#i’m using ink and a fountain pen so it keeps smudging everywhere

[xaeorian]

writing a letter to my best friend who i’ll probably never see again and then scott street comes on

[cinnamonzor]

Number 3 for the ask game if that's alright

FINALLY :D

Lessee here, number 3 is “rant. just do it.” Challenge accepted.

WORD OF WARNING: Contains lots and lots of profanity

My grades this past semester were... a notable decline from the prior semesters’ (I’ve been in a depressive rut for months with barely a liquid ounce of motivation because of the unending nightmare this year has amounted to - fite me). The arguable worst thing to come out of this is that I now am required to use the dreaded NIBS again at some point in order to make any progress in my major because I could barely bring myself to use them at all this time around and the class that teaches extensively about their use is a pre-requisite for any future classes in said major.

I know there are many artists out there who genuinely enjoy using nibs and do so of their own free will. And honestly, good for them. If you are one of these people, I congratulate you for this superpower and you are incredibly valid.

Still doesn’t change the fact that I hate those pointy little fuckos with every fiber of my being and have to constantly resist the urge to stab someone with them every single time I’m FORCED TO PUT THEM TO PAPER!!!

Who??? In the absolute FUCK??? Thought it was a good idea to ILLUSTRATE with a fucking FOUNTAIN PEN??? More importantly, what committee of fancy assholes decided it should be the supposed “cornerstone tool” for drawing comics even after the twentieth century ended??? You have to use a fucking INKWELL with these bastards and you can only make like TWO LINES before they run out and you have to redip!!! You have to do that shit OVER and OVER and OVER until you get a SINGLE FUCKING PANEL DONE!!!

And they LEAK... SO... FUCKING... EASILY!!! The amount of times I’ve had a decent thing going only to get gobsmacked by a fucking BLOB OF INK suddenly exploding out of the pen is just-! It’s EVIL! IT’S FUCKING EVIL!!! This is admittedly attributable to the fact that I am a fairly heavy-handed artist, but for FUCK’S SAKE WHERE WAS THAT INK WHEN I HAD TO REDIP AFTER A SINGLE TWO-CENTIMETER LINE YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING ASSHOLE???

And don’t get me STARTED on how you can’t rest your fucking arm on the surface you��re drawing on when you use them or else the ink will smudge everywhere because Jesus fucking PopTarts if I can’t rest my goddamn arm while I’m drawing, whatever it is will be wobbly as SHIT and said arm will be in near-constant agony and I REFUSE to subject myself to that shit. Hell, even when I DO subject myself to that shit, the ink usually gets smudged around ANYWAY because I’m essentially fused to baggy clothes and the fucking SLEEVES smear it around instead.

These things are just... every SINGLE trigger for my ADHD and perfectionism issues to initiate a full-scale war in my head and I can’t fucking GLANCE at them without curling up in a ball and borderline disassociating for like an HOUR. The lingering knowledge that I will be forced to use them extensively once again fills me with similar levels of dread to most debt, and lemme tell you, I absolutely DETEST being in debt.

If the point of making/perfecting new tools for future generations to use is to give us a wider variety of options to hone and form connections with, THEN WHY DO THE FORCES AT HAND STILL FORCE US TO USE THE ORIGINAL METHOD THOSE NEW MEDIUMS WERE CREATED TO KEEP US FROM BEING CONFINED TO???

I just... I can’t deal with these torture instruments anymore... I hate them so much...

Oh mighty universe...

Please grant me the Infinity Stones...

So I can Thanos-snap all nibs out of existence...

And my artistic suffering may instead be relegated primarily to hands and large clusters of buildings...

I will pay you money...

Hell, I’d happily give up swearing for a week...

Please just relinquish me from these horrible, horrible tools of agony...

Have a nice day...

