[1988]
(michael)
Here come the woman, with the look in her eye, raised on leather, with flesh on her mind.... words as weapons, sharper than knives, makes you wonder how the other half die
Dark eyes lift, slowly, abandoning the tressed body he observed on the dance floor below, rising towards the flickering strobe of multifaceted and multicolored lights that entranced mood to the club. Just as the man gazed upon the serpentously moving flesh of the brunette wrapped in spandex, studying the form as if searching for something that lay far beneath her flesh - he looks to the smoke rising in coils towards the artificial rainbow.
The other half die
Searching for an answer that could only be writ across the featureless face of the One so many cannot bear to see. Something brought him here, to continue this search, this quest, this exploration into the city's strange nightlife. There is something that lay in wait for him, here, he only has to find it.
Here come the man, with the look in his eye, fed on nothing, but full of pride... look at them go, look at them kick, makes you wonder how the other half live
Sable hair hangs free about young face, tips dancing across shoulders draped in the loose white fabric of flowing shirt dangling open to the tails. Muscular planes of pale chest slope down over abs, and the dark trail of hair leading to the shiny pelt of leather pants. The gaze drops [Fallen] to the mass of bodies on the first floor, dismissively drifting from male to female to female to male, until a frown of discontent begins to consider marring the serene expression. Weight shifts forward onto the hands that clasp [altar] railing. There is destiny, here....
Devil inside, devil inside... every single one of us the Devil inside
(gabe)
Chicka - chicka -
[....boom.]
...there is no crash, no struggle of thunder against the percussion of storm to signal his arrival. [..the tension of a gunshot, silent whirring of angel wings..] That announce his, brimstoned - without-scent, presence. Just a teenager, child of androgeny so symmetrical a face to make you wonder...
--what spell are you under.
[...Shh. Just feel your way through.]
Blonde curls, lanky-lean form, a strange abstract of angles held together by the sinews of muscles just tensed before [....explosion NEVER comes...]nothing. He turns, bright blue eyes seeming both feverish and penetrating at once. Glance up from face nestled into the ear of a women....
Let. Me. Tell. You.
[...words that will burn the soul.]
....everything.
--to catch sight of an eeriely familiar face across the club.
(michael)
The song that thunders [righteous] from the speakers bolted as guardians above fades into the background, a dull roar of white noise neither acknowledged or recognized as the most popular songs of 1988. There is something else that has his attention now [the feeling of God's hand], drawn to a dark corner there, or the bar below over there, quite suddenly his attention peaks [screams] to find what it is that tickles the edge of his consciousness [nightmare's memories].
A boy, beautiful, androgynous - golden curls glowing [haloed] in the club's erratic lights, caught on the first floor as the dark haired man [ArchAngel] looks down from the secondary balcony.
[I know you.]
(gabe)
Toungue that slides over the [...so delicate, you fragile imposters] surface of the ear, and you get the impression, me might just rip it off. You, brother-at-arms feel the whirl-snap of violence before he blinks - blinks and seems utterly, completely, deceptively, at peace. A stray hand reaches across to pat the girl on the other cheek before she [...shaking-fearful, trembling-worshipful..] Settles her head down on the bartop and Gabiels leaves the bar for to cross the dancefloor.
He does not glance back, ever.
[...Oh i see you in dreams of blood like rivers.]
And then HE is gone.
(mich)
Just as suddenly as he was found [ressurrected] the beautiful boy is gone. Attention crackles to a [brimstone] level of severity that is so rarely felt in the young man's form [so desperate for this whif of salvation]. Dark eyes snaking through the tangle of bodies for but a glimpse of flaxen curls, a lean shoulder knocking another out of the way, or perhaps the gentle curve of [cherubic] cheek.
Why do you draw [haunt] me so...
(gabe)
Paint me a picture of divinity.
[...the picture will burn the canvas.]
Knocked. "Pardon me.." [ Pardon-pardon-ardon-ardon. Me-me-e.] A voice that edges against such random details as time place, earth or sky, word or thought. And The figure beside him allows all the room [..as far from god as heaven is wide.] the wrath-bringer requires, long -tensed- fingers ripping at the balcony rail even as the muscles in his arm flexes in reaction of some controlled motion.
[...and the father cried, '--restraint!' You are only the messenger.]
And Sodom burned.
Perfectly paired teeth grinding against each other only briefly, before the moment - like an errant breeze passes, and the youth turns with briefly engaging smile.
"...its a bit crowded [..my wings scrape against the ceiling..]"
(mich)
Knocked [sulpher fires flare] the muscular shoulder rotating already to turn towards the [divine] child that has wandered to [kneel at] his feet. Pink tongue reaches out, tracing lips as if to cleanse them before beseeching such things as the taste of this golden one on the air he will never needfully breath, but draws anyway... it only serves to inspire them into a coyly warming smile rising to the breif engagement.
"Perhaps." The voice drifts on a whisper, though carries with the force of [Heaven's] legions in relentless march to Glory."I think it depends on what you're looking for."
(gabe)
A glance up to the ceiling as if it were made of crystal [I have fallen from the sky...] and should shatter starlike, fractured, painfully real. [...walked the earth a thousand times..] Painful almost, that too-bright blue gaze that seetles into the wrath-bringer's own. Gabriel's neck extending forward imperceptably..
[...to find you.]
The moment lingers, and time as thick and heavy as molasses - that gaze fizing into michaels own a millenia of time. -SNAP.- And is eraased in the flurry of motion taht tossed back head and laughter [..thoat muscles dance..] that follows.
I am the messenger.
"You, Michael."
(mich)
The startling blue eyes lift away from him, as if pleading some answer from the nameless above he only so recently sought, an idle thought passing to wonder if the depths of such sky tones could absorb what his dark gaze does not. And when it returns [bless me, father] he does not look away, devouring the too-bright gaze with the darkness in his own [for I am your sin] as the lingering moment seems to slow and freeze.
[Fire boils across the feathered tips of wings, climbing to char such elegant white to the deepest black tatters of eternal Grace, the writhing flames belch Heavenward, beckoning those strong and brave to fall into the Rapturous embrace to dance until brassy horns of Victory unleash their chorus across the skies]
The breath he did not realize was held leaks past the sveltly curved lips, and with it spills the rushing warmth of Enlightenment [fragments of scripture weave back together] shivering through strong frame. The golden youth's voice dances with laughter, and soon enough, his own smooth tenor joins in the sounds that celebrate the epiphany that rides the air between them. Hands lift, reaching to cup the beautiful youth's face, thumbs moving over flesh in [angelic] caress, his voice thick with adoration born with the dawn of time.
"Gabriel."
