#darktidesapadiel

[voxpurgatorium]

Tin can man || Gage and Apadiel

☽ - — There was more 'impact' than he had anticipated.            And it was odd, how things began to creep in....            How the music wasn't quite so melancholy,            more lyrical, perhaps more meaningful.            Perhaps even, a reflection of his mindset...  Something that hummed a little brighter than before, was distracted by something other than work or scrapping what little change he could out of his pocket to hand to someone on the street.  Not dragged down by the rain that fell from dreary drizzle to torrential downpours in the City proper, even the endless gusts from the wasteland that buffeted the side of the bus seemed to thrum past the steel construct with more of a gentle chord than it's usual grating growl...

So slightly stuttering words slipped softly between his lips and the open air, broadcast to the masses, though -- it was different, when you knew the people who were listening... Or... Perhaps just one...

...And tonights list was a little different.  Other than his own voice as a slight pause between songs, there was a flavour all of it's own.  No singing lighting up broadcast, just symphony, music, orchestra - with his own spin on it maybe - certainly not a purists view of 'music' in a classical sense.  But it might bring a smile to one face, one set of lips... A pair of sweet, subtle, decadent and sinful lips.                                           To mind then - a kiss... The kiss... Something thought of in quiet moments, and not so quiet.  Which enticed a smile to his own face, unbidden though not unwanted.  A warmth of something which curled in his stomach as a roll of nervous energy - half memory, half anticipation.

He didn't know when he'd see her again, only that -- he would.  He had to.

"I f-found a scrap of p-paper today.  A torn out shred f-from a b-book.  And on it w-were w-words, so I r-read them.  So at least, this - scrap - w-would b-be rr-remembered, somewhere.  I d-don't know what the b-book was about or who w-wrote it.  B-but the words w-were... B-beautiful."

"My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.” 

"And it sounded like searching f-for something.  Trying to f-form a construct f-from n-nothing.  I d-don't think you always n-need a constellation.  Not if you h-have one star.  Just one.  P-perhaps in a constellation it's just one mm-more light among a thousand.  A m-million.  B-but on it's own -- shining b-brightly -- unique and... B-beautiful. W-we can't see the stars.  W-we h-have no constellations, but you can still f-find one, if you look h-hard enough, p-perhaps in the most unexpected of p-places."

A switch was flipped, muting the mic and setting the playlist in motion, the first song easing into the confines of the place he called home -- and it would continue with snatches of found things, for a few hours yet, up until the early hours,  long enough for him to snatch some sleep and something to eat in the morning.

Kicking off shoes and settling onto the cot, eyes closing -- letting the sounds whisper gently, an image, a feeling in his mind that seemed like it meant more -- a... Promise to be kept.   Though he wasn't sure if it was his promise to give, or to be given...

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

It took me a long time to learn this.

I thought that love was like air. More for someone else would leave me gasping. I wondered what I had done wrong, if there was something in me that made me not enough, or less, than others. And I was afraid. Afraid as you are now. Of being traded in like a broken toy that wasn't wanted any more for something greater, or better.

Pain. H e a r t b r e a k. Fear.

All of those things were mine, more than once. 

But I was wrong. I believed in love as a child believes in it, and I am not a child any longer.

Just because someone loves someone else, or many others as well, doesn't mean that they love you less, or another person more. Love is inexhaustible. Love shifts and stretches and comes in many forms, as many forms as there are galaxies, and more forms than there are names for it. 

Everyone is irreplaceable. You are irreplaceable. There will never be another exactly like you. 

Why else do you think I fight for humanity?

You will never lose the people you love, and they will never lose you. Nothing has changed. You have to believe in them, that you will not be lost to them as well, and if you love them, really love them---

You will. 

Love, is what matters, and love is without quantity or ending.

You don't like me. You don't have to like me. But, I believe in you.

Now, all that is left is for you to believe, and that I can't give you.

All I can tell you, is that you will never be alone.

Not once, will you be forgotten.

I will hear you.

