2563/Log 2563

Log 2563
Date of Scene:	24 September 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Vampirella, Castiel

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Vampirella has posed:
    There are fewer cults in New York's burroughs than you'd expect. The city's relentless pace isn't conducive to a life of faith, whether of the Man Jesus or the Ones From The Outer Darkness. Nevertheless, sometimes these cults do spring up; for instance, in failed nightclubs with blockaded doors and soundproofed walls, where all manner of profanities may take place without attracting the attention of the authorities.
    The rats know, though. They always know. Their kind passes along the message of decayed meat and stale blood--warm, diseased food--and a wise hunter can follow them to this building with no windows and no clear entry points, covered in sinuous lines of spraypaint and abstract images.
    Inside the club, thirteen men and women are gathered in what would look like robes in better light, but the candles on the former dancefloor flicker in orange shimmers across the fabric, revealing them to be wearing plastic rain slickers under which big rubber boots peek out. It's not especially pious cultwear, but it is very useful for protecting the cults from the sprays of blood apt to issue from the sacrifices occasionally bound to the old, scarred, wooden table in the center of the dance floor with buckets beneath it to catch blood. Sometimes, the sacrifice is an animal. Other times, like today, it's an exotic-faced woman, Caucasian skin and black hair, dressed in a few scant strips of red silk, bound at the wrists and ankles by white Velcro straps stolen from a hospital but still effective enough. The green-eyed woman awaits her fate docilely in the middle of the circle of chanting cultists who stand around her, their leader's sacrificial dagger raised.

Castiel has posed:
He wanders a lot. Without the confines of human needs, Castiel has something most mortals don't: time on his hands. It leaves him wandering streets and alleys at the oddest of hours. It's how he's learning about his new existence. This life he chose. It's not like he isn't aware that perhaps he might want to make greater effort at fitting in, some day finding himself a place to call 'home' - humans seem to put great store in that, but the spirit hasn't moved him yet. There's the building with Angela's loft. The Winchester boys were nearby. He imagines that's eventually where he'll settled down. For now, though? He wanders..

It was a subtle scent at first. He's been picking them up here and there, most not leading to anything worthy of mention or interference. Scents divine. Scents arcane. Wafts of the demonic.. today it's that demonic niggle that assaults him. There's something different about it, though. It's not just stronger.. it has residue attached to it. Resonance of rites and ritual that pulse and tug at him, leading his feet down streets into a section of the city he's not paced before now. And now that he's here, it's a stench that can't be ignored.

There. It's that building there. No windows. Only the one point of egress that he can tell, and even that involves a convoluted little journey down a set of rusted stairs and along a corridor that appears to go nowhere. There's a door at the end of it, though. When it was in its prime there were likely more points of entry - fire codes and all - but they've long been boarded up or cleverly hidden. Not that any of this really matters to the man, standing as he is outside the building, letting his senses take the filth of the place in. He doesn't plan on using any door..

And for the first time since inhabiting this vessel, he makes certain his weapon is at the ready; not drawn, merely such that he can slip it into his hand and let it be as needed. By the stench? He's going to need it.

Bypassing the lack of easily accessible doors, he merely ports in.

Vampirella has posed:
    The sacrifice looks like she might be stoned, to judge by the placid lack of reaction on her face as thirteen ominous adults in modern-day black cloaks gave down at her with daggers raised, chanting (unevenly and with almost no unison) the sort of throaty, snotty gibberish Lovecraft liked to make up. Even a willing sacrifice tends to look afraid as the body's natural fear responses kick in; maybe this one was drugged as part of capture? Whatever the reason, she just lies there, waiting for the knife to fall, eyes scanning from face to face with no more than mild interest.
    Huh. Her lips and fingernails are red. So she's not just wearing Victoria's most daring Secret, she's had makeup put on her for the ceremony. A bride for a summoning, maybe?

Castiel has posed:
The room is a testament to things gone wrong. The very fibers of the place echo the rituals that the scarred table has witnessed. It's not just the scent of old blood, it's the residue of the arcane. Sigils that should not be drawn by human hands; echoes of words not meant for human lips. things that should not be touched and called upon..

