Starter for Cherry @elysiumxii
In a flash of brilliant blue light, Michael silently appears with a warm gust of wind in a dimly-lit alley. Gusts of wind don’t belong here at all, and neither do the holy fires that blaze wildly about his silhouette. He is angry and the foreboding feeling makes the air heavy around him. Shaped brows furrow, the crease between them like a deep and bottomless crevice. His square jaw is tense. His pupilless eyes radiate a vibrantly cold and menacing blue that illuminates everything around him in the settling darkness of evening. Currently that ‘everything’ includes a line of garbage cans, a shredded pornography magazine, and countless cigarette butts on the ground. Why is he here of all places? Clearly someone is lost or meandering about, but it isn’t him. He was following an energy signature that just so happened to be in the vicinity he was in. Battle-high and fresh from an exorcism, his breaths come in wild and heavy pants as he attempts to manage his wrath and achieve more focus on his next work. Menial tasks like the one he is currently undertaking are not an explicit responsibility of his in the angelic hierarchy; usually they are delved to The Principalities or higher-ranking lower angels. Obviously the more important tasks like training Gods army, and keeping the upper ranks of angels in line is his main purpose. Still, as one of the most important leaders of Heaven, no work was considered beneath him. In truth, there were also many of his brethren that he had not even met personally.
This missive in particular is more of a favor to himself; merely the culling of a nuisance to spare him from more work in his office. A clenched fist around the hilt of his sword reminds him to dispel it into the great aether of time and space before he moves.
Then he remembers that his celestial form is invisible to mortals and those with no high sensitivity to the spiritual world. He never had to land in this disgusting alley in the first place.
His jaw tightens again. He rolls his eyes shut. He takes an exasperated breath at himself.
“For God’s sake,” he mutters.
No matter. It is probably for the best that he did appear here. He looks terrifying as he is: the full glory of his wings are unfurled and his person is splattered with blood and ash. His skin bears red smears. Even the red tones in his formerly pristine auburn hair lay slick with ichor. The sooner he could cleanse himself, the more likely his mood is to improve faster. And so he steps from the alley and stands at its mouth as he looks into the streets ahead. There are a number of buildings about, none of which he is familiar with because this is not his part of town. One could be a nightclub, the next, a humble bodega. Whatever they are, the mortals pay little attention. Those that pass by him feel only a strong and strange energy that warns them not to enter the seemingly empty space. Plenty of others cross right before him, and a few give uncomfortable doubletakes as they move past even though they see nothing unusual about they alley itself.
Michael looks past them all, instead focused on the crowds in search of that beacon of energy he trailed here. Sorting through the numerous faces and bodies, he finally finds it and locks his gaze upon it.
A male. Young in appearance, but many years under his belt.
Slim. Not of this world.
Seemingly harmless and childishly carefree in the way he moves.
His back is turned to Michael, so the superior angel can see nothing else of him.
Projecting his voice through the spiritual world, he booms loudly and commandingly (maybe a little too loud, actually) at the figure so that there is no mistake in being heard.
“You. Come here. Now.” This, coming from an over-six-foot, bloody, angry, flaming, scowling angel skulking in an alley in the dark. If the mark ran away in fear, he can not be blamed. It is clearly Michael’s fault for not using any couth or finesse in his summoning.