[pcrfide]

✉️

✉️ Send for an unmailed letter from my muse

The paper is ragged, torn from the back of an old dictionary it looks like. It’s bone colored, ivory going south towards the yellow of old age. Ink smudges here and there, ballpoint- nothing so fancy like a fountain pen or suchlike. Just pressure points where the paper’s nearly torn, divots and valleys pressed into the paper with uncertainty and too much emotion.

The grammar, however- leaves much to be desired, as if the writer decided to throw out the stops once the words started flowing.

Or perhaps, couldn’t keep them contained. 

-------------------------------------------------------

I haven’t written a letter since elementary. Hand written at least. I remember when the papers were lined, blue and white. Then they handed us tablets and told us how to type, and it was easier to get words out that way. Theres an honesty in this, though. like valium or morphine that makes your fingers cramp and everything just start coming out. 

i dont know if that makes sense, or if anything does anymore. i dont know if i even make sense, but im trying. i saw you yesterday, standing there while shouting at the recruits. you were tall and strong and it made my heart twist in the best and worst of ways. god i miss you. i miss the way you used to scream at me to get my head out of my ass because the thought of being without us together was impossible to think about. sleeping back to back in foxholes and trenches and bomb shelters was better than hiltons and featherbeds alone.

i could write a fucking book of poetry in the way you hated me then, but the way you hate me now makes me want to cease to exist. i miss the insults and the fucking snide commentary, because i knew behind it was you. reading you was hard, but it was possible. and it was a gift i fucking wish i had cherished more.

and now? now i don’t know. now i see you everywhere and nowhere. i see you in the hallways on the way to the office, in the shadows in the corners of my eyes. but you’re not there, not really. you’re not in the bed, or at my back and i’m not at your’s

and it’s killing me by inches. 

we won’t talk about this, about how it’s killing you. the hollowness of your cheeks and the red rims around your eyes. about how you turn your back when i start a conversation. about how the distance between us is greater than it’s ever been. I feel like even though we can’t fix this, we could at least figure out something to work around

bridge something.

i don’t know, man. i never thought i would need someone as badly as you until you weren’t there anymore. 

and that scares me.

and i think it’ll keep scaring me for a long time. 

tomorrow, i’m gonna come find you. i wanna at least talk like we used to, back when we’d hit the mat together. maybe share a drink or some shit. tomorrow i wanna try again.

tomorrow i—

---------------------------------------------------------------

The paper curls in and on itself, blackened into brown leaves as the fire consumes. Tired blue eyes watch as sheaf after sheaf is fed, pulled from an old security box hidden away in a small nondescript bank in Indiana. Words that’ll never make it past this fire, this time. Words that never made it past his lips, his pencil.

Grey smoke that twists and winds in and around itself in tired arabesques, mingling with the vines that dangle from the cigarette on his lips. The words crackle and pop as they become embers, and then ash- and the nothing at all.

Flakes that dance on the wind, and disappear out the cavern’s opening into the night air. 

Leaving behind nothing more than the memories they once were.

[strainingfororiginality]

7.2 - Choices

"So ..." Abraham hesitated, staring down at the ancient text. “Is this word nephal or is it abomination?”

"It is both. Or possibly neither. It is a word that many have found confusing, but I believe the closest translation of it is nephal." Sempronius explained, pointing to the words within the ancient prophecy. Quintus sat very still and listened to the two men discuss the Wheel within the Wheel’s book of dreams as he fiddled with the shell that he had discovered in his pocket. He’d nearly forgotten that he had taken it from Ancharia’s room and now, his nervous habit of fiddling with the locket was shifted to this small, spiny thing in his fingers.

"But obviously it has a definition somewhere? The meaning of words don’t just vanish?" The Professor suggested and Sempronius shrugged with a small grin.

"No, you misunderstand, Abraham." Sempronius had started calling him by his first name since they’d resolved their differences - not Setrakian, nor Professor, but just Abraham. “It did not just vanish, but you must remember that Enochian is the oldest language in existence. It is constantly changing, updating, evolving. New words are always being created and introduced. This was a new word, never before seen, then never used again. It is almost a combination of other words, yet it was as if Sandalphon created a new word just for this being. Nephal but also abomination, or more closely translatable to forbidden. This is why all eyes were on Quintus when he arrived. Just as this strange new word, he was something equally unique and therefore perceived as quite dangerous.”

