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Description
mY FIRST GIF Done in photoshop so probably really shitty lookin' XD

I'm putting him in the superhumans category as I feel that a fallen angel is not the same as a demon.

Primary Information

Name / Nicks : Deimos

Species / Race : Fallen Angel

Gender / Sex : Male/male

Age / Date of Birth : He was 'born' unto the earth in 1577, and transported to Kelacao in 2050, so 473 years

Height / Length : 1.78 metres

Weight / Build : 78 kgs, fairly muscled.

Skin Tone : Tan

Eye Color : Usually they're a bright green, although occasionally they will turn red for a while when he's 'sinned.'

Hair Color and Style : Black, long and usually just loosely hanging. Occasionally, if he has to, he'll put his hair up in a ponytail or a knot, more usually the latter.

Other Physical Traits : Has a tendency to cross his arms and take a generally standoffish pose, or seem unapproachable to people.

Psychological Traits : He's pretty arrogant and more than happy to talk about himself and his skills. If anyone questions his skills, he gets quite pissy and can fume over that for quite a while, and he is generally very emotional. Not fickle, but definitely controlled by emotions; when he rages, he rages, and when he's happy he's almost jumping for joy. This also means that he gets very easily jealous of people, although generally he manages to contain it to some degree. He quite enjoys most kinda of fun, even if it means pulling further and further away from his angelic self. If he has the chance, he goes to a library and greedily goes through as many books as he possibly can in the library's opening hours. Should he meet any angels or christian priests - regardless of what branch of christianity they belong to - he will be extremely angry and bitter.

Abilities / Specialized Skills :

Novice - apprentice - journeyman - expert - master

Pyro! He can command fire, a weaker and less pure version of light, although in contrast to normal fire and demon fire, the fire he can summon and control is cold rather than hot. It'll not only hurt like shit, it might give you trench-foot. [ journeyman ]

Scrying. Of a sort. He can only scry in his dreams, and only if he focuses. Even so, it is limited to the futures of people he's seen and himself. [ novice ]

Limited flight. He can fly, but only over a short distance and it really takes a lot of energy. He prefers not to do it, because it might also rip open old wounds. [ novice ]

Skilled swordsman. Like very skilled. He's had a lot of practice. [ master ]

Weaknesses / Fears :
Very weak - weak - somewhat weak - minor weakness

Holy light. He is burned by holy light, like a demon or dark creature would be - a thing that he is very ashamed of despite pretentions to not be. It hurts, and it hurts bad both mentally and physically. [ very weak ]

Bullets. He is definitely not superman, on this point. [ weak ]

He lacks restraint when it comes to temptations. Like most Fallen, he's pretty much figured "fuck it, I'm here now. Might as well enjoy it while I can." [ minor weakness ]

Holy water. It can hurt and burn him, another thing that he is very ashamed of because it reminds him of how far he'd fallen. [ minor weakness ]

Outfit :
Red tank top, jeans, white ankle socks, dark sneakers, a red fingerless glove for the right hand, a black fingerless glove for the left hand.

Miscellaneous :

Homosexual

Background History :

Deimos does not remember his real name, he suspects that his real name was cut out of his memory by the fire that burned his wings off... Maybe even completely erased, since his first lover never mentioned the name either.
He was created alongside his brothers and sisters at the beginning of time. Most of the time, he served as a messenger between heaven and the humans, although he did also do service as a warrior, mostly fighting demons. Time didn't hold much meaning to him, he never could keep track of what year it was, because in heaven it was so.. Fluid and malleable. It didn't make sense for him to think of it as a dimension, something that restricted humans. Deimos' story doesn't begin there, it was merely what came before.