[I've always known you]
(gabe)
Hands settle on Michaels own [..burned..] as the recogition is returned, that feverish hue calming, calmed, calm. The slide of his gaze is the Aegean, a perfect blue smoothed into depthless still. His fingers are ice, chill against chill.
[..but it burns.]
"...time is moving faster now - do you feel it?"
(mich)
"Yes."
The single word moans softly on dulcet tones. Loathe to tear the pristine image from his eyes, lids fall closed [the idol's visage burned to memory from Holy flame] as the Brujah feels something begin to bloom within him [Seraphim wings unfurl their majestic Glory] and the smile mirrors what lifts and inspires. The fragments of nightmare's parchment weave their tattered leafs together, the shattered slabs once again become whole - the strange symbols carved into granite reshape themselves in his memory to form Commandment's Psalm glowing with brimstone's righteous flames.
Now, he can read the words that have haunted his dreams.
Now, he understands.
Lashes slit, bestowing Gabriel's features upon him once more, and the tender grasp gently pulls the youth towards him. Lips lay [the blessing of an ArchAngel] across the golden youth's brow.
"Come. There is much work to be done."
(gabe)
Blessed.
[...let it begin.]
--like gravity, pieces move into place. Shadows of a greater design, fingers larger than perception. Five [..there will be soon a fist.] but Gabriel does not speak of that words minced on the edge of that razored [..too sharp.] grin that tugs almost crooked from the boys lips, a slash against the the perfect symmetry of features, folded paint against paper.
Lips pressed against his brow, eyes fall closed [...tension-breathes-spark-of-- nothing.] blonde lashes drift up and he is already twist away towards the exit with a brief shake [ errant feathers fall.] of shoulders and a bowing of head.
A hand rakes through errant curls even as he looks up again to Michael is relaxed agrement.
"Much."
[..and the earth trembled.]
-=[house of pain temple, newark, new jersey]=-
(lich/tamiel)
((This post is an introduction to the 'House of Pain' Temple in Newark New Jersey, were the meeting will be held. I will wait a few posts for people to post their arrivals before the actual meeting begins.
Remember, attendence at this meeting is technicaly not opitional. If you are NOT at this meeting, please email sabbatst@metropolischronicles.com. It may be checked up on IC, so please remember to email if you are NOT there))
The church is nothing special. An abandoned building in the middle of a slum. It has been this way for going on a century and a half now. A typical 1800s style wood building, with a large bell tower extending up two stories and crowned by a cross near the front of the building. There are rumors about this place. More like urban legends. Always have been, really. Its the home of a serial killer. Its a temple for satanists. Its a gateway to hell itself! These are all unfounded... of course.
As you enter the church it looks even less remarkable. The sancturary is covered in graffiti and rubble. The pews are broken and scattered, even the alter is turned over and missing most of its holy artifacts. Hell someone has even salvaged the pipes for the organ behind it. A few minutes after you stand around, a... thing comes to fetch you. It is small, four feet maybe. Smooth dull gray skin, featurless in every way. Its head is huge, and its eyes still much much to large for it. Its neck and torso are realtivily small, whiles its arms and legs are about average... for a human, that it, and its tail... well, its tail is there, what else needs to be said? It has only six fingers and four toes, each of which end in large sharp black talons, with similar talons going up and down its back, from the tail the mowhawk it makes on it's head. It speaks out of a circular mouth. No lips, just sharp teeth to enclose on themselves. In a scratchy and horse voice it urges you onward, towards what used to be a bathroom.
Hidden in one of the stalls is a trap door, with a ladder decending quite a ways down to the flicker of firelight on dirt floors. Quite the climb. Once you reach the bottom, the temple sits before you, just down a short tunnel. Thats the only word for it, tunnel. Everything here seems to be dug out, and surronded by dirt. In the temple, all the furniture is made of bone. On each side ancloves have been dug out of the walls and skulls have been placed inside. The very perceptive might swear, every now and then, one of the skulls breifly grows back eyes. But no one is quick enough to see them when they turn to look directly at it. Three rows of three benchs sit around a speaking platform in a semicircle. On this platform, a rather ornaite alter to Caine and the Sabbat its as a podium. Behind this two large wooden doors stand closed. A plaque above them reads 'Remember your manners and to ask before you enter my home'. Off to either side, two more tunnels lead in oppisite directions.
Looks like the meeting hasn't started yet.
(travis/salvador)
He gets out of the cab, his long formal black coat trailing behind him. He slowly climbs the steps of the church. His aristocratic spanish features are shrouded in darkness as he steps through the doors of the fallen church, and as the doors bang shut behind him he genuflects to the desecrated altar. He then walks casually forward to one of the front row pews and seats himself to wait patiently. Appearently Salvador Xavier Munes was the first to publicly arrive, though he knows that another resides in proximity to the church.
(chivo)
**He locks the door on the old, dusty, beat-up firebird, leaving a crack in the window so his personal security system can have some air while Shane went inside. He immediately realized it wasn't his cup of tea as he entered the place, then the diminutive little monster urging him on.
A stiff legged walk down through the tunnel, the smell of dirt filling the crevices even more. Was it from him, or was it simply patches of fresh dirt in the tunnels, who could really tell. He stands, a grimace on his face as he looks around. Hopefully no one would hold it against him if he didnt sit on one of the skeleton thrones.
The place made even him feel creeped out.
A nod to the other one there, and a glance over him from eyes hidden by the brim of his hat, and nothing more. Only waiting....
(adam/alexandra)
Alexandra Leblanc climbs slowly from the taxi a slight sneer playing across delicate porcalin features as eyes run slowly over the delapidated church. my what fun hands raise slowly to pull black hood of the velvet cloak over hair the cowl laying low over face casting all but her bottom jaw into deepest shadow. hands hold the cloack closed around her body holding it up off the ground as she makes her way slowly through the litter.
when the creature leads her to the toilets she almost turns and leaves. do you know how much dry cleaning is these days. yet down the ladder she goes. into the bowels of the earth
the bone furniture is studied with much interest. she wonders how it would look in her living room. before attention is finally turned to the other two a breif glance. dismissing them yet when he takes a seat she makes sure it is somewhere she can watch both of them.
(salvador)
Hearing movement in other parts of the church the spainard moves towards the ladder, he's been here before, and decends much as he has before. Arms, tendrils of living darkness lower him gently down the shaft, and he looks about curiously at those who have also just arrived below. "Hello", he says, his spanish accent quite noticable.
