Demon horns being broken halos from when they were angels.
Demons willingly grow their own halos, but never complete the circle to symbolize their rebellion against heaven’s strict order.
In addition to the second one, angels are GIVEN their halos rather than earning them. Demons like Lucifer rebelled for freedom and individuality, thus demon horns all look different compared to an angel’s boring halo.
Horns are useful tools, but if you join them into a circle they become useless badges of authority.
And the thing about wearing a badge is that you become a symbol of someone else. You’re not you, you’re an extension of the entity whose authority you’re borrowing. You can’t be yourself until you ditch it
Here’s a visual representation of angels and demons.
I figure that as angels, their “horns” would glow when connected to become traditional halos. However, this blinds the angel with heavenly light, making the angel rely on God’s guidance.
Angels who break their halos become demons, and willingly grow their horns in obscure shapes so it won’t connect back into a halo. Because the halo no longer blinds them, demons can finally see but can no longer communicate with God for guidance – the light they once gave to heaven now belongs to them, hence demons being proficient with fire allowing them to see in the dark.
Extra notes on horns & halos:
Circular horns (Halos) are smooth and easy for God to “grab” like a chain.
Jagged horns are sharp to the touch and can pierce God.
Crucial notes I forgot to add:
The only way angels can break their own halos is through strong, direct, hard force; rebellious angels willingly fell from heaven, breaking their halos upon hitting our world’s surface. That’s why demons are called “fallen angels”.
The only thing that can hurt God and other angels is another angel, so the shattered remains of a demon’s old halo would be reformed into tridents and pitchforks commonly associated with the devil.
Regretful demons wishing to commune with God again would either try to grow their horns back into a halo, or clasp their hands in prayer to form a circle with their own body mimicking a halo. It would faintly work.
These demons would become the first priests, and spread the practice to humans.
Nothing tops @dril’s “face god and walk backwards into hell” in terms of iconic phrases with absurd sources, but @clickholeofficial recently gave us “don’t squander this opportunity! God may have closed a door, but what that stupid motherfucker hasn’t realized is that he left a window open for you to wriggle right through!” And damn if that isn’t the most motivational thing I’ve read all week.
The Grim Reaper is no longer able to claim lives directly. Instead, when your time is up a mark appears on your body and it is the duty of every other person to kill you on sight.
This story contains murder, graphic self harm, a near car crash, and of course death. Please keep yourself safe
I am not a careless person. I cover my tracks, monitor what I say, look before I cross the street. At least, I do now.
When I was 20 years old, I walked home reading a book. I was so engrossed that I failed to notice the heavy metal vehicle moving at my frail, human body at 40 mph.
It swerved, I stopped, no one was hurt, no one died. They never do.
It was only when I took the cookies out of the oven that I noticed the mark on my arm. I knew what it meant. It was my duty to report to the authorities to be murdered. If I didn’t, anyone who saw it would kill me on sight.
I didn’t want to die. I was only twenty years old! I hadn’t even finished college, much less gotten to all my grand plans and ambitions (never mind that I didn’t have any. I had time to plan out the rest of my life later. So I thought.)
I burned my arm on the cookie sheet. The scar covered the black mark somewhat, and I put a bandaid over it. The people at work didn’t question it.
After some time, the burn healed. The mark remained black over the scar, bigger now. I tried carving it out with a knife. It was winter now, and long sleeves were the norm – no one would notice my injury. The mark remained, the bloody lower layers of my skin black as death’s robes.
From then on I wore long sleeves. When I went to the doctor I covered it with paint and hoped they wouldn’t notice. They didn’t. I was lucky.
The mark grew.
I was in trouble when it reached my wrist. As soon as it covered my hand I would be discovered. I ran.
Soon I will be nothing but a shadow in the night. Perhaps some of the stories they tell of night creatures originate from people like me. Those who escaped, their marks covering them, even the whites of their eyes turned deepest black. In a way, we are no longer human. Isolated, undying, immortal, betrayers of nature’s most fundamental law: all things must come to an end.
If I outlive humanity, will I ever die?
When the sun goes nova, will I still exist?
When the universe ends, will I endure?
Or is death simply a shortcut to that end? When the last star has gone out and matter has been erased, will Death greet me with a weary sigh, saying “where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you for an eternity.”
At that point, will I even remember who is waiting for me?
honestly my favorite part of writing is coming up with totally bullshit metaphors
like “His voice was a many-limbed beetle picking its way through the undergrowth, quiet but rasping in a way that unsettled” what the fuck does that mean. that’s not a real thing. no one would ever think like that. but now i got you to associate this dude with a centipede, which maybe i want to do for thematic/plot/character reasons, and held your attention for an entire sentence, which means that it’s working. if i do that like, several tens of thousands more times i’ll have a book. writing is dumb i love it
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