Now... Once upon a time in sicilia, there was a... Young man. Now, this young man was no artist, no musician, and not very much of anything really.
He was a shepherd. He had his dog, and his herd, and a flute that he could not quite master.
He often spent his days and nights watching over the animals, because they were all that his family had to keep them alive. By this quiet, contemplative work, he observed nature, and learned kindness.
He was, for the longest time, unaware that someone had been observing him, in turn. Someone had laughed at his pretty bad music, watched with joy how kind he was, and appreciated the quiet, contemplative and gentle nature of the shepherd.
The shepherd felt this attention in the form of good luck. His sheep were well-fed and got almost no disease. They bore healthy lambs and gave good milk and wool, and tender meat. He had good luck driving off predators, and his fires never died out during the night. Sometimes, he'd find a white feather to stick in his hat for a while, until the wind took it and flew off with it again... An action that pleased the watcher. Eventually, this someone who had watched him decided that they should not hide anymore. He needed to know him better, make friends with him, and so
So one day he came down to the shepherd, amidst his falling white feathers. The shepherd was frightened, at first. He had never seen someone like this before, only in the paintings in his church. The watcher was an angel, and it was the feathers off of his wings that the shepherd had found and stuck in his hat. The angel was so beautiful, but at the same time seemed so powerful that the shepherd fell to his knees and was about to beg for mercy, for whatever sin he had committed to make God himself send someone to personally avenge it.
The angel knelt in front of him and smiled a little, touching his forehead lightly.
"I am not here to hurt you." He said, his voice so gentle, melodious and comforting as only an angel's voice can be.
"I have seen your kindness and your gentle nature. I have seen how you garner wisdom from mother nature, and take to heart what she can teach. I wish to be your friend, mortal man."
The shepherd was stunned. Why, he asked, would an angel wish to befriend a little shepherd, who was not much of anything and could not do much of anything in the world? There had to be better men for the angel to befriend; men who could do something in life.
This made the angel smile wider, his silver eyes lighting up with mirth.
"Perhaps." He replied, standing and pulling the shepherd up with him. "But I like you the most. You are not selfish or pretentious, you do kindness out of the goodness of your heart rather than to show off to others or ensure your place in heaven. You pray in private, in secret, and the Lord who sees all and hears all, and I as his servant, hear that better than all of the folks who pray loudly in churches, to show how good they are." He gently placed another feather in the shepherd's hat, and patted his shoulder.
"That is why I wish to be your friend."
The shepherd was overwhelmed by the angel and his speech. He asked what he could offer in return, for he wanted to give something back. The angel laughed at this and said: "you may give me nothing in return but your friendship."
The shepherd was a bit baffled, but eventually he worked up the sense to ask the angel to sit with him and talk. They stayed up through the night, talking about everything they could think up, and the shepherd borrowed the angel his flute. It was for the better, that, for the angel was a master at playing music; and the shepherd found himself lulled and entranced by the angel's music.
When he awoke the next morning, the angel had gone. He had other duties to attend to, but as a promise of his return he had wrapped the flute in a piece of cloth, so soft and smooth as a spiders web, better than any earthly silk; and with the finest golden and red filigree on a background as white as newly fallen snow. The shepherd took this cloth and treasured it dearly, for he knew what it meant, and he would always carry the flute with him, and the fabric close to his heart.
For days he did not see the angel, though he waited and watched as good as any dedicated guardsman would for his master's return to the castle. The cloth never stained once, never lost its sweet scent, and the shepherd's fondness for the angel and this precious gift grew for each passing day, each glance at the fabric. The angel returned on the evening of the fourth day, and again he spoke with the shepherd; his voice was warm and his eyes sweet and gentle as ever. The way they lit up when he and the shepherd spoke of music and joyful things, of knowledge and kind deeds the angel had seen, was entrancing to the human; he had never seen any creature that he felt such deep affection for. The entire summer, the angel visited him regularly, spoke with and played for him, and their joy at seeing one another only grew with each meeting.
The shepherd now slept with the clothing under his head, so he could inhale the sweet scent always. He knew that he was starting to yearn for the angel for different reasons than when they had first met, but he would not act upon it. To try to lure the angel to sin would be a greater evil than any the shepherd could imagine, and it would be costly. His heart ached in the most pleasurable way when he laid eyes on his friend, when he saw him smile and heard him play. In his dreams he'd enacted many fantasies with him already, his body yearning for the angel's touch; his mind racing to try and imagine what it would be like for such a heavenly creature to be his.
Then one evening, in the late summer, while the birds still sang and flowers filled the air with sweet scents, the angel descended again. He had a slight frown upon his face this time, and the shepherd grew worried. Had the angel sensed his less than pure desires and thoughts..? He did not know, and asked what had caused the angel to be so unhappy.
"I felt jealousy today, my friend." The angel replied as he sat by the fire, looking into the burning flames.
"Why?" The shepherd asked, watching the angel with surprise. Why would an angel be jealous? Jealous of who..?
"I tried to make a man see the light, to turn his mind back to his wife and his children."
"But..?"
"Instead, he took another man in his arms and..." the angel stopped himself. Looked at the shepherd warily and stood up again, starting to pace.
He did not speak another word, but the shepherd read his furious blush and his fidgeting like an open book.
Jealous of a mortal man, because he could embrace a lover, kiss him... lay with him. It made sense, but now a part of the shepherd's mind reeled in response to that thought. The angel wanted him..? Until now, he'd thought an angel was incapable of feeling desire. But he supposed they could...
The angel looked over at him again. Licked his lips. For a moment, his eyes seemed almost aglow with an all too human emotion. Then he moved over and sat down, reaching for the flute.
The shepherd acted mostly on instinct when he took the angel's hand in his, before he got to pause and marvel at how soft his skin felt, how warm and pale it was.. the angel froze up as he felt the shepherd's coarse skin against his own. Until now, they had not touched skin against skin once.
His eyes glazed over a little and became hooded. The touch was so new, so foreign and yet so good.
The angel lightly trailed the fingers of his free hand along the shepherd's tanned hand and arms. Then he looked up at him, seeking eye contact and shifted closer. The feelings were intense for the angel, and so the shepherd also felt the intensity of the situation.
He slowly leaned in, touched the angel's hair gently, making him part his lips in a soft sigh and close his eyes. The sight of that made the shepherd slowly lose more of his self control, and he let his hands slide to the angel's neck; then his shoulders and his back where his wings joined with his shoulders. The angel opened his eyes and looked up at the shepherd, a mix of want and fear; desperation and desire in his eyes. He wanted the human. He'd not desired something so powerfully before in his existence... Slowly they closed the gap between each other, and their lips met in a kiss that started gentle but soon became forceful, wanting. The shepherd's yearning and the angel's desire spurred them both on, and long into the night they explored one another's bodies, and fulfilled their passionate fantasies. The angel had never known such pleasure before, such closeness and joy. He craved it all, and when they were done, finally sated and fulfilled, he could not wait to feel the shepherd again. However...
The angel had sinned. The next morning, he awoke with a sense of terrible, foreboding dread that formed a knot inside him, made his chest tighten and his limbs feel like they were made of lead. He stood up slowly, sore and slightly stiff in the limbs, and took some steps away from the camp and his sleeping lover. There, hovering above the ground, was another angel. There were no words. The sunny morning never changed. The fallen fell to his knees, looking up at the angel, who simply pointed at him. That unleashed a terrible burning pain in the fallen's body, focused on his back. It felt like poisoned whips lashed at him, stripped him of his flesh, and he screamed. The screams woke the shepherd up, and he saw his beloved angel on the ground, bleeding from the back as his wings burned up; the fire reached high into the sky and sent thick, oily, black smoke into the air.
The smell of burning flesh, bone and feathers permeated the air as the fallen screamed in agony and the angel disappeared. The shepherd ran to help his love, but could do nothing to put out the fires or comfort him; he could merely hold him tight and whisper comforting little things into his ear, sobbing and secretly praying for them both to be forgiven. For hours, the valley echoed with the angel's screams, and the shepherd's mind would ring with that echo for the rest of his days, but eventually the fire burned out, and left nothing but a pair of scars on the fallen's back; ugly reminders of what was once there, and the fallen cried hoarsely in pain and sorrow for he knew he would never return to heaven before eternity ended.

