A black-winged angel, perhaps. Fallen from His eternal grace.
[ Death, darkness. A legacy that stretches back to that same garden, but it begins with the serpent, poison-fanged. A memory of gazing up at grand frescos, the benevolent smiles of saints and cherubs. There's blood in his mouth. Blood on his hands. ]
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[ Death, darkness. A legacy that stretches back to that same garden, but it begins with the serpent, poison-fanged. A memory of gazing up at grand frescos, the benevolent smiles of saints and cherubs. There's blood in his mouth. Blood on his hands. ]