Encounterlogs
Castiels Odd Encounter Sr Sam 250111
In a bleak and chilly afternoon on Willow Close, Castiel finds himself drawn from his reflective reverie by the peculiar sight of a clandestine exchange on the beach below. He witnesses a figure in black robes negotiate with armed mercenaries, a deal involving a duffel bag full of cash in return for a lead box. Castiel, intrigued not by the transaction but by the sense of fear emanating from the participants, decides to intervene. With precise and swift action, he stealthily immobilizes the robed figure, absorbing the fear and chaos that ensues. The mercenaries, recognizing the futility of confronting such a being, offer information in exchange for safe passage, revealing their cargo to be a "world tearer," a device of unstable gate magic destined for the Sapphire Martyrs. Castiel, feigning a destructive gesture towards the device, ultimately allows the terrified leader to flee, hinting at darker plans for the ominous artifact.
As the mercenaries' leader scrambles back to his ship, Castiel launches the lead box into the sea, targeting the mercenaries' ship. The box, containing a puzzle that activates an ancient, destructive power, eradicates the vessel, leaving a void in its wake. The encounter floods Castiel with knowledge and visions of ancient, forbidden tongues, momentarily overwhelming him. Despite this, he manages to regain control, sparing the city from further destruction. The aftermath leaves him weakened, bleeding signs of the mental struggle endured. Unexpectedly, he experiences healing from a protective spell, whispered by an unseen benefactor in a moment of reprieve. This act of mercy encapsulates the night's events, blending violence with grace, embodying the complex nature of intervention and the unforeseeable consequences of meddling with powers beyond mortal ken.
(Castiel's odd encounter(SRSam):SRSam)
[Fri Jan 10 2025]
On Willow Close
It is afternoon, about -4F(-20C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
The lights, they're a distraction from Castiel's time in reflection. As his eyes are drawn from the heavens and back down to earth, to peer into the distance and at the lights, that distant expression wrapped up in somber melancholy fades. Slowly, but surely. What's behind it isn't wrath or anything of such note - it is merely a cant of his head in observation, in lidding eyes that hold a smidge of curiosity.
"Johnson, keep your steed warm."
The words, meant for the driver sitting beneath him in his seat of the limo, elicit a subtle acknowledgement in a hat tipped out before returned, and Castiel's clothes shift. The jacket on his back is slid lower, while the tee beneath is torn asunder in a single slither of feathers that spill freely.
Darkness couldn't even tarnish a single feather in the unfolding wings, and in their projection, the car sinks lower as if suddenly aware of a weight it did not before while white falls like a curtain, draped on all sides of the vehicle. Castiel stands with it, with them, and a single beat is all it takes before he's off into the sky - there one second, and gone the next. Launched like a catapult that sets an eerie silence in swirling wind in his wake like a tempest rising.
The distance between him and the beach is made none, immediately, while a tree has to bear the burden of his weight now, while he steps onto it like he appeared from thin air, crouched on a thicker branch and gazing down to stare at whatever this beach-goer is glancing about for- in between furtive looks stolen of the ship afar.
The figures down below seem to have eyes mostly for ground-based threats, and thus, somehow, do not see the winged figure in that tree. It takes a little while, but soon, a figure, clad in simple kevlar, wearing a balaclava, steps out. The figure is flanked by two others, each armed with heavy duty assault rifles, and bearing identical, openly worn insignae: A golden dagger plunged through a shadowy globe.
The figure on the beach approaches them, and words are exchanged, which someone can partially catch. They seem to be discussing a pre-negotiated price. They exchange little pleasantries, but soon enough, the figure on the beach, who wears black robes, and a simple, featureless mask, puts a duffel bag down. The armed figures open it, to reveal wads of cash.
The figures down below seem to have eyes mostly for ground-based threats, and thus, somehow, do not see the winged figure in that tree. It takes a little while, but soon, a figure, clad in simple kevlar, wearing a balaclava, steps out. The figure is flanked by two others, each armed with heavy duty assault rifles, and bearing identical, openly worn insignae: A golden dagger plunged through a shadowy globe.
The figure on the beach approaches them, and words are exchanged, which Castiel can partially catch. They seem to be discussing a pre-negotiated price. They exchange little pleasantries, but soon enough, the figure on the beach, who wears black robes, and a simple, featureless mask, puts a duffel bag down. The armed figures open it, to reveal wads of cash.
Like a bystander, Castiel doesn't intervene in the slightest with the transaction, but the sight of that openly worn insignia is what draws his attention in. They're under the scrutiny of his eyes now, molten ambers that instead of remain lidded, become sharp and narrow. Gone is the distant look of a drifter that's enjoying the breeze, the storm.
In his stead, is Castiel. His wings slide back to fold with a sound that disappears within the natural din of the shore, like grains of sand shifting as they gather. It isn't for pause or stillness, it's the grace of an ambush predator preparing a lunge, diminishing anything that would create wind resistance.
