Years ago, before time itself Angels and Demons fought for rule of the Earth. Now in thousands of years gone by the Demonic and Angelic blood has become diluted. But the war still rages, even if the humans don't believe.
Gabriel paced his study, the fire roared to the left of him. The walls were lined with books stacked upon one another. Gathering the dust through the ages. He held in his hand a glass of brandy he swirled it round whilst staring into its darkest depths.
Gabriel had golden blond hair that fell down to his shoulders in tight curls. His blue eyes shimmered under the light of the fire. He had perfect pale skin and perfect figure. But he was no God. No, more a servant. He rolled his eyes as he heard heavy footsteps enter the long hall. The wind made the fire roar as it blew in cold chills. He took a sip of the liquid, it burnt his throat and warmed his stomach. The footsteps walked closer then stopped. Gabriel looked up. "Hello." He muttered, a grim look upon his face.
Gabriel's wings stretched out as he felt the other one's eyes upon him, but of course no human could see them. "The Demons are moving Gabriel. They move up to New York city tomorrow." The man placed a file on the desk and took a few steps back as a snarl came to Gabriel's lips. He threw the glass into the fireplace, making the fire growl and roar as it drank up the liquid.
The man, who strongly believed in 'don't shoot the messenger.' Decided to leave while he still had a choice. Anger flamed into Gabriel's eyes. He bit his lip in an attempt to keep back the blasphemies. He walked over to one of the deep red leather arm chairs staring into the fire and slumped down into one. He picked up the file, ignoring the wimpering of the man running into the snowy outside world. He looked at the dark writing printed on the paper. "How dare they overstep our boundaries!" He turned the page, "Wait, its only one. Ha a singular Demon thinks he can overthrow me?" He laughed, but a flicker of panic flashed through his eyes. He knew how strong Lucifer's forces could be. He knew first hand. After all, he only got the throne of New York by false blood shed. He did not want a repeat of that dreadful night, nor did he want the history, that was printed in his books to repeat. He had been a messenger of God for so long... He was beginning to grow tired of it.