Encounterlogs
Castiels Odd Encounter Sr Jess 250207
In the chilling atmosphere atop an apartment complex, the quiet observer Castiel watches a spectacle unfold below as members of the Sapphire Martyrs perform a series of gruesome acts in the name of Christian martyrs, seeking to replicate their sacrifices. As a martyr among them awaits his fate, announcing himself as Bartholomew and offering his life in a twisted ritual, Castiel's interest is piqued. What follows is a dialog between the martyr and Castiel, with the former claiming to do God's will through their deaths to save heaven. Castiel, aloof yet attentive, listens, his response cold and calculated, revealing the martyr's misguided interpretations and actions.
As the final martyr pleads for Castiel to execute him as per his cause, Castiel's reaction is unexpectedly mirthful, choosing not to fulfill the martyr's wish for martyrdom. Instead, Castiel unleashes hellfire, not as a means of granting the martyr's death wish, but as a punishment for their misdeeds, branding him with eternal damnation. This act of defiance against the Sapphire Martyrs' intentions disrupts their scheme, with Castiel revealing his admiration for the complexity of mortals contrary to the martyr's disdainful view. The concluding encounter between Castiel and the remaining members of the Sapphire Martyrs inside a fleeing vehicle further showcases Castiel's power and his refusal to be swayed or manipulated by their fanatic beliefs, ultimately leaving the scene with a sign of his enduring presence and the ominous notion of his wrath remembered.
(Castiel's odd encounter(SRJess):SRJess)
[Thu Feb 6 2025]
In the roof of the apartment complex
It is afternoon, about 29F(-1C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.
(Your target has been contacted by an anonymous source who claims to have information about the Sapphire Martyrs. They arrange a meeting in a secluded spot. However, when the characters arrive, they find themselves surrounded by a group of Sapphire Martyrs who wish to recruit them. The Martyrs explain their cause, offering the characters a chance to join them in their mission. They are not aggressive, rather they exude an eerie calmness, but they make it clear that refusing their offer might have consequences. The characters now have to decide whether to join, fight, or try to escape.)
An open sky above and its thin, white clouds are paradise's little judgments on the word below. Of course, scientifically, there can be no judgment from the white puffs of condensation. And yet, they do. For man paints them and imagines they the heavens. Because, for the longest time, their height was unattainable. But it is a perilous fall. Many men do not attempt to goad God or nature through natural fear of looking down and seeing themselves as the Gods do. Ants.
And yet some do. In the streets below, just on the stretch of Paine, paved motley and cracked, a limousine opens and people start crowding out of it like a clown car. All of them wear thorns around their head- though not so tight that the sacrifice of blood is yet drawn. They have chosen, for all of the attention they draw, to otherwise dress somewhat vagabond and hippy.
They assort themselves on the sidewalk in a conversational line, maybe ten of them, and at once, look up to the top of the building.
And on the top of that building lays Castiel.
Silent, poised, ever-watchful Castiel, casting that golden amber look down at the streets below with minor interest spared to everyone that goes about their day-to-day lives. Every single soul under the heavens above endures his scrutiny from afar - not in assessment of their nature, but simply of their make, in curiosity that seeks to unravel their lives, observe from a distance, like he might glean some secret or another if he watched long enough how the ants move.
The gathering spilling out of the vehicle, the lines they form - it steals Castiel's attention easily enough, and he stares at each face, at each body that falls in line - at the open door of the limousine with a furtive glance given to each. In his rest, one of his legs remains drawn up to his chest, with his arms wrapped around, and his jaw resting over his knee where lidded eyes take in the view, so to speak - before his head tilts. Ever subtly, ever slightly and slowly, but also like an alien thing that assumes observing from a slightly askew angle might tell him more of the gathered that have set their eyes on him.
Castiel doesn't move, nor does he speak.
The martyrs are given the first turn order to say their piece, or make their peace.
The line, congruous and straight, is the organization that cattle cannot meet. It is in organization that they find any means of success, and yet the one in front is no more a leader than the one behind. Their smiles are prairie pleasant and just as vacant. They slowly unbutton their overlayers to present rainbow t-shirts- taken as a symbol of peace- but taken from Genesis, where once it was a sign of God's covenant.
Then, the second in line takes a stone from a brown-leather pouch and cracks the man in front in the back of the head. The one in front winces, stumbles, and then catches the same stone in the other temple.
"Stephen." They say at once. The first Martyr.