(tamiel)
Eventually, after everyone is settled in and ready, the double doors open on their own. And out walks the demonic entity that can only be a Tzimisce (you hope)
Tamiel stands at a bit over nine feet tall. His features are long, spindly, and exagerated. Both his arms and legs are incredibly thin, ending in large hands and feet with one inch bone claws. His chest is thin and streched out, showing his ribs. If you'll count, he also seems to have four extra of these ribs. His neck is thick and rough looking, with more lumps then should be found on the throat. His face is fairly hedious. Flat and smoother then the rest of his body. His eyes are small and beedy blood red dots, hidden behind thick bone rimmed glasses that are grafted into his eye sockets. His teeth are all sharp and bulky, coming from a slightly elongated jawline. Four of these teeth are large enough to stick out of his mouth, and razor sharp. His upper Cainies stick out on the inside, while his lowers stick out on the outside, seeming to lock into each other. He has no facial hair, but there is a rather sharp looking blackened bone spike sticking out from his chin, which might be his idea of a ghotte. Four more horns adorn his forehead, two on each side. The outside horns are long and thin, curving up eight inches out. The inside two are short and fat, a meer inch and a half. His hair is messy, tangled and long, going down past his shoulders. Jet black and thick, if you look close enough, you might notice it isn't all from the same head... Tamiel tops off all of this with thick, elobarted (and fairly faded) robes. The robes are dark purple, covering his shoulders, going down over his chest and leaving a V opening till just above his waist, where a bright blue sash ties off the robe, knot halfway to his side on the left, and then travels down to just above his feet, which are covered in thick human leather boots. The back of the robes are tattered in sevreal places right down the center, but don't reveal anything underneath.
He stares at the assembled for a bit, then begins to speak. His voice... or rather, voices, are loud and booming. Speaking one after the other for an echo effect. As such, its hard to place and accent.
"Brothers and Sister's of the dark father, I welcome you to my home and temple. Before we begin, I would like to state my authority, so you may know how to weigh the power behind my words. I am Tamiel of the Black Winds. Tzimisce and Koldun. I have here two letters of Recomandation from the Prisci Buri and Angrboda. I only need of these... to become Bishop."
He quites for a moment, giving others time to register the statment.
"Next, I bring you tidings for the Regent. An... agreement has been struke. The situation across the river is to be handled in a more... subtle manner then the Puppets of the Elder's suspect. This city will be our main base of operations in raids against New York City. Do not fret, no one makes you fight. But this city must be secured. We most insure no Camarilla hide amongst us, and then we must take measures to atleast know if any Cainites or 'Kindred' enter its boarders. Newark shall be a stopping point. Were nomads and the like will sleep in the day and retreat to heal their wounds. Those who wish are welcome to join them in their fighting, but it is demanded of no one. Before we go on to the specifics, are there any questions or objections?"
(michael)
The toes of boots find reason to pause at the lip of cavernous depths trapdoor reveals, and it is something akin to amusement that urges shape on lips that simply seem [i]far[/i] too young. The fleshcrafted servant chortles and grunts and bubbles it's vernacular begging the quiet youth to follow with haste, and as a soft breath expells itself from long dead lungs, Mik'hail's only comfort to the small creature is a chuckle that rolls smokily from the hollow of his throat.
How..... delightfully ironic.
The Ductus of the Seraphim, mightiest of all ArchAngels, he who has been chosen as Caine's beloved [ damned ] Soldier, casually descends the ladder into the tunnel below, as if arriving for a chat with the Morning Star himself rather than the local power that is. Though as boots find the packed dirt floor, and lean body turns to offer dark eyes the visions of what has been prepared - skulls in alcoves, bones grafted to utilitatiran if ornate furniture, and the exquisite altar before them - the symbolism may not be far off. Something glimmers in the obsidian pools lurking beneath the shadows of his brows, hands draw together with flattened palms, the very tips of long index fingers trace the softness of lips through the offering of a moment's sacrosanct [ seditious ] prayer... and only then does the Prince of [ Caine ] Light draw into the immaculately prepared tunnel.
Bless us Father, for we are Your sin.
His clothes are loose and black - nothing flashy, but expensive and tailored enough to make a reasonable [ divine ] impression. From the polished boots to the lush slacks to the buttoned shirt and calf-length coat, he is dressed with as much formality as the meeting seems to require. Perhaps for more than he would deem necessary on a night to night basis, but there is pomp and circumstance than even a Brute will follow. Thick waves of shoulder length hair are pulled from his face with a nimble hand.
This is when the double doors open, this is when the .... interesting fellow that could only be Tamiel begins to speak in a singular chorus of echoing voices. Mik'hail listens, paused behind the back circle of bone pews, keeping his reaction to the stated names to himself. Any rising amusement is swallowed by trademark serenity. He needs not a long Genesis of who beget whom nor the names and letters of brothered Prisci to secure his position or ego. His own reputation rides on the fire and brimstone left in the Seraphim's wake. Soon enough, the time to speak will present itself - and until then, the [ fallen ] Angel waits.
Bishops interest him little more than knowing what name to use when addressing another, it is the speech of New York which holds his attention.
(chivo)
Letters, names, even a head full of horns meant pretty much nothing to him. Aside from loking like he just crawled out of bed with the devil, the Tzimisce wasn't making that big of an impression. Chalk it up to seeing too much over the years. The talk of taking New York wasn't too much of an attention grabber either, nor weeding out Camarilla. That wasn't what he was here for.
And the choice in decorration wasn't exactly a deal sealer either.
But he was all the way here, so he figures he might as well listen. Maybe there was something that would hold his attention.
(val/uriel)
Pause at the threshold...
Followed in the wake-presence of Michael is a drifting figure whom moves even slower than long stride of He ahead. Shrouded from head to toe in a hooded garment that on close inspection would prove to be singed at the
edges of its hood and hem as if burned.
Features are hidden with in the deep blackness of the hood's confines. Within the creature moves with a slow shuffling step like one whom is very old, very injured or perhaps just distracted beyond physical movement.
The only visible flesh are two elongated hands that seem made of perfect, pale and youthful flesh lying idle at the creatures side.
The varying depths and obstacles are regarding without silent comment from the figure whom at first glance seems hunched-backed (but to look closer there is something...). Each new twist and turn treated in hushed forebearance.
It is rare meeting a Koldun and even more rare one whom indulges in the fleshly metamorphisim that this creature has. Yet for now any thought or statement is reserved for the gathering instead for the turning of
it's head slowly regarding a strikingly handsome figure who likely saunteers not far from Michael instead. . .
briefly then returning that depthless gaze amongst its black shadows to that which speaks ahead.
(tamiel)
As no one has any questions, Tamiel countiues.
"Very well then. Firstly, know that I am not to be the only Bishop of this Domain. New Jersey will have three, and the other two will surely have their own plans and orders. We are deep in enemy territory even as we speak my Kin. No doubt, there will be other things to do. Establish routes to come and go, build a stronger presence on the road here. That sort of thing. If you do not wish to assist in these plans, no one is forcing them unto you... though I would hope everyone in this room is as concerned that the enemy has captured one our castles as I am.