And yet? There, upon the table, bound by lengths of red silk, is what can only be called a demon. The acrid burn of sulphur and brimstone wafts from her. It's a scent as old as time, and anathema to the angelic. Without consciousness of the fact, the corners of Castiel's lips curl upwards in a sneer of disgust. The entire room is worthy of a cleansing.

He gathers himself up, body tensing to full erectness, his weapon sliding into his hand and settling there with a comfortable ease. It is no longer than a dagger - but appearances can be deceiving.

Which might be what stays his hand initially, the hand not bearing the blade raised to smite that which is upon the table.. except for the thing he can't explain. The stench is there. It is demon. But there is something more. Something he can't explain. An oddity to it. Places where the scent doesn't *quite* fit. It's enough to have him hold that burgeoning thought, and decide, instead, to address the easier concern in the room: the humans intent upon dabbling in things they should not. Even if they are unaware that they've a demon upon the table.

"I do not think you wish to continue," he murmurs, his voice a soft gravel that still manages to fill the space of the room and echo like thunder. While he says it, he draws himself up further, letting some aspects of the vessel fall away, and shimmer with more of the divine. Caught somewhere between what he is and what he was. The threat of him more than apparent.

Vampirella has posed:
    There are gasps as Castiel's appearance, people falling back a step or two involuntarily, people glancing at one another uncertainly, and one voice--a woman--asking, "Is--is it supposed to look human? I didn't think it would..."
    The one with the dagger was gaping until that question jogged something loose in his stunned mind. "This--" His voice catches, and he swallows, continuing more strongly after that telltale hitch, "This is a nemesis of our work! Fight it in faith, my children!" And with that he attacks, his sacrificial dagger held point down, implying he knows at least a little something about what he's doing with the thing. Maybe it's that certitude that drives the other dozen humans to attack, or maybe it's just blind obedience to a leader. Either way, they don't hesitate after their leader attacks.
    For her part, the sacrifice on the table looks nothing but annoyed at all this. With an exasperated sigh, she flexes her thin arms and legs; the Velcro straps holding her to the table shred with her casual strength.
    This is why they once used chains and manacles, people.

Castiel has posed:
Much as he's thrown in his lot with humanity, his goodwill doesn't extend to those participating in ritual sacrifice - even if in this case their victim is a demon of some ilk - that's just a mitigating circumstance they're obviously not aware of or they'd have contained her better. And these humans, in particular, have run his good will to the end of his patience.

Castiel doesn't have to remove himself from the vessel to display the glory of what he was. It still remains with him. All he need do is stand there and allow it to be.. He does. The full weight of his presence set upon the annoying cadre of ritualists coming at him. Mere gnats in the greater scheme of things. He was a warrior of the Lord for too many eons to be concerned with them. The dagger in his hands growing with him, glowing with it's angelic power. A thing of great length and glory, befitting the warrior he was and is. The attackers given but one more chance to change their minds. He has other means at his disposal, for certain. All it would take is a touch to render each unconscious. The leader, though - that one he wants to have a chat with.

Oh, and the demon.. the demon who is removing herself from the sacrificial table.. Now he has real decisions to make.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella is swinging her feet delicately off the edge of the table, pivoting on her butt to accomplish it as Castiel swells into an iconic anima. It's lucky for the cultists he did, because once her bare toes have touched the floor, she's flashing the twelve feet over to the throng literally too fast for the human eye to follow; she just appears at the leader's back, with only the flow of her hair in the slipstream to suggest she didn't teleport there. Were it not for Castiel's combination of restraint and power, her teeth would already be in his throat. Instead, she decides to mimic Castiel's restraint for now--she doesn't know his power and doesn't want to test it if she doesn't have to--by seizing the leader's knife-wielding wrist from behind and pulling back on his arm like it's a slot machine lever. He releases a strangled gasp as his momentum is arrested without the tendons in his shoulder having been made aware of this plan, and the torn ligaments that ensue blanch his face white.
    The other cultists pause uncertainly in their rush, only as brave as their leader is.

Castiel has posed:
He.. shouldn't be feeling this moment of appreciation for the demon-victim's actions. Her restraint is noted, though. Castiel isn't sure why, yet, but it's clear he and she have entered into a detente of sorts where they'll play their story out against a different backdrop. She has the cult leader. He has the attention of the others.