It doesn't look like Castiel understands what it is that goes on below- but he is aware, and he watches. Those eyes, ever in their smoldering quality, do not blink even once while he does. They're like severe daggers, burrowing, flitting from one 'cattle' to the next in their faux facade of merriment. When the stone cracks upon the head of the lead, however..
Castiel smiles. It's a faint thing, distant - a ghost of a smile haunting the edge of his mouth and directed below. The second strike almost lengthens it, but fails to do it eventually. The name they all speak together has piques his interest even more, because his gaze becomes narrower and sharper as opposed to remain lidded. All it does is lend a different quality to his smile, perfect and perfectly cruel.
And yet, he still doesn't say anything to whatever spectacle he witnesses.
The body falls below the fog. Unseen, but still in recent memory. The third takes a knife from a leather strap and begins to saw off the second. There is an apathetic calmness to the sawing motion in both the killer and the killed as they leave behind a husk and find some bloody, terrible salvation.
"James." They say.
The street is an intersection at noon but while no cars comes, the locals do begin to take notice. A woman in the Elm pool screams sharply and runs back- a phonecall from a fitness center window contacts the police, and death follows.
"Philip." The third is pierced through both hands and feet with pitons and stoned. "Mathew." A man is beheaded. The line of Christian martyrs moves on until the last until it is less a display and more a rapid, quick successive slaughter that ensures none will come too early to save one. The Sapphire murders cannot be stopped. Lives, under God's sight, cannot or will not be saved. It is an ignorant call but it is a successful one. For whom among the world's powers succeeds most each day through the all's apathy? Who makes the greatest efforts in the Nightmare? Who's plans TRULY succeed as the world fights itself?
And yet one remains. "Bartholomew." He says, and waits.
As if the world's apathy is collected in one - embodied in Castiel, because he watches every gruesome act, every murder, every defilement - and throughout it all, he only holds a wan smile, like he's watching his kids at the playground get up to harmless mischief. He's far up, but when has distance ever mattered to a creature like Castiel A subtle shift ensues while the last of the martyrs remains, stands his ground and awaits whatever it is that he does. Perhaps Castiel, even.
His legs are kicked down, and his body tilts forward, ignorant of every scream, every plea, every noise of dissonance that begins to rise within the earlier so very peaceful and mundane street - and that's exactly when Castiel extends his hand. Palm out and open, waiting to collect, directed at the last of a dying breed. The world works at his behest, lowers its head in favor of great will and strength to do one and only one thing.
Castiel's quarry, the waiting martyr, he is elevated off the ground first, collected and squeezed from all sides by an unseen hand that comes down as if the wrath of God seeks justice for the transgressions committed, only to grow ever tighter in a secure hold. Then, the man is propelled. He's pulled into Castiel's grasp, traverses all three floors below in agonizing speed just to have his throat laid within Castiel's hands, and his whole body suspended at the edge.
In that proximity, the heat Castiel radiates is palpable. Searing. An undying fire, nigh-unbearable if it were not the thick of winter. The burrowing gold of his eyes in all their molten quality is drawn near - and all the weight of the man is placed at the nape of his neck, for Castiel relaxes a thumb laid at the center of their throat to give them the freedom to croak their words, while he asks his inquiry.
"Explain."
"We- we do God's will-" the man croaks. There is a senility to him, too young to take him, and thus imprinted upon him. "It is haah- no less than His will that we d-die to save the heavens.
"I am as Bartholomew." Faith speaks from a Martyr'd tongue, and yet he fears. It can be drunk deeply from as he hangs from the precipice of a disgraced messenger. It is the station that only the Apostles were given- but not all deaths today were apostles. All Martyr'd under the names of old and assumed their respects. Who will dissuade the dead from their glory? None can speak.
But this one- this man beginning to cook and already sweating salt, has not yet received judgment. His end is to be flayed and beheaded, and thus the Sapphire sits on the precipice of being worthless sacrifice- for in life, would he fail in his task. The question is given in offering, in peace to Castiel
What judgment do you give us?"
"We- we do God's will-" the man croaks. There is a senility to him, too young to take him, and thus imprinted upon him. "It is haah- no less than His will that we d-die to save the heavens."
"I am as Bartholomew." Faith speaks from a Martyr'd tongue, and yet he fears. It can be drunk deeply from as he hangs from the precipice of a disgraced messenger. It is the station that only the Apostles were given- but not all deaths today were apostles. All Martyr'd under the names of old and assumed their respects. Who will dissuade the dead from their glory? None can speak.