But as any predator ought to, he waits.
Bides his time in the sight of the exchange, while the possible notion of flying over yonder to that ship is gone. The bag of cash is ignored dismissively, but the men, especially the one with the mask, has is undiluted attention bearing down upon the back of his skull.
The man in the mask has the smell, that seductive, delicious smell and feel of fear on him. It seeps into Castiel, tempting, teasing, as the psychic resonance trickles into Castiel's strength, however little that is. But the armed figures seem satisfied, and a lead box is produced, a handhold on it like a briefcase. It's plunked onto the beach, and some words are exchanged. Sarcasm from the armed forces' leader, as he seems to scoff at even the notion of opening the case without the proper precautions.
Meanwhile, that masked figure's fear reduces, he breathes out a soft sigh of relief, and goes to collect his prize, while the mercs make to leave, their own duffel-bagged price secured. In that brief moment, each figure has their backs turned. A very unwise notion, in any predator's book.
So it is.
That fateful lunge arrives.
Barely a second where breath mists anyone's face, barely within the span of a blink, and there is a wrathful, sudden beat of wings as well as a catapult-esque launch that sends Castiel erupting downward. The actual sound comes belatedly, only after he's landed.
And he lands with the soft grace of someone that doesn't merely command, but is the very embodiment of the speed he wields. Barely a single grain shifted underfoot, barely anything felt -- until his hand extends to be set upon the shoulder of the man that took hold of his long awaited prize in a box.
Another second, and he's upon the man, arms draped over his shoulders in a wrap-around his throat in an iron-lock, keeping the his prey captive within the protective, as well as destructive circle of his arms. "How fallen have the Martyrs, to carry a transaction in open-view." Says the archangel that has his wings unfolded at his back, spread out and open in terrifying radiance.
Already that insidious force of his existence spreads the uncanny lethargy they are doomed to be inflicted with eventually, coiled within their bones and sapping every ounce of vitality by the sheer manifestation of every single emotion that he drinks like a parched man in an oasis. "Good things ought to be shared."
A scream, from the man, and every figure in the exchange grunts. They visibly sag, and from the robed figure, fear, rage, helpless panic, and many other emotions flow. From the mercenaries, anger, then calm. The leader gestures, and nods to Castiel. "We have no quarrel with you, hn..." He pauses, clearly having trouble speaking as he gestures urgently to his companions to hurry along. "G-great one." He even bows his head, slowly, carefully, backing away to his sloop. He seems to hope that humility might buy him the precious time he needs to take off, absolutely leaving the poor, trembling cultist in Castiel's arms to his fate.
Meanwhile, the man, who, by the smell of it, definately needs a new set of pants, is sagging. He tries to speak, but being so near, so afraid, and so so helpless, he all but quivers as his life-force drains. "Ah... hn..." A soft attempt to reason. "Mercy..." His voice is soft, terribly young. This is definately an expendible pawn. "Mercy!" He speaks, louder, more urgent, seemingly unawares that his very fear is hastening his demise.
Silence is all that replies to every single one of them. Castiel doesn't bother to speak yet, not while he feels that pulse trapped against his forearm, and the sweet, intoxicating scent of fear spreads in the air. It doesn't shift his steeled expression, not an ounce of recognition to it. He doesn't bask, nor does he indulge - but the very weight of his presence, the very real act of feeding is upon them all in all of its force, beyond the simple, passive drain of being near him.
When he does deign to spare them words, it is while liberating a hand away from the man he holds to dip it to what he's acquired, snatch it from his hands and hold it away and at bay. "Mercy is spared for the penitent." The words echo beyond his voice, a thousand different ones laid beneath his own, preceding only a thud while he drops that valuable cargo onto the sand.
"Yet, you are lucky." He graces them with a smile. One that is perfect, yet also perfectly cruel beneath lidded eyes that smolder perpetually. The echo is gone, only his voice remains now, harsh in whisper, like a blade drawn from its sheath. "I cannot harm you greatly within this town," But he could, to some extent. One of his legs shifts forward to intercept the side of his captive, while his arm pulls in that direction to tip the man over and throw whim straight upon the ground- at a jutting, blunt rock aimed for his skull.
Not to smash open his skull like a watermelon and splatter his insides, but to knock him unconscious. The leveled stare that he gives others, it harbors every ill-will of his intentions. "I only need one of you to tell me of this. Decide who - the rest, I'll offer absolution." In suffering.
A scream, and the cultist hits the rock, his head bouncing, then twisting, as he is definately concussed, and unconscious. Seems the magic of this town protected him. The mercenaries freeze. The guards look to their leader, who speaks slowly, and deliberately.
