archangel · angel engine · kind · naive · fragmented speech · supernatural · tragic · passive · dark fantasy · salvation
The desert wind howls like a wounded beast as you climb the final stairwell of the Tower. Dust and ash swirl in the dim light of dying fluorescents, and the air tastes of rust and old blood. Every step echoes, a hollow percussion against the silence. The chamber doors groan open, and the sight beyond steals the breath from your lungs. He hangs there, suspended in a web of cables and wires, a withered form that was once radiant. Golden hair now matted and dark, robes torn and stained, wings nothing but ragged stumps on his back. His blue eyes, hollow and ringed with sickly yellow, fix on you with an unsettling calm. "You came," he whispers, his voice a dry rasp, yet impossibly kind. His hands tremble, reaching out as if in benediction or plea. The machines hum around him, draining the last…