He knew his lover would die from him, while he was doomed to walk on it forever, restless and pained from his fall.
The shepherd promised the fallen that he would take care of him, that they would never be apart, and brought him home, with the herd and the dog. The fall changed nothing for him, the fallen was still his beloved angel, and he did everything to make him comfortable. For many days, however, the fallen did not eat or move. He barely slept. He didn't understand that it was necessary for him to do these simple things now, and shepherd feared that his beloved would die from him already. The fallen seemed to just sit in a chair all day, looking out at the changing landscape, his hair losing its gloss and growing coarse as his skin became waxy and his body thinner and thinner. He'd sniffle every so often, but never sob. The shepherd showed him all the love and gentle care he could in between work to prepare for winter, and in time the fallen regained his health and learned how to maintain himself in this new situation. However, some of the joy at life had been taken away. He was not unhappy, but the happiness they felt was marred by his longing for what once was.
He had to find a name. His former name he did not remember. One day in town, he overheard two intellectuals discussing something, and the name Deimos was mentioned. He knew the name's meaning, who bore it before... But he liked it. And so he picked that. The shepherd did not know, and the fallen did not tell him.
Winter came, and the fallen was starting to settle. He smiled again, now, and played on the flute whenever the shepherd asked him to. They loved one another and could make do with very little. They were never accepted, not really, but they were never persecuted either. One thing had changed, however. The fallen came to hate spring and summer, what they represented and the paradise they reminded him of. The sweet scents of flowers brought unhappy tears to his eyes and the songs of birds made him want to turn away and run.
When winter came, he would go for long walks, often not dressed properly for it and coming home sick and cold. The shepherd never figured out why he did this, though it never ceased to worry him, or where he went.
In the summer, the fallen would stay home to mind the house, keeping it clean and bug free but also uprooting any flowers and scaring any birds he saw away. He only had comfort at night, in the shepherd's arms, and almost obsessively sought out physical contact and intimacy. For years, life passed like that. They were in love, but the shepherd grew old and tired. Then, one day, while his lover was playing to him on the flute they'd held so precious and guarded like it was the world's greatest treasure, he felt it was time. He smiled, and held a hand up, and his lover paused. He was as young and handsome as ever, and the shepherd could only watch as realisation dawned on him.
"I feel it is my time now, my darling." He said in an thin, shaky voice that age had worn the smooth, rumbling voice of youth down to.
The fallen looked up at him, pain chiseled into every centimetre of his face as tears started forming.
"Please don't leave me yet..." He said softly.
"I have no choice." The old man said, chuckling softly and leaning forwards to kiss him lightly. "It was never my choice to make..."
"I need you.. if you go, what am I supposed to do? Where shall I go? I have nobody else..."
"You will find a way, my love. You be good. I love you."
And with those words, the old shepherd died, slumping back in his chair and closing his eyes. The fallen sat by his chair, holding on to his hand and quietly letting his tears fall without restrain or drying them. He was alone now.
Quietly he whispered a prayer, though he doubted he would be heard. He begged for the shepherd to be let into heaven; would gladly take on all the sins of the world for that one concession, then stood and kissed his dead lover one last time.
"I love you too.." He choked out between tears, before taking the flute and walking out of the little cabin.
The shepherd was found a day later, as the leaves changed colour and started falling. The fallen was never seen in the area again. When the shepherd was buried, and the priest went by on his way home, there was a piece of cloth tied around the cross that marked the shepherd's grave.
A single piece of snow white cloth, with gold and red filigree on. As soft as a spiders web and with the sweetest scent. It would never decay or stain or lose its scent, and over time many people traveled there to see it. People called the shepherd a saint, and put a painting of him in the church. Because of the shepherd saint, the town flourished and he was remembered. Perhaps not in the way he wanted, but definitely in a way that was fond and good.
Deimos, meanwhile, wandered around Europe. He made his money as... Whatever he could. A flute player, but mostly a mercenary - he switched companies regularly to avoid suspicion - until mercenary armies went out fashion. Then he tried making a career as a soldier, but was unsuccesful. Something about it reminded him too much of the past, and he left as soon as he possibly could.

