Patrollogs
(Castiel's nightmare battle with Novel)
[Tue Jan 21 2025]
In a hidden shrine
The walls, ceiling and floor of this room have been pained a deep obsidian, the only light in the room coming from dimmed spots in the four corners.
Around the bottom of the wall, a double line of green is drawn, like a band of jade.
On the western wall, a large mural of a snake, devouring it's own tail is drawn.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
Euphemia rises to stand next to Castiel, glancing down at herself. "...Sir." She greets.
Sam says "Uuuh. "
Sam says "Oh, you're so fucked."
Beside Euphemia, Castiel stands like a warrior straight out of a medieval fair. His armor gleams in scorched, muted hues reflecting of the abyssal dark - while the sword at his side is twisted. Motion brings light, and flames erupt to shed light into the nothing that extends. A nod given aside, and Castiel elevates. The sound of wings beating, set upon set upon set fills the expanse - terrifying, foreboding, and threatening.
Sam says "Awwwwh shit."
Sam says "Well, shall we get on with this? I think it'll be quick, but I ain't about rolling over."
Castiel says "Stand close to me, Euphemia."
Castiel says "I will be the shield, focus on those that take to range."
Crouching into a defensive stance, Sam chuckles some. "Two angels. Why the fuck not."
"Shall we?"
As Euphemia drew back the bowstring, the air around her seemed to still, anticipation crackling like embers beneath the surface. The moment her arrow was nocked, flames ignited at its tip, casting a flickering glow across her features. The sudden burst of light silhouetted her form in a dramatic arc of dancing shadows, illuminating every line of her stance. Her eyes shone with fierce determination as the fire on the arrow?s tip pulsed, reflecting off her skin in warm, shifting tones. The bow felt like an extension of her will, the flames answering her call as they curved and danced along the arrow, ready to be unleashed upon the target. "Yes sir." She responds simply, Swapping out one quiver for another.
"By blood, will and devotion, let the blood spilled be a sacrifice..." Sam seems to be praying softly, the runes on the fingerbone that hangs from a silver chain around his neck glowing faintly in the darkness.
Euphemia glanced up to Castiel, awaiting his command.
Novel stirs out of his wakefulness, drawing his bow, slapping open a vial and dumping it right over the bolt. In an equally smooth motion, he slams it into place and launches it into the wing'd man's face as he charges into melee, making a huh noise to himself as he seems to realize who's fighting and making a face.
Even as they pray, even as the echos of voices dissipate within the void - it also ripples. The sheer existence, the radiance of light emanated by Castiel sends ripples upon the ground that lacks solidity, reflects the vestige of Castiel in warped distortions of flames and scalding whites, sparsely decorated with adornments of gold and the black of his armament. Worse is his eyes, not cruel, but host to a degree of sadness. "I expected more." The words meant for Euphemia are interrupted only when a bolt aims for his face. Missed in a perfect cant of his head - but grazed upon his wing. Veins sprout black, tendrils descending in poison upon white - but Castiel, he only continues. "I will guard you if you are in danger - do not hold back."
Then, he's gone. There one second, elsewhere next.
Crashing upon Novel with his sword.
His prayer finished, Sam steps forward, and brings his knife upward, catching on Euphemia's blade, and the jock bursts out in a sickly, dark sort of light. He smiles, and breathes in the thick air of the place, the echoes of the real world leaking into the nightmare. "Let's give Him a show, Novel!"
With a smooth, practiced motion, Euphemia slung her bow over her shoulder, the flicker of its flames dying down as she set it aside. In the same breath, she drew her sword, sparks dancing along its edge before erupting into a controlled blaze that reflected in her wintry blue eyes. Without hesitation, Euphemia readies herself for the encroaching Sam, fire trailing behind her blade. In one fluid parry, She slashed at his chest in a swift, deliberate arc -- and the blade?s fiery swing cleaves towards his vest with the radiance of a burning sun, leaving Sam well aware of her burning resolve. "I can handle myself alright, sir." She calls out, glancing aside to the angel in the distance. As she fights, she begins to whisper a silent prayer... unrelenting in the ferocity of her blows. "Per dolorem, quem portamus, intus tenebras mundamus..."
