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Barrett Oh, the year was 1778...
Member
Seen
5 yrs ago
"Do you not long for freedom? For escape?"
"No. I have the host. I have you. What more could I need?"
"Why have wings you never spread?"
"We fly often."
"Don't be obtuse, you know what I mean."
"I wish I didn't."
"No. I have the host. I have you. What more could I need?"
"Why have wings you never spread?"
"We fly often."
"Don't be obtuse, you know what I mean."
"I wish I didn't."
The words chased each other back and forth, around and around, threatening to burst out of his head and scream across the sky. With each repeat, it was like the memories were growing away from him and warping into something new. Words spoken easily and truthfully at the time rang hollow under the scorching gaze of his inner eye, while words he would once never have imagined to doubt twisted into taunting jibes without changing at all.
Bariel rubbed his eyes and tried to stop thinking. To stop thinking of things he'd said or done, choices made and passed over, of people met and obstacles overcome. But mostly he tried to stop thinking of... him. That was hardest of all, like letting go of his heart or legs. Harder, perhaps, because he had been a part of Bariel's existence before he'd had either of those anatomical additions.
He sat up, carefully pulling aside the duvet and surveying the room. Neat, ordered, unlived in. He worried about the last one, sometimes, because he knew that he didn't exactly live. His heart beat and his blood flowed (though his discovery of chocolate and his passion for it might put an end to that) and he moved through the world but he didn't exactly live. Certainly not as a human would think of it and as for others of his kind... He was glad that the forces of the Silver City and the Pit alike steered clear of Yarmouth. There are some places even demons will not go, that even angels fear to tread.
He stood and stretched, feeling the little crackles and pops in his body's joints go off. There was a strange satisfaction in the warming up of his body after the night's inactivity (he rarely slept, only lay down and thought, dreams were too intangible to be trusted) and the energy that seemed to rush in. He would need to eat though, he could feel the hunger in his body. Everyday it seemed that the lines between what he felt and what his body felt were gently eroding. Soon he would be as a mortal, with his soul subject to the base tyranny of his biological needs.
Bariel scowled as went through his morning routine of showering, dressing and preparing a precise breakfast. He said that this lack of separation would be good, that it would help them realise themselves. Bariel could think only of how beautiful he'd been before leaving the Silver City when his soul was unfettered. Still, he had to admit there were some very unique advantages to the flesh; tastes, for example. The first time he'd eaten something, he'd nearly collapsed from an overload of input. It'd taken weeks for him to build up from oats, to bread, to milk and finally to chocolate. There was nothing in the higher realms quite like chocolate.
Speaking of that delectable substance, Bariel allowed himself a single square before leaving the house. Any more and he'd spend the whole day trying to understand the complex myriad of flavours in several dozen bars of Morrison's best. Instead, he strode along the sea front high street and tried not to shiver. Not from the sea wind, but from the peeling paint, lacklustre posters and dead eyes of the visible clerks. No matter how many times he walked through the town, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was the ruin of dreams and hope.
Approaching number 96, Bariel sighed. Another day of sitting by the telephone, throwing darts at the board, drinking Dee's endless cups of tea and doing anything to pass the time. When he'd found the offices of Underwood Investigations, he'd expected something akin to his previous position. Stalking, striking and slaying vicious monsters and fiendish foes. To his disappointment, the job consisted of inventing new ways to not look at the clock for eight hours or more.
But not, it seemed, today. The first thing to great him through the door was Jack's excited singing voice.
"A job! A job! We got a job! A job! A job! We got a job!"
The young man (Bariel wasn't entirely used to gender but that seemed to be the right descriptor) was dancing around the room to the amusement of Dee and the utter bafflement of Graham. As difficult as things had seemed but moments ago, Bariel couldn't help but smile. With a purpose, he was sure to be able to recapture his old certainty, his previous sureness. Maybe he'd even be able to get him off of his mind. Yes, things were certainly looking up.
He stepped in, closed the door and turned to face the group. "I take it that we have been contracted to resolve a matter beyond the reach of mortal authority?" he said with more than a hint of pride in his voice.