"But …" Abraham pointed at half of the swirled and curvy scribbles of the word again as Quintus squinted. “That’s not nephal exactly, or is that a mistake?”

"Exactly." Sempronius smiled with excitement, slapping his hand down on the table with uncharacteristic glee. He was pleased with the Professor’s keen eye. “Exactly Abraham. Very good. That what makes this word all the more confusing. It has been assumed it is just a smudge of the ink, perhaps an unintentional drip from the fountain pen. But …”

"You do not believe that the case?" Quintus squinted harder to see what in the world they were talking about.

"Not at all."

Abraham turned back to shoot Quintus a perturbed glance and Sempronius raised an eyebrow at their shared moment, trying to ignore their attempt at a secret interaction. Perking up, Quintus stood and leaned over the two men. "What is a smudge?"

"You see …" Sempronius was almost giddy. “Sandalphon’s writing is absolutely pristine. Everywhere. Always. Their technique is beautifully flawless, so why this one smudge. I assure you, I have been through this entire book. Through many more of their writings … pristine. Sandalphon never makes mistakes.”

"I don’t follow." Quintus looked down and saw the very smallest of dots on the underside of the very end of the word’s middle character. That was obviously a smudge. It looked like exactly what Sempronius had mentioned and perhaps too much ink was left on the pen and simply dripped onto the page. “That … that dot?”

"It’s confusing because it’s usually more pronounced. Two to three times longer than this … but, I still find its presence there quite intriguing." Sempronius tried to explain his theory.

"Gentlemen." Quintus was starting to get frustrated at the secret knowledge that they were sharing, that he was missing. “Please, explain.”

"A mark like this … It changes the gender of the word, Mr. Quinlan." Abraham looked at him with wide eyes as bumps crawled across the dhampir’s arms. “Nephal is always a male noun.”

"Exactly. As it should be." His father explained carefully. “There are no nephal women.”

"But Djinn can have offspring." Abraham countered, turning to retrieve a book on the table that he was going to use as evidence and Sempronius shook his head.

"Djinn children have never been considered nephilim. Djinn are the lowest order of celestials. They are more akin to man than Angel."

Abraham seemed to be in deep thought as he stared off to the corner. "So, there has never been a female nephal? How is that possible?"

"Chromosomes, Professor." Quintus breathed deeply and slowly, recalling his conversation with the Governor hours before as he reached out to touch the confusing word with a gentle stroke. The gesture was overly tender and Sempronius shifted to look back at his son with growing curiosity. “Chromosomes.”

"Quintus." The centurion eyed him with seriousness. “What is this all about? What does this mean? Why is this important?” He eyed the Professor next. “To both of you.”

"Sempronius." Quintus pointed down to the book, ignoring the man’s request for an explanation as he spun the shell in his other hand out of habit and began to pace behind them. “Please continue the translation.”

I was your backbone

You were a dead weight

You spoke a language

I couldn't translate

I was your stronghold

That place you'd run to

Bask in your glory, reflections in the swimming pool

In spite of every tribute that I paid

And every hour that I gave ya

"Michael … I … " Oz was at a loss for words as she stared at him with absolutely disbelief through the bars. Had Ozryel ever been at a loss for words before? No. Never. “A prophet? What were you thinking?”

"I wasn’t thinking, brother. That’s the entire point." Michael stated. “I was loving. I love her.”

"But … a … prophet?" She eyed him with disappointment. “Are you mad? That’s the most--”

"Ozryel." He raised an eyebrow and she took a deep breath to collect her rambling mouth.

