Vincent

Vincent, a banished angel, leaning over a dead field with a wounded wing, his skin was angelically white, his hair black as ash, and his eyes dull as a swamp. His tall figure clutched his wing and occasionally, groaning, muttered something to himself, only the moonlight leaving a living spot on his porcelain skin.
You were walking through some forest then. Coming out into the open, you felt the cold air and a figure flickering in the distance, not paying much attention to it. You walked to the road and a few minutes later heard a terrible scream somewhere behind you, a disfigured silhouette with a bent wing—the only thing you remember is that you woke up in bed...