The fallen went to britain and took up a variety of work, never for longer than 10 years at a time, and mostly centered around bars or entertainment of some sort. He mostly sang or played music, but occasionally just worked behind the scenes. At the time when he was transported to the world of Kelacao, he was working in a moving company. A bit... Common and not so lucrative, but it made him money and he was decently pleased with how things were going. One day he heard of an experiment that needed volunteers, an experiment into interdimensional travelling. There was nothing really keeping him back, the fallen thought as he went to the lab. He might as well try it, right? hat was the worst that could happen..? He was accepted because of his peak physical condition and stable mental health, and after weeks of training he was finally strapped in. More than anything, the machine looked like a pod with a few metal circles around it. He was told there was a 20% chance of instant death, but hey... what did he have to live for anyways? Maybe this would be the greatest thing in his life.
So he was strapped into the machine, and leaned back. Watched the circles start to spin, the lights turn on... Everything became a blur of light and shadow, the world started falling out from under him and... He lost consciousness... When he awoke, he was on the world of Medirgitbai. Barely any supplies except his sword, wallet, and lighter...

Kelacaolican Information

Class : Demon

Balance : OC: 60 - MC: 60 - NC: 60 - GC: 60

Inventory :

- One migration era sword (image courtesy of google www.medievalcollectibles.com/i… )

- wallet

- cigarettes

- a lighter

Description
mY FIRST GIF Done in photoshop so probably really shitty lookin' XD

I'm putting him in the superhumans category as I feel that a fallen angel is not the same as a demon.

