The Angel of Art is a slapdash thing, a riot of red hair and a tiny frame, barely able to contain her boundless energy. The Angel of Dance is sedate, stately, almost phlegmatic, but his slightest motion is grace enough to set a thousand butterflies to flight.
The Angel of the World is like none of these, and more terrible than them all. Its hands are bloody, its feet stained with soot; its depthless eyes rarely emerge from the shadow of its brow. It is the angel to whom all prayers must travel.
That is where the blood comes from.
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