It is clear from the hint of fear in his aura. This is a man who has, will, and intends to kill. He is beyond the protection of any of the town's wards. Where the young, possibly ignorant cultist who lies upon the rock might have it, none of these obviously martially inclined people have it. Then, through the silence, a voice.
"I will give you information." A pause. "Hospitality! Hospitality, on Venice, as we speak, and until I have--" A pause, and one of the guards speaks out. "Don't you mean w--" He is cut off. "Shut the fuck up Damorov!" The leader continues his bargain. "Until I have returned to the boat." He seems to think he is in any position to bargain. And he does so, with the lives of his minions. Desperation seeps from him, as anger surges from the two others. As the leader regards Castiel, a pair of guns are slowly, subtly, cocked and the safeties undone.
Normal men might not have a chance to react. But Castiel is not one of those.
The infighting that ensues brings to light another smile. One just as worse as the one before. Still perfect, still cruel, and he has the heightened senses to match, to hear the subtle click of a gun beneath the din of their conversation. But the sense that they are bereft of sanctuary - that is what breaks the serenity of his stalwart stance.
So what if he'll lose his own for a while?
A blink, then, is all that passes before the ground he was upon is aswirl in roused sand and wind cast away, and he's gone from sight. It isn't merely the speed with which he acts, but this time there is more. A gleam of light, radiant, blurring - Castiel paths ahead, and in his exit of that ray, his elbow is aligned straight and forward.
Right at the throat of the first minion.
The raw strength of the strike is beyond mortal ken, beyond the technique a mortal, a lesser, or even some of his own stature in the hierarchy of monstrosities can match. In the absence of a blade to wield, he acts the sword himself, in judging, and execution. All in an effort to snap the neck of a man that encountered a creature that happened to be at the right place at the right time.
With a sickening, well, to the humans around, certainly, crack, the man, earlier identified as Damorov, expires. He manages a singular, croaking "Su-" before he expires. The second minion, distracted, opens his mouth to fire at Castiel ...
A gunshot. A thud upon the beach, and a softer one. The second minion falls, a single bullet fired from the leader's handgun ending him. Immediately, that handgun is dropped, and the leader is on his knees. Maybe he is surrendering, maybe he lacks the strength, bravery, or just utter sanity to remain upright. He puts his hands behind his head, and looks to Castiel. "Hospitality! Hospitality! I'll spill!" Where earlier his fear was a wariness, a respectful nod to a fellow hunter, now the man is truely terrified. He sags, trembling to not collapse as his eyes, wide behind that balaclava, lock onto Castiel, then firmly, on the ground at Castiel's feet.
Whereas Castiel was very prepared to end another life, the fact that their leader does it for him is bliss enough. He turns slowly upon the man that begs for Venice's hospitality - only until he's upon his ship again. Therein lies a nefarious idea, and Castiel, he stares down with that unblinking, burrowing stare. Entirely uncanny in the gleam and glow of his eyes that rise in smoldering, divine flame.
While the man is on his knees, Castiel sinks, too, on a single knee. His arm rests over it while he continues to stare into his eyes, and his wings, those terrifying, blade-like feathers just as tough and sharp, fall around them in every set unfolded. Like a blot of white upon the shore, veiling from sight in their half-circle descent around the man to create a canopy above.
Though in it, one side splays wider, and they act as if an extra set of limbs. A sharp slam upon the ground skewers into the small gap upon the handle of the discarded suitcase, draws it closer in between them and leaves it there while his wing spreads again.
"I will show clemency, for deciveness is noble."
There isn't an ounce of honesty to Castiel's words, the notion that he's playing with him is too palpable, too real. "What does the Sapphire Martyrs want of you - and what have you brought them, what they intend. Enlighten me, and you will have safe passage to your vessel."
Not a singular shred or thought in the man's expression or movements shows he wants to deceive. He knows he has no choice. So he starts spilling, talking quick, panicking, and utterly dropping any semblance of being a bad-ass.
"World tearer. G-gate magic, far as I know." He pauses, and squirms, like a schoolboy red-handed. He looks up at Castiel. "To the beyond, y-ya know, the big empty one."
He looks to Castiel, and trembles. "That's all I know, I swear! Thing's unstable as shit, and about a million eyes are scrying it, s-so I just wanna fucking go, man, please!" He seems on the verge of breaking down, sagging under the weight of Castiel's very presence.
Sagging or not, Castiel keeps his eyes upon the man still. His hand extends lower to trace over the suitcase that holds this enigma of power, and he smiles even more because of it. It's a predatory kind of look, one too sharp, too uncanny, wrapped up in the artistry of his perfection, the mold of his make in divine craft.
"So many eyes upon one thing, how precious.."
Fire erupts where he touches. In every line drawn, divinity is made manifest in flames that consume, combust, collect upon not just the surface, but near-instantly the whole thing with a will to melt the very container that holds this unstable object.