Primary Information

Name / Nicks : Deimos

Species / Race : Fallen Angel

Gender / Sex : Male/male

Age / Date of Birth : He was 'born' unto the earth in 1577, and transported to Kelacao in 2050, so 473 years

Height / Length : 1.78 metres

Weight / Build : 78 kgs, fairly muscled.

Skin Tone : Tan

Eye Color : Usually they're a bright green, although occasionally they will turn red for a while when he's 'sinned.'

Hair Color and Style : Black, long and usually just loosely hanging. Occasionally, if he has to, he'll put his hair up in a ponytail or a knot, more usually the latter.

Other Physical Traits : Has a tendency to cross his arms and take a generally standoffish pose, or seem unapproachable to people.

Psychological Traits : He's pretty arrogant and more than happy to talk about himself and his skills. If anyone questions his skills, he gets quite pissy and can fume over that for quite a while, and he is generally very emotional. Not fickle, but definitely controlled by emotions; when he rages, he rages, and when he's happy he's almost jumping for joy. This also means that he gets very easily jealous of people, although generally he manages to contain it to some degree. He quite enjoys most kinda of fun, even if it means pulling further and further away from his angelic self. If he has the chance, he goes to a library and greedily goes through as many books as he possibly can in the library's opening hours. Should he meet any angels or christian priests - regardless of what branch of christianity they belong to - he will be extremely angry and bitter.

Abilities / Specialized Skills :

Novice - apprentice - journeyman - expert - master

Pyro! He can command fire, a weaker and less pure version of light, although in contrast to normal fire and demon fire, the fire he can summon and control is cold rather than hot. It'll not only hurt like shit, it might give you trench-foot. [ journeyman ]

Scrying. Of a sort. He can only scry in his dreams, and only if he focuses. Even so, it is limited to the futures of people he's seen and himself. [ novice ]

Limited flight. He can fly, but only over a short distance and it really takes a lot of energy. He prefers not to do it, because it might also rip open old wounds. [ novice ]

Skilled swordsman. Like very skilled. He's had a lot of practice. [ master ]

Weaknesses / Fears :
Very weak - weak - somewhat weak - minor weakness

Holy light. He is burned by holy light, like a demon or dark creature would be - a thing that he is very ashamed of despite pretentions to not be. It hurts, and it hurts bad both mentally and physically. [ very weak ]

Bullets. He is definitely not superman, on this point. [ weak ]

He lacks restraint when it comes to temptations. Like most Fallen, he's pretty much figured "fuck it, I'm here now. Might as well enjoy it while I can." [ minor weakness ]

Holy water. It can hurt and burn him, another thing that he is very ashamed of because it reminds him of how far he'd fallen. [ minor weakness ]

Outfit :
Red tank top, jeans, white ankle socks, dark sneakers, a red fingerless glove for the right hand, a black fingerless glove for the left hand.

Miscellaneous :

Homosexual

Background History :

Deimos does not remember his real name, he suspects that his real name was cut out of his memory by the fire that burned his wings off... Maybe even completely erased, since his first lover never mentioned the name either.
He was created alongside his brothers and sisters at the beginning of time. Most of the time, he served as a messenger between heaven and the humans, although he did also do service as a warrior, mostly fighting demons. Time didn't hold much meaning to him, he never could keep track of what year it was, because in heaven it was so.. Fluid and malleable. It didn't make sense for him to think of it as a dimension, something that restricted humans. Deimos' story doesn't begin there, it was merely what came before.

