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Moon
- Joined
- Jul 28, 2022
Hello there! 
What I have in mind is a modern supernatural setup where a lot of the myths of ancient religions and scripture or more modern religions gets blended with the themes of eldritch mysteries and even Lovecraftian horror. The rough tone I had in mind was something probably encapsulated by, of all things, the Keanu Reeves version of Constantine. The origin of the various supernatural beings within this setting could be loosely described by four categories.
The first, humans with a little something extra. Whether they practice witchcraft or sorcery, are turned into something other than human, etc.
The second, entities that died human but returned as something else. Demons would fall into this category for the most part, though other sorts of spirits and revenants are open for discussion.
Third, entities who were never human themselves, but have learned to blend in. They look human, sound human, even act human, but one glimpse behind the veil might well drive you mad. Some angels and certain lesser pantheons and go-betweens count as examples.
Fourth and finally, entities that exist only in the outskirts of the black void, never truly touching upon the Earth and always choosing to work through their lesser intermediaries. Even those who serve them may barely know what they are. God, (capital G) Lucifer, other Eldritch entities would fall under this one. You'll never speak with them, never meet them 'face to face,' and their only impact on the world is through the efforts of their creations.
I have notes! SO MANY NOTES! For the sake of (relative) orderliness I have divided them into these sub-categories.
What I have in mind is a modern supernatural setup where a lot of the myths of ancient religions and scripture or more modern religions gets blended with the themes of eldritch mysteries and even Lovecraftian horror. The rough tone I had in mind was something probably encapsulated by, of all things, the Keanu Reeves version of Constantine. The origin of the various supernatural beings within this setting could be loosely described by four categories.The first, humans with a little something extra. Whether they practice witchcraft or sorcery, are turned into something other than human, etc.
The second, entities that died human but returned as something else. Demons would fall into this category for the most part, though other sorts of spirits and revenants are open for discussion.
Third, entities who were never human themselves, but have learned to blend in. They look human, sound human, even act human, but one glimpse behind the veil might well drive you mad. Some angels and certain lesser pantheons and go-betweens count as examples.
Fourth and finally, entities that exist only in the outskirts of the black void, never truly touching upon the Earth and always choosing to work through their lesser intermediaries. Even those who serve them may barely know what they are. God, (capital G) Lucifer, other Eldritch entities would fall under this one. You'll never speak with them, never meet them 'face to face,' and their only impact on the world is through the efforts of their creations.
I have notes! SO MANY NOTES! For the sake of (relative) orderliness I have divided them into these sub-categories.
-So, I'm looking for a co-GM to both help work on crafting specific adventures, but also help flesh out a lot of the world itself, as there's plenty of ground yet to cover. Still, as the primer stuff down below would indicate, I have a pretty specific mood/tone for this in mind, so it would be help filling in a framework rather than reinventing it altogether. This is why reading the ancillary stuff is strongly recommended, because if someone comes at me with a 'Should we do it like the show Lucifer?!' as an opener I am going to assume the point was missed.
-In a structure I've found successful in the past, I was figuring each of us playing a single 'Main' character and then also spinning off secondary/recurring characters would provide the best structure with allies, enemies and other characters coming into play over time.
-I would lovelovelove to play on character contrasts with our mains. So in looking at my main character below, what his history and motives are, having someone who can play as his foil and spark something in him would be delightful. (So, for example, the 'guilty about their past' thing is taken, thank you kindly. ^.^ ) Given he's rather aimless, we can find a way to motivate him, especially one that might fill the agenda who isn't so much a friend as a 'lesser enemy' to those being opposed. Given he doesn't have a roof over his head, maybe your character should have a roof!
-I will mention, though, no humans, please, even if they're a Witch or something to that effect. I don't mind getting into human and human-adjacent characters for the secondary peeps, but given the Main characters are where the focus are going to be, it just wouldn't be fun for me to end up paired with a schoolteacher or a police detective or whatnot. x_X
-I am, for the record, completely fine helping to brainstorm a character idea if you have a loose idea on the kind of character you might want to play, but aren't sure how to make her fit! Worse comes to worse and we don't seem compatible, I'm sure we can figure it out fairly quickly.
-Smut/Plot would be veeeery Plot-focused, thinking like 85-15, if not more. Room for some kinky hijinks, group scenes, etc, but most of the writing would be to advance the plot and the characters. Kinks can be discussed outright if someone is interested in the plot, it's such a minor part of things for me that I don't see the need to go into a full-on list right here and now.
-In a structure I've found successful in the past, I was figuring each of us playing a single 'Main' character and then also spinning off secondary/recurring characters would provide the best structure with allies, enemies and other characters coming into play over time.
-I would lovelovelove to play on character contrasts with our mains. So in looking at my main character below, what his history and motives are, having someone who can play as his foil and spark something in him would be delightful. (So, for example, the 'guilty about their past' thing is taken, thank you kindly. ^.^ ) Given he's rather aimless, we can find a way to motivate him, especially one that might fill the agenda who isn't so much a friend as a 'lesser enemy' to those being opposed. Given he doesn't have a roof over his head, maybe your character should have a roof!
-I will mention, though, no humans, please, even if they're a Witch or something to that effect. I don't mind getting into human and human-adjacent characters for the secondary peeps, but given the Main characters are where the focus are going to be, it just wouldn't be fun for me to end up paired with a schoolteacher or a police detective or whatnot. x_X
-I am, for the record, completely fine helping to brainstorm a character idea if you have a loose idea on the kind of character you might want to play, but aren't sure how to make her fit! Worse comes to worse and we don't seem compatible, I'm sure we can figure it out fairly quickly.
-Smut/Plot would be veeeery Plot-focused, thinking like 85-15, if not more. Room for some kinky hijinks, group scenes, etc, but most of the writing would be to advance the plot and the characters. Kinks can be discussed outright if someone is interested in the plot, it's such a minor part of things for me that I don't see the need to go into a full-on list right here and now.
In a universe that was filled with unknown interests, cosmic entities and things that go bump in the night of that cold void between stars, one little planet started to draw interest The planet wasn't unique in the grand scheme of the universe, but what it had on it was certainly rare, especially for the region; a populace with the strange affliction to imbue belief into the things that surround them. Whether it was a blurring of the lines between creativity and reality, these apes begin to worship the river, the weather, the fire from the volcano, things that had no mind and no will but were inexplicable to them.
Though they didn't know it, this act of belief rendered their souls- the innate energy that made them what they were, that powered their very sentience- malleable. Malleable enough to brand, to mark, and to ultimately claim outright. The entities that claimed these souls could draw power from them, to feed or otherwise strengthen themselves. And so, as had happened on other worlds throughout the universe, unknowable things from other realms sought to stake a claim on this new feeding ground.
