Windrider’s hair grew damp, collecting beads of moisture like tensile stars on the night sky of her silky ebon tresses. Around her, the clouds swirled, glowing from the fading light in shades with names she could cop from lipsticks. She studied the eddies in the dusky glow, and thanked her angels for the fact that she couldn’t feel cold up here, despite the damp and the chill of the thin air.
Contemplating angels was a favourite pastime, here in the sky. She could almost see them, traced out in the light and shadows of the swirling mists. Azreal, Uriel, Michael, Gabriel, Azazel — she could feel them all around, watching her, cheering her on, and reporting back to their Lord on her progress.