Now... Once upon a time in sicilia, there was a... Young man. Now, this young man was no artist, no musician, and not very much of anything really.
He was a shepherd. He had his dog, and his herd, and a flute that he could not quite master.
He often spent his days and nights watching over the animals, because they were all that his family had to keep them alive. By this quiet, contemplative work, he observed nature, and learned kindness.
He was, for the longest time, unaware that someone had been observing him, in turn. Someone had laughed at his pretty bad music, watched with joy how kind he was, and appreciated the quiet, contemplative and gentle nature of the shepherd.
The shepherd felt this attention in the form of good luck. His sheep were well-fed and got almost no disease. They bore healthy lambs and gave good milk and wool, and tender meat. He had good luck driving off predators, and his fires never died out during the night. Sometimes, he'd find a white feather to stick in his hat for a while, until the wind took it and flew off with it again... An action that pleased the watcher. Eventually, this someone who had watched him decided that they should not hide anymore. He needed to know him better, make friends with him, and so
So one day he came down to the shepherd, amidst his falling white feathers. The shepherd was frightened, at first. He had never seen someone like this before, only in the paintings in his church. The watcher was an angel, and it was the feathers off of his wings that the shepherd had found and stuck in his hat. The angel was so beautiful, but at the same time seemed so powerful that the shepherd fell to his knees and was about to beg for mercy, for whatever sin he had committed to make God himself send someone to personally avenge it.
The angel knelt in front of him and smiled a little, touching his forehead lightly.
"I am not here to hurt you." He said, his voice so gentle, melodious and comforting as only an angel's voice can be.
"I have seen your kindness and your gentle nature. I have seen how you garner wisdom from mother nature, and take to heart what she can teach. I wish to be your friend, mortal man."
The shepherd was stunned. Why, he asked, would an angel wish to befriend a little shepherd, who was not much of anything and could not do much of anything in the world? There had to be better men for the angel to befriend; men who could do something in life.
This made the angel smile wider, his silver eyes lighting up with mirth.
"Perhaps." He replied, standing and pulling the shepherd up with him. "But I like you the most. You are not selfish or pretentious, you do kindness out of the goodness of your heart rather than to show off to others or ensure your place in heaven. You pray in private, in secret, and the Lord who sees all and hears all, and I as his servant, hear that better than all of the folks who pray loudly in churches, to show how good they are." He gently placed another feather in the shepherd's hat, and patted his shoulder.
"That is why I wish to be your friend."
The shepherd was overwhelmed by the angel and his speech. He asked what he could offer in return, for he wanted to give something back. The angel laughed at this and said: "you may give me nothing in return but your friendship."
The shepherd was a bit baffled, but eventually he worked up the sense to ask the angel to sit with him and talk. They stayed up through the night, talking about everything they could think up, and the shepherd borrowed the angel his flute. It was for the better, that, for the angel was a master at playing music; and the shepherd found himself lulled and entranced by the angel's music.
When he awoke the next morning, the angel had gone. He had other duties to attend to, but as a promise of his return he had wrapped the flute in a piece of cloth, so soft and smooth as a spiders web, better than any earthly silk; and with the finest golden and red filigree on a background as white as newly fallen snow. The shepherd took this cloth and treasured it dearly, for he knew what it meant, and he would always carry the flute with him, and the fabric close to his heart.
For days he did not see the angel, though he waited and watched as good as any dedicated guardsman would for his master's return to the castle. The cloth never stained once, never lost its sweet scent, and the shepherd's fondness for the angel and this precious gift grew for each passing day, each glance at the fabric. The angel returned on the evening of the fourth day, and again he spoke with the shepherd; his voice was warm and his eyes sweet and gentle as ever. The way they lit up when he and the shepherd spoke of music and joyful things, of knowledge and kind deeds the angel had seen, was entrancing to the human; he had never seen any creature that he felt such deep affection for. The entire summer, the angel visited him regularly, spoke with and played for him, and their joy at seeing one another only grew with each meeting.
The shepherd now slept with the clothing under his head, so he could inhale the sweet scent always. He knew that he was starting to yearn for the angel for different reasons than when they had first met, but he would not act upon it. To try to lure the angel to sin would be a greater evil than any the shepherd could imagine, and it would be costly. His heart ached in the most pleasurable way when he laid eyes on his friend, when he saw him smile and heard him play. In his dreams he'd enacted many fantasies with him already, his body yearning for the angel's touch; his mind racing to try and imagine what it would be like for such a heavenly creature to be his.
Then one evening, in the late summer, while the birds still sang and flowers filled the air with sweet scents, the angel descended again. He had a slight frown upon his face this time, and the shepherd grew worried. Had the angel sensed his less than pure desires and thoughts..? He did not know, and asked what had caused the angel to be so unhappy.
"I felt jealousy today, my friend." The angel replied as he sat by the fire, looking into the burning flames.
"Why?" The shepherd asked, watching the angel with surprise. Why would an angel be jealous? Jealous of who..?
"I tried to make a man see the light, to turn his mind back to his wife and his children."
"But..?"
"Instead, he took another man in his arms and..." the angel stopped himself. Looked at the shepherd warily and stood up again, starting to pace.
He did not speak another word, but the shepherd read his furious blush and his fidgeting like an open book.
Jealous of a mortal man, because he could embrace a lover, kiss him... lay with him. It made sense, but now a part of the shepherd's mind reeled in response to that thought. The angel wanted him..? Until now, he'd thought an angel was incapable of feeling desire. But he supposed they could...
The angel looked over at him again. Licked his lips. For a moment, his eyes seemed almost aglow with an all too human emotion. Then he moved over and sat down, reaching for the flute.
The shepherd acted mostly on instinct when he took the angel's hand in his, before he got to pause and marvel at how soft his skin felt, how warm and pale it was.. the angel froze up as he felt the shepherd's coarse skin against his own. Until now, they had not touched skin against skin once.
His eyes glazed over a little and became hooded. The touch was so new, so foreign and yet so good.
The angel lightly trailed the fingers of his free hand along the shepherd's tanned hand and arms. Then he looked up at him, seeking eye contact and shifted closer. The feelings were intense for the angel, and so the shepherd also felt the intensity of the situation.
He slowly leaned in, touched the angel's hair gently, making him part his lips in a soft sigh and close his eyes. The sight of that made the shepherd slowly lose more of his self control, and he let his hands slide to the angel's neck; then his shoulders and his back where his wings joined with his shoulders. The angel opened his eyes and looked up at the shepherd, a mix of want and fear; desperation and desire in his eyes. He wanted the human. He'd not desired something so powerfully before in his existence... Slowly they closed the gap between each other, and their lips met in a kiss that started gentle but soon became forceful, wanting. The shepherd's yearning and the angel's desire spurred them both on, and long into the night they explored one another's bodies, and fulfilled their passionate fantasies. The angel had never known such pleasure before, such closeness and joy. He craved it all, and when they were done, finally sated and fulfilled, he could not wait to feel the shepherd again. However...
The angel had sinned. The next morning, he awoke with a sense of terrible, foreboding dread that formed a knot inside him, made his chest tighten and his limbs feel like they were made of lead. He stood up slowly, sore and slightly stiff in the limbs, and took some steps away from the camp and his sleeping lover. There, hovering above the ground, was another angel. There were no words. The sunny morning never changed. The fallen fell to his knees, looking up at the angel, who simply pointed at him. That unleashed a terrible burning pain in the fallen's body, focused on his back. It felt like poisoned whips lashed at him, stripped him of his flesh, and he screamed. The screams woke the shepherd up, and he saw his beloved angel on the ground, bleeding from the back as his wings burned up; the fire reached high into the sky and sent thick, oily, black smoke into the air.
The smell of burning flesh, bone and feathers permeated the air as the fallen screamed in agony and the angel disappeared. The shepherd ran to help his love, but could do nothing to put out the fires or comfort him; he could merely hold him tight and whisper comforting little things into his ear, sobbing and secretly praying for them both to be forgiven. For hours, the valley echoed with the angel's screams, and the shepherd's mind would ring with that echo for the rest of his days, but eventually the fire burned out, and left nothing but a pair of scars on the fallen's back; ugly reminders of what was once there, and the fallen cried hoarsely in pain and sorrow for he knew he would never return to heaven before eternity ended.