Except, it doesn't. He's only playing into the late leader's fear, while fire turns to ash and leaves all untouched and unharmed. A little trick, nothing but. Yet, he is satisfied with that, evident in the pull of his wings that slowly fold in return upon his back.
"I do not wish ill upon you."
A dismissal is given, offered with a slow upnod, away.
"Flee, mortal. Take your coin and disappear."
As for the Tear, Castiel possibly has other ideas. He won't claim it, not for himself, but it's likely that he intends for its destruction, by any means possible. Something for later, something eventual, certain, but not immediate. His last word is a warning, as much as it is a promise of violence. Or perhaps just so one person is left living to tell the tale of the possible dangers, here in Haven.
"Before I change my mind."
Panic sears in the man's eyes as the container seems to be in danger, then relief. Then panic again. When those wings retract, he skitters.
Happy, relieved, and above all, tired, on the brink of fainting, the man struggles back to his sloop, not even bothering to grab his late allies. The duffel bag is hoisted into it, and soon, the man is off.
His sloop starts off into the dark of night, a light weakly flashed at the ship. Flash, flash flash. He was under-way to his boat. If Castiel wanted to give chase, he'd have a good few moments, or perhaps the angel will be merciful...
That silence from earlier, oppressive and overbearing, it returns in Castiel's slowy rise. One of his wings scoop up the suitcase again, to deliver it to his hold proper. Castiel waits with it, but his eyes are only far upon the water that carries the man along the coast.
It might be deliberation in his eyes, or something else - but he does slowly unfurl his wings again. All the way, in preparation for an ascent. One that's quiet in rise, leapt up into the sky with a mighty gust of wind carried beneath his feathers.
He doesn't go back whence he came - he's heading out into the sea, too. A white blur, a comet that passes overhead of the scoop- then rising higher and higher on a draft until the small dot of him disappears within the stormy clouds up ahead. They forebode his intentions - something born of mercurial decisions.
Castiel doesn't come back to sight, but before the man can return to his ship - something falls from the sky. A burning, smoldering suitcase, half-open and crackling with unsteady power that's rising in rapture that can only be found in unleashed energy. It definitely moves faster than it should, heavier, in a straight trajectory - not merely dropped, but thrown, guided, like a volatile missile heading not for the man's boat...
But the whole ship that waits out on the sea.
The suitcase opens, and out flies a puzzle-box, the item whirring to life immediately. It humms, it growls, it hisses, then, it's on fire. Like a brick, it falls. Something cracks. The box opens.
Silence, then, around the box. Not in serenity, but in he very absence of everything. A scream. Wordless, ancient, and incomprehensible. Blackness pours from the box, the fire, the sloop, and the very fabric of reality shivers.
Down below, a sphere of a nasty, oily blackness expands, expands, then sucks inward. The sloop is gone, and a good sphere, about five feet in diameter, of the bay's water is just... gone. Erased from existence, perhaps, or perhaps it never was.
Then, a screech. Unworldly, and ancient. A rumbling explosion of a sickly, black, oily, and unnatural light expands outward. A shimmer in reality, and a singular eye watches upward.
In that instant, the knowledge of a thousand aeons rushes through Castiel's mind. Ancient, even for his measure. Screaming roars in tongues forbidden, unknown, and unspoken rush through his consciousness. The last of the fire seems to consume that puzzle box.
All is silent, that knowledge, so clear but mere moments ago, now un-reachable, intangible, and but a mere memory of what was, what could be, and what shall be. With a shiver, reality folds over itself again, and that tear, and the terible, eldritch eye beyond is gone. Like it never was. Left is a feeling of absence. Of nothingness. Maybe it lingers, maybe it does not.
Such power wasn't for mankind to wield, and neither for Castiel. As everything is reduced to simple nothing, an absence that never was, and never could be - Castiel is struck by it midair. As the cost of this destruction he swayed, beyond the smoldering gaze that meets the eldritch one below - he falls.
A streak of radiant light from the sky like a shooting star, descending, frost-laden, for a moment all but out of commission and consciousness. Tucked in wings only increase the speed at which he approaches the sea below, where the force of impact would no doubt reduce anyone to paste.
It's only after a few agonizing seconds of wait that he regains his bearings - and seconds before the collusion, Castiel's wings unfold, beat like a thunder is laid within, and their equal parts scorched and frost-bitten ends are guided high to graze only the surface of the sea before he's back on trajectory.
His flight is unsteady, just as much as it is plagued.
Not by what he's done, for even in servitute to radiance, he is a monster made and one at the zenith of it. His lonesome driver and vehicle awaits - no doubt to collect a collapsing Castiel and stow him away and elsewhere for a time of recovery - because in his return, he only bleeds through that hard-hewn visage. Stain of red at the corner of his mouth, beneath his eyes, and his ears - like that very forbidden knowledge tried to claw its way out of his skull.
