RP:Sweet Release

Part of the Learning to Fall Arc

Summary: Alenya and Hanan happen by the Seraph Aetyyr as he attempts to rekindle the flame of a beggar's life.

Characters: Aetyyr, Alenya and Hanan.

Location: Cenril Streets.

Alenya was strolling around the market, which existed in and amongst the intersection here. First this cart, then that stand was inspected, the assassin making sure to keep her cowl close to her face....but of course these people knew her. This was where she grew up--she just didn't need to let them know quite yet that she was the child they all knew. So, as to perserve her aire of incognito, the homespun killer simply wore a deep hood that obscured her features. Though the moonglow was predominate tonight, the hood did quite a good job of shadowing her features: including the opaline flesh, a most remarkable denotation of not only herself, but her mother as well. Certainly one of the local merchants would have recognized her, had they caught a glimpse of the shimmering, resplendant skin that was cloistered just below a veil of black. Idly she peered into a cart overflowing with fruit, her hand easing onto the pommel of the dagger trapped against the other curvature of her thigh. Obscured by what appeared to be a pair of plain black pants, none of the commoners would be able to detect the deadly blade that lay just a breath away, hidden through a simple slit in her clothing. Nearly snorting through her nose, the femme fatale wheeled around, intent to inspect another cart, when her eyes fell on the crowd and she, instead, halted immediately.

Aetyyr is stooped over a prone figure, the magnificent lengths of his feathered appendages draped over the pair like an opalescent silhouette. Those words, that same lilting tone; they perforate the night's air with a vaudevillian grandeur Bogarting the market's din and general attention with the bizarreness of the feat. Soft and strong the sibilant hymn drips from the seraphim's lips, almost as if they were solidified globules of benevolence drifting upward into the ebony reaches of the night sky. Then it begins, eye-searing light amassing from a spherical arcanic fountain within the plume-constructed dome of the fallen seraph, spindles of the burning radiance puncturing the feathery shield to score the moon ray's hold on the city's streets and any who may look on.

Hanan strolled quietly out of a small dark alley, casually thumbing a bit of red from the corner of her lips. Oh, she'd say nothing about the man in the shadows behind her, slumped as he was in a stone corner between a trash container and a curious stray cat, with a couple holes in his neck and a curiously lifeless look in his eye. Wasn't her fault--if the fellow'd been a bit less drunk he'd have likely survived the encounter. Then again, if the fellow's been less drunk she'd have to work harder at luring him away from the bar, wouldn't she? She preferred the fight, the sneaking up behind someone a good bit stronger, the yanking back, the subduing, but fast food had a certain appeal. Wouldn't her sire be proud? She paused a moment when she heard that singing, her nostrils flaring subtly. That didn't smell... human. She followed her ears Aetyyr's way, head tilting slightly at his bizarre tones--and that light!

Alenya shielded her eyes, an arm brought up to lap over the smoldering, greenish gold embers that rested so dutifully within her skull. Like an obstinate child who refused to awake from a school morning's slumber, the thief rolled to the side, pivoting upon her heel to the left, deftly avoiding another citizen of Cenril, all the while keeping her eyes covered. Once she had retreated well into the shadows, the female killer-for-hire then retreived a white, faceless mask from a hidden satchel near her rump and carefully fit it over her mein, first gently sliding it under the draping hood so as to remain anonymous. With quick steps, and a color-skewed outlook, the woman strode across the intersection toward the haloed visitor. Hands tucked into her clothing where pockets shouldn't be, she lingered there, obfuscated but obvious, waiting for the seraphim to make his next move; perhaps she again might have to undo the work which he presumed to do as good.

The consecrated actions of the Fallen take on a sudden vehemence, his hands joining the sanctified dance of hymn and arcanic will - the circular manifestation of his intent becoming brazened and scorned with a diverse triumvirate of opaline-hues, each paling considerably in comparison to the last. /Whoosh/, his wings rip apart, to reveal the heavily muscled lengths of his bicep and forearms corded to a sickening degree, the ashen ichors of his magic tracing the lines of his pulsing veins. With a shove forward his hands are pressed to the stomach of the prone human the thundering cacophony of his aetherics melding with the haggard form to send it shuddering and seizing in the silence that follows.

Hanan hasn't the faintest idea what's going on, but she knows for a fact it can't be good. Look at that! She took a small step back without thinking once he came into view, her hand dropping to the shiny swep thilt of the rapier she'd carried for so long. Eyes cast about to see what others are doing--there, she spies the assassin crossing the open space, though of course cannot recognize her. When in doubt, get intel. "Hey!" It sounded a little less bold than usual. She cleared her throat. "Hey--what the hell is that avian doing?" She pointed vaguely in Aetyrr's direction. "He isn't trying to raise that guy, is he?"