Amongst these earliest of beings was one who would eventually be termed, by some, as Yahweh; a cosmic entity of unknowable size and scope who has wandered the black void from realms unknown. Much like the others, He wanted souls, wishing to make Himself ever larger. But the size and power of the entity limited Him. Like an elephant trying to step on an eggshell, He was too massive, too alien, to simply invoke His will directly upon that world; to try and do so would be to burn it to cinders, and everything on it. Other entities, those who were smaller and lesser in size and potency, were nonetheless able to do what Yahweh could not; interact directly with those who inhabit the world, and in so doing place that claiming brand on their souls.
And so Yahweh, unable to directly touch this place, would instead create things in His own image; angels, beings of cosmic proportion that were just small enough to touch the world without burning it, and who could make themselves smaller still to walk upon its surface. A pale reflection of the entity Himself, and yet still bearing a power that made them a force to be reckoned with. And in those earliest of days, it seemed enough to carve out a narrow foothold; countless godlings seeking to build their flock burned on pyres or were torn asunder between the stars, a thousand thousand wars in the void and on the soil. And yet, despite the entity's power, and the power of His creations, there always seemed to be more competitors, more complications. Some of these apes would pledge themselves, and their souls, to Yahweh; but only a small sliver of the wider world.
And there were other problems. Some of the souls that Yahweh took in were unstable, roughly hewn, filled with vigor and furies that made His very being ache. They were undesirable, unappealing, and while Yahweh did not wish them to fall into the hands of His rivals, nor did He want to take them into Himself.
And so, instead, Yahweh created somewhere else they might go instead; a pocket of reality, a realm beyond the one these apes inhabited, an emptiness absent light, heat or sound. A nothingness in which everything might fit. A pipeline was built, to filter out the souls that would cause the entity distress or discomfort, and instead dump them out into this spectral wasteland. To guard them- and prevent the other entities from finding some means to claim them- Yahweh tasked one of His creations with standing guard over that realm, a watchful and dull vigil. After all, his angels may have been an echo of Him, but they were not Him; they could not take in souls and feed upon them like He or the other competitors could.
To address that problem of competition, Yahweh thought to send His own creations down to the world to live closer to the apes within a region near those who were already under the entity's sway. If the Watchers learned how best to draw their worship, to convert them, then maybe Yahweh would understand these creatures well enough to make them better love Him, so that their souls might belong to Him. These were the Grigori, weapons of war re-tasked with watching, and learning, more of these apes that might serve the needs of their Creator.
Both of these plans ended in failure. The second plan's collapse was almost immediate, within less than a human lifetime; the Grigori, rather than aiding their creator in making the humans fall for Him, instead fell for them. Arts of violence, magic and other cosmic secrets were shared by entities that carried faint, faded memories of their Creator's own omniscience. The region Yahweh had sent the Grigori to dissolved into depravity, chaos and violence, magnified when His creations themselves created the Nephilim through their own debaucheries. Ultimately, Yahweh had little choice but to task those of His creations still loyal to Him to purge the region, and in so doing stop the chaos from spreading any further.
The first plan's failures wouldn't become evident for quite some time, however. With the Grigori having been hunted to extinction and a stinging loss beneath Yahweh's belt, His efforts became more subdued and cautious. For decades, centuries, even millennia, He would work to establish and strengthen its hold by the means He was familiar with; force, destruction, and punishment. The world was carved out amongst the different entities, powers rising and falling with the civilizations that worshipped them, some deities able to transition to other groups of worshippers while others barely survived on scraps.
But then came a change. Yahweh didn't wish to simply exist on the world, He wished to dominate. There were countless human souls that went unclaimed by any- those who worshipped concepts or deities with no corresponding entity, those who didn't hold particular worship at all- and Yahweh wished to lay claim to those, and to as many others as He might. And, unlike some of the other Pantheons who stuck to rigid identities, purging or destroying offshoots that might interfered with their own pride or vision, Yahweh knew instinctively that the details of the faith- its name, its trappings, its stated ideals- were not so important as just the worship they imparted to Him, that indelible mark upon their souls.
And so Yahweh took a second bite at the apple. Even as the followers who had worshipped His oldest presence did so, He began to change His approach. His angels were repurposed to spread a different message; to feed, to heal, to grant warmth and succor. Yahweh did this not out of any sense of morality, love or kindness, but because He believed that the masses might be more amenable to such grand acts of compassion, rather than grand acts of devastation. And though these changes created a schism in His followers, some choosing to interpret the entity in one lens or another, all of that devotion still flowed towards it.
And when those followers split into another schism, and another, and yet more, it mattered not. The entity cared little for what His followers did, or what they taught, only that they worship Him. As their reach grew, and that flow of souls thickened, Yahweh's pipeline would filter out any who did not meet its needs, dropping them in that little pocket where they would remain forgotten and unwanted. Or so he thought.
Just as the entity's spread was truly beginning, just as He was beginning that march to supremacy, His second failure was laid bare. For when Yahweh had made Lucifer the warden to that dumping ground of forgotten souls, it had done so counting not just on the angel's loyalty, but on the fact that none of His creations could strengthen themselves on the spirits of these slain apes. And, for the most part, he was right; Lucifer, one of His earlier creations, could not take in and grow from souls in the way that his Creator could. But Lucifer spent endless years in his vigil, and his loyalty slowly shifted into dejection and a sense of abandonment; stuck watching over a cold and dark repository for the tainted. And, over those years, he began to recognize them for what they were; fuel.
Much like with any other fuel, Lucifer learned that the way to draw that energy from those rejected souls was to make them burn.
By the time Yahweh realized what had occurred, that realm once filled with coldness, darkness and loneliness had turned into one brimming with heat, light and pain. Souls, countless souls, burned in a constant pyre that filled the realm with power, and from that power Lucifer infused himself and the realm itself. Where once it had been nothing but a space to fill with the refuse of these apes, now it took shape, substance and potency. And that potency would only continue to grow, as Lucifer began to indulge in his own acts of creation, bringing birth to the first demons to walk the world.
Suddenly, His creation became His rival, and though Yahweh had the raw power to crush this uprising, to do so would have cost Him more than it would have gained. There was no means to destroy this new Kingdom of Hell without destroying the pipeline Yahweh had built, and that pipeline was the only thing keeping deluge of tainted, unstable souls from flooding His being. Lucifer, for his part, knew that his best means to secure his own safety and supremacy was to remain in Hell where his Creator's wrath would not dare go.
And so this clash between Creator and rebellious creation became a proxy war. Yahweh's reach enveloped much of the planet, so much so that he was even able to twist the infrastructure of the very world so that even the souls of the unclaimed fell under His claim. By nearly every metric, his victory was nearly absolute, his competitors few and largely willing to remain out of His path. All except for His first failure, of course, who delighted in the competition more and more with each passing century.