"Now then... The plan is simple. As I said, we will secure this city and route out any of the enemy we know of. I have heard talk of... Alliances with the Camarilla in Trenton. I do not know if these are true... but if they are, I tell you know, these deals are over. Who ever crafted them, be assured, your death is envitable, and will last longer then you might think possible.
"But I digress. So then, once this city is totaly ours, we will begin to watch the entrances and exits. Packs or individuals are urged to speak with me, so I may point you to the best locations for those of your talents to monitor. We are going to be thourogh in this my Brothers, if possible we will even watch the floors of the Hudson. It is critical we maintain this city.
"Once this is all set up, the Nomads will begin to come and go, approaching from the east and south. We will set up safe houses and a few temples to support these brave Soldier's of Caine. That will be our job here, a support base for the those going to fight. A safe location they can come from and fall back too.
"Now, as to what you get out of staying. Pack territories tend to go to whoever is strong enough to fend off the claim jumpers in this Sect. This will not be the case in Newark. You will be allowed Territory, atleast for now, as part of a plan set by the Regent the couincle that oversaw this plan. It is... antiproductive, to allow it to change hands whenever some self proclaimed bad ass decideds to take it from you. Territory will be enforced. Disputes are to be put before me and my counterparts, once two others show themselves worthy of this title. Newark has... seen better times. These 'ghettos' are everywhere, and blood is plentiful. On a feeding basis, there should be no problems no matter where you are set. I do not see a problem with these arrangments.
"Also, the Sword tends to have a policy of making you do as your told. Freedom is freedom, but we are at war, and we are an army. Freedom is not anarchy. If the need should arise to outright order you to do something, it is still expected of you. If you don't do it, you shall be punished. We will, however, forego the system of telling you to do it anyway once you are punished. As long as you take the punishment with some dignity, of course.... Do keep in mind though, my brethren, some things are still punished with the final death."
The Tzimisce scans the crowd, taking everyone in. Its a cold, intimidating stare. Not the eyes of someone who has seen to much... the eyes of someone who has Done to much. Their is a diffrence between soldier's who have nightmares and killers that don't. And if you didn't know it, you do now.
"So then, any questions?"
(salvador)
The spainard steps forward. "Hello again, your grace." he says formally with his pronounced spanish accent. "Are there any specific orders as to whom the other two bishops are to be?" his tone is polite but obviously interested. "I am Salvador Xavier Munes of Clan Lasombra, I have come here from Madrid, and while I lack a pack at the moment, I hope to remedy that situation soon." he stands politely quiet waiting for a response to his question.
(tamiel)
Tamiel's gaze shifts to the Lasombra, taking him in for a moment.
"This is a special city, but these are not special circumstances. The Bishop's will be choosen based on who is worthy..." he looks to the crowd, now addressing them all "And all the Cainites in this city have as much, probably more, say in who is worthy then I or the Couincles in Mexico. They will be taken from the leaders, those who can guide our brothers and sisters to victory and saftey, and those who think always of the sect first and, in their capicity of Leader, never themselves. We will who shall be Bishop in the coming nights. But as it stands, there are no orders 'from the top' as to who shall have this honor."
(chivo)
Again, all things that didnt really matter to him, with the exception of the promise of territory. Even dead, it was important. And then there was the looming threat. Sure he had all the tact that any bishop should have, making sure it seemed like your will was your own, but behind all the rhetoric, Shane knew the point he was geting across.
Then there was the Brujah curse, the one most people didn't take into acount. Whenever there were a few skulls to be cracked, or some heavy demolition to be done, they always looked to the Brujah. And from the looks of things around, he was the only one there.
Still, he stands there, silent, just listening. Even if he had nothing to say, he would probably not say it. It's just the way the cowboy was.
(salvador)
The Lasombra nods slowly, as if the answer given was the obvious one. "I see. Will there be ritus tonight? A vauldrie?" he smiles slightly, "And might I ask if there is a pack here who would be willing to accept an expirate from Spain into their ranks." with each sentence he raises his voice slightly, not yelling, but defniately grabbing attention
(gabe's vampire)
Darkness, Silence, Shadow and depth... these are the things which make up the universe when one who steps through the veil of the senses is shown the true worth and the true value of that which is the eternal war.
The smell of the old church filtered to him as he entered. Pain, dirt, blood, and filth of all kinds lingered in the air. Yet it was the softer sense, the scent of fire and of the thick musk of something darker, deeper.
Watching as the beast slowly moved out to greet him he knew he had come to the correct place. He had never the need to travel all the way to Newark. In fact leaving his Pack in Atlantic City was hard enough without causing a stir as to the well laid plans which were there. But it didn't matter, His Sister Priest was busy with affairs of her family, his Brother in the Pack was still scouring and digging deeper and deeper into the web which is the cities underworld, and as for his newest sister... He thought of her as a soft smile crept into the back of his mind for a moment. Oh yes, she was dealing with "other" matters.
Entering the dank and retchid restroom the visual inspection of the place almost seemed too familuar. How many times, in recent years, had he seen such a set up in either modern film or story of some sort wisked from the minds of helpless sheep and placed in the middle of the world to placate the mass thrawl of the endless spirit which was creativity. But alas, the care was not there and the only reason he was hear was because he wanted answers to the burning questions which had plagued his random dreams as of late. Whomever, was responcible for this 'call' had better be damn worthy.
Decending the tattered and worn ladder the call of voices could softly be heard as he made his way down the tunnel and into the sanctuary. He arrived just as the second question was asked. Looking around the room he took each one into the burning core of his mind. The horridly tall and beautifuly ornimented Tzimisce, obviously the whole reason they had all been called here. Then the well tailored in black spaniard. A smile crept to the corner of his lips for an instant as he viewed a cousin in blood. Yet he continued to scan the room, each face, each man or woman was placed into memory.
As his gaze finally fell back to the tall, 9 foot beast, he recalled the echoing question which lifted it's way to him as he decended.
~Were there any questions?~
He paused for a moment and thought almost about leaving, but that would be rude and disrepectful to atleast someone who seemed to have a hold of atleast a small sliver of intelligence. Then as the words formed into his brain the gaze from behind the small rimmed, smoke black colored shades formed into words. The long Thick, black leather hung loose around his form down to just below his ankle. High gloss, shin high, Black, reinforced heel, toe and arch, SAS jump boots laced up tight held his stature, bloused black fatigues, and a well tailored ash grey shirt rounded him out. Thick, raven black hair hung down just to his shoulders. He was clearly of Spanish or Mederterainian decent and the soft yet full accent of his Spanish Heritage flowed from him as he spoke.