But this one- this man beginning to cook and already sweating salt, has not yet received judgment. His end is to be flayed and beheaded, and thus the Sapphire sits on the precipice of being worthless sacrifice- for in life, would he fail in his task. The question is given in offering, in peace to Castiel
What judgment do you give us?[fixed. Oopsie]
"You speak wisely."
Castiel draws the man closer. Not enough to give him any respite - no foothold to seek purchase and alleviate the tension at his neck, only enough to bring the searing heat of Castiel eye-to-eye. Molten eyes flit, drift, they take in the full visage of the man, and yet, there is a note there, as if he finds what he sees as lacking.
"Yet you also make little sense. Had God desired the death of so many, then it would've been so by his hand, not by yours." Again, that thumb is laid upon the man's throat at the center, pressing as if he might crush it. Coaxing every bit the fear out of him like a savory dish. "This is no respect given, but a misguided judgement passed on the very mortals that should understand both the wicked and the righteous are of God, and the distinction is scarce. What was oft necessary at times need not be so in others."
The martry isn't given the freedom to fall to his death, he isn't spared so easily. Castiel instead chucks him aside like he might do a weightless doll, to throw him upon solid ground at the top of the building where he is, skid upon hard and weatherworn exterior of the rooftop. "Your explanation is lacking. I will ask an easier question, then." And Castiel's eyes drift, follow the martry, watch him with somber, silent intensity culminated in the narrowing of his eyes.
"What is it that you want from me?"
The man skids, a roadburn (roofburn?) taking a streak off his skin. He scrambles not to fall- that isn't how Bartholomew is supposed to die, after all.
"We-" He coughs, voice choked hoarse from pressure and nerves, "seek nothing! We give!" He exclaims, managing to look at Castiel by looking far, far behind him. "We show that- that we are not the enemy. We work to-to save Heaven." A repeat of statement, a failure to correlate, "Flay and behead me for it is our cause. We are well and need no aid except to deny The Flame and Host their own hideous destinations. We ask you do not interfere for we are so far ahead of the misguided; their Hands, their Orders, their Temples that are not to Him but themselves-"
"Kill me as was done and recorded. I will die, a-angel, and my name will be in His memory."
Something that shouldn't rightly happen, happens. It's a slow sound at first - a spilled chuckle, then more. An ascending sound of laughter. Castiel's amusement bleeds out profusely, where he laughs, and laughs, and it is raw mirth laid therein, perfectly genuine, incredibly easy to settle over the vestige and make of this wolven shepherd in flocks clothing.
It doesn't subside for a while.
Not until Castiel draws the back of a digit beneath his eye, where a welled tear turns to steam and evaporates. That's when Castiel's eyes are back upon the Martry pleading his case, pledges an alliance of non-interference. Still, Castiel's expression is one of amusement, lightened now - subdued as if he's just heard something unusual and amusing from a wildened youth.
"What an offering you've laid on my plate."
But he doesn't seem the least bit interested in flaying and beheading of the sheep put on his table. Far from it. He doesn't even move from his place, sitting perfectly still. "I'll pass, you misguided, poor thing." Yet his actions are that of another thing, when he flicks his hand aside and snaps his fingers at the man. That unseen force returns, works in tandem with gravity as opposed to against it - only to squeeze him within an invisible hand and drag him by his throat up into the air where he'll stay suspended.
"Your creed is one that seeks destruction, whereas mine, it seeks to elevate. I quite like mortals, you see.." Another snap of his fingers, and a roiling fire erupts. It strikes the ground beneath the man's feet, swirling, swaying, completely acrid in its infernal hue of hellfire, purplish with darker streaks. "They are an immense enigma, and ones that I adore." In what manner, warped or otherwise, it is left to his mercurial nature - but the fire, it climbs higher. Catches upon the edge of his captive's pants, slithers underneath to coil about like a wicked serpent that sears far more presently and physically in its agonizingly slow ascent to cook the martry alive.
"If need be, I'll end the lot, and you, with them."
He screams. He's human, after all. There is a small error of important when one presents something as a play and not a reality. All ten of these Martyrs gave the names of people they are not, and thought themselves rewarded with those deeds.
"MY DEATH IS CELEBRATION!" He squirms, he writhes, someone beyond this scene watches and is silent. His foot kicks out to BE burned, and instinct takes him away. Like a dog that wants to jump in after its owner into the pool but cannot.