-Things Gabriel might say to the Man Not Quite In the Service of the Crown

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

we play a different game but we are [masters] both - Apadiel and Gabriel

There is an anticipation in the air, hot as the sawdust, bringing to mind innocent memories of circuses and carnivals, and yet, perhaps it was, but here, they play a much different kind of game. The sounds are deafening, the press of bodies, crushing together, the way that grim structure stands in stark outline against the sky, ushering them into its gaping maw, and to his troubled eyes, it almost takes on a living quality. They dart inside, milling, like so many schooling fish, brightly slipping one by one through the yawning abyss, and he slips with them, and takes his place among the lower rabble, and he watches the show.

Watches the way she runs and the way he screams, feels the salty spray of blood mark his clothing in fell raindrops. Others cry out and shout and wail, but he says nothing. He is silent. He remembers. Each of their faces, broken and bloody, shattered beyond recognition by bare fists, sheared away, untouched but empty, he sears into his retinas and into his mind. He has no greater focus or purpose than this. He watches their last breaths, feels his chest rise and fall and ache in shared agony, and stretches out what hope he can. Watches their bodies writhe and kick as the last electrical impulses fire uselessly, and he cannot be sure that they hear him. That anyone hears them, understands the gravity of what has occurred. He wonders if they still believe that anyone still hears the cries of the forsaken. They do not know that he would answer.

 They are human, they are watching humans suffer, are they so inured? His chest tightens and he is breathless. He feels something spread within him, a deep, red, raw anger that percolates through him, molten and secret as the heart of a dying star. He feels something he does not understand and it is anger, and it is the fury of the ancient being that he is beyond the mask that he so readily flashes, savage and unstoppable and utterly focused, precise. It takes less than a pound of pressure for steel to cut skin, he has run the numbers in fleeting, bloody tragedies. It will take less than he has within him. His eyes are bright and forever in love with the incandescent burning of empires, he smolders, and for a moment, he is terrible, some monstrous Apollo with blood upon his lips and triumph in his eyes, whose love will fire and choke and consume, his heart pounding to the instrumentals of shattering bone, and he knows the path before him as a sailor knows the tide, and can trace like the vessels that lead to his heart, like maps of well-charted continents, what he must do.

He burns that he cannot do it sooner. His patience is great and still it flexes, a wild thing now too weakly bound. He understands now how his brother feels, but he cannot bring himself to be frightened of him. His purity drives him to further heights, and the anger clears enough for strategy. His knuckles are bone white as he raises his head, and gazes at the tower, opulent in the rain. His smile is sharp and it is white, and he hopes that he is watching, that he knows of him and what he will do. That he will come not as a blaze, but as whispers in the dark, that he will shed hope and discord like rose petals, innocuous and sweet. That he will find a way to call them to him and the way to their liberation, and the voice of the people will drown out the shadows. He hears them cry for the blood of their countrymen, and he feels no doubt, still. These games, horrific as they are, the one spot of pleasure in the gloom. He blames not the men, but the constructor of these horrors. Injustice is a disease, and the Arena is a symptom. Removing it would not cure the sickness, but dealing with it might hold the sickness at bay.

With enough time, and time they have. They have enough time to set the trap, to allow them to underestimate each of them, believe that they are still divided. He thinks in the silence of his echoing heart, numbed to the screaming, to the salt lash of the blood and the breathing and the heat. When it is over and the raging eyes shine empty, and the victor stands, he rises in echo. Shoulders rigid, fierce and devoted. There is nothing that he fears, nothing that he will not face.

And so he walks.

Into the office, sawdust changed to thick carpets, he walks over the echoes of Persia. He smiles, and his smile is charming and sweet and soft. He has found the name of the one he is searching for. Her name drips off his tongue like honey and poison. He is not an enemy. If his anger burns, he hides it well, it no longer chokes him. He is calm.

He stands like a conquerer.

And so he waits.

[voxpurgatorium]

Poisoned chalice || Gage and Apadiel

☽ - — He was -s c a r e d.

There was no doubt about that - and even in the coolness of Purgatory air, there was a rivulet of sweat making it's way down his spine with enough noticeable discomfort as to make shoulders shift and try to ease the irritation.  

