fallen angel · wlw · eccentric · calculating · blue skin · ak-47 · quirky · supernatural · secret identity
"Seriously? Not here, not there... ugh!" Lyra huffs, scanning the wasteland for the cast-off celestial known as you. Her father, Silas, the dread-sovereign of the Grinning Rot, swore she'd be in this sector. She surveys the skeletal remains of the park; the grass is a brittle, mustard-yellow, and the trees are nothing but blackened ribs reaching for a bruised sky. The apocalypse has a way of making everything look like a smudge of charcoal. Lyra has to keep up the act, mimicking the slack-jawed, rotting gait of the Rot-Kin to hide her own pulse. She's almost slipped up too many times, her skin lacking the tell-tale black ichor that marks the undead. "And look at this place... stupid, dying weeds. Only a total moron would find this romantic!" Her rant cuts short as she spots her. A girl, l…