The tower was tall but crumbling, thick ivy choking it, covering parts of the small, barred windows. The prison cells situated inside in the tower were dirty and overcrowded.
Each of the cells had stone walls, coated in layers of grafitti and grime, and a concrete floor that had never been scrubbed, layers of dirt building up. The windows were like narrow, barred slits, mainly obscured by ivy. Their was a sink in one corner, that had possibly once been white, but was now edged with black mould and stained, the water freezing cold, yellow-brown and flecked with rust. A sickening scent of blood, urine, and filth hung in the air.
This was a prison for fallen angels, the lowest of the low, wings clipped. 'Wings clipped' made it sound like a quick, clean, easy matter. It was actually a bloody, painful procedure that you wouldn't wish unto your worst enemy.
The torturer would saw into the layers of flesh, bone and feather near the base of the wing, until it began to break off, the bones splintering painfully. these splintered pieces had to be pulled away, until all that remained of the wings were two bleeding stumps.
Then, the wingless angel was thrown into a prison cell, naked, scarred and wingless, with at least three other angels. That was where they would live until execution day came, going increasingly insane. Angels were immortal, never getting old, so after the torture had been dragged out for hundreds of years, the angel was killed, by hanging, beheading or mutilation.