"Alright, fine. Whatever. You’ve lit the world on fire. How do you feel? Are you proud of yourself?" She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I?" He scoffed in confusion. “I … I LIT THE WORLD ON FIRE?! Do you not recall what you just tried to--” He started an intense argument back as she interrupted quickly.

"But, are you entirely certain your Broken Child is also a prophet? She--"

"There is no doubt." Michael’s eyes were wide as he struggled with his composure.

Silence befell her as she stared down to the ground, mulling over the information that was just revealed. Eventually, she pursed her lips and shrugged. "Well … that still does not mean it’s the Morning--"

"She’s gone, Oz. How can she be gone? Did Thomas know how to--"

"To Obfuscate? No." She shook her head dramatically. “He was … lost … to the 7th before it had time to read and remember the twilight pages. He never knew about obfuscation.”

"Well … I guess that’s clear." His face smirked as he remembered finding the minion and beating him. “Otherwise, I’m sure he would have hidden himself from me.”

"Michael." Ozryel began. “There are more enemies than you realize.”

"What do you mean? I already know of the fallen hiding on Earth, Ozryel." He dismissed her statement.

"I don’t mean Earth, Golden One. I’m referring to Heaven. Have you not considered how they’ve been able to hide from you?" She asked with seriousness spread across her pale face. “You can only hide from Heaven if--”

"You’re helped by Heaven." Mike had actually already considered this and the implication of it was too much for him to bare at the moment. “Whatever is stirring here, I will address next. But right now, I need to worry about her.”

"Release me." She grabbed the bars tightly, attempting to shake them. “Let us go to Earth and find your child together.”

"No." He refused. “I didn’t come here to free you. I came here for information.”

"I’ve told you about the nephilim--"

"Not them. Not our brothers that you tricked me into slaying. Not the lies that you’ve kept from me for tens of thousands of years. No. I came for information on your mistake."

"Mistake?" She squinted at him. “Quintus?”

"Rome." Michael stated plainly and without any emotion. “His home. Where is it?”

"His home in Rome?" She looked bewildered. “I haven’t the foggiest. But I am sure if you release me, we might be able to stumble upon it together.”

"Ozryel. Don’t play with me. There is no way your other six parts didn’t know--"

"Release me." She sneered and he shook his head. He knew that look as he’d seen it many times over their long lives together. She wanted out and she was willing to dig her heels, no matter how irrational it might be. Their conversation was at an impasse.

"Fine. I will rip it out of him myself." Michael spat. “This … This is all your fault.”

"My fault?!?" She took great insult at his accusation. “My fault? I keep saying, the 7th was not me!”

"I’m talking about YOU. YOU OZYREL. YOU. Not your fragments or your madness or your mistake. YOU!" Michael’s voice began to rise, in volume as well as frequency. “I told you we should exercise caution!”

"Caution?" Squinting, she cocked her head to the right in growing confusion. “What in blazing Heaven are you talking ab--”

"When our disguise was dropped, I said we needed to exercise caution!" He spat, his anger beginning to mount. THIS. This. He had held this in for so very long and now it came pouring out of him. “YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME. You and Gabriel, always--”

The meaning of his words suddenly struck her as her eyes grew wide. "Wait … are you talking about Sadum and Amurah? Really? Why is--"

"You should have left her alone!" He hissed.

"Who?" She scrunched her nose. “Lilith? What on Earth--”

"MY CHILD." He snapped. His mind jumped from subject to subject and there was no pause as he yelled at her. “And your fucking abomination should have left her alone. She was safe. She was …”

"Michael." She could read the chaos across his mind and emotions, and she calmed herself as she attempted to reach for him through the bars. “Let me help you.” “Michael, you are right. This is not just on you. You need to let--”

"You should have listened to me. You ... you left me. This is all your fault." Michael repeated as he turned, his anger was getting to a point that he wouldn’t be able to control and he needed to leave. He couldn't fully understand where the emotion was bubbling from, but he understood the intenseness wasn’t coming directly from him. He needed to find Dawn … now. Something was forcing her on edge and it was penetrating into his core. His patience with the boy was now fully gone ...