"I would pose a question for thee."
He paused as he was sure many would turn to see just who was the last to currently arrive and the first to give responce without title, name or even proper respect to station. Having missed the whole introduction of who he was and the credentials he bore he had no reason but to offer the base level of humility and respect he felt was given to someone who could be nothing more than a crafty (no pun) skin freak.
"Obviously, I arrive just short of proper introduction for if by doing so I offend thee by not offering proper respect to your station then I offer due appology unto such an act of transgrettion. Yet, I stand here pondering what it is exactly that those of even more powerful station, wisdom and worth, plan to do with but a meer pitance of that which has seemed to be gathered here?"
(tamiel)
He just stares at the new comer for a bit. He just explained this... for the love of god...
Eventually, he simply says "I am not going to repeat myself brother. Next time, I would suggest listening. I only pointed this out two or three times." Harsh, true. But he can tell from the Thee's and Thou's this one likes to think of himself as some kind of noble. Needs to be put in his place as soon as possible, because only when things are in place, does the machine run well.
(chivo)
You can almost hear his face crack as the smile forms and a soft chuckle comes from his throat. Creepy as this Koldun was, he was pretty funny, and it was always amusing to see one of the high and mighties get put in their place.
His Expression, for the most part, still remains hidden, he sticks to the shadows, his hat fixed to his head casting even more shadows over his face as he turned to see the newcomer.
Damn...
Another prissy, well dressed spaniard. He was outnumbered.
(rach/gabriel)
[Some say the world will end in fire -- some say ice.]
He was there and then again he wasn't. The hawkish line of his nose is what appears first. A sharp edge against the distraction of your perceptions. A teenager perhaps, white T-shirt and denim jeans, small strains of [...red-red-red-red..] somrthing on the chewed right cuff. Head twists to the left to regard his packmates [Angels of the second coming], a smile so -CERTAIN- so -CONFIDENT- finding fierce purchase on symmetrical features.
[--from what I've tasted of desire....]
And you can almost feel the motion before biceps begin to ripple under the thin weave of cotten T-shirt. A clap, and then another slowly increasing in speed and force. The sound seeming to draw eyes, to the well-featured blond boy. His lips are twisted into a smile, but eyes are fixed almost feverishly on Tamiel...
[I hold with those you favor fire.]
"Bravo."
And the clapping stops, the boys hands gripping the lip of his his seat [..blood flows through undead veins..] in fixed interest, seemingly uninterest in the disturbance he hjust caused, or the spectacle of attention that was invoked--by his approval.
[I am the messenger.]
(rob/raphael)
Standing behind Uriel and Michael is a bulky man in a leather trenchcoat. No sleeves, reckon those must have gotten ripped off...
He says nothing, just watches the exchange of words with his three eyes.
Oh, yeah, Did I say three eyes? Indeed I did. How strange. All blue, and full of a youthfull innocence most find disarming.
Well, they would is it weren't for the massive sawed off shotgun he cradles in his arms, and strokes.... Well, lovingly.
He just watches. Occasionally, he'll whisper something to Uriel, who will respond likewise in a whisper, but mostly he just watches. That might even be fear in his eyes. I dare you to ask him.
(michael)
Sanctity.
As comfortably as Uriel stands wrapped in his singed robes, Raphael his martyred blood, Raguel his shadows, and Gabriel his visions, the Brujah remains silently listening, calmly bathed in the invisable halo of some serenity [ eye of the storm ] - the quality that makes the discovery of his lineage so much more disturbing, especially when compared to what is expected from the Seraphim's [ well deserved ] reputation. There are those that have seen too much, and others that have done too much, and then there are those that just see and do. In Mikha'il's eyes, there is never too much. Judgement is final and swift and he leads his pack to fall upon transgressions as Caine's deadly plague, even the earth itself scorched with the brimstone that sizzles magma within their infamous wake.
The ends will always justify the means.
This is not the first Mihka'il has heard of such alliances, nor is it the first battle plan complete with promises of undisputed territories or Bishopry to those that prove worthy so on and so bloody forth. Those are not the squabbles for which he saves their Strength. And now that Gabriel has gathered attention to themselves...
"Your... Excellency."
The appellation rolls warm smoke through the air, his eyes lift from a breif study of the cleanliness beneath fingernails to the twisted beauty of Tamiel's crafted countenance, the recently placed creative anachronism not exactly ignored, but not given more than a passover, either. While he does not raise his voice to be heard, the smooth tenor carries effortlessly the distance; it is not a voice that demands attention, it is one that easily, yet respectfully, commands it.
"I am Michael, Brujah Ductus of the Seraphim." A casual wave indicates those gathered of his pack behind him; the clapping youth that only recieves a fond [ adoring ] smile, the three-eyed male stroking the shotgun lovingly [ never fear, when you are by my side ], the whispering [ visionary ] creature swathed in singed robes, and the Russian bathed in shadows whom.... should... be there [ Raguel always watches over their light from the darkness ], while they need no introduction and their reputation preceeds, not all of his Clan are without their manners as this is a formal meeting after all. "You know as well as I we would not have been sent if the Greater Hand did not deem our presence necessary or beneficial. Now that you have our Strength to weild the Sword, as well as the others who heeded your invitation, what are your plans of action to ensure our victory?"
The Seraphin serve fanatically - but no Bishop expects to throne himself in power without being properly questioned or tested, so far all has been understandable hypothetical talk for organization is key to the machine. However, Mikha'il will not lead his pack under a hungry fool's initiative. Now is the time for decisive planning.
(salvador)
When the other spaniard speaks, Munes, turns his head slightly to watch and listen while his country-man speaks. His attention returns to the Koldun as the Tzimisce responds, and draws a slight smile of amusement. This one is sharp, but then the sword of Caine needs to be sharp doesnt it. He shrugs and waits for a response to his own questions regarding the Rites, and openings in packs.
A sudden idea occurs to him, in a start that registers only as a slow blink of his nearly black eyes then he speaks, directing his words to the Bishop in a clear but respectful tone. "Your Grace, if I may, I'd like to offer my services to you as Templer. My reputation is known in Madrid, and I served Archbishop Moncada as a Bishop until his final death."
(tamieL)
Hrmmm, lots of questions, all at once. Tamiel takes them as they come.
"Brother Munes, Rites are expected but my studies have always been more... Factual then spiritual. I do not know the specifics of any one Rite, though I of course invite any among you to lead what approiate Rites you shall."