Yahweh still bore the advantage in might and power, but what He lacked still was a true understanding of mortal men. Lucifer, surrounded by and imbued with the souls of the Damned, knew them all too well and how best to manipulate them. As their endless game of chess was played across the human tapestry, though, Yahweh began to withdraw more and more from the affairs of these strange apes. Perhaps He simply didn't care as much, anymore, or looked towards new places on which He might lay His claim. His works still functioned; souls were still fed to Him, or dropped into Hell along that pipeline that could never be broken. His angels were even seen across the world, at times, though with less and less frequency as the years dragged on.
But even as Yahweh grew more sluggish and disinterested, Lucifer- and the demons he'd tasked with carrying out his will- became bolder and all the more eager to add fuel to that ever-burning fire he'd sparked. Demons grew more prevalent, working to further heighten the flow of souls that poured into Hell, a realm once empty but now filled with things conjured from the pain and minds of these burning spirits.
Though they didn't know it, this act of belief rendered their souls- the innate energy that made them what they were, that powered their very sentience- malleable. Malleable enough to brand, to mark, and to ultimately claim outright. The entities that claimed these souls could draw power from them, to feed or otherwise strengthen themselves. And so, as had happened on other worlds throughout the universe, unknowable things from other realms sought to stake a claim on this new feeding ground.
Amongst these earliest of beings was one who would eventually be termed, by some, as Yahweh; a cosmic entity of unknowable size and scope who has wandered the black void from realms unknown. Much like the others, He wanted souls, wishing to make Himself ever larger. But the size and power of the entity limited Him. Like an elephant trying to step on an eggshell, He was too massive, too alien, to simply invoke His will directly upon that world; to try and do so would be to burn it to cinders, and everything on it. Other entities, those who were smaller and lesser in size and potency, were nonetheless able to do what Yahweh could not; interact directly with those who inhabit the world, and in so doing place that claiming brand on their souls.
And so Yahweh, unable to directly touch this place, would instead create things in His own image; angels, beings of cosmic proportion that were just small enough to touch the world without burning it, and who could make themselves smaller still to walk upon its surface. A pale reflection of the entity Himself, and yet still bearing a power that made them a force to be reckoned with. And in those earliest of days, it seemed enough to carve out a narrow foothold; countless godlings seeking to build their flock burned on pyres or were torn asunder between the stars, a thousand thousand wars in the void and on the soil. And yet, despite the entity's power, and the power of His creations, there always seemed to be more competitors, more complications. Some of these apes would pledge themselves, and their souls, to Yahweh; but only a small sliver of the wider world.
And there were other problems. Some of the souls that Yahweh took in were unstable, roughly hewn, filled with vigor and furies that made His very being ache. They were undesirable, unappealing, and while Yahweh did not wish them to fall into the hands of His rivals, nor did He want to take them into Himself.
And so, instead, Yahweh created somewhere else they might go instead; a pocket of reality, a realm beyond the one these apes inhabited, an emptiness absent light, heat or sound. A nothingness in which everything might fit. A pipeline was built, to filter out the souls that would cause the entity distress or discomfort, and instead dump them out into this spectral wasteland. To guard them- and prevent the other entities from finding some means to claim them- Yahweh tasked one of His creations with standing guard over that realm, a watchful and dull vigil. After all, his angels may have been an echo of Him, but they were not Him; they could not take in souls and feed upon them like He or the other competitors could.
To address that problem of competition, Yahweh thought to send His own creations down to the world to live closer to the apes within a region near those who were already under the entity's sway. If the Watchers learned how best to draw their worship, to convert them, then maybe Yahweh would understand these creatures well enough to make them better love Him, so that their souls might belong to Him. These were the Grigori, weapons of war re-tasked with watching, and learning, more of these apes that might serve the needs of their Creator.
Both of these plans ended in failure. The second plan's collapse was almost immediate, within less than a human lifetime; the Grigori, rather than aiding their creator in making the humans fall for Him, instead fell for them. Arts of violence, magic and other cosmic secrets were shared by entities that carried faint, faded memories of their Creator's own omniscience. The region Yahweh had sent the Grigori to dissolved into depravity, chaos and violence, magnified when His creations themselves created the Nephilim through their own debaucheries. Ultimately, Yahweh had little choice but to task those of His creations still loyal to Him to purge the region, and in so doing stop the chaos from spreading any further.
The first plan's failures wouldn't become evident for quite some time, however. With the Grigori having been hunted to extinction and a stinging loss beneath Yahweh's belt, His efforts became more subdued and cautious. For decades, centuries, even millennia, He would work to establish and strengthen its hold by the means He was familiar with; force, destruction, and punishment. The world was carved out amongst the different entities, powers rising and falling with the civilizations that worshipped them, some deities able to transition to other groups of worshippers while others barely survived on scraps.
But then came a change. Yahweh didn't wish to simply exist on the world, He wished to dominate. There were countless human souls that went unclaimed by any- those who worshipped concepts or deities with no corresponding entity, those who didn't hold particular worship at all- and Yahweh wished to lay claim to those, and to as many others as He might. And, unlike some of the other Pantheons who stuck to rigid identities, purging or destroying offshoots that might interfered with their own pride or vision, Yahweh knew instinctively that the details of the faith- its name, its trappings, its stated ideals- were not so important as just the worship they imparted to Him, that indelible mark upon their souls.
And so Yahweh took a second bite at the apple. Even as the followers who had worshipped His oldest presence did so, He began to change His approach. His angels were repurposed to spread a different message; to feed, to heal, to grant warmth and succor. Yahweh did this not out of any sense of morality, love or kindness, but because He believed that the masses might be more amenable to such grand acts of compassion, rather than grand acts of devastation. And though these changes created a schism in His followers, some choosing to interpret the entity in one lens or another, all of that devotion still flowed towards it.
And when those followers split into another schism, and another, and yet more, it mattered not. The entity cared little for what His followers did, or what they taught, only that they worship Him. As their reach grew, and that flow of souls thickened, Yahweh's pipeline would filter out any who did not meet its needs, dropping them in that little pocket where they would remain forgotten and unwanted. Or so he thought.
Just as the entity's spread was truly beginning, just as He was beginning that march to supremacy, His second failure was laid bare. For when Yahweh had made Lucifer the warden to that dumping ground of forgotten souls, it had done so counting not just on the angel's loyalty, but on the fact that none of His creations could strengthen themselves on the spirits of these slain apes. And, for the most part, he was right; Lucifer, one of His earlier creations, could not take in and grow from souls in the way that his Creator could. But Lucifer spent endless years in his vigil, and his loyalty slowly shifted into dejection and a sense of abandonment; stuck watching over a cold and dark repository for the tainted. And, over those years, he began to recognize them for what they were; fuel.
Much like with any other fuel, Lucifer learned that the way to draw that energy from those rejected souls was to make them burn.
