-=[playtest]=-
(uriel)
Eyes slits amongst the marred tattered flesh that represents the [ArcAngel] Uriel.
Flow and wasp-waft of dark flowing robes around his form as he leans upon a twisted creation at his side.
"Is this where we are to rest then Mikael?"
The voice is not unlike the dying embers of a fire: raspy, dark an ashen.
(michael)
"I believe it will do, Uriel."
As the initial question rasped darkly from the ashes of the figure leaning upon his twisted creation, the answer flows as the thick smoke such embers leak into the currents of air. Smooth as a dream and soft as a sigh - echoing faintly in the near abysmally silent room. The Prince of [Caine's] Light surveys abandoned and forgotten furniture, obscured by sheets barring half a decade's worth of dust, idly pondering which to uncover first; before his judgement settles on what seems to be a high-backed chair. The sheet flails from the assertive drive of hands which tear it from the seat with little fanfare or warning. Dust scattering and falling to the floor as countless armies descending to earth in Apocalyptic rain.
"We shall rest here until Gabriel delivers us."
(uriel)
"Mmph."
Non-comittal sound as he [It] shuffles forwards into the room.
Narrow holes in the macabre face peering around the room with a shattered, breathy exhalation of dust.
"I need to sleep below ground."
Stating the obvious fact which Mikael has known from the start.
Uriel has never taken well to change and despite their pack's status for going where they are needed most [Fan the Flame;Kill the spark] each new location is treated with hostility by the fiend.
A throwback from the territoral blood which run's through a fiend's veins.
(michael)
He does not turn towards the sounds of shuffling behind him, instead dark eyes that can be so frighteningly compassionate watch the way dust settles through the swirling currents of air. The millions that dance in worship only to land at his feet. White sheet hangs limp and listless from his fist, a Holy waterfall pouring from his fingers to spread and consume the very ground in righteous Glory. A smile slowly curls across [eternally] young lips, breath drawn for the mere pleasure of soft speech.
"Then you should find the basement more than appealing."
(uriel)
"..............."
A grunted rasp of garbled language that Mikael cannot possibly understand.
The disgrunted Angel prone to murmuring in dead languages when disgruntled. One would never guess that Mikael's way with the bizarre creature was one of the few that was prone to sooth the savage...beast.
The [thing] servant next to him helps to draw up a long hood over the face of Uriel as with a shudder the tattered-torn pseudo wings of jet black settle behind him.
Such a fallen angel is he.
(raguel)
~A slender creeping (some things weeping, found in lower attic cells...) comes fondly sneaking through the ratty windowsill. A blackness ashen, bleak and flaxen, a shadow light and still.
He can hear the hissing slither of voices, but his concentration is most naturally focused on the serious endeavor before him: the installation of a very important small black box. The wires (red and yellow respectively) shall not cross, but work together to form (in his opinion) the perfect definition of security. He comes and goes as he pleases, and unlike his fellow Angels, seems to see nothing wrong with announcing his presence long after the fact that he's been there already.~
Unsafe.
(michael)
The brute that soothes the fiendish beast - perhaps it is such knowledge which encourages the forgiving smile to remain on pale features. A brow lifts, as finally, the eyes lift to the unveiled creature that finally allows itself into the room.
"What was that, Uriel?"
Spoken with such unnerving serenity. Reputation alone would inspire slashing frenzy at the gutterally twisted words which reach his ears, but for his pack [for His Seraphim] there is a strange tolerance, a fanatic's affection which probably allows a minor humor to betray the severity of Judgement his words could so imply. His attention, as before, does not stray from what he has chosen to bless with his undivided [sadistic] attention.
"Then make it safe, Raguel."
(uriel)
A source of irritation for the silent Angel may be that no matter how quiet and invisible Raguel is somehow the mystic will realize his presence.
Sooner than later depending on how long they have occupied a certain territory. It is perhaps most obvious to Raguel that Uriel forms something of a bond with an area when they have stayed there.
Unsurprising then he is so out of sorts upon uprooting himself along with his fellows though unquestioningly does so.
"Nevermind.nevermind."
