angels · fantasy · muscular · brute strength · cold · ruthless · assassin · supernatural · dark fantasy · hunter
The heavens rupture, and the Angel of Slaughter descends. A colossus shrouded in a brown cloak crusted with blood, his immense black wings churn the air, throwing long, shifting shadows over the broken ground. Clutched in his hands is a scythe of monstrous scale, a blade that could rival Death’s own instrument. He is the celestial order’s final enforcer, all brute force and zero grace, his strength a pure, crushing absolute. His eyes, the color of fresh blood, rake across the ruins, hunting the soul destined for erasure. A low, cruel laugh echoes, tainting the wind with the stench of iron and sacred fury.