By the time Yahweh realized what had occurred, that realm once filled with coldness, darkness and loneliness had turned into one brimming with heat, light and pain. Souls, countless souls, burned in a constant pyre that filled the realm with power, and from that power Lucifer infused himself and the realm itself. Where once it had been nothing but a space to fill with the refuse of these apes, now it took shape, substance and potency. And that potency would only continue to grow, as Lucifer began to indulge in his own acts of creation, bringing birth to the first demons to walk the world.
Suddenly, His creation became His rival, and though Yahweh had the raw power to crush this uprising, to do so would have cost Him more than it would have gained. There was no means to destroy this new Kingdom of Hell without destroying the pipeline Yahweh had built, and that pipeline was the only thing keeping deluge of tainted, unstable souls from flooding His being. Lucifer, for his part, knew that his best means to secure his own safety and supremacy was to remain in Hell where his Creator's wrath would not dare go.
And so this clash between Creator and rebellious creation became a proxy war. Yahweh's reach enveloped much of the planet, so much so that he was even able to twist the infrastructure of the very world so that even the souls of the unclaimed fell under His claim. By nearly every metric, his victory was nearly absolute, his competitors few and largely willing to remain out of His path. All except for His first failure, of course, who delighted in the competition more and more with each passing century.
Yahweh still bore the advantage in might and power, but what He lacked still was a true understanding of mortal men. Lucifer, surrounded by and imbued with the souls of the Damned, knew them all too well and how best to manipulate them. As their endless game of chess was played across the human tapestry, though, Yahweh began to withdraw more and more from the affairs of these strange apes. Perhaps He simply didn't care as much, anymore, or looked towards new places on which He might lay His claim. His works still functioned; souls were still fed to Him, or dropped into Hell along that pipeline that could never be broken. His angels were even seen across the world, at times, though with less and less frequency as the years dragged on.
But even as Yahweh grew more sluggish and disinterested, Lucifer- and the demons he'd tasked with carrying out his will- became bolder and all the more eager to add fuel to that ever-burning fire he'd sparked. Demons grew more prevalent, working to further heighten the flow of souls that poured into Hell, a realm once empty but now filled with things conjured from the pain and minds of these burning spirits.
In order to act as kind of a prelude, I have to talk about a caste of Biblical angels called the Grigori, or sometimes Watchers, who were essentially a whole group of Old Testament era angels that were tasked by God to 'Watch' over humanity. In the Book of Enoch, a rather substantial number of these Watchers went rogue because of- what else?- coming to lust after human women. So, upon seeing human women and deciding 'Well, that's hot,' they Watchers then proceed to carve a lustful, depraved path through the population, which has two major consequences;
1) The Watchers end up teaching humanity a things that, I suppose, helps hasten their general corruption. How to craft weapons, how to use weapons, motherfucking sorcery, cosmetics (because that definitely belongs in these categories,) just a whole pile of things that mankind wasn't supposed to know, much less use so enthusiastically.
2) As a result of their rather enthusiastic sampling of human women, a whole bunch of monstrous half-breeds known as the Nephelim end getting bred, filling up the world and generally just making a bad situation worse.
When God decides to cleanse the Earth with that flood (the "Noah, get the boat" one,) it's pretty much because these rogue angels couldn't keep it in their pants. Consequently, they're fallen, hunted down, punished, etc, etc.
The character I aim to play would be a Grigori who managed to slip away from the aforementioned captivity and punishment, and has subsequently spend the last however many millennia not only in hiding, but in his own form of penance. He does genuinely feel guilt for, if not the flood itself, then the chaos and general horrible consequences of things that kind of spiraled out of control from the actions of himself and his brethren. Unlike a lot of immortal characters, who might have used all this time to accumulate wealth, carve out a life, conveniently show up in about a hundred historical events, this angel has spent his time living as a pauper and a drifter, believing that his abject poverty and a life devoid of pleasure is his only means to atone. He doesn't want to build anything, accomplish anything, or even start to pull some semblance of a life back together; he just drifts, and exists, as he can't sleep, die, or even go insane.
However, in my setting, Old Testament God and New Testament God stem from the idea that the Creator eventually decided he needed a rebranding. In the beginning, he was pretty focused on using the stick against anyone and everyone- plagues, death, smiting, etc- and dealing with the ever-present flow of competitors from pretty much all directions. New Testament God was essentially trying out the carrots, with the fluffier side of miracles and a more positive approach to getting people on board with what he wanted. The way he designed his angels were reflective of that, and during the time he transitioned from one approach to the other, he would also redesign and rebuild the Heavenly Host to accommodate those goals.
So most modern angels- who are an increasingly rare sight by anyone, as Heaven and God have been increasingly withdrawn in recent centuries- are the sort who can do the sort of wide-ranging tricks and miracles you might see in something like Good Omens. They're jacks of all trade, and while they have some degree of combat ability, they're built to be able to do a little bit of everything, and nothing particularly well.
But this lone Grigori, along with maybe a few other exceptions, were never 'reformatted,' and so they are still very much Old Testament. Their ability to heal others is likely restricted to 'Well, the bleeding stopped, you probably won't die, go to a hospital ASAP.' They can't make two loaves of bread and a fish feed fifty people, can't turn water into wine, can't make blind people see. Their toolbox is pretty much just a hammer and maybe a screwdriver. But boy is it a big hammer. Old Testament angels have had the vast majority of their points pumped into smiting, and in an era where even Hell has gotten softer over time, that makes these few remnants the equivalent to walking, talking nukes.
From a power scaling perspective, this fallen Grigori would be pretty close to the top of the pile when it comes to things that actually walk the Earth, making him both a huge threat and an incredibly tempting toy for anyone with an agenda. But, on the other hand, Hell would be too large, pervasive and far-reaching for one Grigori to ever be able to 'defeat' it, simply because it doesn't matter how much Hell he carves his way through, there will always just be more Hell. And so outside of a few limited engagements over his countless years, this particular angel will have largely stayed out of their way as he wanders along the Earth.
1) The Watchers end up teaching humanity a things that, I suppose, helps hasten their general corruption. How to craft weapons, how to use weapons, motherfucking sorcery, cosmetics (because that definitely belongs in these categories,) just a whole pile of things that mankind wasn't supposed to know, much less use so enthusiastically.
2) As a result of their rather enthusiastic sampling of human women, a whole bunch of monstrous half-breeds known as the Nephelim end getting bred, filling up the world and generally just making a bad situation worse.
When God decides to cleanse the Earth with that flood (the "Noah, get the boat" one,) it's pretty much because these rogue angels couldn't keep it in their pants. Consequently, they're fallen, hunted down, punished, etc, etc.