He knew his lover would die from him, while he was doomed to walk on it forever, restless and pained from his fall.
The shepherd promised the fallen that he would take care of him, that they would never be apart, and brought him home, with the herd and the dog. The fall changed nothing for him, the fallen was still his beloved angel, and he did everything to make him comfortable. For many days, however, the fallen did not eat or move. He barely slept. He didn't understand that it was necessary for him to do these simple things now, and shepherd feared that his beloved would die from him already. The fallen seemed to just sit in a chair all day, looking out at the changing landscape, his hair losing its gloss and growing coarse as his skin became waxy and his body thinner and thinner. He'd sniffle every so often, but never sob. The shepherd showed him all the love and gentle care he could in between work to prepare for winter, and in time the fallen regained his health and learned how to maintain himself in this new situation. However, some of the joy at life had been taken away. He was not unhappy, but the happiness they felt was marred by his longing for what once was.
He had to find a name. His former name he did not remember. One day in town, he overheard two intellectuals discussing something, and the name Deimos was mentioned. He knew the name's meaning, who bore it before... But he liked it. And so he picked that. The shepherd did not know, and the fallen did not tell him.
Winter came, and the fallen was starting to settle. He smiled again, now, and played on the flute whenever the shepherd asked him to. They loved one another and could make do with very little. They were never accepted, not really, but they were never persecuted either. One thing had changed, however. The fallen came to hate spring and summer, what they represented and the paradise they reminded him of. The sweet scents of flowers brought unhappy tears to his eyes and the songs of birds made him want to turn away and run.
When winter came, he would go for long walks, often not dressed properly for it and coming home sick and cold. The shepherd never figured out why he did this, though it never ceased to worry him, or where he went.
In the summer, the fallen would stay home to mind the house, keeping it clean and bug free but also uprooting any flowers and scaring any birds he saw away. He only had comfort at night, in the shepherd's arms, and almost obsessively sought out physical contact and intimacy. For years, life passed like that. They were in love, but the shepherd grew old and tired. Then, one day, while his lover was playing to him on the flute they'd held so precious and guarded like it was the world's greatest treasure, he felt it was time. He smiled, and held a hand up, and his lover paused. He was as young and handsome as ever, and the shepherd could only watch as realisation dawned on him.
"I feel it is my time now, my darling." He said in an thin, shaky voice that age had worn the smooth, rumbling voice of youth down to.
The fallen looked up at him, pain chiseled into every centimetre of his face as tears started forming.
"Please don't leave me yet..." He said softly.
"I have no choice." The old man said, chuckling softly and leaning forwards to kiss him lightly. "It was never my choice to make..."
"I need you.. if you go, what am I supposed to do? Where shall I go? I have nobody else..."
"You will find a way, my love. You be good. I love you."
And with those words, the old shepherd died, slumping back in his chair and closing his eyes. The fallen sat by his chair, holding on to his hand and quietly letting his tears fall without restrain or drying them. He was alone now.
Quietly he whispered a prayer, though he doubted he would be heard. He begged for the shepherd to be let into heaven; would gladly take on all the sins of the world for that one concession, then stood and kissed his dead lover one last time.
"I love you too.." He choked out between tears, before taking the flute and walking out of the little cabin.
The shepherd was found a day later, as the leaves changed colour and started falling. The fallen was never seen in the area again. When the shepherd was buried, and the priest went by on his way home, there was a piece of cloth tied around the cross that marked the shepherd's grave.
A single piece of snow white cloth, with gold and red filigree on. As soft as a spiders web and with the sweetest scent. It would never decay or stain or lose its scent, and over time many people traveled there to see it. People called the shepherd a saint, and put a painting of him in the church. Because of the shepherd saint, the town flourished and he was remembered. Perhaps not in the way he wanted, but definitely in a way that was fond and good.
Deimos, meanwhile, wandered around Europe. He made his money as... Whatever he could. A flute player, but mostly a mercenary - he switched companies regularly to avoid suspicion - until mercenary armies went out fashion. Then he tried making a career as a soldier, but was unsuccesful. Something about it reminded him too much of the past, and he left as soon as he possibly could.