There is one reprieve. During his rest, he feels the touch of magic. Worldly in nature, beneficial even. Something is raised around him. Protection. As the weave completes, he might hear, from the back of his mind, a young voice, one he has heard but moments before, when on the beach.
"Repeto Praesidio Sancuarium"
Seems that in mercy, there is grace, even as the memories of this night-time exchange on the beach might claim their part, so does sparing someone, intentional or no, reap it's reward.
As the mercenaries' leader scrambles back to his ship, Castiel launches the lead box into the sea, targeting the mercenaries' ship. The box, containing a puzzle that activates an ancient, destructive power, eradicates the vessel, leaving a void in its wake. The encounter floods Castiel with knowledge and visions of ancient, forbidden tongues, momentarily overwhelming him. Despite this, he manages to regain control, sparing the city from further destruction. The aftermath leaves him weakened, bleeding signs of the mental struggle endured. Unexpectedly, he experiences healing from a protective spell, whispered by an unseen benefactor in a moment of reprieve. This act of mercy encapsulates the night's events, blending violence with grace, embodying the complex nature of intervention and the unforeseeable consequences of meddling with powers beyond mortal ken.
(Castiel's odd encounter(SRSam):SRSam)
[Fri Jan 10 2025]
On Willow Close
It is afternoon, about -4F(-20C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
The lights, they're a distraction from Castiel's time in reflection. As his eyes are drawn from the heavens and back down to earth, to peer into the distance and at the lights, that distant expression wrapped up in somber melancholy fades. Slowly, but surely. What's behind it isn't wrath or anything of such note - it is merely a cant of his head in observation, in lidding eyes that hold a smidge of curiosity.
"Johnson, keep your steed warm."
The words, meant for the driver sitting beneath him in his seat of the limo, elicit a subtle acknowledgement in a hat tipped out before returned, and Castiel's clothes shift. The jacket on his back is slid lower, while the tee beneath is torn asunder in a single slither of feathers that spill freely.
Darkness couldn't even tarnish a single feather in the unfolding wings, and in their projection, the car sinks lower as if suddenly aware of a weight it did not before while white falls like a curtain, draped on all sides of the vehicle. Castiel stands with it, with them, and a single beat is all it takes before he's off into the sky - there one second, and gone the next. Launched like a catapult that sets an eerie silence in swirling wind in his wake like a tempest rising.
The distance between him and the beach is made none, immediately, while a tree has to bear the burden of his weight now, while he steps onto it like he appeared from thin air, crouched on a thicker branch and gazing down to stare at whatever this beach-goer is glancing about for- in between furtive looks stolen of the ship afar.
The figures down below seem to have eyes mostly for ground-based threats, and thus, somehow, do not see the winged figure in that tree. It takes a little while, but soon, a figure, clad in simple kevlar, wearing a balaclava, steps out. The figure is flanked by two others, each armed with heavy duty assault rifles, and bearing identical, openly worn insignae: A golden dagger plunged through a shadowy globe.
The figure on the beach approaches them, and words are exchanged, which someone can partially catch. They seem to be discussing a pre-negotiated price. They exchange little pleasantries, but soon enough, the figure on the beach, who wears black robes, and a simple, featureless mask, puts a duffel bag down. The armed figures open it, to reveal wads of cash.
The figures down below seem to have eyes mostly for ground-based threats, and thus, somehow, do not see the winged figure in that tree. It takes a little while, but soon, a figure, clad in simple kevlar, wearing a balaclava, steps out. The figure is flanked by two others, each armed with heavy duty assault rifles, and bearing identical, openly worn insignae: A golden dagger plunged through a shadowy globe.
The figure on the beach approaches them, and words are exchanged, which Castiel can partially catch. They seem to be discussing a pre-negotiated price. They exchange little pleasantries, but soon enough, the figure on the beach, who wears black robes, and a simple, featureless mask, puts a duffel bag down. The armed figures open it, to reveal wads of cash.
Like a bystander, Castiel doesn't intervene in the slightest with the transaction, but the sight of that openly worn insignia is what draws his attention in. They're under the scrutiny of his eyes now, molten ambers that instead of remain lidded, become sharp and narrow. Gone is the distant look of a drifter that's enjoying the breeze, the storm.
In his stead, is Castiel. His wings slide back to fold with a sound that disappears within the natural din of the shore, like grains of sand shifting as they gather. It isn't for pause or stillness, it's the grace of an ambush predator preparing a lunge, diminishing anything that would create wind resistance.
But as any predator ought to, he waits.
Bides his time in the sight of the exchange, while the possible notion of flying over yonder to that ship is gone. The bag of cash is ignored dismissively, but the men, especially the one with the mask, has is undiluted attention bearing down upon the back of his skull.