Truly, adorable.
The man is branded in coiled symbol not unlike the snake of Satan. Damnation, then, is the answer. No sniper shoots the man, for none truly care for him. The driver in the limo puts the vehicle in gear and begins to drive away.
For his dismay, what transpires is not his willful lean upon the flames of hell that have bent to heaven's will. The martry would find, as soon as he makes the first move, that kick he delivers to be burned also comes with release. The unseen hand of Castiel's does not hold him suspended longer, drops him right onto the floor of the rooftop.
Where the fires rage harsher.
They consume the whole of him, rise like a bonfire, swirl, consume, ascend higher and higher until there is nothing to see within infernal purple roiling and writhing in on itself, all to cascade upon the frail form of a mortal caught within with a minor explosion. Therein Castiel's smile wanes, so does his mirth. A mercurial shift to stone stoicism, a cold detachment and distant prevailed over any other emotion.
His fingers snap.
Another streak of fire joins the mass.
Then they snap again, and again, and again.
Each more ruthless than the last, with full intent to consume the totality of the man's life then and there with complete disregard of the car that leaves. Or so it seems. To interrupt Castiel is to pay, evidently, and so, while the man is left within the pyre that will eventually consume him, Castiel climbs to his feet. His eyes are on the vehicle that has begun to drive away, watching it from afar as it goes down the road.
Castiel disappears where he was a second ago.
Cracks that are left splintering are the only evidence that he ever occupied that spot upon the top of the building's edge, broken by the sheer strength of his launch like a catapult, and no vehicle could ever hope to achieve the speed with which he descends from so far away -- to land squarely upon the roof of the vehicle, where he's sunken on a single knee. Not because he needs to balance himself, but simply to be near for what he does next.
Fingers alit and agleam in that horrid flame lay upon the edge of the car's roof, melt it by sheer heat on top of the driver's side, and start to peel metal like he's opening a tin can with a delicious treat hidden within. If the supposed escapee even dares to look up - they'd see only eyes of molten hue, their fire and flame tainted far off in its center by an inkling of hell that has taken root - or perhaps was always present within the fallen angel himself.
The rake of a voice pyred upon flame is as anguished as it is forgotten. However, as it burns, it reveals an inhuman skeleton- small follicle spines dotting like nails, and even a few scales- a testament to expermintation. A change that achieves nothing other than to serve the man's death. Ten thousand dollars was the more acceptable price of this meeting.
As dark as the tinted windows are, they are not veiled to angelic perception. Two figures sit in either seat. A holy number- though one of them screams. There is the small urging of Sanctuary about them, should intent incur. Two women, one wrinkled and aged, another in her middling years, letting out a stifled yelp and a long scream respectively as the younger of the two slams on the breaks in the driver's seat to loose Castiel off the hood.
The long vehicle smoulders and wilts with a groan and squeal- a moment of euphoria amongst cacophany as the tritone of voice and flame hit a harmonic. The instruments are rust and fear, but age and emotion are not awful methods to sing.
If only it was not the decree of Sanctuary that deters any notion of immediate and crucial harm upon the both of them. Castiel's eyes are harsher, maybe because he knows, maybe because he doesn't - but that distinctly bloodthirsty approach is stunted before it has a chance to grow. He hardly even moves when they hit the breaks - and their roof, it is a melted slag that has been drawn like a curtain half-way through beneath Castiel.
"Pitiful."
That is all that Castiel offers to their scream, and a snap of his fingers leave them with a parting gift. Not done with intent to cause their demise, but one to no doubt harm, as well as he would be capable. An ember that drifts, purple, scalding -- and willing to set anything ablaze that it touches, slowly spreading and molting into more motes within their vehicle.
In the wake of it, Castiel is gone again.
Before the sliding vehicle at the height of its sudden break can come to a full-stop upon the frost-laden road, he's already elsewhere, launched the same distance from here to back whence he came, just about wholly upon the foot of the building where wreathed mist covets the slain bodies and claims them as its own. Through it, there is now another mercurial change of attitude. He's leaving, wandering into an alley, and sliding his hands into his pockets.
If anything, it is a sheer testament to what he intended for the escaping duo that the Sanctuary guided his actions to simply be elsewhere and leave, lest what swells at the back of his mind leaves them both alive but a broken shell, or worse, tortured beyond measure. Lucky, for them, but perhaps not so much for the Sapphire Martyrs that tried to vy for his attention in such a manner.