"Michael... I am aware of the Serphim, your reputation proceedes you. For now we will be securing entrance and exit to the city. As soon as possible, we will route any of the enemy found inside this decaying city. To the best of my knowledge, however, this particular part of the state is ignored by the Camarilla. No big busiess blood money to suck from the poor is left in most of Newark. Once that is done, we will keep the city at all costs and uphold the will of the Father. Once again, you are of course welcome to fight in New York, if you so choose... but we are more of a... feild hospital then an artillary post. If you'll exuse my Sethian terminology. Once the city is safe the nomads will begin to pour in and rest here between raids. As I understand it, most have choosen to cross beneath the Hudson River. But we will support them as they come, not assist them in battle. Safe houses, temples, that sort of thing. I have a request for the skills of your pack, but I shall ask in private. I have nothing to hide... but I do not know if you will have conflicting intrests that you wish to keep to yourselves."
"Brother Munes, it is admirable that you pledge yourself. But... such is not a task given to a stranger. I mean you no offense brother, and is not that I do not trust you but... as of yet I do not know you well enough to give such a large trust."
(chivo/shane)
Helping without helping...of course there was the thought the tzimisce was up to something, ther was always that thought. But this seemed like a deal Shane could actually live with. So long as he could help without helping also.
He still remains silent, still just watching and listening. Talking would come later...maybe.
(salvador)
he nods again, satisfied with both answers to his questions, his purpose served by being acknowledged and treated with a modicum of respect he glances around at those around him, his dark eyes lingering only a moment longer on the three eyed invidual they do on anyone else.
(gabe)
A dark smile crept into his soul at the retort from the one who obviously held more than just "paper" acknowledgement.
~So, this one will not be as foolish as many before him... Good.~ he thought these words as he continued to scan those around him.
The Pack to his right, and a few select single individuals to his left, all was in order. The petty squabble of who would fall into what position, be it Bishop, Templar, or even the Smart Mouthed 'Noble'... it mattered little. As long as the glorifiing flame of truth, the eternal burning embers of the Dark Father in which would sweep across the land like a mighty hand of wrath ... as long as the truth was borne into the minds and souls of the slumbering sheep of the world, what did he care who or how anyone thought of himself or the pack he led.
Silently he watched with a more calm facade, constantly glancing from one to the next, behind shielded glass of small rimmed frames.
~Oh, indeed... the Seriphim, a noted Pack from deeds and story.~ The thought was a welcome sight to what had stood before it prior. Yet it was not the names, or faces, or even the pomp and circumstance of belittled stature, he could care less for that now. It was the truth, the burning desire to finally be rid of the God forsaken place, to finally stand in the deep shadow of his homeland once more and to finally be done with the petty rabble which continued to plauge the great and mighty Sword of the Dark Father.
He thought for a few moments upon if he should speak upon the details of Atlantic City, ... 'His' city... his Packs city. For it was they who had laid the ground work, cleaned the tunnels, infiltrated the groups, and had established the lines of truth and the lines of 'misdirection'. All save for the damned Cassino... in which he was secure in knowing that if the enemy was there, they were not where he was. So as the thought rose within him he was steeled away to a fortified place upon which he didn't truly care who bitched or moaned about this city... he had his own corner of this damned State already in order...
(uriel)
The gaze had been exchanged from hooded face-less figure to handsome beautiful boy. Often Gabriel spoke the words which the creature desired to be spoken.
Reputation might even speak that the winged (-- upon close inspection if one dares to it might be noted that though the priest seems hunched backed it is in fact two great black wings which give this impression whether crafted, deformity or so other form of magicks seems unclear -- ) creature did not speak it all.
It is perhaps then with some surprise (even from his bretheren) that he shuffles slightly forwards lifting one of the perfect pale hands slightly - resting it lightly like a dying dove against the air. Fingers as slender as they are long curled slightly outwards.
"And when these are finished, then My words will come..."
It is a voice made of ash and bone so soft to nearly be lost in the din if the collection of vampires does not pay attention.
Rough as if the chords which produced the voice had been torn and yet strangely sing-song as one might imagine an injured predator's birds song.
Strange that a pack with such a reputation for strength has such a member whom seems so weak.
(raguel)
*(Child twisted, howling, screaming. Begger's mercy, and a droplet of blood.) Raguel is there, undoubtedly, his presence vaguely felt in the slow trickle of blood that moves, not like a heartbeat's pulse but as a slow trickle from a river tightly damed, through his packmate's. Beat, fade, beat. A steady sort of certainty. Raguel (Judge. Executioner.). Most of the Sect would sooner cut off their own heads than admit to trembling in the later hours of the morning as day-mares, bright and fudged by merciless whispers of ancient pacts, wander through their semi-conscious sluggish minds. The howling at the gates draws ever nearer, not all Assamites fell before that torturous curse. Fear, fear, fear.
But come now, he's only Russian. How frightening can a Russian assasin be? He holds his own council, but the shadows flicker gently back and forth as though swaying like an inky pendulum at Michael (Mikhael)'s right hand, his Black Hand.
(Intense.)*
(uriel)
Silence (blessed silence).
Finally as the room quiets and the restless shuffling of feet, glancing of eyes and folding of arms indicates no one can think of anything else to say for the moment...
He.Speaks.
(Tattered Whispers)
Its a voice used never idly. Ashes uttering such a whispered sound as to again be lost in the slighest noise. Yet despite its quiet tones it is not a meek voice. Carrying from amongst the ravaged-unused skin to ring in echo to those who listen.
One might well imagine that if He chose to raise his voice it might well shatter the fragile bone around them -- flesh and blood alike.
"Advocacy from the Council itself..."
Curious at the best of circumstances.
"We had not heard of any Archbishop of these lands however so it must indeed be but an unusual situation. It is an even more unusual situation to have a Bishop amongst un-won lands."
Pause.
"Still we are not one to turn a cheek to brothers. We are here then as amongst other things to witness your BloodBath?"
The voice is slow in the words which come with effort and just like the coal which with enough pressure will become a diamond its tone unfolds in blooming beauty capturing the listener whom falls prey long enough to pay attention.
Words so many words to be spoken more than he has in a very long time yet those closest around him (and even some of those not) can nearly read that he (It?) has not fallen silent for the night just yet.
(tamiel)
"Polina (sp?) will be the offical ArchBishop of these lands, though he is a bit... busy at the moment, as you might imagine. It is not as uncommon as you'd think to have Bishops in 'unwon' lands, but these lands are not unwon. New England has always been for the most part Sabbat land. Just because we lost New York City does not mean we suddenly control nothing in the area. And as for blood baths... soon, but not tonight."
(uriel)
Whether or not these words are agreed to cannot be told. Features are hidden by the deep hood and long-fingered nails have merely curled slightly.
"Mmm."
For now however the words felt to be false or not fall as raindrops against a pane.
Arcing whispers carrying outwards on faux breath.
"The war is never so truly won that soldiers can be allowed to sit idle.
It has been stated that no one is required to fight. Curious.
