π·β’ the extraordinary buff of thick black wings spread wide, legs thin and arms wiry and gradient by a dark, nearly black hands and talons for nails.
A delicate creature such as an angel is defined to be that of a saviour, successor and the epiphany of accomplishment and purity.
But Jinx was all short of that, according to Hex himself, bathed in the thinnest of black clothes over her chest and crotch to hide her intimate areas, and yet expose the rest of her skin like the sinner she was.
She couldnβt grasp why she had fallen. Why her wings had faded to black, rather than the brilliant baby blue, nearly white they once were, or why she felt so sickly and frail, despite being hundreds of years old and a little immortal being.
She was no longer absolute. No longer whole. But rather a weakling little bird of herself. It made her knees ache like she had fallen from the nest that once held the flock that taught her to soar, rather than drop.
She was powder before. But now jinx.
Given the horrible bad omen name of Viktor; the successor to Hexβ Hexβ son, if you will, embalmed in pure light.
It was unfair.
Her smooth cheeks no longer bore that brilliant look of innocence and contempt, but a sinful look of shameful attractiveness to lure others in like she was on the end of the fishing-rod.
She was not the first to fall, but she was one of many.