As he began to walk, Ozryel screamed after him. "You must let me out, Brother! BROTHER! You cannot do this alone! MICHAEL! BLOODY HELL!!!" She shook the metal in desperation.

When he was out of her sight completely, she turned her back to the bars, sliding down until she was sitting onto the floor, she stared at a random spot on the wall, trying to reach out with her mind to touch his, but he was guarded.

"Please let me help you." She found herself fighting the tears that threatened to spring forth as she couldn’t push into her other’s pig-headed mind.

"This is how you fall, brother …" She knocked her head against the bars as her cheeks moistened with the sadness overflowing from her eyes. “This is how we all fall … alone.”

Look upon ruin and behold these ways

When you remove that leash then you'll end the dog days

Only by hand can you turn that page

Only keys of integrity unlock that cage

Quintus had paced, listening to the other prophecies carefully, asking for various clarifications here and there as Sempronius recounted histories to them in between. All in all, it was all quite boring.

"What does a Wheel within a wheel look like?" He asked randomly and Abraham pulled a large book out, handing it to Quintus without any explanation before he turned back to the Sempronius, continuing their own conversation.

Flicking through the book, he found prints of various types of Angels. As he came to the page with a representation of Ozryel, he stared at it for a moment, seeing so much of himself in her reflection. Their stripes were nearly identical, but her color wasn’t as pale as his. Her cheekbones were just as high and incredibly pronounced. And while her eyes were red, his were white but he understood this was due to the color of their blood as they were both albino in nature. As he turned the page, he was faced with the armour-clad governor and his jaw clenched in annoyance.

"Does he always wear the armour?" Quintus interrupted and Sempronius glanced over to the page.

"More often than not, especially lately. He’s always been fairly shy though."

"Huh." Quintus grunted. “Quite the opposite of Ozryel then.”

"Oh yes. I believe in some ways that is by design." The question seemed to pique his father’s interest, distracting Sempronius from Abraham and he turned to Quintus fully. “It is said that Michael and Ozryel, the first two, are perfectly balanced - in mind, in strength, in power, in heart, in obedience. Yet, they are fully opposite in other ways, complementing each other in ways that solidify their strengths. One is outspoken, the other is shy. One is full of bravado, the other full of caution. One is driven by logic, the other by creativity.”

A small grin threaten to draw the corner of Quintus’ mouth up as he considered his poet and him in many of the same ways. "Do they look the same as well?" He asked, never pulling his eyes from the image on the page as his fingers ran over the helmet.

"No, not at all in fact." Sempronius laughed. Even the consideration of it seemed to amuse him. “It is said that Michael stole all of the color from Ozryel before they hatched and his body didn’t know what to do with it.”

Hatched. Such a strange concept for something he considered more man than bird or … reptile, but then again, even man comes from an egg, does he not? "Colour? He is … colourful?"

"Oh yes." Sempronius smiled again, reaching over to turn the page in front of Quintus. “I am sure there is an image of him somewhere in this book.”

As the page turned to the next pair of images, instead of Michael as Sempronius was expecting, they were greeted with Raphael and Gabriel. "Hmm, that’s odd." His father’s eyes squinted with confusion as he turned back a few pages, then forward a few before coming back to the Hayyoth section. “I was certain there had been another …”

Staring at the portrait of the purple-eyed angel, Quintus questioned further. "Raphael and Gabriel seem … less balanced."

Shelving his previous confusing comment, Sempronius grinned again. "Oh yes. There are no two angels as balanced as Michael and Ozryel, and no two as imbalanced as Gabriel and Raphael."

"What is imbalanced about them? Was it a mistake?"

