Fall, 1918.

The wastes were barren by ravages of war. Smoke curled lazily into the sky alongside a merciless tide of blood of many once armed men covering the soil.

A Latin-Asian wolf-man of nearly seven feet in stature had a gaze of molten gold hue and jet black, sleek fur, scarred by old flesh wounds. The only non recent injury was his deafness—he was only born that way, unable to hear anything and being entirely alien to the concept.

The wolf-man had a recently-cleaned and sheathed tachi at his side and a golden halo atop his head, fur on his head put into a long ponytail. He used no guns. His silent calmness was unnatural. As he looked across the field, he counted the amount of bodies laid across the battlefield, dead men of war, dead men of their homeland.

Heaetherius silently breathed, his shirtless frame rising and falling only slightly amidst his trance.

There had been a war going for years now in Europe. And he was in the middle of it as a mercenary. He walked slowly across the battle site, stepping over the scattered fallen. His footsteps as silent as the felled themselves.

Disgusted at how a man can come to such a point; Heaetherius’ golden crown of a halo in soar heavenward of his head became more saturated in gold. The obvious silence was deafening to the deaf man. To someone who cannot hear, there is never a time when they are not listening. Even when it is quiet.

An angel of death who could not hear, around the men who would wish for an angel to grace them.