Because if Castiel is anything, he is a vindictive fallen - one that will most definitely remember.
A rich little hearse of living dead burns. Sirens are late, they always are in this town.
BONG
The single toll of a bell nearing afternoon, reminding everyone that noon lunch has passed.
As the final martyr pleads for Castiel to execute him as per his cause, Castiel's reaction is unexpectedly mirthful, choosing not to fulfill the martyr's wish for martyrdom. Instead, Castiel unleashes hellfire, not as a means of granting the martyr's death wish, but as a punishment for their misdeeds, branding him with eternal damnation. This act of defiance against the Sapphire Martyrs' intentions disrupts their scheme, with Castiel revealing his admiration for the complexity of mortals contrary to the martyr's disdainful view. The concluding encounter between Castiel and the remaining members of the Sapphire Martyrs inside a fleeing vehicle further showcases Castiel's power and his refusal to be swayed or manipulated by their fanatic beliefs, ultimately leaving the scene with a sign of his enduring presence and the ominous notion of his wrath remembered.
(Castiel's odd encounter(SRJess):SRJess)
[Thu Feb 6 2025]
In the roof of the apartment complex
It is afternoon, about 29F(-1C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.
(Your target has been contacted by an anonymous source who claims to have information about the Sapphire Martyrs. They arrange a meeting in a secluded spot. However, when the characters arrive, they find themselves surrounded by a group of Sapphire Martyrs who wish to recruit them. The Martyrs explain their cause, offering the characters a chance to join them in their mission. They are not aggressive, rather they exude an eerie calmness, but they make it clear that refusing their offer might have consequences. The characters now have to decide whether to join, fight, or try to escape.)
An open sky above and its thin, white clouds are paradise's little judgments on the word below. Of course, scientifically, there can be no judgment from the white puffs of condensation. And yet, they do. For man paints them and imagines they the heavens. Because, for the longest time, their height was unattainable. But it is a perilous fall. Many men do not attempt to goad God or nature through natural fear of looking down and seeing themselves as the Gods do. Ants.
And yet some do. In the streets below, just on the stretch of Paine, paved motley and cracked, a limousine opens and people start crowding out of it like a clown car. All of them wear thorns around their head- though not so tight that the sacrifice of blood is yet drawn. They have chosen, for all of the attention they draw, to otherwise dress somewhat vagabond and hippy.
They assort themselves on the sidewalk in a conversational line, maybe ten of them, and at once, look up to the top of the building.
And on the top of that building lays Castiel.
Silent, poised, ever-watchful Castiel, casting that golden amber look down at the streets below with minor interest spared to everyone that goes about their day-to-day lives. Every single soul under the heavens above endures his scrutiny from afar - not in assessment of their nature, but simply of their make, in curiosity that seeks to unravel their lives, observe from a distance, like he might glean some secret or another if he watched long enough how the ants move.
The gathering spilling out of the vehicle, the lines they form - it steals Castiel's attention easily enough, and he stares at each face, at each body that falls in line - at the open door of the limousine with a furtive glance given to each. In his rest, one of his legs remains drawn up to his chest, with his arms wrapped around, and his jaw resting over his knee where lidded eyes take in the view, so to speak - before his head tilts. Ever subtly, ever slightly and slowly, but also like an alien thing that assumes observing from a slightly askew angle might tell him more of the gathered that have set their eyes on him.
Castiel doesn't move, nor does he speak.
The martyrs are given the first turn order to say their piece, or make their peace.
The line, congruous and straight, is the organization that cattle cannot meet. It is in organization that they find any means of success, and yet the one in front is no more a leader than the one behind. Their smiles are prairie pleasant and just as vacant. They slowly unbutton their overlayers to present rainbow t-shirts- taken as a symbol of peace- but taken from Genesis, where once it was a sign of God's covenant.
Then, the second in line takes a stone from a brown-leather pouch and cracks the man in front in the back of the head. The one in front winces, stumbles, and then catches the same stone in the other temple.
"Stephen." They say at once. The first Martyr.
It doesn't look like Castiel understands what it is that goes on below- but he is aware, and he watches. Those eyes, ever in their smoldering quality, do not blink even once while he does. They're like severe daggers, burrowing, flitting from one 'cattle' to the next in their faux facade of merriment. When the stone cracks upon the head of the lead, however..
