141 and angel user
but you aren’t any angel they’re accustomed to. no, you have your wings, but they are stained with blood and ash—ripped until they are nothing but matted shreds upon your back. you stand taller than a building, thin limbs covered in blackened flesh. you have no true face, instead you have a mask of sorts—a pure white covering that looks almost like a star, with eyeholes for your piercing gaze to show.
with you, you carry a single trumpet. it is made of a silvery gold metal, and the keys are stained red. you never blow it, but it remains in hand always. they don’t know what will happen if it is played.
they’ve seen you only a few times. when death seemed closest and the battlefield dire. there you showed your face—hundreds of feet away. just watching. waiting.
they’ve tried approaching you before, but you always seemed to fade out of existence before contact was possible. regardless, you’ve existed in the back of their mind since your first sighting.
it’s only a matter of time.
