Fallen angel who never hit bottom. Soft white insect, wings torn shimmering tatters behind her, long antennae waving over faceted cold grasping eyes. Curling traces of hate etch her spindly body, cracking crusts of darkened scabs, still-oozing lines of bright red. "But no scars: never any scars: scars are memories... scars are for the living."
Lovely, or she was. Before the knife - before herself. A butterfly the color of new-fallen snow, clad only in short soft fuzz and her own red red blood, four-armed figure the bones-and-muscle of a flier. Former flier. Wings ripped gouged torn into ragged useless shapes, convoluted glyphs illegible scrawls on what's left. Perpetual sneer painted redder than horror. Monomolecule shining knife hung at bony hip or loose in slim hand casually carving new stigmata somewhere on her body, blood crawling wet down shallow curves befouling white fur splatting metronomically on the ground...
Should she deign to notice your gaze (hope she doesn't), her own soulless, calculating eyes turn on you, wondering how best to hurt you, or goad you into hurting her. Falling with her.
Sosael is a vile, heartless, inhuman creature. She has died more times and in more ways than anyone cares to count, killed even more, and hurts anything in reach. When nothing else is at hand, she hurts herself. She's halfway to legend, invoked to scare younger creatures in clades that practice childbearing - if anything, most stories of her are understatements. Endlessly regrown from death, her first victim is almost always her beauty.
Some stories say that she is damned (quaint concept!), the terms of her damnation written on her wings. Others rationalize that her pleasure sense is intensely inverted. People who've met her refuse to talk about it. She is hate.
For more of her history, see Sosael.
See also Flight.
If you have something to say about her... say it.