The man in the mask has the smell, that seductive, delicious smell and feel of fear on him. It seeps into Castiel, tempting, teasing, as the psychic resonance trickles into Castiel's strength, however little that is. But the armed figures seem satisfied, and a lead box is produced, a handhold on it like a briefcase. It's plunked onto the beach, and some words are exchanged. Sarcasm from the armed forces' leader, as he seems to scoff at even the notion of opening the case without the proper precautions.
Meanwhile, that masked figure's fear reduces, he breathes out a soft sigh of relief, and goes to collect his prize, while the mercs make to leave, their own duffel-bagged price secured. In that brief moment, each figure has their backs turned. A very unwise notion, in any predator's book.
So it is.
That fateful lunge arrives.
Barely a second where breath mists anyone's face, barely within the span of a blink, and there is a wrathful, sudden beat of wings as well as a catapult-esque launch that sends Castiel erupting downward. The actual sound comes belatedly, only after he's landed.
And he lands with the soft grace of someone that doesn't merely command, but is the very embodiment of the speed he wields. Barely a single grain shifted underfoot, barely anything felt -- until his hand extends to be set upon the shoulder of the man that took hold of his long awaited prize in a box.
Another second, and he's upon the man, arms draped over his shoulders in a wrap-around his throat in an iron-lock, keeping the his prey captive within the protective, as well as destructive circle of his arms. "How fallen have the Martyrs, to carry a transaction in open-view." Says the archangel that has his wings unfolded at his back, spread out and open in terrifying radiance.
Already that insidious force of his existence spreads the uncanny lethargy they are doomed to be inflicted with eventually, coiled within their bones and sapping every ounce of vitality by the sheer manifestation of every single emotion that he drinks like a parched man in an oasis. "Good things ought to be shared."
A scream, from the man, and every figure in the exchange grunts. They visibly sag, and from the robed figure, fear, rage, helpless panic, and many other emotions flow. From the mercenaries, anger, then calm. The leader gestures, and nods to Castiel. "We have no quarrel with you, hn..." He pauses, clearly having trouble speaking as he gestures urgently to his companions to hurry along. "G-great one." He even bows his head, slowly, carefully, backing away to his sloop. He seems to hope that humility might buy him the precious time he needs to take off, absolutely leaving the poor, trembling cultist in Castiel's arms to his fate.
Meanwhile, the man, who, by the smell of it, definately needs a new set of pants, is sagging. He tries to speak, but being so near, so afraid, and so so helpless, he all but quivers as his life-force drains. "Ah... hn..." A soft attempt to reason. "Mercy..." His voice is soft, terribly young. This is definately an expendible pawn. "Mercy!" He speaks, louder, more urgent, seemingly unawares that his very fear is hastening his demise.
Silence is all that replies to every single one of them. Castiel doesn't bother to speak yet, not while he feels that pulse trapped against his forearm, and the sweet, intoxicating scent of fear spreads in the air. It doesn't shift his steeled expression, not an ounce of recognition to it. He doesn't bask, nor does he indulge - but the very weight of his presence, the very real act of feeding is upon them all in all of its force, beyond the simple, passive drain of being near him.
When he does deign to spare them words, it is while liberating a hand away from the man he holds to dip it to what he's acquired, snatch it from his hands and hold it away and at bay. "Mercy is spared for the penitent." The words echo beyond his voice, a thousand different ones laid beneath his own, preceding only a thud while he drops that valuable cargo onto the sand.
"Yet, you are lucky." He graces them with a smile. One that is perfect, yet also perfectly cruel beneath lidded eyes that smolder perpetually. The echo is gone, only his voice remains now, harsh in whisper, like a blade drawn from its sheath. "I cannot harm you greatly within this town," But he could, to some extent. One of his legs shifts forward to intercept the side of his captive, while his arm pulls in that direction to tip the man over and throw whim straight upon the ground- at a jutting, blunt rock aimed for his skull.
Not to smash open his skull like a watermelon and splatter his insides, but to knock him unconscious. The leveled stare that he gives others, it harbors every ill-will of his intentions. "I only need one of you to tell me of this. Decide who - the rest, I'll offer absolution." In suffering.
A scream, and the cultist hits the rock, his head bouncing, then twisting, as he is definately concussed, and unconscious. Seems the magic of this town protected him. The mercenaries freeze. The guards look to their leader, who speaks slowly, and deliberately.
It is clear from the hint of fear in his aura. This is a man who has, will, and intends to kill. He is beyond the protection of any of the town's wards. Where the young, possibly ignorant cultist who lies upon the rock might have it, none of these obviously martially inclined people have it. Then, through the silence, a voice.
"I will give you information." A pause. "Hospitality! Hospitality, on Venice, as we speak, and until I have--" A pause, and one of the guards speaks out. "Don't you mean w--" He is cut off. "Shut the fuck up Damorov!" The leader continues his bargain. "Until I have returned to the boat." He seems to think he is in any position to bargain. And he does so, with the lives of his minions. Desperation seeps from him, as anger surges from the two others. As the leader regards Castiel, a pair of guns are slowly, subtly, cocked and the safeties undone.