They're a trifle. A pittance. An annoyance. The irritation is a well within him that grows. They can leave, or he'll deal with them in a more permanent fashion. "If you value your lives, you will not be here by the time I count to three."

He doesn't need to say why they don't wish to be there. The implication is overstated by the sword in his hand. He might have left them to sleep the matter off, but the bigger catch here is holding the leader in her arms. He really only needs deal with that. These others may think twice before dabbling after the force of his presence. He's not actually certain he cares.

"One.."

The angel of the Lord is utterly calm as he speaks, even if his voice is a depth of power.

"Two.."

There's a pause. The only moment he will give them past the three he has promised. After three, they have chosen their fates.

He has no doubt they'll flee.

"Three.."

Vampirella has posed:
    Eleven of them flee. Two of them can't. The leader, once dropped to the floor, can't rise again, at least not under his own power, with his legs beneath him and one arm turned into a series of mortar fire detonating through him with explosions of pain. The other tried to flee, and got a few steps before the demon-sacrifice tackled her from behind and drove her into a wall fifty feet away, one forearm across the woman's collarbone, actually rather blunting the impact. It probably saved the woman's life.
    When the cultist falls to the ground, Castiel, if he's observant, might notice why she was the slowest to flee: she's not wearing galoshes like the others, but patent leather boots with stiletto heels on them. The woman is screaming for her life and scrabbling for the exit while the demon is on top of her, capturing her leg in a figure four lock like a GLOW match... and only to peel the boot off, and repeat with the other leg.
    Then the demon-sacrifice is off her back, and the cultist is crawling on hands and knees to the exit. The demon-sacrifice is unconcerned. She's putting her boots back on.
    Vampirella doesn't have much use for thieves.

Castiel has posed:
The man writhing on the floor is no longer a concern, other than a consideration of whether or not to help him. It isn't in his nature to torture or torment, but neither is it to let a demon carry on existing on this plane.

Castiel lets his divine nature fall away, the light of the power within dimming and receding until he is only human. His sword only a dagger again - albeit a very sharp, and particular dagger. There is not doubt that it could wreak immense harm upon the demon-woman should he choose to engage.

Of course, he needn't necessarily engage. Most can be sent back with nothing more than a focus of power. His free hand is still but a thought away from that, as he regards her, features drawn and strained, jaw set in a tight angle. "You make it hard to remember why I stilled my hand in the first place," he tells her. Blue eyes never leaving her. Assessing her. Waiting.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella, now properly shod (at least relative to her current level of dress), rises easily, liquidly to her feet, regarding Castiel with mild confusion but no fear. "How so, little brother?" she asks, in a precise, high-pitched accent hard for any human to identify. "If you wish to hunt them, they could not have gotten far."

Castiel has posed:
That he knows. The oddity of accent. She is what she is. "Your kind should not be suffered here."

He makes no move towards her, Castiel merely a solid presence where he stands, still not making move upon the woman, or to help the leader.

"They did not know what they had." His head tilts ever so fractionally as he speak. The gesture either to indicate her, or them. "I wonder.."

The man doesn't finish his thought, merely leaving it hanging as he regards the demon woman as he speaks again. "Why shouldn't I send you back to where you came from?"

Being demon frankly ranking as enough in his books.. though she didn't kill the humans. Broke them badly, but they weren't unfixable. They'd likely think twice before doing this again. If they were smart.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella could begin by asking what he thinks 'her kind' is, but as a general rule, someone who says 'your kind' is someone too deep in hate to reason with. Instead she smiles at him, not especially nicely, and says through those perfect, white teeth, "Of course they knew what I am. They have spent many days trying to find me. I--" She cuts herself off at the realization that the leader is still alive to hear all this, and responds instead, "I will not be threatened by you, little brother. If you would banish me, then you will first have to overcome my wrath."

Castiel has posed:
That? That does surprise him. "They knew you are a demon?"

It's a thing he hadn't considered. The smell of the place was beyond vile with things done here.. he'd never considered that they might have sought out one such as herself for their sacrifice. It leaves him more curious than ready to banish.

His body is still a tension. A readiness. But he's no longer riding that edge they both knew lay between them, where his breath and his thought were but a heartbeat away from taking action.