His chest hurt -- breathing was hard, and he'd already put the cough down to his body physically rejecting even the mental concept of setting foot near the arena gate, let alone stepping inside to witness one of the bloodbaths.  ( Refused to put it down to anything else, other than that -- fear had a physical impact, just as any other mental issue could - stress, anxiety -- he was just... Out of sorts. ) -- And he'd be a fool not to be afraid...

But as an aside to that -- he couldn't shift the doubt that he might just be 'dead man walking' right now.  On his way to a gallows of his own making after the outburst at the vendors.  Speaking your mind in Purgatory was a dangerous game at the best of times.  Speaking it to the face of a Prince was marginally closer to suicide.  And perhaps - if anyone were awarded an epitaph here, his would be 'death by stupidity'. 

Perhaps then it was fitting, that the large metal gate with it's prongs and barbs looked like the maw of some monstrous creature --                     ready to consume                     flesh and bone and soul... Whole.                     One large gulp - shredding to pieces and leaving                     no remains.  No trace.                       Probably not even a memory.

But he wouldn't turn and run.  There was nowhere to go.  He might be able to disappear into the darkness of the streets, or even the tunnels.  But then what?  No food.  No shelter.  No way of helping people.  No radio... The one thing that he actually had some pride in.  Knowing now, truly, that it did -- in the smallest of ways -- help... Gave comfort or company.  To those who might be feeling a little lonely too...  Only silence thereafter and again -- perhaps forgotten.

Swarms of bodies, thrumming and trilling with excitement.  Het up into a frenzy by the promise of ensuing violence.  To watch fist and foot against flesh.  Sometimes steel or blade or another brutal device with which to dispatch those who were found to be less than 'entertaining'.  And he was swept along by them - but still stood apart from it - the jostle and shove into the grounds, up and into - through the gates and to the place where money or belongings were traded for entry.  Letting the tide of people sweep by, and moving over to a door set to one side.  Just the entrance into the bowels of the beast.  

And perhaps it took him a moment longer, beneath the scrutiny of the guard - a woman who stood a head shorter than him, but looked like she was built of muscle and sinew and venom - to gather himself and step closer.  To take a few steadying breaths.

"G-gage Ss-Shepherd... I... I w-was... I... H-have... An... Invitation."

And the slow curl of lips he was met with was nothing comforting, but it was followed by  a grunt and a nod.  The door unlocked with a hefty iron key, and ushered into the darkness of the gloom beyond...

...No better than outside - flickering bulbs and sweltering heat - the sounds of preparations being made and the screams of those who were there unwilling.  Who might just earn their forgiveness or freedom.  Or might not...

Couldn't unsee the trails of blood stained into stone floors, splattered along the walls, the rattle of metal and cages and the laughs of the confident fighters, all mingling together in a sickening cacophony -- preparatory for their own form of battle - a mockery of war for not purpose other than to entertain or deal out a supposed 'justice' -- and he wasn't sure he could believe in that.

Rising then, up into another level and the noise of the crowd was clear from even here, told to 'Wait there.  Don't fucking move if you know what's good for you'.  Cleaner, but still with that same tainted sense -- not as plush as the room he'd entered, the Overseer's office... But practical and possibly on the middle level from what he could judge.  Probably so the guard could check his invitation with the Prince herself.  Or maybe Thunderface.  Now him, Gage had no desire to see.  Eyes boring into his head and the suspicion that Kelly would just as preferably not have him within a hundred miles of his precious 'Apadiel'...

[personalityquirks-blog]

Of all the things I've lost... | Astaroth & Apadiel

This entire city was full of filth, not just the dirt and the grime, but the humans, they infested it, and he knew that was why he was there, to lead them, to control them, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. No, Astaroth hated it, he hated them, he was just glad nobody stopped him playing with them when he wanted to, nobody told him what to do, it made Purgatory bareable, along with the fact his friends were there, his siblings.

His apartment was spotless, always, he employed cleaners for that very job, and most people didn’t like to disappoint the Prince, he could be a little volatile. It wasn’t like he had a problem with getting dirty, he kind of enjoyed it at times, it wasn’t about germs or infection, but he liked to be in clean surroundings, that was all. So when he wasn’t at his place, he wasn’t normally found in the obvious places, though he liked to visit Asmodeus, Lilith and Mammon at their places of work, his usual haunt was a little less typical.