Normal men might not have a chance to react. But Castiel is not one of those.
The infighting that ensues brings to light another smile. One just as worse as the one before. Still perfect, still cruel, and he has the heightened senses to match, to hear the subtle click of a gun beneath the din of their conversation. But the sense that they are bereft of sanctuary - that is what breaks the serenity of his stalwart stance.
So what if he'll lose his own for a while?
A blink, then, is all that passes before the ground he was upon is aswirl in roused sand and wind cast away, and he's gone from sight. It isn't merely the speed with which he acts, but this time there is more. A gleam of light, radiant, blurring - Castiel paths ahead, and in his exit of that ray, his elbow is aligned straight and forward.
Right at the throat of the first minion.
The raw strength of the strike is beyond mortal ken, beyond the technique a mortal, a lesser, or even some of his own stature in the hierarchy of monstrosities can match. In the absence of a blade to wield, he acts the sword himself, in judging, and execution. All in an effort to snap the neck of a man that encountered a creature that happened to be at the right place at the right time.
With a sickening, well, to the humans around, certainly, crack, the man, earlier identified as Damorov, expires. He manages a singular, croaking "Su-" before he expires. The second minion, distracted, opens his mouth to fire at Castiel ...
A gunshot. A thud upon the beach, and a softer one. The second minion falls, a single bullet fired from the leader's handgun ending him. Immediately, that handgun is dropped, and the leader is on his knees. Maybe he is surrendering, maybe he lacks the strength, bravery, or just utter sanity to remain upright. He puts his hands behind his head, and looks to Castiel. "Hospitality! Hospitality! I'll spill!" Where earlier his fear was a wariness, a respectful nod to a fellow hunter, now the man is truely terrified. He sags, trembling to not collapse as his eyes, wide behind that balaclava, lock onto Castiel, then firmly, on the ground at Castiel's feet.
Whereas Castiel was very prepared to end another life, the fact that their leader does it for him is bliss enough. He turns slowly upon the man that begs for Venice's hospitality - only until he's upon his ship again. Therein lies a nefarious idea, and Castiel, he stares down with that unblinking, burrowing stare. Entirely uncanny in the gleam and glow of his eyes that rise in smoldering, divine flame.
While the man is on his knees, Castiel sinks, too, on a single knee. His arm rests over it while he continues to stare into his eyes, and his wings, those terrifying, blade-like feathers just as tough and sharp, fall around them in every set unfolded. Like a blot of white upon the shore, veiling from sight in their half-circle descent around the man to create a canopy above.
Though in it, one side splays wider, and they act as if an extra set of limbs. A sharp slam upon the ground skewers into the small gap upon the handle of the discarded suitcase, draws it closer in between them and leaves it there while his wing spreads again.
"I will show clemency, for deciveness is noble."
There isn't an ounce of honesty to Castiel's words, the notion that he's playing with him is too palpable, too real. "What does the Sapphire Martyrs want of you - and what have you brought them, what they intend. Enlighten me, and you will have safe passage to your vessel."
Not a singular shred or thought in the man's expression or movements shows he wants to deceive. He knows he has no choice. So he starts spilling, talking quick, panicking, and utterly dropping any semblance of being a bad-ass.
"World tearer. G-gate magic, far as I know." He pauses, and squirms, like a schoolboy red-handed. He looks up at Castiel. "To the beyond, y-ya know, the big empty one."
He looks to Castiel, and trembles. "That's all I know, I swear! Thing's unstable as shit, and about a million eyes are scrying it, s-so I just wanna fucking go, man, please!" He seems on the verge of breaking down, sagging under the weight of Castiel's very presence.
Sagging or not, Castiel keeps his eyes upon the man still. His hand extends lower to trace over the suitcase that holds this enigma of power, and he smiles even more because of it. It's a predatory kind of look, one too sharp, too uncanny, wrapped up in the artistry of his perfection, the mold of his make in divine craft.
"So many eyes upon one thing, how precious.."
Fire erupts where he touches. In every line drawn, divinity is made manifest in flames that consume, combust, collect upon not just the surface, but near-instantly the whole thing with a will to melt the very container that holds this unstable object.
Except, it doesn't. He's only playing into the late leader's fear, while fire turns to ash and leaves all untouched and unharmed. A little trick, nothing but. Yet, he is satisfied with that, evident in the pull of his wings that slowly fold in return upon his back.
"I do not wish ill upon you."
A dismissal is given, offered with a slow upnod, away.
"Flee, mortal. Take your coin and disappear."