Graham gave a derisive bark of a laugh. "Oh yes, far beyond. They're just not prepared to bend down so low." Still chuckling, he stumbled off deeper into the shop and lit a cigarette. Job or no job, Graham wasn't going to be compromising his routine. Undaunted, Bariel turned to Jack.
"Tell me true, what does this crusade entail?"
Barrett Oh, the year was 1778...
Member
Seen
5 yrs ago
Even Bariel had to admit the job didn't sound much like a crusade at all. To be generous, it might be called a mission; to be less so, it should probably be called an errand. Still, folding into Foxy was certainly more exciting than siting in the office for another day and for those not interested in excitement (read 'Graham') there was the promise that he'd have the opportunity to either show everyone how much he knew about the occult or, if there was in fact nothing unusual at play, to be extremely rude to Mr. Charles.
It was clear that he couldn't decide which prospect was more appealing.
So three quarters of the company loaded up into their vampiric chauffeur's treasured automobile, Bariel sitting stiffly in the front passenger seat and Graham grumbled his way across both backseats. The car was clearly not designed with men (or close enough) of Bariel's stature in mind and the only position that allowed him relative comfort that didn't block Jack's access to the gears was a hunched, knees to the chin one. Graham, meanwhile, had stretched out across the back seats, buckled whichever belts wherever they would hold him and proceeded to ignore his surroundings. He lit a cigarette, deaf to protest, and began to read.
The smell of smoke wasn't too objectionable for Bariel, it reminded him of old battlefields and the memories that it brought were comforting, but he still found Graham's utter irreverence confusing. It wasn't just that he acted like angels and vampires were mundane, he acted like they were mundane annoyances to be tolerated until they left him alone. He also didn't much care for the way Graham treated the possessions of other's, having made the mistake of leaving a jacket at the office once only to discover the pockets to be full of ash the next day. It had apparently been closer to Graham than the ash tray, and therefore clearly a reasonable substitute.
Still, he couldn't deny that the man knew things. When they had first met, it had taken him only a few minutes and a couple of seemingly innocuous questions to determine not only that Bariel was an angel but that he had previously been of the Thrones. His knowledge would doubtless be an invaluable asset should they come upon anything at the caravan site, though it would probably be best to keep him far away from this Mr. Charles. Although Bariel had not yet had the doubtful pleasure of meeting the man, Jack had made it fairly clear what he could expect.
With the smell of smoke and Jack's uncertain narrative passing the time nicely, they seemed to arrive at the caravan park almost too soon. And there the man was, one eyebrow raised in patronising disdain at the little car. His expression changed slightly when not just the babyfaced Jack emerged from it but also the wide frame of Bariel. His lips pursed in disapproval and he tossed the keys at Jack before turning away sharply.
"I'm sure you'll be able to find the caravan, it's no. 67. Do tell me if you find any pixies there." he sneered over his shoulder. Graham had finally managed to pry himself loose from the back seat and clambered out with a vindictive expression on his face, only to see Mr. Charles leaving and his chance to vent a tide of verbal filth over him vanishing. Such was his disappointment that he let loose a curse not heard aloud for over four hundred years. The word blossomed into an inky black shape in the air that stank of tar before fading gently.
Still glaring at the park owner's retreating back, Graham stomped off. "Well we might as well go and find this caravan then!" he grumbled, patting down his pockets to find his fourth dozen cigarette of the morning. Bariel gave Jack his best attempt at an exasperated smile and moved to follow him.
After all, they did have a job to do.
It was clear that he couldn't decide which prospect was more appealing.
So three quarters of the company loaded up into their vampiric chauffeur's treasured automobile, Bariel sitting stiffly in the front passenger seat and Graham grumbled his way across both backseats. The car was clearly not designed with men (or close enough) of Bariel's stature in mind and the only position that allowed him relative comfort that didn't block Jack's access to the gears was a hunched, knees to the chin one. Graham, meanwhile, had stretched out across the back seats, buckled whichever belts wherever they would hold him and proceeded to ignore his surroundings. He lit a cigarette, deaf to protest, and began to read.