He walked in, and saw Kelly’s head lift the very instant the door closed behind him, but the Prince didn’t react, he just pushed the ear phones into his ear that little bit more to try and block out the sounds around him, but politely turning the volume down on the personal CD player, so as not to disturb Apadiel or Kelly from whatever it was that she did. He never really asked her what she did, he knew she basically ran the Arena but beyond that, he’d never bothered to ask.

It was obvious what Asmo, Liltih and Mammon did, they had their own business premises, Ba’al was law enforcement, which kind of spoke for itself. Astaroth, he owned apartments, from the dark and dimly lit little hovels the humans lived in, to the more luxurious buildings only the Fallen could afford, but he’d never really attended the arena’s unless it was one of Apadiel’s concerts, and although he knew that a lot of work went into the musical events, he had to wonder what she did the rest of the time. Was she the one that organised the fights?

Today was the day, for whatever reason, he finally decided to ask her, or… he thought it was. “Don’t do it.” he muttered to himself, taking a seat in the little waiting area on one of the pristine white chairs. “She’ll only think you’re stupid.” He didn’t like that thought and a small pout spread over his face, growing till he was like a child whose favourite toy had just been taken, on the verge of tears nearly.

“If I don’t ask I’ll never know..” he argued with himself, and despite only just sitting down, he patted his knees and pushed himself up again, taking in a breath like he needed to steady his nerves then knocked on the door to announce he was there, not that he needed to, but it was only polite so he put on a smile.

However the moment he knocked, he changed his mind and turned, running his tongue over his lips before biting at his bottom one and letting out a huff of air“Nevermind..” he was back on the chair in no time, twiddling his thumbs while he let the music fill his mind.

Yeah, asking her would just make her think he was stupid, it would make her wonder why he hadn’t asked sooner. “Never….mind..” he mumbled to himself again with a huff.

[sariel-darktides]

[DTCon; IC] As an angel, you could take on a pet. Is it something you've ever thought about? What sort of criteria would you look for in the human you chose?

Honestly I…I’ve never really thought about it. Having a pet seems like such a fucking responsibility and I have enough to deal with. I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s life. Especially not someone who is already suffering. It would be…too much pressure. 

But, I mean if I had to, I would pick someone that I could help. Someone that needed to be pulled up from the muck of this shithole. I’d like to rescue someone the way that I was rescued…Give them a purpose.

[honored-in-hell]

[DTCon; IC] Given the effect that multiple pets can have on a Prince, how would you feel about Asmodeus taking on another pet? Would you want to be a part of the process of choosing another pet, or would you be okay with him just coming home with someone? If you were allowed to choose, what sort of person would you want to share Asmodeus with?

OHHH VERY GOOD QUESTION!!

IC: I'd kick the shit outa the lil' weasel! I'd hate it, 'onestly, it might take some of the attention away from me, so I guess there is one perk wi' him havin' another pet, but, I'd prefer he didn't. 

If he did, there's no fuckin' way he'd eva lemme in on the process of pickin' one, but yea, I guess I'd rather be there to check whoever they are, they ain't a complete dick! I'd like a pretty lil' blonde or somethin', seen as I'd probably be spendin' a lot of time wi' em, need em to be easy on the eye, ya know?

[honored-in-hell]

[DTCon, OOC] How do you imagine Kale's life was before he died and came to Purgatory? What was he like? What are you thoughts about how he died?

OKAY... FROM THE TOP-AND THIS IS EASY AS I WROTE THE CHARACTER SO I'VE ALREADY DONE ALL THIS IN MY HEAD WITH HIS BIO MWAHAHAHAAAAA

Okay so... I honestly imagined him a family man, the soccer dad, playing with his kids and things, but getting caught up in the odd bar fight, all of which was maybe a friends fault and not his, but he always managed to come out on top thanks to numerous trips to the gym (cause he gotta look fine for his lady) and maybe the odd boxing session in college. I think he'd wear a suit, business man, but be a complete sweat pants and tshirt or jeans and a tshirt guy out of work.

I think he was still confident, but loyal to his wife. I think he was a popular guy, friendly, bubbly, and with a lot less aggression to work out.

Hope that's okay but thats how I saw him.