The fallen went to britain and took up a variety of work, never for longer than 10 years at a time, and mostly centered around bars or entertainment of some sort. He mostly sang or played music, but occasionally just worked behind the scenes. At the time when he was transported to the world of Kelacao, he was working in a moving company. A bit... Common and not so lucrative, but it made him money and he was decently pleased with how things were going. One day he heard of an experiment that needed volunteers, an experiment into interdimensional travelling. There was nothing really keeping him back, the fallen thought as he went to the lab. He might as well try it, right? hat was the worst that could happen..? He was accepted because of his peak physical condition and stable mental health, and after weeks of training he was finally strapped in. More than anything, the machine looked like a pod with a few metal circles around it. He was told there was a 20% chance of instant death, but hey... what did he have to live for anyways? Maybe this would be the greatest thing in his life.
So he was strapped into the machine, and leaned back. Watched the circles start to spin, the lights turn on... Everything became a blur of light and shadow, the world started falling out from under him and... He lost consciousness... When he awoke, he was on the world of Medirgitbai. Barely any supplies except his sword, wallet, and lighter...

Kelacaolican Information

Class : Demon

Balance : OC: 60 - MC: 60 - NC: 60 - GC: 60

Inventory :

- One migration era sword (image courtesy of google www.medievalcollectibles.com/i… )

- wallet

- cigarettes

- a lighter