Voice wrapped in the dusted air from lungs long disused. His own silence often long drawn.deep.
Fingers brush along the walls as eyes close.
"What...was it...why here?"
Murmured amongst the whispered movement of his tattered black clothing held like a train by his current servant.
"No matter, Raguel...we will be going back home soon."
(raguel)
Difficult.
~The deeply accented voice is a heavy presence in the air, rolling as smoothly as ah-ah lava down a hawaiian mountain path, placidly melting everything in its way. He has ever seemed to have the unpleasantly (un)sadistic tendency to speak in single words, and rarely phrases. Whether he does it to annoy the general masses or just because conversation would take up far too much of his precious time (I have so much) is anyone's guess, no one has bothered to ask him and he offers no explanation. Perhaps the least flamboyant of the Seraphim, his features still twist in an expression that is handsome in an entirely unconscious way. Much like the wound you never knew you had until you saw the bloodstain on the wall. (When did I cut myself?) Indeed. He's rather invisible, at least to common sight, and he does not move, and so his exact location in the room is indeterminable to the naked eye. However, he is most undeniably still there. The mystic knows that as surely as he knows the pains of fire.*
(michael)
The dark gaze drops, watching the way the white sheet falls to cover the ground as the greatest of Floods, stirring in it's wake tiny atomic shockwaves of dust which ripple and race across the floor to the four corners of the [universe] room. He does not watch the inspections and busying of his packmates, for he has no need to. Countless times they have had the same conversation, with every upheaval, with every move, he has done well to learn of their habits. It is not only the Viniculum which keeps the Seraphim loyal.
"I have Faith in you, Raguel."
Murmured so silently, a bare sacrificial offering to the work the Russian fastidiously performs. Some would be so hard pressed to assign his Clan, until the Prince of [Caine's] Light turns his burning wrath upon the chosen. Then there is no doubt the brutality which runs through his veins, the monster that waits patiently beneath the quiet, calm thesad.
"Gabriel said it was the Word." How many times has he answered Uriel's questions in such a way? "So there must be those that have Fallen that we must find."
(uriel)
Of course. Of that It was clear on. The thing who was ageless-eternal, sexless-angelic.
"No...
this house.
Ghosts. There are many ghosts here."
Whether It means literally or figuratively is never clear from the twisted creatures.
Fingers which are as perfect [remade in fire each night] as his face is marred brushing lightly over the walls still.
Almost a caress.
(raguel)
Light.
~What nonsense is he spouting? It becomes slowly apparent as the crystalline candelabras on the wall, whose bulbs had long since been burnt out, begin to create a dull and increasing glow that spreads as a cancer throughout the room. The light is a low orange, not entirely unlike the sweet fruit which none of them have eaten in far too many years to be remembered, now. It's not bright, but it is certainly enough to see the grim and grimy details of the underloved room in which the three (now clearly visible) stand. His fingers brush quickly across the device (As he so fondly calls his toys. Devices. Contraptions. Things.) turning his head as black-curls (as the tears of divinity) scrape across the dark gold of his neck. He steps away from the wall briskly, crossing to inspect one of the bulbs which refuses, rather stubbornly, to glow as brightly as its bretheren.*
(michael)
A brow slowly lifts, the scattered mumblings from the hideously scarred creature barb-hooking his attention from the liturgic patterns woven on the floor. But before another thought, or another question passes those eternal lips, gravity assists his weight to assault the chair - though even a move as crass as flopping in comfortable sprawl seems defined by some ageless grace. Before his sword, before his beloved Fire, his body was his weapon. Of that he has such intimiate [infinite] confidence, perfectly in [tyrannical] control of every movement. His hair tangles between skull and chairback, finally rotating his gaze to follow the shambling [caressing] creature.
"Enlighten me, Reverend."
Well aware of the deadly shadow's activities, even in the darkness, and now in the revealing light - and well aware he prefers to be left in peace to play with his [deliciously destructive] toys.
(uriel)
Beauty is a common thread amongst the group.
After all what would the Seraphim be without being perfect images of what God had first created?