Castiel tilts his head ever so slightly further, curiousity in the angle. "Little brother?" Few would make that claim, and most in effort to belittle or attempt to goad. This one, though? Seems different. He's willing to let her enlighten him.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella is wary, but not fearful. Her eyes are wide and unblinking, locked on Castiel's for the first flicker that he means to move; that the questions are only a distraction. Her hands are low and at her sides, palms turned out to face Castiel, fingers curled as if into claws (though she keeps her talons in her fingers for now) as she explains, "'Demon' is their word, not mine. They know I hunt them and their kind, and they know little past that. You saw their confusion: they are so foolish in their faith they did not know if you were the master they meant to summon."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel gives a start, then stops himself. And another. Again, he doesn't complete the motion. It doesn't seem directed at her. It seems more.. the way someone who is confused about something tries to ask, but fails where the words should come.

"Nothing of Grace comes to what they would do here." The words he find are not a question, and yet they carry within them a query: what was it they sought. For all his knowledge, he draws upon a blank.

"And you. You are different." Now he makes a negligent wave of his free hand. His weapon is put away. It's clear that any action he will take next will not be with the blade. This may bode well or good for her, depending on whether she thinks he can banish her by word alone.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella allows her own body language to relax, palms turning in toward her sides. Her eyes remain wide and unblinking in the candlelight, fixed on Castiel. "Such as they and their masters think themselves my family in darkness, but I hunt them as my legitimate prey, and they hunt me in fear and retribution. It was my wish to pretend myself helpless, that their master might reveal its face to my wrath, but you interrupted them with their enchantments incomplete." She pauses, then adds, "Thank you for your charity, little brother, though it thwarted my aims."

Castiel has posed:
There's something akin to amusement in the blue of his eyes. "Thanks from a demon," he rumbles in his gravelly drawl. "I suppose you expect niceities?" A twitch of shoulders betrays what might be said to be a shrug if he allowed the full motion to happen. Instead, it's barely a motion. A hint. The slightest shift of the fabric of his trenchcoat, and then stillness.

Castiel makes no apology, though. "You hunt. Humans?" There's an edge to how he says the word humans. Sharp. Expectant. Waiting. A tension returning to his posture, but a tension held.

"I am not your little brother. Few could make that claim and perhaps consider themselves to speak true." And even then it was questionable, Lilith's kind never of the seraphim. They had always been apart. Nothing of Grace.

Vampirella has posed:
    "You will not give me your name, so I must call you something, little brother," Vampirella retorts easily. "But yes, I hunt those humans who have aligned with the Outer Darkness: they open the doors my true prey slithers through, and thus are my fill. Do you disagree?"

Castiel has posed:
"Few would make that claim," Castiel remarks of her insistence upon calling him little brother. And, in truth, it wasn't a claim that held. Even if she were what she intimated, those who came before, Lilith's ilk had never been of the seraphim - always separate and apart. Nothing of Grace. They were the first to be named Demon. The ones who wore the name it its full rightness.

"I find it hard to believe we fight the same battle." Still, he relaxes. There is no motion that punctuates this, merely a shift in the air about him. From tension to release. Back to a simple stillness that waits.

A pause. A flick of blue eyes to regard her, and consider his next move, and then, "Castiel." Knowing full well that names have power. The giving something of a white flag between them. A testing of what truce might be had. If such things could be said to be trusted when given by a demon.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella nods. "Very well, Castiel. I am called by Vampirella."
    Her English is not so very perfect, but it's delivered with a regal lack of concern.
    "And we do not fight the same battle. I do not know what you are, and you do not know what I am. How then could our goals align?"

Castiel has posed:
Craggy eyebrows lift. "You're a demon," he rumbles. Others might hear the 'you ass' in the tones of his voice. She might not. "You hunt those who align with Darkness. What slithers through. More of your kind."

His gaze rakes over her without body motion. Merely a flicker of gaze moving along and considering her. "You should know my kind. Or are you blind?" More of that irritation to his tones.

Vampirella has posed:
    "And you are a judgmental dullard so weak of imagination he cannot perceive anything that lies outside his own narrow conception of kinds, and thus must insist I am a label I never claimed for myself, and am so defined by it there can be nothing more to me," Vampirella snaps back, eyes narrowed. "I have indulged you because I thought this is your territory and you were owed deference of it, but I will take no more insults from you, Castiel. I leave now, to do the hunts you are too slow to do yourself. You may clean up the mess of that broken human trying so hard to be forgotten behind you."