Castiel smiles. It's a faint thing, distant - a ghost of a smile haunting the edge of his mouth and directed below. The second strike almost lengthens it, but fails to do it eventually. The name they all speak together has piques his interest even more, because his gaze becomes narrower and sharper as opposed to remain lidded. All it does is lend a different quality to his smile, perfect and perfectly cruel.
And yet, he still doesn't say anything to whatever spectacle he witnesses.
The body falls below the fog. Unseen, but still in recent memory. The third takes a knife from a leather strap and begins to saw off the second. There is an apathetic calmness to the sawing motion in both the killer and the killed as they leave behind a husk and find some bloody, terrible salvation.
"James." They say.
The street is an intersection at noon but while no cars comes, the locals do begin to take notice. A woman in the Elm pool screams sharply and runs back- a phonecall from a fitness center window contacts the police, and death follows.
"Philip." The third is pierced through both hands and feet with pitons and stoned. "Mathew." A man is beheaded. The line of Christian martyrs moves on until the last until it is less a display and more a rapid, quick successive slaughter that ensures none will come too early to save one. The Sapphire murders cannot be stopped. Lives, under God's sight, cannot or will not be saved. It is an ignorant call but it is a successful one. For whom among the world's powers succeeds most each day through the all's apathy? Who makes the greatest efforts in the Nightmare? Who's plans TRULY succeed as the world fights itself?
And yet one remains. "Bartholomew." He says, and waits.
As if the world's apathy is collected in one - embodied in Castiel, because he watches every gruesome act, every murder, every defilement - and throughout it all, he only holds a wan smile, like he's watching his kids at the playground get up to harmless mischief. He's far up, but when has distance ever mattered to a creature like Castiel A subtle shift ensues while the last of the martyrs remains, stands his ground and awaits whatever it is that he does. Perhaps Castiel, even.
His legs are kicked down, and his body tilts forward, ignorant of every scream, every plea, every noise of dissonance that begins to rise within the earlier so very peaceful and mundane street - and that's exactly when Castiel extends his hand. Palm out and open, waiting to collect, directed at the last of a dying breed. The world works at his behest, lowers its head in favor of great will and strength to do one and only one thing.
Castiel's quarry, the waiting martyr, he is elevated off the ground first, collected and squeezed from all sides by an unseen hand that comes down as if the wrath of God seeks justice for the transgressions committed, only to grow ever tighter in a secure hold. Then, the man is propelled. He's pulled into Castiel's grasp, traverses all three floors below in agonizing speed just to have his throat laid within Castiel's hands, and his whole body suspended at the edge.
In that proximity, the heat Castiel radiates is palpable. Searing. An undying fire, nigh-unbearable if it were not the thick of winter. The burrowing gold of his eyes in all their molten quality is drawn near - and all the weight of the man is placed at the nape of his neck, for Castiel relaxes a thumb laid at the center of their throat to give them the freedom to croak their words, while he asks his inquiry.
"Explain."
"We- we do God's will-" the man croaks. There is a senility to him, too young to take him, and thus imprinted upon him. "It is haah- no less than His will that we d-die to save the heavens.
"I am as Bartholomew." Faith speaks from a Martyr'd tongue, and yet he fears. It can be drunk deeply from as he hangs from the precipice of a disgraced messenger. It is the station that only the Apostles were given- but not all deaths today were apostles. All Martyr'd under the names of old and assumed their respects. Who will dissuade the dead from their glory? None can speak.
But this one- this man beginning to cook and already sweating salt, has not yet received judgment. His end is to be flayed and beheaded, and thus the Sapphire sits on the precipice of being worthless sacrifice- for in life, would he fail in his task. The question is given in offering, in peace to Castiel
What judgment do you give us?"
"We- we do God's will-" the man croaks. There is a senility to him, too young to take him, and thus imprinted upon him. "It is haah- no less than His will that we d-die to save the heavens."
"I am as Bartholomew." Faith speaks from a Martyr'd tongue, and yet he fears. It can be drunk deeply from as he hangs from the precipice of a disgraced messenger. It is the station that only the Apostles were given- but not all deaths today were apostles. All Martyr'd under the names of old and assumed their respects. Who will dissuade the dead from their glory? None can speak.
But this one- this man beginning to cook and already sweating salt, has not yet received judgment. His end is to be flayed and beheaded, and thus the Sapphire sits on the precipice of being worthless sacrifice- for in life, would he fail in his task. The question is given in offering, in peace to Castiel
What judgment do you give us?[fixed. Oopsie]
"You speak wisely."
