Death and Fire, Smoke and Ash

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Shadows of those long dead. Whispers of pain, fear, and suffering. But most of all, darkness. Darkness of the soul, and of the night. Restless nights of torment and agony. For only I can hear the secrets of the dead. I don't seem like much on the outside. White, sunken eyes, dark clothes, black hair. Picture a raven in flight. Sunlight bounces off of those glossy black feathers, a hunter's eye gleaming at you. That is the color of my hair. My mother used to call me Raven because of that. As far as personality, I'm as dark as the night. If you could see my soul, you'd get lost in the malevolence. You'd drown in the darkness, gasping for air, feebly reaching out to me as your hands found nothing. And I would stand there and watch, smiling as you choked on inky swirls of hate, as you died slowly. Your corpse would rot there, degrading in the dank prison of my heart, till you would be naught but a memory.

The night is my realm, the dead my soldiers. Nyx is an empire few have explored, for in it lurk your darkest fears. Ghouls, shambling heaps of degraded flesh and rotten tatters roam the countryside. Spirits, lawful and chaotic take to the skies, wisps of mist on the horizon. Werewolves, traveling in packs, howling with rage, are the rulers of the forest. And the most feared of all, vampires. Able to meld with the general populace by day, at night they transform into translucent ivory horrors, with fangs as long as your longest finger, blood-red eyes, and the ability to fly. Mortals occasionally glimpse us, and turn us into legends. Myths made by mortals are based on truth, if not completely accurate. We are turned into tales by those who have seen us. But the overlords of evil, demons. Rarely mentioned, we are the monsters under the bed, the eyes of Hell. Lesser, greater, the Princes. Our enemies, the angels, fight us with armies of light. They seek purification, we seek chaos. They seek to destroy us, and us them. We refuse to let them win. We refuse to die.

Ashes and bones. That is all that is left in this shadow of a world. Five years ago, the heavens burst open, and from that fault flew the angels. We thought we were saved from the daemons that plagued us. We were wrong. They flew to us, wings etching hope into the sky. Then they slaughtered us. Angelic blades red with the blood of innocents, cruel smiles on their faces as mankind squirmed under their burning hands. 

I have survived this long, pretending to be a mortal. To most, I'm an orphan, but the Prince of Hell is my sire. I was sent here to eradicate angels. A disciple of death and fire. A sovereign of smoke and ash.

Angels are the bane of my existence, and I am theirs. I have killed more angels than almost every dark sprite, second only to the Prince himself. The screams of those who would destroy us. 

A brilliant halo, surrounding his eyes blinded me. Blazing wings unfurled from his back, spreading light across my face. Unbearable warmth, an aura of the divine. An angel. Supposedly the physical embodiment of morality. For all the glory they seem to own, the lies about them are many. They are supposed to be arbiters, law keepers, and just. The truth though, is hidden behind walls of lies. Angels are not moral, they are sinners. Law keepers? I think not. However just they may seem,  they are biased towards that which they consider good. A mortal flaw.