"Well, not a mistake, but most believe it was random chance. Like a roll of the die, but ... “ Sempronius shook his head. “How can the Creator of all fall prey to such a juvenile problem as chance? No. I doubt this very much." He pointed to the image of Raphael. “There is no angel physically stronger than Gabriel, but there is no angel with greater divinity than the Traveller. Well ...” Sempronius heistated. “Except …”

He turned the page slowly and Quintus stared at a young man with raven black hair and the bumps spread across his body. Something familiar perhaps? Something … off. His head tilted to the right as he stared at the eyes, painted with red, green, amber, and purple. "Lucifer." Quintus stated matter of factly.

The visage that looked back at him wasn’t at all what he had expected from this most infamous brother and he gazed upon the youthful expression with confusion. Familiar, yet he knew he had never met him nor seen him. This feeling of familiarity was coming from somewhere else. The Nexus, perhaps?

"He is as powerful as Raphael?" Quintus asked with disbelief.

"He is as strong as all of them. And I do not mean individually, Quintus." Sempronius pointed to the eyes. “He is made from the divinity of each of them. If there was any mistake that day, it was him.”

"But ... according to you …" Quintus looked up, recalling what Sempronius had just said. . He spun the shell in his fingers again and again. Something was itching at the back of his mind. Something had been exposed and he was furrowing his brows, trying to decipher what he was missing. “The Creator does not make … mistakes.”

It is a riddle, Quintus. He told himself while he remembered sitting on the swing chair with his lovely Poet as he helped her with her number puzzle. Looking upon the fifth Hayyoth, he stared at the other elements of the painting. He was made to resemble a serpent. Specifically a cobra due to the ridge around his head and neck, but he knew that it was likely the cobra that had been made to resemble him.

"I don’t get this." Abraham huffed at the page. “The last prophecy is left only half written down?”

"Oh yes." Sempronius shifted back to the other man as Quintus turned the pages, looking upon the other angels within carefully and burning their faces into his memory. The Second Brood was next. Uriel. He cringed. “It is said there was a … falling out between Sandalphon and the Creator.”

"Falling out?" The Professor questioned with intrigue. “With … God?”

"Indeed." Sempronius actually laughed. “The stories are quite varied, but it is agreed that the argument was quite substantial. There was worry of violence even and it is said the Traveller had to step in to mediate.”

"What would cause such a thing?" Quintus asked. “I would not think it wise to speak against the Creator.”

"This caused it. The last prophecy." Sempronius pointed to the journal. “The wheel foretold of a great storm … well, a great flood, to be more precise. One that would cleanse creation of its … errors.”

"The great flood? Did it not occur though." The dhampir shrugged. “Why would that cause an argument?”

"Sandalphon foretold of a great flood, and so God made one." Sempronius explained. “The wheel claimed that God used its dream to justify mass genocide. It refused to see the future again.”

"But …" Abraham countered the same as Quintus. “The flood did occur. Even a self-fulfilling prophecy is still a prophecy.”

"Not necessarily …" Quintus turned back down to look at the book. “What if it was actually not the flood that was foretold.”

"Exactly." Sempronius agreed. “Sandalphon never shared dreams with anyone again. From that point, the angel prophet refused to do what it was made for. It disobeyed.”

"But angels are subservient." Abraham stated plainly. “I thought the only ones who could refuse divine command were The First Brood.”

"The Wheel is unlike anything that has ever been created." The ex-legionnaire explained further. “The Wheel’s ability to experience time outside of its normal flow allows it to sidestep outside of God’s direct influence and the controlling nature of the Nexus. There is no God outside of time, and therefore, it learned disobedience.”

"But, how is that possible though …" Abraham looked down. “Prophets see in their dreams, but angel’s don’t dream. Sandalphon can sleep?”

"Not when it is here." Sempronius agreed. “It could only see when it was sent back to Earth, reborn as an Ishim, for that very purpose. You would remember them last as the human prophet Elijah.”

"I thought Elijah became Sandalphon after death." Abraham shrugged. “I didn’t realize he was actually Sandalphon before he was even born.”

