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xxxxxFIREBREATHER | l a u r e l xxxxx
xxxxxPREDICAMENT: seemingly dangling in air, unconscious xxxxx
xxxxxLOCATION: just above diagon alley
xxxxx
Beneath a halo of thorns and rotting corpses, the wrath in his mind seems plentiful and ceaseless. He hovers purposefully, above backalleys with a hood drawn against his face- a wry smile lifts to his eyes --magpie beady and glinting with the almost intoxicating sense of opportunity. The chaos about to come would be maddeningly exciting, he could feel it in his mind, the recesses of his heart burning with the calls of a thousand wretched souls, wailing, trapped eternally in the river Styx. Yet, in this single moment, a superficial thought of odd domesticity occupies his mind- had he taped the newest episode of some reality show [he cannot recall he name of]? Panicked, he racks the corners of his mind for some form of a memory; anything would be preferable. Of course, being a seer did not come with an ability to remember the TV shows you may or may not have taped, that is not provided in the list of "perks" that came with the gift of divination. He slumps over his broom, his spine arching and his arms clutching the polished wood of the handle, defeated, a string of curses tenuously uttering from rosebud lips. The world around him is soundless, night engulfing the landscape in dusky silence.
Almost too quiet.
Around him, he feels a presence, cold and ephemeral it lurks just above view, yet it is oddly warm, black coffee on a monday morning sort of warm- friendly almost. He is relatively solitary, the nearest Unmentionable being someone unseen, of which he can make out merely the faintest shadow of a human being. But he senses someone; something familiar in his vicinity. Something invisible yet tangible... above him? Below him? He looks around, eyes trained on the slightest movement. He calls out in a lyrical tone, yet almost quiet-
"Is anybody there?", Most likely not the smartest idea before a battle, yet he is curious and vaguely paranoid. Who would be invisible at this time? It did not occur to him, but a healer would benefit from a disillusionment charm, and there is a certain healer he definitely knows well. Nothing calls back to him, except the whistle of the wind and a slight movement of the clouds. However, he has other problems at hand.
From a haze of faint grey across his vision comes a familiar scent, alluring like jasmine and dangerous like deepest musk, sweet amber patchouli and dragons blood-- rising in the air, mixing with the iron taste of bloodshed. The contradiction of the haze, the mist and intangible deepness of it, to the solidity and assuredness of impending warfare is almost alerting, yet it is sending him into deepest slumber. Already, the ground below him fills with flashes of light, lightest green and brightest red, curses and hexes, spells of unknown quantity-- they struggle beneath his feet, and from below his gaze he can almost hear them incant spells that have never even happened upon his ears. The wind calls out to him, whispering against his ear in a melancholic ancient song in a tongue that hasn't left any lips since before the first civilization fell, it's lungs and voice-box collapsing with it's emperors and generals. It tells him to close his eyes, to slip into a comatose state of learning, forget these mortal concerns and fly with the creatures that hold the secrets of the universe. Divination, is a gift that comes with a sacrifice. Did you know, you lose your earthly body as soon as the fates speak to your mind? With the grip of his hands loosening from the hilt of his broom & with long tendrils of chimney smoke spiralling down his lungs, he falters, his eyelids hold the weight of a thousand swords. Relax, ease into it. He lets the red string of fate tangle across his body, weaving through every finger, each leg and finally the tendrils of crimson kiss his skull. Breathe.
Fall from grace.
He turned. Eyes completely porcelain [ cracked china and hair-thin fractures along it's surface-- almost delicate yet utterly out of place in the midst of blood and fire and dust that settles deep in throats ] , skin bloodless and tinged with an Atlantic sort of hue- he's not entirely human nor entirely non-human, his body rag-doll limp, corpse-like hands dangling, cracking small bones along their surface. His mouth utters words in a language he couldn't even have recognized a single word in his concious state. It sounded almost sharp and Akkadian- it's words filled with knife-edge rhotacisms and nonsensical sentence structures. He fell hard, he fell like Lucifer, with his wings broken and blackened and the scorn of god across his inhuman body.
Before his body can smash against the concrete, killing him as soon as his fingers scraped the thick coat of dust, an angel appears. This angel takes the form of Clementine Le Roux. Angels don't always possess wings; they are often mortals. We could be angels, we are on occasion. Angels are as real as the man who smiles at you from above a self-help book on the commute to work, just when you were losing hope. Angels are loving mothers and fathers. This angel lifts his limp body on to a broom. They are vulnerable to attack, yet he is alive for the most part-- he still has milk-white eyes, a tongue that's speaking in a primordial way, and his body is hanging, or better described- moving like a marionette held by a sadistic child- from what seems to be thin air (a disillusionment charm, performed correctly, masks the user. Often used by healers on battlefields.)
Finally, his mind fades to colour;
"greeted by the fates, he rests in a cradle of wool, intertwining destinies and futures, each different to the last.
a picture clears in his mind, he can almost make out the details of it; crystal clear yet...
blood, he sees porcelain teacups smashed along a cottage floor, a hand comes into view--
the picture has switched abruptly.
a man, about mid-twenties.
he's tying up a tie in his bedroom, facing a mirror with a bored glare
there is something off about him; or rather too familiar.
an eerily well-known aura...
there is a couple pictures on a dresser table, generic family pictures
'focus on the westernmost one, seth.'
it's a man, sharp features and a thin nose... eyes like pits of tar and a smile than doesn't reach them
his father.
his
father?
"-- my father, that i
killed"
the man stares into the mirror, wearing a black suit, expensive shoes
his expression resembling the eye of a hurricane.
it makes sense, this is his replacement.
his brother."