The character I aim to play would be a Grigori who managed to slip away from the aforementioned captivity and punishment, and has subsequently spend the last however many millennia not only in hiding, but in his own form of penance. He does genuinely feel guilt for, if not the flood itself, then the chaos and general horrible consequences of things that kind of spiraled out of control from the actions of himself and his brethren. Unlike a lot of immortal characters, who might have used all this time to accumulate wealth, carve out a life, conveniently show up in about a hundred historical events, this angel has spent his time living as a pauper and a drifter, believing that his abject poverty and a life devoid of pleasure is his only means to atone. He doesn't want to build anything, accomplish anything, or even start to pull some semblance of a life back together; he just drifts, and exists, as he can't sleep, die, or even go insane.
However, in my setting, Old Testament God and New Testament God stem from the idea that the Creator eventually decided he needed a rebranding. In the beginning, he was pretty focused on using the stick against anyone and everyone- plagues, death, smiting, etc- and dealing with the ever-present flow of competitors from pretty much all directions. New Testament God was essentially trying out the carrots, with the fluffier side of miracles and a more positive approach to getting people on board with what he wanted. The way he designed his angels were reflective of that, and during the time he transitioned from one approach to the other, he would also redesign and rebuild the Heavenly Host to accommodate those goals.
So most modern angels- who are an increasingly rare sight by anyone, as Heaven and God have been increasingly withdrawn in recent centuries- are the sort who can do the sort of wide-ranging tricks and miracles you might see in something like Good Omens. They're jacks of all trade, and while they have some degree of combat ability, they're built to be able to do a little bit of everything, and nothing particularly well.
But this lone Grigori, along with maybe a few other exceptions, were never 'reformatted,' and so they are still very much Old Testament. Their ability to heal others is likely restricted to 'Well, the bleeding stopped, you probably won't die, go to a hospital ASAP.' They can't make two loaves of bread and a fish feed fifty people, can't turn water into wine, can't make blind people see. Their toolbox is pretty much just a hammer and maybe a screwdriver. But boy is it a big hammer. Old Testament angels have had the vast majority of their points pumped into smiting, and in an era where even Hell has gotten softer over time, that makes these few remnants the equivalent to walking, talking nukes.
From a power scaling perspective, this fallen Grigori would be pretty close to the top of the pile when it comes to things that actually walk the Earth, making him both a huge threat and an incredibly tempting toy for anyone with an agenda. But, on the other hand, Hell would be too large, pervasive and far-reaching for one Grigori to ever be able to 'defeat' it, simply because it doesn't matter how much Hell he carves his way through, there will always just be more Hell. And so outside of a few limited engagements over his countless years, this particular angel will have largely stayed out of their way as he wanders along the Earth.
Isabel was a precocious eight year old who was already an expert on everything; just ask her! In the late summer of 1932, without the benefit of the fancy schmancy air conditioning units the wealthy were only now beginning to acquire, the only real escape from the heat was a dip in the local watering hole, or a daytime nap. Isabel was just starting to stir awake from one such nap when she heard voices coming from the kitchen of their modest farmhouse, one of them her mother's, the other entirely unfamiliar. The fact that it was unfamiliar was enough to bring a jolt of excitement to her young mind- out as far as they were, she hardly ever got to see new people!- she leapt to her feet and sprinted barefoot out of her tiny room and down the hall, nearly tripped up in her own gingham dress.
She only halted her charge once; when she passed the closed and locked door to her sister Juliet's room. For only a moment she paused, long enough to press an ear to the door, behind which she could hear mumbled words and soft sobs, swiftly turning into hateful snarls.
The venom behind those snarls sent low shudders even through the young girl, and she was quick to be on her way again, not stopping until she was at the doorway to the kitchen. Her mother stood there, wringing out her hands on a worn apron, considering a stranger who sat at the kitchen table with his back turned to Isabel.
"So, mister," her Ma was saying, "you're thinkin' you can help my Juliet when the Reverend hisself couldn't, is that the right've it?"
Isabel froze in the doorway when she heard the name, little eyes widening faintly. Even as young as she was, she knew the implications of that name, and what her mother was asking.
Juliet had come down with something, starting a bit less than a month back. She would feel nauseous, throwing up in the evening and spending most of the day sleeping a sleep that brought her no rest. Her skin had begun to grow pale and waxy, her eyes sporting dark bags and her gaze dulling from exhaustion and unhappiness. But as the days had gone on, other things had begun to happen; Juliet had begun to mumble in her sleep, speaking of places she had never been, things she had never done, names nobody could recognize. During her brief times of wakefulness, she had grown sullen and hostile, hurling insults at her mother, spitting at her father, even slapping Isabel on one occasion.
Things had seemed to escalate, day by day, until Juliet was finally tied to her bed. Kicking, screaming, cursing with phrases and threats she should never have known. The town doctor barely knew where to begin. The town reverend had told them that their daughter was, in all likelihood, possessed, and that the nearest specialist who might be able to assist would be many weeks away.
And so, for over a week now, they had been waiting. With every day, their elder daughter had grown weaker, and her emotions more turbulent; spitting with rage and wrath one moment, sobbing with absolute terror the next.
"Might be I can, Ma'am," the man replied, fingers lightly tracing the rim of the glass without sampling the drink itself, "I've been around a fair bit in my day, be surprised the sorta things I've bumped across. If'n you'd rather wait til this demonologist your reverend spoke 'bout can get in, though, there's no offence taken, 'course."
Isabel's mother considered that for a long moment, before she replied archly; "And supposin' you'd be lookin' for some sorta pay for the service, I reckon?"
"No, Ma'am, just passin' by, weren't no trouble, not needin' pay."
As her mother was clearly distracted considering whether to take him up on the offer, Isabel took an opportunity to come darting into the kitchen, feet slapping excitedly against the ground as she came around to look up at the stranger.
He looked like a nice enough fellow, though it was hard to figure if he was Ma's age, younger, or older; his hair was shaggy and black, clearly having gone without a barber for quite some time. Dark bristles coated his jaw and chin, just thick enough to cast a bit of a shadow. His skin seemed flawless and smooth when taken in as a whole, yet whenever she focused on a spot she'd find it weathered and lined, as if years of worry had carved deep ruts into the flesh. He was dressed in the weathered button-up shirt, brown trousers and suspenders of a travelling vagrant, the fabric long-faded and pitted with stains aplenty. His eyes, a pale blue more vibrant than cotton candy from the fairgrounds, seemed to crackle with potential, even as the skin around them sagged in exhaustion. Those eyes, finally, seemed to pick up on the newcomer, and they swept down to consider the curious girl who stared up at him.
She waved. He waved back, and smiled faintly.
"Isabel, don't you be standin' there with flies gatherin' in your gob, go fetch Pa and bring him outside, will ya?" her mother snapped irritably, even as she gave the stranger a brief nod. "Figurin' there's no harm'n it, this point."
