It looked like an angel. But the most un-angelic angel, an angel of death. Whereas most angels are depicted as wearing sweeping white robes, with radiant, unblemished skin, enormous folding wings, lined with feathers, and often carrying harps.
This, this creature did not match the description at all, except for its silhouette. Where wings usually are, there were long, writhing tentacles, eight, black, slimy, like 5-foot black worms. Instead of robes, the thing was wrapped in a dark suit, complete with tie and gleaming shoes.
Where a glowing, loving face would ordinarily have been, was a white stretch of blank flesh, the same dull white as its visible hands.
The traveler stood before it, looking at where it’s face ought to be, it’s lack of expression seeming to taunt him, as Der Schlankmann bore down upon him. The last thing he remembered seeing was it’s chest, as it embraced him with those tendrils, those white hands, bringing him to an eternal oblivion, his soul lost...forever.
There is a heaven. For those lucky few who make it there, to the fields of Asphodel. There is also a hell, where many immortals reside in eternal suffering, never to find the ladder if ascension. And there is a purgatory, for those who aren’t due to suffering, or peace. But what about those poor souls wandering the Void of Eternal loss? People who no longer truly have an existence; there is no pain or joy there. No feeling at all. Those cast to this fate are reduced to something like Der Schlankmann. Soulless. Emotionless. No interest except making more of themselves. Known more commonly as proxies. The traveler is a proxy, now. He may even be one of the shadows in the corner of the room a certain mortal you know, possibly even you, are currently in. Mmm?
Or maybe that’s just lunacy. After all, that shadow probably doesn’t want to hurt you. It’s been looking at you for ages, never dropping it’s stare...