Past the inital slam of Castiel's sword upon Novel's, as if testing the mettle and make of that polished scrap - his approach becomes only more cumbersome, only more imposing. Euphemia at his back is given the reign to handle Sam - while everything warps beneath Castiel's stare lent upon Novel's shoulder. Molten hues are harsher as that spreading tendril of poison upon his wing pulses eerily, and in return, the immaterial, substanceless ground beneath Novel begins to sink with his weight, as if suddenly there is far, far more upon his back with the weight of Castiel's eyes. Then, in that wicked strength Castiel carries himself with, he swings again- another simple slash ascending from hip to shoulder.
Novel brings up his blade against Castiel's, staggering against the hit with malice and strength and the barely catching of his own terrible, black scrapyard weapon in clash and red and blue sparks that dance around his neck and show. There's a barking, harsh laugh in response to Sam. And a flash of white teeth - but far from being angry, he seems delighted. His body contorts, twist, sluggish and every single vein and corded muscle standing out in stark relief as he manages to catch "Hey." He murmurs. "Nice sword." His tones is warm and complimentary to his opponent, Castiel, before he's doing his best to circle - to shift over towards Sam, and past the focused angel-man.
"Whoever you are praying to, they ain't here to listen." Sam twists that knife, trying to break the sword-bond. He seems more confident than usual, the jock's blade shimmering in the air, it's material a simular, oily quality as the very air about them. SOmething seems to be leaking into the nightmare around the jock, and his eyes are wide, pupils dilated. That blade meets the sword again, and he winces. "Fuck."
In a flash, Euphemia brought up her blade to meet Sam's incoming knife, steel ringing against steel in a sharp, clarion note. She moved like a streak of sunlight through shifting clouds -- bright, elusive, and impossible to contain. With the parry, her sword?s momentum carried forward, driving a retaliatory slash aimed at his flank. The power behind her strike shook him, forcing him to steel every muscle just to keep from being overwhelmed. As the clash reverberated, Euphemia retreated with light, springing steps, her eyes flickering with focused intensity. Each bound was graceful yet forceful, a dance of brilliant radiance on the battlefield, leaving Sam rattled by the sheer energy of her attacks. As she moves, the prayer continues in a silent whisper. "--Vasa sint nostra vulnera, per quae purgatur malum..."
Novel's attempt to create distance - to retreat and step away, Castiel almost allows it after another brief skirmish of a blade swung - past their very one-sided clash. That impassive expression of perfection unfazed and unburdened completely in the face of Novel's assault as if the impenetrable wall that he is, deflecting sword and strike with a too casual sweep of a wing or a sword, isn't burdened by another pulse of that poison at the spine of his wing. It falts, and he has to fold them - but in the exposure of his back, the tendrils have spread and begun to seep beneath the skin of his shoulders.
All the same, he just about disappears from view.
It isn't pathing, but the speed with which he catapults off the ground - to appear beside Euphemia, stand with her, and spread one set of his good wing at her back, while his sword is held on the other side. Gleaming, dripping aflame to still illuminate the vast nothingness like a ray of divine radiance. "No." Sam is informed, while those eyes now turn upon him, next as he becomes the very shield wrapped around Euphemia. "I am here."
Novel nearly has his blade ripped from his hands as Castiel suddenly retreats, the two chipped blades catching against each other as the man drifts to one side, thrown offbalance. He swears. And then he grabs another bolt - and this time, it comes loaded with a vial of it's own. He pulls himself together into a sudden, deep inhale of breath. He raises the arm in one hand and points it
Straight at Euphemia. The blade flings through the air, and then Castiel is there to catch it, as another insidiously poisoned bolt slams into his leg as the man grunts in dissatisfaction.
"So you are." Sam steps forward, a hiss escaping his lips as his magic grasps at Castiel's blood-vessels. "And so am I." By some spark of luck, perhaps fate, perhaps something else, Sam seems less wounded than one would expect, from Euphemia's harsh blows. A tendril of shadow seems to flow from his chest, and the armor upon it.
