Character Creation Prompt Lets hear what yall can come up with!

Sir Nizzleton Maggizzle.. 

(I’m sorry this is technically 2)

Cecilia Lkhagvasaren, currently 16, a ghost, he/she/they pronouns, AFAB, 5’4

Sky Ansbro, 16, fallen Angel, he/him pronouns, AFAB, 5’2

Cw: blood, violence against animals and people, implied abuse, murder, religious themes and violence, ritual sacrifices, theme of religious cults, implied self harm 

(I tried my best to proofread before posting but I may have still missed some typos, feel free to let me know if you see any while reading.)

The Beginning of a War

“Mommy? Daddy? Where are you?” A little girl asks as she enters her home. It’s quiet, which wasn’t unusual, her parents were never the loud type, but this time it was quieter than it should be. Usually her mother played some quiet music, or her father had the news on. Nothing, it was silent. She cautiously enters, leaving her bag by the door. Before making her way to her bedroom, she notices the lights are off in the kitchen. They’re never off before nine o’clock. The room is a mess, three knives are missing from the knife block, the table is out of place, a chair sits on its side, dishes lie, shattered on the floor. She didn’t notice the odd stain on the stove as she leaves for the basement. Unease sets in as she realizes something must’ve happened. Footsteps sound on the floor above, relief washes over her before she realizes, those aren’t her parents’ footsteps as she peers up from the stairs to see an unfamiliar figure approach. She runs to a hall closet, shaking. It’s weirdly cramped, she smells something metallic nearby, as the stranger passes the closet. Once silence rings out again she slowly opens the door, checking to see if the stranger left. As she leaves she turns to see a sight she will never forget. Her own father, unresponsive, blood pooled from his head. While she was not yet old enough to understand death, something told her, he wasn’t waking up ever again. Still, in her desperation, she shook him, pleading with him, “wake up, wake up, please wake up, someone’s here!” Alas, nothing changed. She searched for her mother, hoping it wasn’t too late. However, she still found her mother, unconscious on the laundry room floor, bleeding from an abdominal wound. The girl collapses to her knees as she weeps. No words leave her mouth, there are none she can say anymore. The footsteps start again. Out of fear, she grabs the nearest weapon, a bloody knife, the one used to kill her mother. A man, dressed in black, enters. She runs, but it isn’t long until she’s caught, she thrusts the blade into his arm as she turns. A scream sounds as the man lets go, holding his arm in agony. He tears it out before pinning her to the ground. The pleasant sound of chatter fills the room as her eyes flutter open. A group of figures in robes cheer as she sits up. She doesn’t understand their words. “Angel” “messenger” are thrown around. A woman takes her to a small room and orders her to change. Robes like the rest. She listens without thinking, and she is then seated in front of a crowd as she is adorned with beads and crosses. They begin praising her, as some sort of “holy being” and praising a god for this “gift”. The girl remains silent, unable to understand the strange rituals. Before long she’s led to a room, a comfortable bed and a window overlooking the field surrounding the building, and an empty desk with a large book in the center. She sits on the bed, confused and scared. She gets a better look at the book, a Bible. She collapses back on the bed, as tears roll down her face, scared, alone, and confused. She should have listened to her parents. “Don’t tell anyone of your powers.” She really should have, yet she was just a naive child. How could she know? It’s too late now. That doesn’t stop the crying. She awakes to another woman, leading her to a dining room. The food looked good, but she ate none. The events of today had diminished her appetite. Despite this they all encouraged her to eat, and she gave in. She was sent back to that room afterwards and she cried to sleep again. She did not speak for three weeks. Even when she spoke, it was only a few words. For she could never prepare herself for the horrors she had to perform. It wasn’t always like this at first. Revered as a healer, she healed the sick and wounded, which always brought a smile to her face. However, she could never recover from the sights of that day. It all deteriorated during her twelfth birthday. That day was the first sacrifice. A bird, a blue jay, squealing and squawking. It was pinned to the floor before her, a dagger placed in her hand. She trembled, as they instructed her. It was just an innocent bird! It was so helpless and scared, like her on that day. She tried to hold in the tears. If she refused she already knew what would happen. The many gashes on her arms and legs told that story quite well. The bird struggled and squawked, her hands trembled as she raised the blade, plunging it into the poor bird’s neck. It stopped. She refused to speak the rest of the day. That time the wounds on her arms could come from none other than the girl herself, horrified by her own actions. The rituals only continued, growing more and more gruesome. Sometimes the people offered themselves up to be sacrificed. It progressed from murder to torture. Carving the blade into flesh in grotesquely unique patterns before death, grew common. She began to fear the rituals less than her own growing indifference. As her mind grew numb to the sights and sounds, she grew fearful of herself. Come her fifteenth birthday the child knew she needed to escape. The world needed to know the horrors of this wretched organization. She cultivated he powers, trying to grow stronger, to face these wretched humans and run away. She flew away daily after she discovered her wings, venturing to towns to explore during the night. As her wings expanded under the moonlight a gasp was heard one chilly autumn night. A man stood in the door way, shocked. She had done it now. She was knocked to the ground before she could defend herself, waking bound by the wrists. Uneasy chatter sounded as she is led to a large wooden structure. They tie her to the cross as they set it ablaze. Shouts of anger ring out as the sky fills with smoke. She prays and screams, hoping someone will rescue her, but no one can hear her over the jeering crowd as they cry “witch!” Tears stream down her face, yet don’t reach far before they evaporate. “I hope you all burn like me when you die!” Were her last thoughts as feeling faded from her body and she lost consciousness. Yet she awoke. She should be dead. A voice calls out. An angry voice. One filled with the same hatred and thirst for vengeance as she. “I will show the world what you have done to me, to my kind, to my friends, and I hope they torture you the same way they tortured me!” She can feel a magnetic pull as she’s thrust into a house. Before her, a boy, the two now bound by soul. He weeps in the corner of a bedroom. He glances up, face still wet from the tears. Before him, the ghost of a child with the same anger as him. “Who are you,” he asks. “Cecilia,” they answer. He rises, holding a hand out for a greeting, “Sky.” And with that a vow was made, to bring justice to the so called witches, so called satanists, and everyone else like them. To avenge their suffering, and protect those who haven’t yet suffered, from a world that wants them dead.