Castiel draws the man closer. Not enough to give him any respite - no foothold to seek purchase and alleviate the tension at his neck, only enough to bring the searing heat of Castiel eye-to-eye. Molten eyes flit, drift, they take in the full visage of the man, and yet, there is a note there, as if he finds what he sees as lacking.
"Yet you also make little sense. Had God desired the death of so many, then it would've been so by his hand, not by yours." Again, that thumb is laid upon the man's throat at the center, pressing as if he might crush it. Coaxing every bit the fear out of him like a savory dish. "This is no respect given, but a misguided judgement passed on the very mortals that should understand both the wicked and the righteous are of God, and the distinction is scarce. What was oft necessary at times need not be so in others."
The martry isn't given the freedom to fall to his death, he isn't spared so easily. Castiel instead chucks him aside like he might do a weightless doll, to throw him upon solid ground at the top of the building where he is, skid upon hard and weatherworn exterior of the rooftop. "Your explanation is lacking. I will ask an easier question, then." And Castiel's eyes drift, follow the martry, watch him with somber, silent intensity culminated in the narrowing of his eyes.
"What is it that you want from me?"
The man skids, a roadburn (roofburn?) taking a streak off his skin. He scrambles not to fall- that isn't how Bartholomew is supposed to die, after all.
"We-" He coughs, voice choked hoarse from pressure and nerves, "seek nothing! We give!" He exclaims, managing to look at Castiel by looking far, far behind him. "We show that- that we are not the enemy. We work to-to save Heaven." A repeat of statement, a failure to correlate, "Flay and behead me for it is our cause. We are well and need no aid except to deny The Flame and Host their own hideous destinations. We ask you do not interfere for we are so far ahead of the misguided; their Hands, their Orders, their Temples that are not to Him but themselves-"
"Kill me as was done and recorded. I will die, a-angel, and my name will be in His memory."
Something that shouldn't rightly happen, happens. It's a slow sound at first - a spilled chuckle, then more. An ascending sound of laughter. Castiel's amusement bleeds out profusely, where he laughs, and laughs, and it is raw mirth laid therein, perfectly genuine, incredibly easy to settle over the vestige and make of this wolven shepherd in flocks clothing.
It doesn't subside for a while.
Not until Castiel draws the back of a digit beneath his eye, where a welled tear turns to steam and evaporates. That's when Castiel's eyes are back upon the Martry pleading his case, pledges an alliance of non-interference. Still, Castiel's expression is one of amusement, lightened now - subdued as if he's just heard something unusual and amusing from a wildened youth.
"What an offering you've laid on my plate."
But he doesn't seem the least bit interested in flaying and beheading of the sheep put on his table. Far from it. He doesn't even move from his place, sitting perfectly still. "I'll pass, you misguided, poor thing." Yet his actions are that of another thing, when he flicks his hand aside and snaps his fingers at the man. That unseen force returns, works in tandem with gravity as opposed to against it - only to squeeze him within an invisible hand and drag him by his throat up into the air where he'll stay suspended.
"Your creed is one that seeks destruction, whereas mine, it seeks to elevate. I quite like mortals, you see.." Another snap of his fingers, and a roiling fire erupts. It strikes the ground beneath the man's feet, swirling, swaying, completely acrid in its infernal hue of hellfire, purplish with darker streaks. "They are an immense enigma, and ones that I adore." In what manner, warped or otherwise, it is left to his mercurial nature - but the fire, it climbs higher. Catches upon the edge of his captive's pants, slithers underneath to coil about like a wicked serpent that sears far more presently and physically in its agonizingly slow ascent to cook the martry alive.
"If need be, I'll end the lot, and you, with them."
He screams. He's human, after all. There is a small error of important when one presents something as a play and not a reality. All ten of these Martyrs gave the names of people they are not, and thought themselves rewarded with those deeds.
"MY DEATH IS CELEBRATION!" He squirms, he writhes, someone beyond this scene watches and is silent. His foot kicks out to BE burned, and instinct takes him away. Like a dog that wants to jump in after its owner into the pool but cannot.
Truly, adorable.
The man is branded in coiled symbol not unlike the snake of Satan. Damnation, then, is the answer. No sniper shoots the man, for none truly care for him. The driver in the limo puts the vehicle in gear and begins to drive away.
