Crocel has a minion!
Minion the Dies Irae
Minion the Dies Irae
The Angel Wyllop
Age: 9 years, 11 months, 4 weeks
Born: July 7th, 2010
Adopted: 9 years, 11 months, 4 weeks ago
Adopted: July 7th, 2010
- Level: 1
- Strength: 11
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 0
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Cold metal, strange smells and sounds, the distant beep beep of the monitoring equipment.
It wasn't supposed to be this way...
Voices, mutterings, a language unidentified, and always the knowledge the pain would return. He'd lost track of the time. Days, weeks, it could have been months for all he knew.
Memories of battles raged through his mind in the more lucid moments. These times separated by long stretches of silent black. At times he wondered if that was what death felt like, but these beings, these favored creatures, were not kind enough to let death take him.
The fall...the capture...and always the pain in the background of his hazy thoughts. Nothing had prepared him for how coldly clinical these humans were. Detached scientific types, dissecting their prize.
"Human waste..." His voice came out as a groan and the sounds of examination ceased. "Chosen...favored...ugh, not...not worth his attention." Violet eyes snapped open and the poor creature paused for a second in pure surprise at himself. Whatever they'd had him on was wearing off...or he was becoming resistant.
He sneered at the inquisitive face of the scientist staring down at him and tested his bindings. They'd strapped him down on his stomach to better inspect his wings. His wings! The memory of the pain tore a cry from the captive. They took his wings...he couldn't return...he couldn't follow the others. "You worthless toys, you can't understand what you've done."
The sterile-looking male turned to give instructions to someone off to the side and the haze slowly started creeping back into Crocel's mind. "Mortal...fuck...its worse than the fall...banishment......to...waste away..."
And so it went, three years of alternate blackness and vague, semi-consciousness. Eventually, the drug-induced haze receded, an eerie silence invading his senses. He tugged, tested and, finding his limbs free, lifted himself shakily off the medical table.
The voice, oh he would forever remember that voice.
"Disappointing, Crocel. And you could have been so useful to me." That silky sweet, deceptively innocent voice. "Your captors have had an...unfortunate accident. I'm afraid I'll have to leave you to your misery...pity, seems I was far too late."
"No...no no no....Sama`el...don't" he pleaded into the empty shadows, stumbling toward the door. He received no answer, not that he'd expected any. Cursing the child-angel he gathered what scraps of clothing he could: a tattered lab coat, some mostly undamaged slacks, and made his way out into the sunlight.
His ordeal has left him even more bitter toward the human race, the scars and stubby bits of bone left on his back are a constant reminder of what he was. Crocel enjoys groups, they're the best place to remark on the various secrets of the others. He sees what people hide, the inner self, the bits they deny. The fallen-turned-mortal has made it his mission to ruin as many lives as he can before his time comes.