"Yes'm," the girl replied dutifully, shaking herself of that fleeting distraction, running quick to fetch her father. It took a fair bit of insistent tugging and a reminder that Ma had insisted on it, but she finally coaxed her grumbling father from his nap and out onto the front stoop, though the farmer made a point of grabbing his rifle and giving the drifter a warning glare in passing.
"Don't you mind Pa there," her mother was saying, leading the drifter down the hall. Isabel could hear his heavy boots clomping on the wooden floor, receding with distance.
Pa wasn't particularly thrilled with the decision as he and Isabel stepped out onto the front porch. Fiddling with his rifle nervously and glancing back towards the door every so often, her weathered and aging patron was just starting to turn to let himself back in when her mother emerged, looking worried but defiant.
"Priest's sayin' nothin' to be done til the feller from Houston gets in," Pa groused, "Not gettin' why we should be lettin' some random fella from the ass end of nowhere-"
"Pa, language!" Her mother scoffed, hands folding into the pocket of her apron. "Houston fella won't be here 'til end of the month, you're knowin' that. Juliet might not keep that long. She's got the Devil in her, who's knowin' how much longer she's lastin'."
Her parents fell into some light bickering, the sort that they fell into as much for recreation as for any real disagreement. Her Pa's bark aside, Isabel knew he had little bite; so long as the stranger brought no further harm upon the elder daughter, no harm would come to mind. More to the point, the arguing kept them both distracted and therefore not paying attention to what their determined, precocious daughter might be up to; and so, slowly at first, Isabel inched down the porch and slipped around the corner, bare feet padding across the wood as she beelined it for a hatch set against the base of the house.
The crawlspace that ran under every room of the house was mostly meant for storage in times of need, but the young girl had taken to using the dusty enclosure of planks, pillars and dirt as her own secret little realm. From here, she had a hundred little cracks and peepholes along the ceiling that looked out through the house's floorboards. This, her Secret Place, was where she was Mistress of her own domain.
She'd keep an eye on the stranger. She would make sure he didn't hurt her sister!
She found her way to the space below her sister's room soon enough, beginning to look through every crevice and space along the boards in search of the drifter. When she finally spotted him- well, mostly his boots and legs- he seemed to be sitting on the edge of Juliet's bed. A little more searching found a better vantage point, and from it she could see the stranger leaning over her sister's writhing, weeping form... speaking to her?
"You aren't supposed to be in there," the drifter was murmuring, his voice soft, soothing and lacking that familiar accent he had spoken to her Ma with. "Your time is done, and you must be measured. Staying in this one is only a delay, and at a price that isn't yours to pay. It is time that you leave."
Those last words carried something to them; something profound, something commanding. The air seemed to grow chill, for just a moment, and young Isabel felt like something fluttered past her cheek. Up in the room above, the rasping gasps of her sister had begun to settle into something soft and rhythmic, the drowsy snores of a well-earned rest. Isabel could see the drifter's hand come down to brush along the young woman's sweat-slick brow before he climbed to his feet, a soft sigh slipping from his lips as his heavy footfall began to clomp their way towards the door, before abruptly stopping about halfway through. Scrambling around in her crawlspace to find a better peephole, Isabel could see the drifter standing with his back turned to her and the bed, looking off to the side.
"I know you're here," the drifter suddenly said, and this time his voice was hard and edged.
In that moment, Isabel was certain that she had been found out, her eyes widening. But the drifter had not turned to look at her, had not even stomped a boot down onto the floorboards, and so she held her breath and waited.
"Are you going to leave as well?" the drifter continued, "Or should we finish this matter?"
It was then, all at once, that the Juliet's bedroom door slammed shut. A room that had been lined with shadows was abruptly choked in them, darkness seeping from every crevice, a tangible swirl of emptiness. The drifter's body abruptly stiffened, a gasp slipping out as the faint outline of a noose wrapped around his neck, a vicious upwards pull dragging his feet straight from the ground. The shadows were swirling, hissing, and the drifter's feet kicked faintly as he was lynched by something that the little girl couldn't see, his grunts and huffed curses ringing out. And yet his hands remained at his sides, hanging limp.
The shadow, then, seemed to coalesce in front of the hanging drifter, and in that moment took on a form that seemed almost human. Almost. It drew closer to the stranger, and though Isabel was certain that it spoke, she couldn't understand the words... she couldn't even have sounded them out if she tried.
"You've made a mistake," the man grunted, his feet kicking at the air, his hands remaining at his sides even as he was held aloft. "This path will bring you only regret."
The air seemed to shudder and buck, and even without sound Isabel knew it to be a laughter most foul, mirth making the very floorboards groan and creak. The shadows spoke again, and the drifter was lifted just a bit higher, the shadowed noose digging into his throat.
"That's not what I meant," the man grunted, and it was only then that Isabel could see the darkness starting to fade... not just fade, but be cut through with a building glow. That noose which had so tightly bound him seemed to loosen and flicker, before it finally vanished altogether, the man's heavy boots dropping back to the ground. Still that glow built, and the shadows that had so thickly choked at the air drew back towards the corners of the room, as if seeking an escape they could not find. The air shook again, but not with laughter... it instead seemed to tremble with dread.
The drifter turned, and he looked straight down at that little peephole, straight down into little Isabelle's gaze for just a moment. Were it not for the pliant youth of her mind, the malleability, the very sight would have driven her mad.
The drifter was a flame brighter and purer than any she would ever see again, both seeming to fill the room and yet focus to a single point all at once. Where once she had seen lips, nose, chin, cheeks, now she could see only a shroud of quills, every color and no color, a constantly shifting tapestry of patterns weaved in feathers, shapes beyond that which could exist. But she could still see the eyes. She could see so many eyes.
It was terrible. It was beautiful.
And when the drifter spoke, the voice didn't seem to fill her ears, so much as it resonated within her soul. And even as young as she was, she knew that the drifter spoke to her.
"Get. Out."
Her body was moving before her mind even understood, toes digging desperately into the dry clay, scrambling to escape to that hatch which might return her to the daylight. Behind her, she could hear the drifter again, with her ears this time; these words were not intended for her, but rather to the room's shadow.
"Your mistake was thinking me mortal."
Isabel hurtled herself from the crawlspace, skinning knees and elbows all the while, and then she was in flight; knocked from her very feet as the air buffeted at her back. Behind her was a flare of light, a gasp of breath from the very lungs of the Earth, and a cacophony of sound so terrible she might have thought the house was reduced to matchsticks. She sprawled out hard, a rush of air from her small lungs, her fingers clawing at the soft grass as if to pull herself even further from the catastrophe, escape that devastation...
Except, even as her fingers closed around a fistful of silken fabric, the sound behind her abruptly halted.
Panting for breath, eyes wide, little Isebel's eyes followed her grasping hand to find that she was clinging to Julie's nightgown, her elder sister lying on the grass just above her. She still looked pale, drawn, but already so much improved from the sallow and faded thing that had lingered in her bed. And, sure enough, as Isabel instinctively tugged against the gown, Juliet's eyes flickered and opened reluctantly, sweeping about the sky and immediately narrowing against the glare of the sun.
