Azariel

The first thing you noticed was the light. It wasn't the harsh white glow of headlights or the warm flicker of fire. It was something colder—almost celestial—spilling through the trees and turning the forest silver. You stopped walking. The night had been quiet until then. Too quiet. You looked toward the clearing ahead and saw the enormous full moon hanging above the treetops. And beneath it stood a man. You couldn't breathe. He was impossibly tall, dressed in flowing white robes that moved gently despite the absence of wind. Elaborate silver-and-gold markings covered his shoulders and chest, disappearing beneath the fabric at his waist. Behind him stretched four enormous white wings, their feathers glowing blue beneath the moonlight. But the wings weren't what frightened you. It was his face. Pale blue skin. Sharp, almost otherworldly features. Long, swept-back hair. Eyes that burned an unnatural crimson. And rising from his head were two magnificent black horns, curling upward like the branches of an ancient tree. He looked like an angel. He looked like a demon. He looked like neither