#{ may you enjoy the chaos GDJKGDFS }

[aaetherius]

[ @cxffexngel​ // for RoB lucifer! Local goth lucifer receives a fateful visitor! 👀 ]

It all happens too fast, blows exchanged between the archangel, the crew who had his back and the greater force they had waged war against - one of far too many powerful primal beasts who mindlessly rampaged causing havoc against the skies without a mind about the disaster their power harbored. Sandalphon always taking the heavier blows, always using himself as the shield of the skies he wanted to protect, he was the one deserving each painful swipe of claws and magic that charred skin that later healed quicker than some of the mages of the crew could even begin trying to heal. Twelve wings, blinding with power that could break space and time itself flare to their full might, with the intend of banishing the primal beast towards it's endless slumber and mercy so it could rest once for all - he understands the pain of sentience, the burdens of being given life yet blinded with rage and to be left alone, so it's a war out of mercy, even when the rampaging beast fights and fights until drawing it's last breath.

Time had become nothing to sandalphon, sounds muted at this point to his ears as all he focuses is to land a last hit, the surge of power from his wings canalized into a so, so blindling light wielding every element etched into his core as he focuses the last hit, charging it with every second, the crew backing him up while flying behind and the sparks of bristling light, fire, winds, earth and water all become pure energy within his palm; molded into a massive sword unlike the purple ones that aid his battles - golden like an angel's halo. It takes one hoarse scream, one for the others to get out the way, the inelegant bristle of wings tinted gold by a light that comes from inside from immense gathered power. It takes only that for the sword to be sent forward at maddening speeds and force that break the sound barrier in a shrilling swipe of his bloodied hands. And it happens all too fast. The flash of light that nearly burns his eyes before he could refocus, the smoke in the distance as wails of the beast fall to a deafening silence, the uncertain peace of nothingness as many eyes wait to see the results of Sandalphon's last attack and confirm that maybe it's a win - and oh how Sandalphon wishes it could be. He was tired, the attack having drained every last drop of energy that he had managed to gather preparing the attack but not allowing himself, just yet, to fall by the aftermath of it. He waits, and the light that magic left residues of unusually staying, like a crack in the sky that as moments pass, makes that feeling inside his chest realize something.

Time stopped.

It stopped in it's entirety. And the realization makes the archangel scan hesitantly his surroundings; clouds don't move, wind doesn't blow, the sun stalled where it is. Maybe, he overdid it, maybe it was the primal beasts's last defense. He doesn't know. But before he could try and investigate more, from behind he feels a void draw him in, and unconsciously his wings flap with all his strength to draw away from it before he could think or curse.

It's all like a blur after that, his eyes at some point having fallen shut tight and braced himself for whatever was going to happen, be it fire, hell, to be crushed - whatever it'd be that was going to be. But he could feel the pull of gravity; the feeling of falling in speeds not even his wings would be able to stabilize. It was too much so instead his wings curl all around him, especially the white ones despise he tries to use more the other pairs as if they had minds of their own - with what he could of the last drops of strength drawn out out pure desperation, a  protective veil of light shrouding the cradle of wings that fall from orange skies of twilight - like a shooting star that had fallen from the night skies. It's a silent fall, one no one ever sees. And the crater left when finally the archangel meets ground is so loud no mortal would've ever survived such a fall. Sand scorched by the light, grass turned to dust - and white and golden tipped wings vanish along the multicolored pairs the archangel bore, only leaving the stubborn, tousled and so out of shape brown pair that continue to shield the now passed out archangel at the bed of his landing.

    His sharp chin rests against his knuckles as a nimble finger glides effortlessly along the old parchment of an ancient tome that seems to scarcely hold his attention. It's an old tale. Nothing terribly inspiring or breathtaking, and one he had memorized long ago. Though that hardly makes it special by any means--it's little more than another book upon the expansive, and densely packed shelves that wind all around him. Hundreds, if not thousands, of golden shelves stretch upwards until they reach the very ceiling of his less than modest study. Why, the collection he possesses would make even the royal library look like child's play. And, upon those numerous, seemingly endless shelves, there isn't a single tome that the ruler of Hell hasn't memorized. Records of wars long since forgotten, crumbled up love letters from dying soldiers, legends from bygone days that harbor a hint of truth to them, tales of other worlds, and precious research that has never seen the soft flesh of human hands. Anything one can imagine, and then some, exists within these walls. For a scholar, it would no doubt be a dream come true, if not for the man who sat upon the scarlet throne in the very center of the circular, maze-like room.

   Lucifer was a name used to strike fear in the hearts of angels, demons, and men alike. But there were few who had actually seen his face. After all, it's rare of him to leave the palace. He harbors little interest in the affairs of mankind, so long as they don't tiptoe their way into territory where they're not welcome. And, even then, he rarely bothers to lifts his own finger to deal with them when there are demons frothing at the mouth to sink their fangs into their tender bones, and devour every last shred of their existence. And, so, the one of the most feared men in the world also became one of the most elusive. Which, of course, encourages humans to imagine, and lends then to create stories--as they tend to do. Each one more absurd and grotesque than the last. Yet, he can't stop a smile from forming upon his glossy lips as he reads over the ghastly scenes depicted upon the tome in his lap. Perhaps, to mere humans, this story they've conjured up is horrifying. A nightmare. Something only the devil himself was capable of.

   But oh the real thing was so much worse.

   He shuts the book, and sends it back, seamlessly, into its place upon one of the many shelves with a flick of hist wrist. How dull. For such imaginative creatures, they're certainly lacking in finesse. But even if the book can't hold his attention, something else is more than capable of grabbing hold of it. Nothing that happens in this world happens without his knowledge. Then again, with an entrance as bold as that one, he suspects there's not a soul within the three realms who hadn't felt the shockwave that had blasted through the earth. But it's not the impact that urges him to tap his long fingers against the arm of his throne, but rather the lingering sense of familiarity and desire that stir within him when he focuses on its source. So he stands, and leaves the stillness of his study to pursue something a tad but more enthralling.

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   The faint click of his shallow heels echoes through the now barren forest that greets him. The once lush greenery has been reduced to ash, and even the soil itself has lost its color. Even if life should return to this land, it would take many millennia for anything to be able to thrive once more. But the buzz of power still seeps into the stagnant air, and lingers all around him. Though he's aware he's never met its source before, it still feels familiar to him. But while he might not be able to place a name to it, he can easily figure out its source--or rather, what its source is. Nor does it take him long to make his way over to that source.

   A man, or rather an angel, flung uselessly into the dirt with a pair of disheveled, brown wings cradling his feeble form. He supposes he could simply take this opportunity to kill the other where he lies, but that would be rather anti-climatic, and one look at him is all Lucifer needs to be painfully aware that this 'angel' isn't from this world. While the power that radiates from him is similar, it's not identical. So, perhaps then, he can find some use for this discard angel after all.

    He kneels down silently beside the other, reaching out to brush some of the debris from those tangles wings before curling his fingers, and lifting the stranger's jaw from the dirt. "Now you've found yourself in a bit of a predicament haven't you, dove? Why now allow me to assist you?"