"I-Isabel?" Juliet's eyes flickered towards her shellshocked little sister, initially confused tones sounding increasingly annoyed; "...what'm I doin' out here in my nightie?"
Isabel could hear running footsteps, the barrage of voices as her Ma and Pa found them out there together. Isabel was gathered up, given a prompt swat for having gone missing, and Juliet herself was nearly killed outright by the immense hug she was given by them both. But even as the bustle surrounded her and she was lifted up into her Pa's grasp, her wide eyed couldn't help but slide back to the house she'd just escaped; not a single window was cracked, not so much as a shingle loosened. Around the corner, she could see the drifter walking out the front door again, unnoticed by almost all of the rest, except for little Isabel. Standing at the side of the road, he would turn towards the family reunited, and for just a moment she would see his face again; young, yet old. Vibrant, yet weary. Alive, yet dead.
She waved. He waved back, smiling faintly and heading down the road once more.
Her parents would insist- with the added threat of a spanking- that there had been no bright light, no grand noise, and that her imagination was running wild. How Juliet had ended up in the backyard, they knew not. Why there was a thin layer of soot upon the walls, ceiling and floor of her room after the drifter's departure, they cared not. Their daughter had been saved, and they would not question God's plan in these matters. In the years to follow, little Isabel grew up, and her mind papered over the cracks and scars that her glimpse of the drifter's true face had carved, a sight relegated to her deepest and most private of nightmares.
She only halted her charge once; when she passed the closed and locked door to her sister Juliet's room. For only a moment she paused, long enough to press an ear to the door, behind which she could hear mumbled words and soft sobs, swiftly turning into hateful snarls.
The venom behind those snarls sent low shudders even through the young girl, and she was quick to be on her way again, not stopping until she was at the doorway to the kitchen. Her mother stood there, wringing out her hands on a worn apron, considering a stranger who sat at the kitchen table with his back turned to Isabel.
"So, mister," her Ma was saying, "you're thinkin' you can help my Juliet when the Reverend hisself couldn't, is that the right've it?"
Isabel froze in the doorway when she heard the name, little eyes widening faintly. Even as young as she was, she knew the implications of that name, and what her mother was asking.
Juliet had come down with something, starting a bit less than a month back. She would feel nauseous, throwing up in the evening and spending most of the day sleeping a sleep that brought her no rest. Her skin had begun to grow pale and waxy, her eyes sporting dark bags and her gaze dulling from exhaustion and unhappiness. But as the days had gone on, other things had begun to happen; Juliet had begun to mumble in her sleep, speaking of places she had never been, things she had never done, names nobody could recognize. During her brief times of wakefulness, she had grown sullen and hostile, hurling insults at her mother, spitting at her father, even slapping Isabel on one occasion.
Things had seemed to escalate, day by day, until Juliet was finally tied to her bed. Kicking, screaming, cursing with phrases and threats she should never have known. The town doctor barely knew where to begin. The town reverend had told them that their daughter was, in all likelihood, possessed, and that the nearest specialist who might be able to assist would be many weeks away.
And so, for over a week now, they had been waiting. With every day, their elder daughter had grown weaker, and her emotions more turbulent; spitting with rage and wrath one moment, sobbing with absolute terror the next.
"Might be I can, Ma'am," the man replied, fingers lightly tracing the rim of the glass without sampling the drink itself, "I've been around a fair bit in my day, be surprised the sorta things I've bumped across. If'n you'd rather wait til this demonologist your reverend spoke 'bout can get in, though, there's no offence taken, 'course."
Isabel's mother considered that for a long moment, before she replied archly; "And supposin' you'd be lookin' for some sorta pay for the service, I reckon?"
"No, Ma'am, just passin' by, weren't no trouble, not needin' pay."
As her mother was clearly distracted considering whether to take him up on the offer, Isabel took an opportunity to come darting into the kitchen, feet slapping excitedly against the ground as she came around to look up at the stranger.
He looked like a nice enough fellow, though it was hard to figure if he was Ma's age, younger, or older; his hair was shaggy and black, clearly having gone without a barber for quite some time. Dark bristles coated his jaw and chin, just thick enough to cast a bit of a shadow. His skin seemed flawless and smooth when taken in as a whole, yet whenever she focused on a spot she'd find it weathered and lined, as if years of worry had carved deep ruts into the flesh. He was dressed in the weathered button-up shirt, brown trousers and suspenders of a travelling vagrant, the fabric long-faded and pitted with stains aplenty. His eyes, a pale blue more vibrant than cotton candy from the fairgrounds, seemed to crackle with potential, even as the skin around them sagged in exhaustion. Those eyes, finally, seemed to pick up on the newcomer, and they swept down to consider the curious girl who stared up at him.
She waved. He waved back, and smiled faintly.
"Isabel, don't you be standin' there with flies gatherin' in your gob, go fetch Pa and bring him outside, will ya?" her mother snapped irritably, even as she gave the stranger a brief nod. "Figurin' there's no harm'n it, this point."
"Yes'm," the girl replied dutifully, shaking herself of that fleeting distraction, running quick to fetch her father. It took a fair bit of insistent tugging and a reminder that Ma had insisted on it, but she finally coaxed her grumbling father from his nap and out onto the front stoop, though the farmer made a point of grabbing his rifle and giving the drifter a warning glare in passing.
"Don't you mind Pa there," her mother was saying, leading the drifter down the hall. Isabel could hear his heavy boots clomping on the wooden floor, receding with distance.
Pa wasn't particularly thrilled with the decision as he and Isabel stepped out onto the front porch. Fiddling with his rifle nervously and glancing back towards the door every so often, her weathered and aging patron was just starting to turn to let himself back in when her mother emerged, looking worried but defiant.
"Priest's sayin' nothin' to be done til the feller from Houston gets in," Pa groused, "Not gettin' why we should be lettin' some random fella from the ass end of nowhere-"
"Pa, language!" Her mother scoffed, hands folding into the pocket of her apron. "Houston fella won't be here 'til end of the month, you're knowin' that. Juliet might not keep that long. She's got the Devil in her, who's knowin' how much longer she's lastin'."
Her parents fell into some light bickering, the sort that they fell into as much for recreation as for any real disagreement. Her Pa's bark aside, Isabel knew he had little bite; so long as the stranger brought no further harm upon the elder daughter, no harm would come to mind. More to the point, the arguing kept them both distracted and therefore not paying attention to what their determined, precocious daughter might be up to; and so, slowly at first, Isabel inched down the porch and slipped around the corner, bare feet padding across the wood as she beelined it for a hatch set against the base of the house.
