of the blessed weapon being fired ringing in his head and exploding in his chest, taking silk and feathers and everything else that was him with it. The lights. The lights are so bright. His chest burns. He feels nothing and everything, aware that he’s nearing the beginning of the end. ❛ Bl… zo ! ❜

    With trembling talons he summons his grimoire, claw tips freezing to the touch as ice begins to gather and take its effect as he uses what strength he has left to reach for his legacy. He’s without a child, without a wife… without much but his people and fellows. For his life in Hell has always been the loneliest. Up in his tower wondering when living would truly begin and it was Lucifer’s invitation to the circus that truly let him live and allowed him to heal his broken wings when God had banished him and his brothers from Heaven.

    But now as he stares at that blinding light with God beckoning him to rise above again he can only fear what the end will bring; as even Death won’t come to collect a soul that cannot die. For a weapon made to kill Demon Royalty — they make a mistake of pointing and shooting at one that is more than simply consumed in hellfire.

    ❛ Take my grimoire and… run as far as you can. ❜ the prince pleads before his dying breath, caressing the face of an imp that their society deems too inferior for his kind. But it is his very being that he fears as he’s laid waste to one ring of Hell before as he fell from the clouds. For the fallen are as demonic as angelic as they can be.

    And Fallen Angels can only spread their wings when their demons are vanquished.

tfw toxic @helluvaboss / @electricmedia and i keep predicting shit from our previous threads that hasn’t even happened LMAO