Castiels Nightmare Battle With Novel 250122
(Castiel's nightmare battle with Novel)
[Tue Jan 21 2025]
In a hidden shrine
The walls, ceiling and floor of this room have been pained a deep obsidian, the only light in the room coming from dimmed spots in the four corners.
Around the bottom of the wall, a double line of green is drawn, like a band of jade.
On the western wall, a large mural of a snake, devouring it's own tail is drawn.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
Euphemia rises to stand next to Castiel, glancing down at herself. "...Sir." She greets.
Sam says "Uuuh. "
Sam says "Oh, you're so fucked."
Beside Euphemia, Castiel stands like a warrior straight out of a medieval fair. His armor gleams in scorched, muted hues reflecting of the abyssal dark - while the sword at his side is twisted. Motion brings light, and flames erupt to shed light into the nothing that extends. A nod given aside, and Castiel elevates. The sound of wings beating, set upon set upon set fills the expanse - terrifying, foreboding, and threatening.
Sam says "Awwwwh shit."
Sam says "Well, shall we get on with this? I think it'll be quick, but I ain't about rolling over."
Castiel says "Stand close to me, Euphemia."
Castiel says "I will be the shield, focus on those that take to range."
Crouching into a defensive stance, Sam chuckles some. "Two angels. Why the fuck not."
"Shall we?"
As Euphemia drew back the bowstring, the air around her seemed to still, anticipation crackling like embers beneath the surface. The moment her arrow was nocked, flames ignited at its tip, casting a flickering glow across her features. The sudden burst of light silhouetted her form in a dramatic arc of dancing shadows, illuminating every line of her stance. Her eyes shone with fierce determination as the fire on the arrow?s tip pulsed, reflecting off her skin in warm, shifting tones. The bow felt like an extension of her will, the flames answering her call as they curved and danced along the arrow, ready to be unleashed upon the target. "Yes sir." She responds simply, Swapping out one quiver for another.
"By blood, will and devotion, let the blood spilled be a sacrifice..." Sam seems to be praying softly, the runes on the fingerbone that hangs from a silver chain around his neck glowing faintly in the darkness.
Euphemia glanced up to Castiel, awaiting his command.
Novel stirs out of his wakefulness, drawing his bow, slapping open a vial and dumping it right over the bolt. In an equally smooth motion, he slams it into place and launches it into the wing'd man's face as he charges into melee, making a huh noise to himself as he seems to realize who's fighting and making a face.
Even as they pray, even as the echos of voices dissipate within the void - it also ripples. The sheer existence, the radiance of light emanated by Castiel sends ripples upon the ground that lacks solidity, reflects the vestige of Castiel in warped distortions of flames and scalding whites, sparsely decorated with adornments of gold and the black of his armament. Worse is his eyes, not cruel, but host to a degree of sadness. "I expected more." The words meant for Euphemia are interrupted only when a bolt aims for his face. Missed in a perfect cant of his head - but grazed upon his wing. Veins sprout black, tendrils descending in poison upon white - but Castiel, he only continues. "I will guard you if you are in danger - do not hold back."
Then, he's gone. There one second, elsewhere next.
Crashing upon Novel with his sword.
His prayer finished, Sam steps forward, and brings his knife upward, catching on Euphemia's blade, and the jock bursts out in a sickly, dark sort of light. He smiles, and breathes in the thick air of the place, the echoes of the real world leaking into the nightmare. "Let's give Him a show, Novel!"
With a smooth, practiced motion, Euphemia slung her bow over her shoulder, the flicker of its flames dying down as she set it aside. In the same breath, she drew her sword, sparks dancing along its edge before erupting into a controlled blaze that reflected in her wintry blue eyes. Without hesitation, Euphemia readies herself for the encroaching Sam, fire trailing behind her blade. In one fluid parry, She slashed at his chest in a swift, deliberate arc -- and the blade?s fiery swing cleaves towards his vest with the radiance of a burning sun, leaving Sam well aware of her burning resolve. "I can handle myself alright, sir." She calls out, glancing aside to the angel in the distance. As she fights, she begins to whisper a silent prayer... unrelenting in the ferocity of her blows. "Per dolorem, quem portamus, intus tenebras mundamus..."
