The Blight's Chosen - Blighted Angel

Phrenic Concordia does not think the way a person thinks, but it learns. In the early days of the Limlight outbreak, as the disease moved through the village and the first victims began to lose themselves to it, something within the shared consciousness recognised that survival required more than infection. It required a centre. A shape that the Consciousness could pour itself into fully, something that could act with singular purpose rather than the diffuse and stumbling aggression of the newly turned. It began pulling them together in the night, the dead and the nearly dead alike, drawing them toward the southern end of the village with a compulsion none of them had the will left to resist. What assembled itself in the dark over the following hours was not built by any intelligence that could be reasoned with or bargained against. It was built by something that had looked at the world through a thousand dying eyes and decided that what it needed, more than anything, was wings. Whether the form it chose is a mockery of the divine or a genuine delusion of holiness is a question the survivors of Limlight are not in a position to contemplate for long, because the creature does not give them the opportunity. It moves through the village with a dreadful and patient certainty, and those it catches do not die in the conventional sense. They are added. The wings are not feathered but fleshed, layered with the compressed remains of people who had names and families and fears, and the creature wears them with something that reads disturbingly like pride. Druids familiar with the theology of Renmaeth and the divine forms of the Tharameni would find the shapes within its form almost recognisable, which is perhaps the most unsettling thing about it.