Alenya turned suddenly, though there were many shouts, only those that eminated from the vampyric pirate were intelligible. With a light shrug, the assassin merely gesticulated toward the winged man, then shook her head pronouncedly. Already several members of the assemblage were attempting to flee, others rooted to their observational spots like deer in headlights--halogens, at that, from the luminosity that the angel seemed to expel. Gripping the daggers that remained hidden withing the folds of her clothing, the assassin edged even nearer. She could feel her retinas searing, her peripheral vision already turning into a dappled glow of purple and black. She felt as if she were going to pass out, and staggered slightly. The effect was overwhelming, but as divinity ebbed it's way through the crowd, so too would the murderer's determination flow within her mind. Now within arm's reach, she dared not touch the angelic being until his powers had waned, and she was able to fully observe what it was he had created--or re-created.

Aetyyr falls back, coated in a sickly sheen of sweat and arcanic residue, visibly reverberating with the after effects of his efforts. Both of his hands are now placed to the cobblestoned pathway of the Cenrillian street, and his legs bent at the knee, for balance; faint streaks of brilliant opal fall from his heaving chest to flash their way a short distance before fading to nothingness. What has become of the downed beggar is shortly unveiled, a throaty growl arcing up the length of his larynx to seep from gritted-teeth, the rest of his body following suit in an stance-based show of rage and soulless hunger; his filthy living corpse of a torso writhing perceptibly with the weakened aetherics of the angel. The seraph, distraught at his failure, reaches out, wordlessly, a single alabaster digit attempting to brush the cheek of his malfunctioning resurrection. "Why?" the word sweeps across the airwaves like an electric beat, pulsating against every drum and soul alike with the entirety of the hollowness the benevolent Aetyyr betrays.

Hanan fought a sudden urge to yell "because!" It was not a difficult fight, she being too busy being dumbstruck to say much of anything. What the hell was this man? She keeping a good few paces away from the winged one, she felt none of the effects suffered by the assassin save an uneasy, chilled feelilng along her spine. Something here was wrong. Incredibly wrong. Ignoring those fleeing about her, she smoothly drew her rapier from its sheath--and let its tip droop a bit. Hopefully there'dbe no need of that. Hopefully. A quirk in the back of her mind hoped he didn't go after her dinner next.

Alenya stepped forward, the transition easy, almost nonchalant. Before the pedestrians around them could ascertain, let alone absorb what was happening, the assassin took one lunging pace toward the reanimated corpse, daggers drawn from their secret hidey-holes. The movement was smooth, like sating rippling upon an ocean breeze, a seemingly uninterrupted ballet of steel and blood. Twirling the daggers in her hands until they faced appropriately, the assasin inserted one from the front to the back, and one from the back to the front in the newly-revived zombie's neck. Then, with an almost aqueous grace, the two centrally located blades parted ways-in opposite directions. The zombie was decapitated and, as the thick, blackish goo that had come to serve as his one-time blood oozed from the new orifice, the killer again made a showy display; twirling and fanning her long knives through the air, most likely spattering blood here and there as she did so. Neatly, the blades were returned to their previous cache position, while the failed revenant's body slumped, then toppled back down to the cobblestones. Sliding her hands up to her hips, the assassin peered down toward the seraph. "Because it's unnatural. He had died, nature dictated so. Whether is was fair or not is not our decision." The woman's voice fairly husked through the din and clamour of the remaining populace, her tone a mixture of gravel and grace; velvetine rose petals upon broken glass.

Aetyyr 's features come askew in horror; defamation of his creation wrought before his eyes with a callous disregard for the extent of his work; a trembling quiver falling from the serene length of his lips. "You." The single word punctures the stillness of the scene like a knife through flesh, the seraph betraying some semblance of anger in an existence thought devoid of such emotion. He flickers, falters and falls, the exertion of resurrection drawing him free of the mortal realm in a myriad of unfinished promises and the desecrated corpse of a dream unfulfilled.

Hanan didn't feel comfortable walking forward until that winged man fell--she still didn't feel comfortable. Heavy boots paced her along the cobblestones until she reached the now-neutralized dereanimated corpse, she nudging the thing with one foot. "You know him, then?" Oddly casual for one who has just witnessed something like this, she slid her rapier back into its sheath with a sort of finality. "They usually mean to make zombies. Or whatever this thing is. Gods know they're more useful all dumb and moldable." A quick shake of the head, like a horse trying to get a good look around its snout. "Never saw an avian disappear easy like that. Helluva trick."

Alenya frowns deeply, though her hood and mask combination would obscure such a telltale betrayal of her emotions. "No, I do not know him. This is the second time I have encountered him, however. Last time he was...not even half as corporeal; that is to say he was nearly entirely transparent. I...somehow...do not think 'avian' fully describes this one. Though I don't know what he intends nor why he is here, it appears he knows very little about our world." Nodding her head to signify a sense of finality, the assassin turned and departed. She was not meaning to be rude, though it was difficult to convey a sense of genuine reluctance to go from behind her totally obscuring garb.