Abaddon, Prophet of Hell: Abaddon was reborn with words in her blood. They whirred in her lungs and the new demon awoke with babble on her tongue and a thirst for pen and paper. Syllables oozed from her fingertips. They thrummed in her smoke, almost as if she wasn’t a conduit for holy scripture, but a fully written book instead, pages wedged somewhere inside her. When Lucifer first visited Abaddon, he was still bright, still free, and Abaddon would have shielded her eyes from his light, if it weren’t for the fact that she had a book to write.
"And who might you be?" he asked, a hand falling gently on her shoulder in an almost fatherly way—well, he was a father, if the Book of Abaddon had anything to say about it.
"Haven’t you heard? I’m the prophet," Abaddon replied, her hand never pausing from her rapid scribbling of demonic folklore. Her voice was cool, like the angel whose hand slowly froze her shoulder.
Head bent near her written word, Abaddon couldn’t see Lucifer smile. “Oh, I think we can make a knight out of you.”