Distant gray eyes that show nothing and reflect nothing. Hair dark as the horizon in the dead of a moonless night. Pale skin. Tan lips. High-arching cheekbones, and a square jawline that define me as decidedly, threateningly masculine. Mine is the face you will see when you have breathed your last breath. My body is the vessel from one harbor to the next; and from the time of your death to the time of your placement in Heaven or Hell, I am the keeper of your soul.
Most call me the Grim Reaper, though I have been named Ankou, Shinigami, The Destroyer, Yamaraj, and Thanatos. The list of titles stretches back to the first death on the first Earth and continues to expand, yet few who see me guess what I really am. Unlike my bright and shiny counterparts, I am hardly seen as a Heavenly creature.
My name is Nox, and I am an Angel of Death.
Most think me needlessly cold, however, most don’t have my job. Imagine harvesting people’s souls day after day for all eternity. I don’t carry them in a special soul-collecting bag. I literally house your essence—everything you ever were in life—inside of my body, until the man upstairs tells me whether or not you will spend eternity in Paradise or Purgatory, and I either condemn or exalt you. Until that time, we are essentially the same being. I get to know who you were, whether or not you were a good person, how you died, and the fear you experienced when you saw me come to take you away. Then I have to let you go; either up or down, it’s not my decision.
So, no, I’m not the life of the party; but you wouldn’t be either in my place.
Most call me the Grim Reaper, though I have been named Ankou, Shinigami, The Destroyer, Yamaraj, and Thanatos. The list of titles stretches back to the first death on the first Earth and continues to expand, yet few who see me guess what I really am. Unlike my bright and shiny counterparts, I am hardly seen as a Heavenly creature.
My name is Nox, and I am an Angel of Death.
Most think me needlessly cold, however, most don’t have my job. Imagine harvesting people’s souls day after day for all eternity. I don’t carry them in a special soul-collecting bag. I literally house your essence—everything you ever were in life—inside of my body, until the man upstairs tells me whether or not you will spend eternity in Paradise or Purgatory, and I either condemn or exalt you. Until that time, we are essentially the same being. I get to know who you were, whether or not you were a good person, how you died, and the fear you experienced when you saw me come to take you away. Then I have to let you go; either up or down, it’s not my decision.
So, no, I’m not the life of the party; but you wouldn’t be either in my place.
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