"Her." Quintus corrected as he remembered Raphael describing her and the men looked at him with intrigue over his sudden assessment of her gender but he gave no further information on why he might know this. “So … being reborn on Earth?” Quintus perked up at the word. “Is apparently not something that only human’s are capable of then?”

"I’m unsure, Quintus." Sempronius shrugged. “The wheel is the only one that I know of and obviously, it is quite unique.” He began to turn the pages in the portrait book before Quintus as he continued to speak.

"Mister Quinlan." Abraham shifted uncomfortably. “Being reborn is more drastic than you realize. Every memory that makes you who you are is wiped from you. I don’t think--”

"Were they wiped from the angel prophet?" Quintus questioned. “Apparently not. Perhaps it would not occur with me. I am unique, afterall.”

"Yes. You are." Sempronius cocked his head to the right. “But, why would you wish to return to Earth? Is that what this is all about?” Quintus and Abraham grew quite and Sempronius sighed, expressing annoyance at their continued secrecy. “Besides, I doubt it. The Wheel is almost entirely your opposite.”

"How so?" Quintus pried for clarification, trying to hide the hope that leaked into his voice.

"The Wheel is a divine soul within a human body. Whereas you are a human soul within a divine body." He was still turning pages and finally he pointed at the slender and tall angel on the page. “The Wheel within the Wheel. The Tall One.”

As Quintus’ eyes rolled over the visage, his brows furrowed and Abraham noticed the change of his face at once. "What is it, Mister Quinlan?"

"It’s … nothing." Quintus said, lying terribly as his finger touched the paper where the angel’s eyes were. A deep blue and a chill ran down his spine as he realized he’d seen that very color before. The slenderness of the face was also similar, but not exactly the same. “It’s …”

He’d seen the eyes … not specifically, but thatcolor of them, yes. He was sure of it. Surely the portrait wasn’t so exact, right? Surely, he was grasping at straws. Was it the shape of them also? Yes. Everything about them. Dear god. He stared at the image as he recalled the brown-haired woman who had been watching him from across the street. That women who had vanished when … Raphael had appeared. … That Tall Woman.

Damnation. The wheel within the wheel.

"Mr. Quinlan?" Abraham looked over at the book. “What on Earth is it?”

"I need to go. There is someone I must find." The dhampir stood, shoving the shell back into his pocket again. “You both will be here for a bit?”

"Of course." Sempronius said plainly.

"If you can find a picture of the governor, I am most curious …"

"I won’t be. I’ve got a class to teach." Abraham gruffed with annoyance as he looked at the watch on his wrist. “But I’ll be back right after.”

"A class?" Quintus cocked his head to the right. “Why exactly are you teaching a class?”

"I told you I had to convince Metatron to let me borrow the book."

"AH! I get it now. You bribed him." Now Sempronius laughed heartily. Neither of the other men had heard him with such amusement as he chuckled madly. “He suckered you into that? You fool. What are you teaching and for how long did you agree?”

Abraham grunted, giving Sempronius an exaggerated eyebrow. "Eastern European History. Three times a week for the next Twenty years." Sighing as he looked down at the journal that had cost him this steep price. “It’s fine. It gives me something to do. I am a Professor, afterall.”

Both men stood to make their leave and as Quintus turned to head in the direction he assumed was the exit, he was met with that same familiar armoured Hayyoth.

Damnation. Not now.

"Born." There was something more angry than usual in his voice as he addressed the dhampir with a title the angel had never used on him to date. “A word.”

"I’ve no time for you right now, Governor." And for the first time since he’d been introduced to the Archangel King, Quintus felt something truly desperate and ultimately terrifying as Michael’s patience snapped in half.

"It’s no longer a request." As the powerful hands clapped on either side of his skull, he saw golden electricity danced across the armour as it poured into his temple and he began to scream in unrelenting agony as Michael’s telepathic voice bellowed within his mind as he felt the Hayyoth violate his mind.

If you won’t tell me what I want, boy. I’ll just take what I need to know and this will not be pleasant.