As for the Tear, Castiel possibly has other ideas. He won't claim it, not for himself, but it's likely that he intends for its destruction, by any means possible. Something for later, something eventual, certain, but not immediate. His last word is a warning, as much as it is a promise of violence. Or perhaps just so one person is left living to tell the tale of the possible dangers, here in Haven.
"Before I change my mind."
Panic sears in the man's eyes as the container seems to be in danger, then relief. Then panic again. When those wings retract, he skitters.
Happy, relieved, and above all, tired, on the brink of fainting, the man struggles back to his sloop, not even bothering to grab his late allies. The duffel bag is hoisted into it, and soon, the man is off.
His sloop starts off into the dark of night, a light weakly flashed at the ship. Flash, flash flash. He was under-way to his boat. If Castiel wanted to give chase, he'd have a good few moments, or perhaps the angel will be merciful...
That silence from earlier, oppressive and overbearing, it returns in Castiel's slowy rise. One of his wings scoop up the suitcase again, to deliver it to his hold proper. Castiel waits with it, but his eyes are only far upon the water that carries the man along the coast.
It might be deliberation in his eyes, or something else - but he does slowly unfurl his wings again. All the way, in preparation for an ascent. One that's quiet in rise, leapt up into the sky with a mighty gust of wind carried beneath his feathers.
He doesn't go back whence he came - he's heading out into the sea, too. A white blur, a comet that passes overhead of the scoop- then rising higher and higher on a draft until the small dot of him disappears within the stormy clouds up ahead. They forebode his intentions - something born of mercurial decisions.
Castiel doesn't come back to sight, but before the man can return to his ship - something falls from the sky. A burning, smoldering suitcase, half-open and crackling with unsteady power that's rising in rapture that can only be found in unleashed energy. It definitely moves faster than it should, heavier, in a straight trajectory - not merely dropped, but thrown, guided, like a volatile missile heading not for the man's boat...
But the whole ship that waits out on the sea.
The suitcase opens, and out flies a puzzle-box, the item whirring to life immediately. It humms, it growls, it hisses, then, it's on fire. Like a brick, it falls. Something cracks. The box opens.
Silence, then, around the box. Not in serenity, but in he very absence of everything. A scream. Wordless, ancient, and incomprehensible. Blackness pours from the box, the fire, the sloop, and the very fabric of reality shivers.
Down below, a sphere of a nasty, oily blackness expands, expands, then sucks inward. The sloop is gone, and a good sphere, about five feet in diameter, of the bay's water is just... gone. Erased from existence, perhaps, or perhaps it never was.
Then, a screech. Unworldly, and ancient. A rumbling explosion of a sickly, black, oily, and unnatural light expands outward. A shimmer in reality, and a singular eye watches upward.
In that instant, the knowledge of a thousand aeons rushes through Castiel's mind. Ancient, even for his measure. Screaming roars in tongues forbidden, unknown, and unspoken rush through his consciousness. The last of the fire seems to consume that puzzle box.
All is silent, that knowledge, so clear but mere moments ago, now un-reachable, intangible, and but a mere memory of what was, what could be, and what shall be. With a shiver, reality folds over itself again, and that tear, and the terible, eldritch eye beyond is gone. Like it never was. Left is a feeling of absence. Of nothingness. Maybe it lingers, maybe it does not.
Such power wasn't for mankind to wield, and neither for Castiel. As everything is reduced to simple nothing, an absence that never was, and never could be - Castiel is struck by it midair. As the cost of this destruction he swayed, beyond the smoldering gaze that meets the eldritch one below - he falls.
A streak of radiant light from the sky like a shooting star, descending, frost-laden, for a moment all but out of commission and consciousness. Tucked in wings only increase the speed at which he approaches the sea below, where the force of impact would no doubt reduce anyone to paste.
It's only after a few agonizing seconds of wait that he regains his bearings - and seconds before the collusion, Castiel's wings unfold, beat like a thunder is laid within, and their equal parts scorched and frost-bitten ends are guided high to graze only the surface of the sea before he's back on trajectory.
His flight is unsteady, just as much as it is plagued.
Not by what he's done, for even in servitute to radiance, he is a monster made and one at the zenith of it. His lonesome driver and vehicle awaits - no doubt to collect a collapsing Castiel and stow him away and elsewhere for a time of recovery - because in his return, he only bleeds through that hard-hewn visage. Stain of red at the corner of his mouth, beneath his eyes, and his ears - like that very forbidden knowledge tried to claw its way out of his skull.
There is one reprieve. During his rest, he feels the touch of magic. Worldly in nature, beneficial even. Something is raised around him. Protection. As the weave completes, he might hear, from the back of his mind, a young voice, one he has heard but moments before, when on the beach.
"Repeto Praesidio Sancuarium"
Seems that in mercy, there is grace, even as the memories of this night-time exchange on the beach might claim their part, so does sparing someone, intentional or no, reap it's reward.