For his dismay, what transpires is not his willful lean upon the flames of hell that have bent to heaven's will. The martry would find, as soon as he makes the first move, that kick he delivers to be burned also comes with release. The unseen hand of Castiel's does not hold him suspended longer, drops him right onto the floor of the rooftop.
Where the fires rage harsher.
They consume the whole of him, rise like a bonfire, swirl, consume, ascend higher and higher until there is nothing to see within infernal purple roiling and writhing in on itself, all to cascade upon the frail form of a mortal caught within with a minor explosion. Therein Castiel's smile wanes, so does his mirth. A mercurial shift to stone stoicism, a cold detachment and distant prevailed over any other emotion.
His fingers snap.
Another streak of fire joins the mass.
Then they snap again, and again, and again.
Each more ruthless than the last, with full intent to consume the totality of the man's life then and there with complete disregard of the car that leaves. Or so it seems. To interrupt Castiel is to pay, evidently, and so, while the man is left within the pyre that will eventually consume him, Castiel climbs to his feet. His eyes are on the vehicle that has begun to drive away, watching it from afar as it goes down the road.
Castiel disappears where he was a second ago.
Cracks that are left splintering are the only evidence that he ever occupied that spot upon the top of the building's edge, broken by the sheer strength of his launch like a catapult, and no vehicle could ever hope to achieve the speed with which he descends from so far away -- to land squarely upon the roof of the vehicle, where he's sunken on a single knee. Not because he needs to balance himself, but simply to be near for what he does next.
Fingers alit and agleam in that horrid flame lay upon the edge of the car's roof, melt it by sheer heat on top of the driver's side, and start to peel metal like he's opening a tin can with a delicious treat hidden within. If the supposed escapee even dares to look up - they'd see only eyes of molten hue, their fire and flame tainted far off in its center by an inkling of hell that has taken root - or perhaps was always present within the fallen angel himself.
The rake of a voice pyred upon flame is as anguished as it is forgotten. However, as it burns, it reveals an inhuman skeleton- small follicle spines dotting like nails, and even a few scales- a testament to expermintation. A change that achieves nothing other than to serve the man's death. Ten thousand dollars was the more acceptable price of this meeting.
As dark as the tinted windows are, they are not veiled to angelic perception. Two figures sit in either seat. A holy number- though one of them screams. There is the small urging of Sanctuary about them, should intent incur. Two women, one wrinkled and aged, another in her middling years, letting out a stifled yelp and a long scream respectively as the younger of the two slams on the breaks in the driver's seat to loose Castiel off the hood.
The long vehicle smoulders and wilts with a groan and squeal- a moment of euphoria amongst cacophany as the tritone of voice and flame hit a harmonic. The instruments are rust and fear, but age and emotion are not awful methods to sing.
If only it was not the decree of Sanctuary that deters any notion of immediate and crucial harm upon the both of them. Castiel's eyes are harsher, maybe because he knows, maybe because he doesn't - but that distinctly bloodthirsty approach is stunted before it has a chance to grow. He hardly even moves when they hit the breaks - and their roof, it is a melted slag that has been drawn like a curtain half-way through beneath Castiel.
"Pitiful."
That is all that Castiel offers to their scream, and a snap of his fingers leave them with a parting gift. Not done with intent to cause their demise, but one to no doubt harm, as well as he would be capable. An ember that drifts, purple, scalding -- and willing to set anything ablaze that it touches, slowly spreading and molting into more motes within their vehicle.
In the wake of it, Castiel is gone again.
Before the sliding vehicle at the height of its sudden break can come to a full-stop upon the frost-laden road, he's already elsewhere, launched the same distance from here to back whence he came, just about wholly upon the foot of the building where wreathed mist covets the slain bodies and claims them as its own. Through it, there is now another mercurial change of attitude. He's leaving, wandering into an alley, and sliding his hands into his pockets.
If anything, it is a sheer testament to what he intended for the escaping duo that the Sanctuary guided his actions to simply be elsewhere and leave, lest what swells at the back of his mind leaves them both alive but a broken shell, or worse, tortured beyond measure. Lucky, for them, but perhaps not so much for the Sapphire Martyrs that tried to vy for his attention in such a manner.
Because if Castiel is anything, he is a vindictive fallen - one that will most definitely remember.
A rich little hearse of living dead burns. Sirens are late, they always are in this town.
BONG
The single toll of a bell nearing afternoon, reminding everyone that noon lunch has passed.