forum I Ought To Be Thy Adam (angels and demons)

Started October 09, 2020 by @ElderGod-kirky group

tune

@SpookyScarySnoteleks @Caustic-Fraust-Hates-Math and whoever else wanted to be a part of this shitshow

Mmmm I'll make my character up as I go uwuwuwuwu
they can be special snowflake

Shitshow? Why, my dear Circe, I am simply using this as a writing exercise to prepare for my faery works.

hi 😐

Very good point my dear Snoteleks. I apologize for the infidelity

As you should, heathen.

Verael was utterly forgettable. She believed this to be her best trait, as it allowed her to do what she loved most: simply observe. Her well-worn leather sandals chafed at her feet, and the coarse, rough, irritating sand flicked up into her eyes, but she did her best to ignore their biting sting. She gripped her staff, the beaten-up wood smooth beneath her calloused fingers.

Vergin walked up next to you looking very attractive. They smacked whatever you're doing out of your hand because they're obviously more important. "HEY." They ejaculated. "I am an asexual, and if you try and have sex with me I will swallow your vocal cords one by one like overcooked spaghetti."

She heard a scream, following the distinct metallic noise of a knife being shoved into someone's flesh, and winced. That was the one bit she didn't like about observing. She had no way to meaningfully interfere with the people's paths. She had been an angel once, an angel of principalities, but that was before the Flood. Before her Fall.
And so Verael simply watched a boy, no more than ten, bleed to death on the uneven cobblestones, and merely whispered a prayer.

"I am an asexual, and if you try and have sex with me I will swallow your vocal cords one by one like overcooked spaghetti."

(Sorry to interrupt, but that's fucking funny as hell)

Varhmiel sat atop an old and slightly rotten fence standing alone in the sand, perched precariously but pretending as though it was an effortless activity for his small body to stay balanced. His worn black shoes remained untied since that morning, and his shredded jeans and muscle tee colored his pale self in varying shades of dark grey. Smoke curled from his down-turned lips, an eternal scowl on a face. Beady black eyes swept over the area.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

Smoke and fires dotted the landscape that the beast overlooked. With its eyes - many of them, far more than a human would - it scoured the wastelands, the smoke soaking up light from the sun, giving an odd and eerie red glow to the atmosphere around it. The beast was silent - unnerving. This scenario, you’d expect maybe some dramatic music or for it to be making some noise, but no - just the crackling of the fires. The fires, that covered the former homes of the residents of this valley. Where was this, anyways?

But from the distance, a figure arrived. So small, so small compared to the beast who leaned down, the dried ground cracking which each step. In their hand was a sword, and tied to them was a book. A blue eye narrowed in on them, and the beast growled, as the hero lift their sword and it began to glow and-

Pain. Pain. PAIN. PAIN. PAINPAINPAINPA-

They were never much of a morning person, but they always failed to get back to sleep.

Virgil sat, considering their options. If they should get up or not. Rise and shine. To be honest, there was no sense of urgency - they had no tasks, no chores. They were relatively free on what they wanted to do.

But they were bored.

In a way, they missed the olden days, but Virgil could never stop time from progressing, as much as they wanted to. The person relaxed in a tree, somehow having stayed in it the entire night they’d been there. And well rested, they knew they would not be able to get back to sleep. Trees weren’t really that comfortable either way. They were hard, bumpy. A better place might’ve been the ground underneath the tree, but Virgil would never subject themselves to sleeping on the floor.
So there they were. Bored and thinking. What to do, what to do.

Vera leaned against the wall, listening to the array of brass and piano play. She held a shot glass in one hand and a cigarette holder in the other. She wasn't particularly fond of smoking, but she liked the odd little device. Of course the humans would invent something to keep from dirtying their hands in the slightest. Technically speaking, her shot glass was illegal, as the government had decided to restrict the purchasing of alcohol, a decision she figured they would soon roll back. Vera ran a hand through her now-bobbed dark waves–a bored habit she'd picked up from watching so many others do so–and slid up to the bar. There was a man beside her who was pouring over a manuscript, the various pages now beer-stained from the bar. She glanced them over.
"You misspelled 'necessary,'" Vera informed him. She'd always had a soft spot for writers. The last few people she had devoted time to observing had been writers as well. She found them–and their mannerisms–fascinating.
"Did I?" the man said. Vera nodded, and he sighed, his posture slouching. "Damn it. I thought it was finally ready to send in, too…"
The man trailed off.
"Who're you?" he asked. "I mean, I don't expect you to know who I am, because no one does yet, but you seem…necessary."
"I am not necessary," Vera said with a laugh. "You can call me Vera." Her true name, Verael, had not been uttered in millenia.
"Vera…" the man whispered, as if testing the name on his lips. "I'm Oswald van Arbor."
He held out his hand. She shook it.

"Why aren't you paying attention to me?" Virgin huffed indignantly. "I'm trying to explain to you exactly how asexual I am. I would never have the sex with any person ever." They turned their BRIGHT BLUE ORBS towards the nearest humanoidish being. "I'd fuck that though like damn he thicc. I'd have his babies. Or make him have my babies because biology is optional and I will be whatever sex I want at any given time."

The year had barely started and the humans already made an awful decision. Well, Varhmiel considered as he strolled up to the illicit bar, it wasn't necessarily the humans as a whole. He took a long drag from his smoldering cigarette, the butt end burning bright from his breath, then dropped it to the ground and ground it out with the heel of his boot. He attempted to hold in the smoke for as long as possible to challenge his body, but it was startled out of his lungs by some nearby yelling. Varhmiel cut a look over to the crazy person yelling about babies. "What fresh Hell is this?" he muttered in bewilderment, then shook his black curls out of his face and slipped into the speakeasy as fast as possible. People are insane.

His long coat, made even longer by his short stature, hid Varhmiel decently well among the crowd as he made his way to the bar. He dug into his pocket and surfaced a fistful of money, tossing it onto the counter and muttering "Just give me what this will pay for," and situating himself onto one of the stools. Curse these stools for being so tall.

"So, what brings you here?" Vera asked van Arbor.
"Oh, you can call me Ozzie," he said with a bright smile. "I'm not really a drinker or anything, but some publisher said this was the only place he would meet. I wanted him to look over this old story I've been reviving, it was my brother's."
"Your brother's?" Vera asked, and Ozzie shrugged.
"He started it before he went off to fight in the Great War," Ozzie explained. "He was drafted as soon as we entered the war. He died in the trenches."
"I'm sorry," Vera said, her voice soft.
"It wasn't your fault," Ozzie said, although Vera had simply been giving condolences. "His dream was to be published, and Father views writing novels as superior to writing plays, so I suppose this works out well enough for the both of us."
The music slowed, and the two of them turned to face the small stage that had been erected in the corner. A tall woman stepped out, her slim figure nearly engulfed by a white fur coat. Her brown hair was pulled into twin braids, and her lips painted a dark red that stood out in stark contrast with her light skin.
"Hello, darlings," she said, and the crowd cheered.
"Who is that?" Vera asked.
"Sybil Constantine," Ozzie said. "The best up-and-coming singer in the state. Her voice could spin straw to gold."
The pianist played the opening cords, and Sybil began to sing.
"I don't care much for loving, and I don't care much for you," she crooned, her voice rich and low.
By the end of the song, Vera had decided which two humans she was going to look over for the next few decades.