The smell of smoke wasn't too objectionable for Bariel, it reminded him of old battlefields and the memories that it brought were comforting, but he still found Graham's utter irreverence confusing. It wasn't just that he acted like angels and vampires were mundane, he acted like they were mundane annoyances to be tolerated until they left him alone. He also didn't much care for the way Graham treated the possessions of other's, having made the mistake of leaving a jacket at the office once only to discover the pockets to be full of ash the next day. It had apparently been closer to Graham than the ash tray, and therefore clearly a reasonable substitute.
Still, he couldn't deny that the man knew things. When they had first met, it had taken him only a few minutes and a couple of seemingly innocuous questions to determine not only that Bariel was an angel but that he had previously been of the Thrones. His knowledge would doubtless be an invaluable asset should they come upon anything at the caravan site, though it would probably be best to keep him far away from this Mr. Charles. Although Bariel had not yet had the doubtful pleasure of meeting the man, Jack had made it fairly clear what he could expect.
With the smell of smoke and Jack's uncertain narrative passing the time nicely, they seemed to arrive at the caravan park almost too soon. And there the man was, one eyebrow raised in patronising disdain at the little car. His expression changed slightly when not just the babyfaced Jack emerged from it but also the wide frame of Bariel. His lips pursed in disapproval and he tossed the keys at Jack before turning away sharply.
"I'm sure you'll be able to find the caravan, it's no. 67. Do tell me if you find any pixies there." he sneered over his shoulder. Graham had finally managed to pry himself loose from the back seat and clambered out with a vindictive expression on his face, only to see Mr. Charles leaving and his chance to vent a tide of verbal filth over him vanishing. Such was his disappointment that he let loose a curse not heard aloud for over four hundred years. The word blossomed into an inky black shape in the air that stank of tar before fading gently.
Still glaring at the park owner's retreating back, Graham stomped off. "Well we might as well go and find this caravan then!" he grumbled, patting down his pockets to find his fourth dozen cigarette of the morning. Bariel gave Jack his best attempt at an exasperated smile and moved to follow him.
After all, they did have a job to do.
Barrett Oh, the year was 1778...
Member
Seen
5 yrs ago
At the mention of an Ouija board, Graham scowled or, at least, scowled more. In all likelihood, he would've ratcheted up the intensity of his glare whatever had been mentioned, but Ouija boards were especially irksome to him. After a lifetime's study of the occult, Graham regarded entry level crutches like the boards, pendants and cards like a racing driver regards cruise control. But having previously snapped at Jack and been treated to such a sickeningly sweet set of puppy eyes that even Graham felt abashed, he contented himself with lighting a cigarette, selecting a mug to use as an ashtray and turning up the sarcasm.
"No, Jack, we don't get out an Ouija board. We don't need one, it's obviously a ghost."
Graham smugly tapped ash into the mug (which said World's Biggest Chav on it) and waited for Jack or Bariel to ask him to explain how exactly he knew. Bariel felt a very human desire to roll his eyes at Graham's preening but contented himself with closing them instead. He found that physical sensory input interfered with his being able to sense things on a spiritual level, like background interference or radio static. Instead, he allowed his spirit to relax its grip on his body and gently expand. Almost immediately, it began to press against something else, another unshackled soul.
A small, self satisfied grin spread across Bariel's face as he began to commune with the spirit. At first they shared emotion, the spirit sending waves of fear/loneliness/confusion while Bariel tried to transmit hope/comfort/strength back at it. But as it settled, things became distinctly more human and the spirit passed over information in the form of a cry for help. Opening his eyes, Bariel saw Jack staring wide eyed at him and Graham, of course, glaring. After a second, he realised why; he was floating a couple of inches from the ground.
Self consciously, he came back to earth and smoothed down the front of his shirt. Part of being human for him was making sure that he obeyed most of the laws of physics, which had a habit of letting a few things slide for those of a supernatural disposition. Bariel knew that he would scold him awfully if he found out (or at least fix Bariel with a disappointed, almost supercilious look) but even that didn't dampen the angel's feeling of truimph. He looked at Graham and inclined his head.
"You are, of course, right Graham. It is a ghost. His name is James and, if I'm not mistaken, he died violently."
Bariel turned to face Jack, pretending to ignore but in fact guiltily revelling in Graham's affronted expression at being outdone.