Past the inital slam of Castiel's sword upon Novel's, as if testing the mettle and make of that polished scrap - his approach becomes only more cumbersome, only more imposing. Euphemia at his back is given the reign to handle Sam - while everything warps beneath Castiel's stare lent upon Novel's shoulder. Molten hues are harsher as that spreading tendril of poison upon his wing pulses eerily, and in return, the immaterial, substanceless ground beneath Novel begins to sink with his weight, as if suddenly there is far, far more upon his back with the weight of Castiel's eyes. Then, in that wicked strength Castiel carries himself with, he swings again- another simple slash ascending from hip to shoulder.
Novel brings up his blade against Castiel's, staggering against the hit with malice and strength and the barely catching of his own terrible, black scrapyard weapon in clash and red and blue sparks that dance around his neck and show. There's a barking, harsh laugh in response to Sam. And a flash of white teeth - but far from being angry, he seems delighted. His body contorts, twist, sluggish and every single vein and corded muscle standing out in stark relief as he manages to catch "Hey." He murmurs. "Nice sword." His tones is warm and complimentary to his opponent, Castiel, before he's doing his best to circle - to shift over towards Sam, and past the focused angel-man.
"Whoever you are praying to, they ain't here to listen." Sam twists that knife, trying to break the sword-bond. He seems more confident than usual, the jock's blade shimmering in the air, it's material a simular, oily quality as the very air about them. SOmething seems to be leaking into the nightmare around the jock, and his eyes are wide, pupils dilated. That blade meets the sword again, and he winces. "Fuck."
In a flash, Euphemia brought up her blade to meet Sam's incoming knife, steel ringing against steel in a sharp, clarion note. She moved like a streak of sunlight through shifting clouds -- bright, elusive, and impossible to contain. With the parry, her sword?s momentum carried forward, driving a retaliatory slash aimed at his flank. The power behind her strike shook him, forcing him to steel every muscle just to keep from being overwhelmed. As the clash reverberated, Euphemia retreated with light, springing steps, her eyes flickering with focused intensity. Each bound was graceful yet forceful, a dance of brilliant radiance on the battlefield, leaving Sam rattled by the sheer energy of her attacks. As she moves, the prayer continues in a silent whisper. "--Vasa sint nostra vulnera, per quae purgatur malum..."
Novel's attempt to create distance - to retreat and step away, Castiel almost allows it after another brief skirmish of a blade swung - past their very one-sided clash. That impassive expression of perfection unfazed and unburdened completely in the face of Novel's assault as if the impenetrable wall that he is, deflecting sword and strike with a too casual sweep of a wing or a sword, isn't burdened by another pulse of that poison at the spine of his wing. It falts, and he has to fold them - but in the exposure of his back, the tendrils have spread and begun to seep beneath the skin of his shoulders.
All the same, he just about disappears from view.
It isn't pathing, but the speed with which he catapults off the ground - to appear beside Euphemia, stand with her, and spread one set of his good wing at her back, while his sword is held on the other side. Gleaming, dripping aflame to still illuminate the vast nothingness like a ray of divine radiance. "No." Sam is informed, while those eyes now turn upon him, next as he becomes the very shield wrapped around Euphemia. "I am here."
Novel nearly has his blade ripped from his hands as Castiel suddenly retreats, the two chipped blades catching against each other as the man drifts to one side, thrown offbalance. He swears. And then he grabs another bolt - and this time, it comes loaded with a vial of it's own. He pulls himself together into a sudden, deep inhale of breath. He raises the arm in one hand and points it
Straight at Euphemia. The blade flings through the air, and then Castiel is there to catch it, as another insidiously poisoned bolt slams into his leg as the man grunts in dissatisfaction.
"So you are." Sam steps forward, a hiss escaping his lips as his magic grasps at Castiel's blood-vessels. "And so am I." By some spark of luck, perhaps fate, perhaps something else, Sam seems less wounded than one would expect, from Euphemia's harsh blows. A tendril of shadow seems to flow from his chest, and the armor upon it.