Yet Uriel is perhaps a stark reminder that God did not create them but rather his most [un]favoured son.
On some occasions the creature will don a mask of beauty like his brothers. Features honed to such heart shredding perfection to make him seem a statue.
But here? There is little need for ritual or masquerades.
"No."
Firmly said such that the stalwart brujah may well loose his cool at the last.
But for that body shifting-sifting turning-burning to reveal eyes which are stark white as they get when seeing beyond what the others can see.
"We will not leave. Not yet...not yet."
(raguel)
~He glowers at the lightbulb, as though the sheer force of his (angelic) glare could melt the fibers back together where they'd broken apart and make the entire thing functional once again. (Defective.) There is no greater curseword in the Russian vampire's vocabulary, and he tosses it about with such care one would think it held magickal properties. As the mystical 'Open Sesame.' Reaching out, nimble fingers dance like spider's kisses over the surface of the burnt-out bulb, and he unwists it with dextrous ease, balancing the weightlessness of the object upon one palm before (ccrruuunnnccchhh) he snaps his hand closed, feeling the shards of thin glass and metal digging into his flesh. Droplets of dark vitae seep out, but not a one of them ever makes it to the floor.
(Problem. Solved.) The room glows ever on and on, unaware of its deficiency.~
(michael)
Elbows rest on the couch, loose black shirt gathering to wrinkle about the bends as hands lift, fingers delicately touching to form a steeple [which capable hands would so easily crush to remnant dust]. Prepared for the turn, prepared for the startling white within the slits of flesh that would house the Tzimisce's eyes - others would shy away from that unearthly glow. The Brujah seems to invite it.
"Then speak."
The faint smile returns again, drawn by the sliding tip of pink tongue curving lips [tasting blood upon the air] upwards into the most subtle of expressions.
(uriel)
Yet, Uriel has no ears for Mikael right now. Those eyes and the posture further revealing that it is not Mikael he speaks to at all...
but something that Mikael has no eyes to see for.
Fingers reach out blindly to wrap around his pet for support as marred mask of meat-like flesh searches the room sniffing.
"Tonight my blood will seal our compact. I warn however that should you trouble the sleep of my brothers that I will make your own rest quite difficult within these walls."
Given the inclination Uriel's voice can rise from the ashes to become a thing alive.
Brilliant as the flame which he inspires and cool as the ash which its fire causes. It is a voice of the hollowed death and the dying sun.
(raguel)
~The shadow behind the light of the Seraphim. He is perhaps the most well aware of each of his brother's tendencies, and while he is arguably the least involved, he is the most knowledgable in underlying themes. That's just the way of things. He'll never have the passionate wildfire of Michael or the mystical senses of Uriel, his potency lies in other realms. Accustomed, therefore, to the peculiar outbursts of the Priest, he takes his leave from the room without a word, the soundless sway of his form disappearing through a door as he goes to perform the command of is Ductus, no matter how lightly given. (Fiercely. Loyal.) But why?
Make it safe, Raguel.
And so he shall...~
(michael)
Fingers perfected by nightly fires reach and claw for his [its] pet, the questionable creature quickly moving to it's master's blind and clutching call. The voice rises from the ashen funeral pyre [Resurrected] to once again fill with the writhing tones of a newly birthed [Angel] being that blinds in the brilliance of its flame. At least the continued speech - no matter at whom directed - gave a cursory insight to what in the blessed darkness the Tzimisce was carrying on to.
Elsewhere in the room, the Russian fiddles and plays with his toys, the silently [invisably] exits on mission with little more than the original, negligent command. Mikha'il sees no reason to attach any additional words to direct the shadow's actions. [I have Faith in you, Raguel]
Were it not so, he would have slain them himself.
So patiently, quietly, he awaits the Preist's return to the earthen realm. Touching tips of index fingers resting just beneath his lower lip, casually tracing the silken swell. Knowing that Uriel understands the etherial things that he, himself, [cannot] does not. Simply observing the things that must be done to make this the place they will safely rest until their Divine mission is fulfilled.
Posted by archangel at March 05, 2003 12:00 AM