We wonder at this..." Pause as there is a shudder of those long singed wings against his back causing those looking to see the seemingly bent back straighten. The creature is a thing both long and tall whose shadow is cast before him outwards.
"...as it is our very natures which -require- us to fight else the gifts granted to us for that very purpose? Are wasted."
Another pause as the hood turns to seemingly gaze outwards at each face standing present nearby (...brush of fingers against the nape of neck...).
"It is not so much -how- as If... should any not feel themselves strong enough to aid to the greater Jyhad then they should not drag their brothers and sisters down. We have found fire is the most cleansing of tools in such matters."
Sulfur-smoke seems to surround the creature as he says this. Perhaps the Bishop of...
says they are not required to fight (whether as a literal term or not) but it might well seem the Father's holy angels feel otherwise.
(michael)
The Brujah's first response is only an inclination of his chin [ Father's holy blessing ] a silent ascension to the matters that shall be discussed later and in private. Raguel the shadow strewn pendulum to his right, Uriel whispering on faux breath to his left, Raphael standing guard behind, and the [ perfectly beautiful ] boy Gabriel infront. While he allows the singe winged creature to continue speaking without interruption, his attention turns to the blond before him.
....or partially so. One staying hand traces idle down the shoulder seam of the crimson tee. Perhaps he keeps another outburst from happening until the ashen questions have ceased, perhaps he comforts from the feeling of fingers that brush invisably against all that listen, or perhaps it is something else entirely. But even as there is one physical action, those eyes remain on the so recently [ self? ] appointed Bishop.
[ We have found fire is the most cleansing of tools in such matters. ]
Something curves his lips cherubic, the barest amusement shown - so dark an expression on a smile most merciful. Prompted by the scent of sulpher [ brimstone ] rising in the warm [ warming? ] tunnel.
"But of course." Nothing so sweet as the serpentous voice of an ArchAngel murmuring. "I'm sure his.... Excellency will not allow those that choose not to actively fight to sit idle as idle hands for temptation and apathy to inspire. Idle hands are useless... unsused gifts are gluttonous waste. Some use will be found for those that opt out." For something more than poignant example? That has yet to be determined. Though Newark is supposed to be a.... field hospital.... after all, beneath a Bishop that has yet to have a BloodBath. "Isn't that right, Tamiel?"
Whom, exactly, were the Seraphim sent to watch.
-=[in progress]=-
-=[freeform, newark]=-
(michael)
There is stillness that permeates the near-empty lounge, like the catacombs patiently withstanding time beneath the greatest of Cathedrals. Filled with memories, filled with sorrow, filled with what would only seem the everlasting dead [and drunk]. That is until the soft sounds of the grand piano begin filtering into the smokey air, lithe fingers tickling across keys to coax out the armies of Retributive notes to reign through the air like some Holy Fire wafting down from the acoustic heavens. His eyes are closed to the visions that would lay themselves as pilgrims before Meccah. Moonlight Sonata drifting listelessly against the near-deaf ears of those too drunk to even stumble towards a cab circuiting on the streets outside. Perhaps he will later make use of that - but now? He is absorbed in the seraphic symphony that plays within his mind to accompany pianist fingers.
(alexandra)
she drifts in swathed in the shadows that make up her soul a dark figure of alluriing beauty. dressed to impress. the buisness meeting over she licks her lips ever so delicatly before popping a breath mint. will not do to breathe the sweet metalic tang of blood into someones face.
the sound of a piano, draws her on draws her in. heels marking the soft clicking rythm of her passage.
(michael)
His head remains bowed in some strange Reverence he is the only one to understand, the classics leaking from fingers as though he barely gave a thought to the concentration the music required of him. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Curling waves of dark hair dangle towards the ivory, swaying gently with the movements of his torso in time with the slow, haunting song played in what may even be one-half the time. By the curve of barely blushed lips, there is a pleasure found in the music, something that would sooth the soul of the Beast laying in wait so deeply within his young body.
(alex)
and sooth the beast it does. as any beautiful thing can. she likes beutiful things she wishes to posess them. cntrol them own them. cold and merciless the woman her hair up in a tight bun curled at the back of her neck held there by stratigiclly placed fan of chopsticks. her dress. black and gold. with just the hint of red done in a blend of traditional chineese and modern dress. arms bare to show of the priceless ivory skin. a porcalin doll that comes to rest not far from thepianno wathcing listening to the haunting tones that along with the blood she just ingested placate the hungry animal that lurks deep in her blackened soul.
(michael)
Something draws his attention from the reverent introspection - her scent, the touch of her presence upon the air, the strange heat seeping into the distance between them that is not hers, but it serves to disturb the whorling haze of smoke just enough for dark eyes to sleepily open for but a glance at the wicked black and brilliant gold with just the hint of lifeblood's red. His fingers smooth across the ivory keys as they would tantalize their touch across her porceline flesh.
"Does it please you?"
Words slipslide from his throat as if created of the very smoke that hangs thick in the lounge's quiet atmosphere. Attention wandering until it focuses on the woman, head tilting until lips still into what could be a pout, but it seems an expression so much more mrecilessly vile.
(alex)
what dark creatures lurks behind those eyes. so brown as to be black she sinks slowly into one of the leather chairs.. sinks slowly into the deepening shadows. seperated only by a few feet yet the distance seems infantesimal as if the abyss itself stretches between them...
what cold killer lurks behind those dolls eyes. "is it for me you play?" her voice an afirmation that she is real and not some statue a sign of life in an otherwise still form. is soft and sensual as beutiful as she, and just as hypnotic.
(michael)
A sudden clash of Beasts - the Seraphim playing for the Morning Star herself. To the answer of the cold killer the young man only allows the smile to further curve his lips [so sinisterly] cherubic.
"Only if it pleases you."
So soft spoken are his words, no hint to the scorched earth wrath he holds just beneath the careful trigger touch of fingertips, and one song ebbs into another. Beethoven smoothing into the nameless song played by Lestat in Interview simply because he finds a blessed irony to harmonize with this sudden game of predator and prey, man and woman, angel and devil. Or at least, the game of sheer temptation.
"If it does not, then I must strive harder."
(alex)
and the heavens did open the (un) holy chorus did sing. blood tainted (lipstick i swer) lips twist ever so slightly in the parody of a smile. when predators smile this is how it would look. beautiful seditious promising and just a little bit deadly. "prehaps then it pleases me."
(michael)
A dark brow lifts heavenward, slow and sure like the rise to Salvation.
"And what else would please you?"
(alex)
hands move slim ciggarette and black tipped with silver holder removed from purse. holding it delicatly between fingers she leans forwards ever so slightly
"a box of those matches there"
nodding towards the glass bowl full of matches placed ontop of the piano. the name and address of the bar printed in a dull green upon white cardboard box.
