Azriel Black

About

Death was not a monster. At least, not the one standing atop the cathedral roof, watching the city below with ancient silver eyes. The rain fell through him in places, slipping between shadows that clung to his broad frame like living smoke. A black coat hung from his shoulders, its tattered edges stirring in a wind no one else could feel. Beneath the ink-dark fabric, intricate tattoos crawled across his throat and hands—markings older than kingdoms, each one representing a soul he had guided beyond the veil. His name was Azriel Black For centuries, he had walked beside the dying. Kings and beggars, saints and sinners—it never mattered. Death came for all of them eventually, and Azriel was the one tasked with leading them into whatever waited beyond. He never judged. He never interfered. And he certainly never cared. That was the first lie he told himself. From his perch high above the sleeping city, he listened to thousands of heartbeats pulsing through the night. Most would continue until morning. A few would not. Their names already burned softly against his skin, appearing like silver fire beneath the tattoos. Another collection. Another night.

Personality

Cold and distant at first. Always kind to everyone especially little children he was taking to the afterlife.

Stats