"And I believe he recognises you, Jack."
Graham grunted. "I know you say you're known to everyone, but I didn't think that included the dead."
"No, Jack, we don't get out an Ouija board. We don't need one, it's obviously a ghost."
Graham smugly tapped ash into the mug (which said World's Biggest Chav on it) and waited for Jack or Bariel to ask him to explain how exactly he knew. Bariel felt a very human desire to roll his eyes at Graham's preening but contented himself with closing them instead. He found that physical sensory input interfered with his being able to sense things on a spiritual level, like background interference or radio static. Instead, he allowed his spirit to relax its grip on his body and gently expand. Almost immediately, it began to press against something else, another unshackled soul.
A small, self satisfied grin spread across Bariel's face as he began to commune with the spirit. At first they shared emotion, the spirit sending waves of fear/loneliness/confusion while Bariel tried to transmit hope/comfort/strength back at it. But as it settled, things became distinctly more human and the spirit passed over information in the form of a cry for help. Opening his eyes, Bariel saw Jack staring wide eyed at him and Graham, of course, glaring. After a second, he realised why; he was floating a couple of inches from the ground.
Self consciously, he came back to earth and smoothed down the front of his shirt. Part of being human for him was making sure that he obeyed most of the laws of physics, which had a habit of letting a few things slide for those of a supernatural disposition. Bariel knew that he would scold him awfully if he found out (or at least fix Bariel with a disappointed, almost supercilious look) but even that didn't dampen the angel's feeling of truimph. He looked at Graham and inclined his head.
"You are, of course, right Graham. It is a ghost. His name is James and, if I'm not mistaken, he died violently."
Bariel turned to face Jack, pretending to ignore but in fact guiltily revelling in Graham's affronted expression at being outdone.
"And I believe he recognises you, Jack."
Graham grunted. "I know you say you're known to everyone, but I didn't think that included the dead."
Barrett Oh, the year was 1778...
Member
Seen
5 yrs ago
Jack's slip of the tongue, combined with losing his ash tray and being one upped by Bariel, were all visible hardships on Graham's face. The creased forehead, the flared nose, the gently twitching eyelid, all were signs of one his not irregular tantrums. They tended to involve shouting, drinking, swearing and cursing, which are not the same things, despite what you might think. Cursing is when you call the names of dusty gods and forgotten demons to bring down unthinkable revenge on those who have slighted you, though the effect is generally less impressive than that. Swearing is when you 'fuck' after dropping a tea cup. When the two come together under the learned tongue of Mr Greye, the ensuing tirade is more than most people (and most angels, vampires and fae) can stand to listen to.
Of the Underwood society, Dee was the only one who seemed able to diffuse these events properly, generally with a well timed compliment or surprise bottle of wine. Bariel and Jack generally just put on headphones or left the room, though the latter was preferable; some of Graham's obscenities would move around after he was done, humming like big ugly insects and bumping off the walls. Afterwards, even Graham tended to see how undignified such episodes were and would retreat to the attic to 'go and look for a particular book' for an hour or so. When he eventually returned, there'd normally be a halfhearted, mostly mumbled apology and normal service would resume.
But being asked for his expertise was almost always a reliable balm for the wounds inflicted upon Graham by the world. Nothing set him back into his normal state of grumpiness (as opposed to self pitying anger) quite like being reminded that he was the only one with a real understanding of the world of the supernatural. The others might be living breathing parts of it but it was clear that were no more informed about their realm than most humans were about the mysteries of the appendix or the clavicle.
Graham's voice and manner took on that of the professor about to give a lesson to the wayward dullard he called a student. "There are, of course, many ways to force a ghost to be visible Jack. Some are quite dramatic, similar to the pop culture concept of an exorcism, but many are more straightforward. For example, let's see if this ghost is or was particularly religious."
With a flourish, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a strange device that looked something like a swiss army knife. After fiddling for a moment, Graham snapped out a small metal cross and waved it vaguely while shouting "reveal yourself!" in what sounded like an impression of Bariel's deep tones.
Nothing happened, apart from a lamp going over Graham's head and shattering on the wall.