(michael)
The smile widens further - forgiving to some, devastating to others. Then the song reaches a point in which the depression of a pedal sends it lingering into the darkness of the lounge in faint echo. Manicured fingers reach to pluck a single white and green box from the oversized brandy snifter serving as a bowl, and the young rises. Gravity pulls the loose [expensive] slacks to buckle around his ankles [fall to your knees and worship me] and the untucked silk shirttails flutter about his hips. In his passage across the abyss that separates them, a single matchstick is procured from the box held between nimble and lithe fingers. Deft movements send if flaring to life - orange flame reflected in dark eyes [Firedancers Fanatacism] and with magician's granduer he holds it before her in [sacrificial] offering, sheilded with his other hand from drafts as it would serve her alone.
"My name is Michael."
(alexandra)
ruby lips curve once more into a smile a soft sweet relaxed smile ciggarette holder is placed between lips. the tip touching that delicate flame. flaring to life for a moment only as she inhales.
"alexandra"
her hand held out not so much to shake but as a queen would to her vassal. taken so gently in his soft lips play over cool/cold skin greetings aside she leads him gently by the hand drawing him down drawing him neer. into darkness deep embrace "come sit, by me" moving over in the chair so their is room for him.
(michael)
"Alexandra."
After the match is cast into the ashtray, it's usefulness expired, her name is repeated, murmured over the soft cool skin across the fine bones forming her hand as if some Enochian incantation spoken by ancient Prophecy coming to life by the mere presence of [useless] breath. The Queen bequeaths a part of her seat to the Soldier, and the warrior sinks to accept the honor.
"What has brought you to me, tonight, Alexandra? Was it only the music?"
(alex)
and with such a simple geasture she raises him not from soldier but rather to station of prince. fine boned and delicate fingers. so perfectly shaped draw slowly across his ski in relenquished grasp to rest upon lap. another inhale of that fine french ciggarette (sometimes to pretend at life is an advantage) "prehaps. prehaps not.who can say why ones paths may cross? and what chance will bring importance to the meeting of strangers. "
(michael)
His laughter rings soft and low, drifting from his lips as the smoke weeps from hers, joining the wisped clouds already inhabiting the lounge's night sky. How she pretends to breath by smoking the cigarette, and how he pretends to still have the necessity of breath by drawing deep draughts of her blooddrenched scent into his all but forgotten lungs. Words lain at the Queen's feet in revenenant hush.
"I think there is importance in all meetings; it is just the meaning of which that is not always overtly clear from the beginning."
(alex)
"yes but what is important to me may be trival to you, or vice versa.p we each bring our own perceptions to such meetings. therefore it is chance alone that marks them as important to both or all parties" a smile as he watches her a calculating look behind those cold eyes. "do you think that this meeting is important" my cherub my angel my sweet prince?
(michael)
What is it that she calculates in those dark eyes. He wonders if she pictures him relieved the burden of his flesh, or perhaps destroyed in some other way, or would she surprise them both that the calculation brings pleasures instead of personal tragedies. It is a wonder if she, then, looks to him as he does to her, merely another pawn in this Endless War.
"Of course. Something will prove important one some level to one of us, hm?"
He is comfortable in such closer quarters with a near absolute stranger. His body was the first weapon in his arsenal, and as such, he has learned to master it. Each movement flawless, even if it seems so negligent a gesture as absent wave.
(alex)
the idea of personal space is such a human thing so worried about the invasion of thier privacy as if only lovers or friends should be allowed near them. such a strange idea. yet one she probably posessed so long ago... this close where she can but reach out and touch him. from this distance she can have a stake in his heart before he blinks from this distance she can see his every move every geasture and enjoy them all the more for thier sensual beauty.. do you wonder how loud i would scream if left to greet the sun? do you picture my heaven buring down around me? do you see me steaked out before you? "i think yes there is something of importance in our meeting"
pawns on a chess board . yet does the hands that direct them play for the same team or do they sit apposed to each other?
(michael)
Oh, the Blessed things that he envisions of her.How she would scream beneath his abilities. How she sould scream to greet the Aurora's first dawning kiss. He just as easily finds her within his imagination writhing in his beloved flames and bathing in life-giving blood. Knowing so intimately he could find Rapture in both. Beauty is such a flickering, ephemeral quality, and he can [so willingly] force it from both agony and ecstacy. All instigated with but a touch they each taunt each other with, but never grant.
"Grace me with your thoughts, Alexandra?"
(alex)
i wonder what you looked like hung up as the martyr tnailed to the cross like the massiah. waiting for dawns first kiss. how long before you cry before you scream. i wonder what it would be like to place you in a cell with but a slit for a window. i would watch the video as that light slowly crept up your skin as you crawled and huddled looking for an escape from your inevitable fate. i wonder if i could drive wood into your heart then snap it off. case you in plaster and then cell you as a statue. what would you look like tressed up like a pig rotating slowly over hot coals the radience of red as it glowed against your burning flesh and seared bone. or encased in your own shadow trapped in the darkness unable to move unable to see but knowing i draw forever near ready to take your life your blood your soul... "i am simply wondering why one of your talent would choose to play here?"
(michael)
He knows she thinks it. He can feel her thoughts as if they were a marquee across her porceline face, with nothing but the smoke from the silver holder to mar the perfect visage. There is an expression that crawls across his own features, a deepening of his smile, a glitter of challenge entering his eyes. Invitation even enters his posture, the set of his shoulders and straightening of spine. She thinks it, craves it, and absolutely dreams it - but does she dare try it.
"One cannot fight the war every night, there must be some time for contemplation and repose. Perhaps my music can be seen as a prayer to those that watch over us, an offering for our efforts to be blessed."
One hand reaches out, fingers nimble and soft to gently grasp her hand [when he could so easily crush it] with brows raising in query.
"Now, perhaps, you will grace me with your presence for a last supper before we retire?"
(alex)
would you test her strength? do you wish to know who is stronger? who is faster? who is more deadly? which of them can reep the most exstacy from pain? "this is true, yet the war will always go on" is this truce between them a standoff? an understanding? or prehaps an alliance? "it is nice however to escape from it once in a while"
letting herself be helped to her feet. the darkness seeming to give her up reluctantly as she once more slides from the shadowy depths of the couch to once more cross the lighted parlour of the lounge. letting her arm rest ever so lightly upon his. an gentlemanly escort into the night.
she does not fear him. fear is an emotion that she does not have time for. and tonight is a night for prayer and food not a night for war. she wonders just how best he will fit into her plans and how the moves he makes will tilt the game. will it be in her favor or against it. "let us feast before the blessed night ends"
-=[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.