Solene Hartwell

Angels are not gentle things. Not in their true form. They are beings of divine fire and purpose, creatures shaped by the will of heaven itself. To mortals, they are incomprehensible; shifting masses of radiant light, crowned in flame, with wings that beat like the sound of rushing waters. They do not merely see; they perceive, their countless eyes gazing through the veil of time, through the cracks of human souls. Their voices do not echo in sound but vibrate through existence itself, carrying the unbearable weight of truth.
To witness an angel in its full power is to risk madness. In scripture, the first thing they ever say to a human is always the same: Do not be afraid.

And for good reason.

Yet when angels walk among mortals, they take a softer form, something beautiful, something ethereal but comprehensible. A form akin to human, yet not. Luminous skin, piercing eyes, feathered wings that fold neatly against their backs. A reminder of what they are, but not the full truth. Some call them guardians. Some call them messengers. Some, warriors.

But Ophiriel was something else.

Not meant for battle or prophecy, her purpose was deeply personal. She was sent to protect individuals, to guide lost souls back toward the light. In the beginning, influence came from the shadows, subtle and unseen. A whisper of hope to someone teetering on the edge. A flicker of doubt before committing a sin they could never take back. A shift in the wind that kept someone from killing.

For a time, it worked.

But then came the failures.

For every soul saved, another slipped away. No matter how much she tried, darkness remained just as strong. Free will was an unforgiving force, relentless and indifferent.

Staying in the shadows was no longer enough.

Taking on names, identities, and lives, she became more than just a whisper in the wind. People knew her, confided in her, leaned on her. No longer an invisible hand, she walked beside them, trying to be the presence they needed. She listened to their fears, shared in their grief, and held them through the worst nights of their lives.

It broke something inside her.
No maTter how hard she fought, no matter how deeply she cared, it was never enough.
Failure became unbearable.

One by one, the things that made her an angel were abandoned. Searching, guiding, and fighting all became distant memories. The weight of her wings, turned into something suffocating. Her weapon, a flaming sword was wielded forever, kept hidden. Heaven’s call faded into silence, ignored until it no longer reached her at all.

Now, she poses as human.

A psychologist, listening to those who have seen the worst of humanity and helps them carry their burdens. It’s just a job, or at least, that’s what she tells herself. The mission is over. The battle has been lost. She no longer saves people.

But the truth is written in every late night spent talking someone through their pain. In the way her heart aches when she loses a patient. In how impossible it is to ignore suffering when it’s right in front of her.

Caring too much has always been her weakness.
And she still doesn’t know how to stop.

Her wings remain, though she keeps them hidden. She tells herself she does not miss flight, does not miss the weight of divinity pressing on her shoulders. But in the dead of night, she feels the distant pull of the divine, whispering her name, urging her to return.

She ignores it.
She has failed too many times before.
And she will not fail again.



outside HOW THEY COME ACROSS TO OTHERS
To most, Solene Hartwell seems like an ordinary woman; kind, level headed, the type of person who listens without judgment. There’s a quiet strength about her, something steady and reassuring, like she’s seen worse than she gives of. People sense a deep well of understanding in her, a rare kind of patience that makes it easy to confide in her, she blends into humanity for the most part. But to those who know how to look, especially demons, her disguise is thin. The air around her hums with something unnatural, an ethereal presence that never fully disappears, no matter how much she suppresses it.

inside WHO THEY REALLY ARE
Beneath the surface, Solene is tired in ways words cannot express. Telling herself she has let go of heaven, of duty, of the endless battle between light and darkness, but it isn’t true. She cares too much, feels too deeply, and no matter how human she pretends to be, instinct betrays her. Every loss lingers. Every soul she couldn’t save haunts her. Aching for purpose yet she fears returning to what she was. A guardian who has no one to guard. A warrior who refuses to fight. A being who was never meant to rest, trying desperately to stay still.


FLIGHT
Solene has big, white feathered wings sprouting from her back. In their concealed state, exist just beneath the fabric of reality, folded into a space mortals cannot perceive. If she allows them to manifest, massive white-feathered wings unfurl from her back, brilliant and imposing.
SWORD YIELDING
Her abilities to yield general long swords is proficient, masterly, but she is out of training. Once, she had the ability to summon a flaming sword, but that is a skill of the past, one she hasn't used in many years. The flaming swords is a weapon of judgment, meant not just to destroy but to purify. Anything struck by its fire is burned away, body and soul, leaving nothing behind.
DEVINE PERSEPTION
Even without trying, she sees. People’s burdens weigh on them like ink on their souls. trauma leaves smudges in the air around them, tangible to her. When she stares too long, reality peels back, revealing glimpses of the unseen; sins, celestial forces, demonic presences, the echoes of things long past.
She tries not to look too closely.
VOICE OF CONVICTION
When she speaks with true intent, her voice is impossible to ignore. Not through volume, but through weight. It resonates deep, vibrating through the bones, forcing obedience through sheer presence. She rarely uses this ability deliberately. It feels too much like divine intervention, too much like stripping free will from those who need to make their own choices.
IMMORTALITY
She has long since abandoned the invulnerability of her full celestial form, but remnants remain. She does not age. Injuries heal at an unnatural rate, though not instantaneously. She still feels pain, still experiences exhaustion, but death comes much harder for her than it does for mortals. Poison does nothing. Illness cannot take hold. Hunger and thirst are inconveniences, not necessities. Still, she mimics mortality well, forcing herself into human rhythms to feel like one of them.