The crawlspace that ran under every room of the house was mostly meant for storage in times of need, but the young girl had taken to using the dusty enclosure of planks, pillars and dirt as her own secret little realm. From here, she had a hundred little cracks and peepholes along the ceiling that looked out through the house's floorboards. This, her Secret Place, was where she was Mistress of her own domain.
She'd keep an eye on the stranger. She would make sure he didn't hurt her sister!
She found her way to the space below her sister's room soon enough, beginning to look through every crevice and space along the boards in search of the drifter. When she finally spotted him- well, mostly his boots and legs- he seemed to be sitting on the edge of Juliet's bed. A little more searching found a better vantage point, and from it she could see the stranger leaning over her sister's writhing, weeping form... speaking to her?
"You aren't supposed to be in there," the drifter was murmuring, his voice soft, soothing and lacking that familiar accent he had spoken to her Ma with. "Your time is done, and you must be measured. Staying in this one is only a delay, and at a price that isn't yours to pay. It is time that you leave."
Those last words carried something to them; something profound, something commanding. The air seemed to grow chill, for just a moment, and young Isabel felt like something fluttered past her cheek. Up in the room above, the rasping gasps of her sister had begun to settle into something soft and rhythmic, the drowsy snores of a well-earned rest. Isabel could see the drifter's hand come down to brush along the young woman's sweat-slick brow before he climbed to his feet, a soft sigh slipping from his lips as his heavy footfall began to clomp their way towards the door, before abruptly stopping about halfway through. Scrambling around in her crawlspace to find a better peephole, Isabel could see the drifter standing with his back turned to her and the bed, looking off to the side.
"I know you're here," the drifter suddenly said, and this time his voice was hard and edged.
In that moment, Isabel was certain that she had been found out, her eyes widening. But the drifter had not turned to look at her, had not even stomped a boot down onto the floorboards, and so she held her breath and waited.
"Are you going to leave as well?" the drifter continued, "Or should we finish this matter?"
It was then, all at once, that the Juliet's bedroom door slammed shut. A room that had been lined with shadows was abruptly choked in them, darkness seeping from every crevice, a tangible swirl of emptiness. The drifter's body abruptly stiffened, a gasp slipping out as the faint outline of a noose wrapped around his neck, a vicious upwards pull dragging his feet straight from the ground. The shadows were swirling, hissing, and the drifter's feet kicked faintly as he was lynched by something that the little girl couldn't see, his grunts and huffed curses ringing out. And yet his hands remained at his sides, hanging limp.
The shadow, then, seemed to coalesce in front of the hanging drifter, and in that moment took on a form that seemed almost human. Almost. It drew closer to the stranger, and though Isabel was certain that it spoke, she couldn't understand the words... she couldn't even have sounded them out if she tried.
"You've made a mistake," the man grunted, his feet kicking at the air, his hands remaining at his sides even as he was held aloft. "This path will bring you only regret."
The air seemed to shudder and buck, and even without sound Isabel knew it to be a laughter most foul, mirth making the very floorboards groan and creak. The shadows spoke again, and the drifter was lifted just a bit higher, the shadowed noose digging into his throat.
"That's not what I meant," the man grunted, and it was only then that Isabel could see the darkness starting to fade... not just fade, but be cut through with a building glow. That noose which had so tightly bound him seemed to loosen and flicker, before it finally vanished altogether, the man's heavy boots dropping back to the ground. Still that glow built, and the shadows that had so thickly choked at the air drew back towards the corners of the room, as if seeking an escape they could not find. The air shook again, but not with laughter... it instead seemed to tremble with dread.
The drifter turned, and he looked straight down at that little peephole, straight down into little Isabelle's gaze for just a moment. Were it not for the pliant youth of her mind, the malleability, the very sight would have driven her mad.
The drifter was a flame brighter and purer than any she would ever see again, both seeming to fill the room and yet focus to a single point all at once. Where once she had seen lips, nose, chin, cheeks, now she could see only a shroud of quills, every color and no color, a constantly shifting tapestry of patterns weaved in feathers, shapes beyond that which could exist. But she could still see the eyes. She could see so many eyes.
It was terrible. It was beautiful.
And when the drifter spoke, the voice didn't seem to fill her ears, so much as it resonated within her soul. And even as young as she was, she knew that the drifter spoke to her.
"Get. Out."
Her body was moving before her mind even understood, toes digging desperately into the dry clay, scrambling to escape to that hatch which might return her to the daylight. Behind her, she could hear the drifter again, with her ears this time; these words were not intended for her, but rather to the room's shadow.
"Your mistake was thinking me mortal."
Isabel hurtled herself from the crawlspace, skinning knees and elbows all the while, and then she was in flight; knocked from her very feet as the air buffeted at her back. Behind her was a flare of light, a gasp of breath from the very lungs of the Earth, and a cacophony of sound so terrible she might have thought the house was reduced to matchsticks. She sprawled out hard, a rush of air from her small lungs, her fingers clawing at the soft grass as if to pull herself even further from the catastrophe, escape that devastation...
Except, even as her fingers closed around a fistful of silken fabric, the sound behind her abruptly halted.
Panting for breath, eyes wide, little Isebel's eyes followed her grasping hand to find that she was clinging to Julie's nightgown, her elder sister lying on the grass just above her. She still looked pale, drawn, but already so much improved from the sallow and faded thing that had lingered in her bed. And, sure enough, as Isabel instinctively tugged against the gown, Juliet's eyes flickered and opened reluctantly, sweeping about the sky and immediately narrowing against the glare of the sun.
"I-Isabel?" Juliet's eyes flickered towards her shellshocked little sister, initially confused tones sounding increasingly annoyed; "...what'm I doin' out here in my nightie?"
Isabel could hear running footsteps, the barrage of voices as her Ma and Pa found them out there together. Isabel was gathered up, given a prompt swat for having gone missing, and Juliet herself was nearly killed outright by the immense hug she was given by them both. But even as the bustle surrounded her and she was lifted up into her Pa's grasp, her wide eyed couldn't help but slide back to the house she'd just escaped; not a single window was cracked, not so much as a shingle loosened. Around the corner, she could see the drifter walking out the front door again, unnoticed by almost all of the rest, except for little Isabel. Standing at the side of the road, he would turn towards the family reunited, and for just a moment she would see his face again; young, yet old. Vibrant, yet weary. Alive, yet dead.
She waved. He waved back, smiling faintly and heading down the road once more.
Her parents would insist- with the added threat of a spanking- that there had been no bright light, no grand noise, and that her imagination was running wild. How Juliet had ended up in the backyard, they knew not. Why there was a thin layer of soot upon the walls, ceiling and floor of her room after the drifter's departure, they cared not. Their daughter had been saved, and they would not question God's plan in these matters. In the years to follow, little Isabel grew up, and her mind papered over the cracks and scars that her glimpse of the drifter's true face had carved, a sight relegated to her deepest and most private of nightmares.