"Well, yes, to be expected. Alright, let's try something with a little more kick, shall we." Graham muttered as he put away the multi-faith-tool and bent down. From one of the kitchen cupboards, he retrieved a cylinder of salt, still marked with 50p off sticker from ASDA. His other hand rummaged in his jacket for a moment before coming out with a dried sprig of something that had apparently been loose in one of his pockets. He blew off some of the fluff and lint, crushed it between his fingers and sprinkled the powder into the salt. Finally, he poured most of the salt into the palm of his hand.
All eyes were upon him now and even the ghost seemed to have stopped throwing things to watch. Gently, Graham started to blow the slat-and-herbs mixture off of his palm and across the caravan, moving slowly from one end of the place to the other. It had as much effect as his previous efforts until he reached the coffee table and tired looking sofa. Some of the grains seemed to stick to something in the air, causing Graham to give a "Ha!" of victory and throw the rest of the handful at the shape. At first it seemed like all he'd achieved was to make the ghost a bit messy but soon the shape behind the salt grains started to reverse fade, gradually becoming visible.
Graham's face could hardly have been more smug as he turned to his colleagues. "Hemlock and salt, a tried and tested method. It'll be visible for at least the next hour." With a gesture, he stepped aside and waved Jack towards the appearing figure, currently mostly a salty tracky suit top.
"I've done my bit, fanglord, I think it's your turn."
Of the Underwood society, Dee was the only one who seemed able to diffuse these events properly, generally with a well timed compliment or surprise bottle of wine. Bariel and Jack generally just put on headphones or left the room, though the latter was preferable; some of Graham's obscenities would move around after he was done, humming like big ugly insects and bumping off the walls. Afterwards, even Graham tended to see how undignified such episodes were and would retreat to the attic to 'go and look for a particular book' for an hour or so. When he eventually returned, there'd normally be a halfhearted, mostly mumbled apology and normal service would resume.
But being asked for his expertise was almost always a reliable balm for the wounds inflicted upon Graham by the world. Nothing set him back into his normal state of grumpiness (as opposed to self pitying anger) quite like being reminded that he was the only one with a real understanding of the world of the supernatural. The others might be living breathing parts of it but it was clear that were no more informed about their realm than most humans were about the mysteries of the appendix or the clavicle.
Graham's voice and manner took on that of the professor about to give a lesson to the wayward dullard he called a student. "There are, of course, many ways to force a ghost to be visible Jack. Some are quite dramatic, similar to the pop culture concept of an exorcism, but many are more straightforward. For example, let's see if this ghost is or was particularly religious."
With a flourish, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a strange device that looked something like a swiss army knife. After fiddling for a moment, Graham snapped out a small metal cross and waved it vaguely while shouting "reveal yourself!" in what sounded like an impression of Bariel's deep tones.
Nothing happened, apart from a lamp going over Graham's head and shattering on the wall.
"Well, yes, to be expected. Alright, let's try something with a little more kick, shall we." Graham muttered as he put away the multi-faith-tool and bent down. From one of the kitchen cupboards, he retrieved a cylinder of salt, still marked with 50p off sticker from ASDA. His other hand rummaged in his jacket for a moment before coming out with a dried sprig of something that had apparently been loose in one of his pockets. He blew off some of the fluff and lint, crushed it between his fingers and sprinkled the powder into the salt. Finally, he poured most of the salt into the palm of his hand.
All eyes were upon him now and even the ghost seemed to have stopped throwing things to watch. Gently, Graham started to blow the slat-and-herbs mixture off of his palm and across the caravan, moving slowly from one end of the place to the other. It had as much effect as his previous efforts until he reached the coffee table and tired looking sofa. Some of the grains seemed to stick to something in the air, causing Graham to give a "Ha!" of victory and throw the rest of the handful at the shape. At first it seemed like all he'd achieved was to make the ghost a bit messy but soon the shape behind the salt grains started to reverse fade, gradually becoming visible.
Graham's face could hardly have been more smug as he turned to his colleagues. "Hemlock and salt, a tried and tested method. It'll be visible for at least the next hour." With a gesture, he stepped aside and waved Jack towards the appearing figure, currently mostly a salty tracky suit top.
"I've done my bit, fanglord, I think it's your turn."
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