Castiel has posed:
Her words give him enough pause that he holds up a hand - the universal human gesture for 'wait a minute'. It's at odds with the stillness of the rest of him. "You do not know."

The words and the thought are mulled by the man. Tasted for their truth, and not found lacking. "You do not know." This time, with less disbelief. "I am Castiel. Late of the Choir. Now found among these mortals. You are.." That pause. Such an interminable pause as he contemplates what she is. What she might be. How he might address such. "Old," he finishes with. It's a beginning.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella starts to fold her arms, then catches herself and lets her arms hang at her side rather than form the stiff body language barrier of crossing her chest. "Very well. You are Castiel, late of the Choir. You speak as if these are words which should have meaning to me, yet they only tell me that once you sang. What is it you believe should be familiar to me from your words, Castiel, late of the choir?" Her tone is mostly neutral, edging toward annoyed; her chin is high, and her green gaze comes through slightly narrowed lids. In other words, she hasn't totally forgiven the angel, but she's trying to be receptive.

Castiel has posed:
The piercing blue of Castiel's eyes hold nothing but a quizzical expression now. He had thought his words and meaning clear, having met nothing so old or so removed that they were not at least passingly familiar with what he might be, if not who. Most certainly what.

His position shifts, the hand dropping away, his head tilting slightly to the left, that shoulder the minutest degree closer to the creature before him as he murmurs, "I did not sing. I was a warrior." The praises of the Lord sung not only in words, but in deeds and actions, and his was a mighty prayer to the Lord for time untold and uncounted before he made his choice. "An angel of the Lord. How is it you know you are not a demon, but do not know the Choir?"

A pause, an ever so pregnant and drawn out pause, "Who or what are you?"

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella spreads her hands. "I am taught things of your world and of your language. You have your own gods and your own demons, which is only to be expected; is it not the nature of worlds to have their own gods and demons?" she asks reasonably. "I am also taught that I will be called a demon by you despite you surely having no idea what a demon is to me." She glances past Cass to the injured cultist lying on the ground behind him. "More I will not say, unless that man's life is mine. He will never repeat what he learns."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's brows furrow as he looks to the man in question. Thoughts a roil within the man. There is no love lost for those who would torture, and summon demons to bend to their will - though did the fact of the victim being a demon mitigate such circumstance? Castiel asn't sure. Other than a consideration for the fact that whatever she was, she seemed to be less a thing of Hell than most. If at all.

"He can be made to not hear or remember," the angel finally rumbles, turning the blue of his gaze back upon her. "Would that be sufficient?"

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella considers with the cold, coiled, merciless calculation of a predator, then nods. "That will be sufficient. I am from far from here, Castiel of this Choir that makes war but does not sing. You call me old, and I may be, for I know not what your years mean to you or how they affect me. I know only my mother sent me here to free Earth of the spawn she bore from the outer gods as her revenge for being cast from Eden, which pettiness she now repents of as she contemplates the innocent suffering it has caused."

Castiel has posed:
His motions are smooth, now that he has made a choice, and the act is within his powers, appearing beside the broken man still moaning in pain, whose eyes are too-too wide and fearful. The angel kneeling beside him, palm outstretched to touch the man's forehead, with a soft whisper of "Shhh" that puts the man to sleep. Though the angel does not stop there, compassion lending itself to a further act of mercy upon the broken creature, healing him. The process slow, but not tedious.

Castiel's glance rises to the woman, then back to his charge. "Your mother. She has a name?" He begins to suspect a thing, as the tale unfolds. It's an old tale, regarding even older things. Things before his kind were formed from thought. Things that did not have a creation story known in the books. Things that merely were. Had always been.

Vampirella has posed:
    "I am Vampirella, daughter of Lilith," the dark-haired woman says, head raised and back straight with pride. "Or at least, that is the name the people of this world would know her by, from their apocrypha. Now, Castiel of the Choir, have I satisfied enough of your curiosity that I may put to you my questions?"

Castiel has posed:
The angel remains knelt at the man's side, still tending to his wounds. It was not so much a surprise, now, now that he'd already allowed himself to suspect what the answer might be. Lilith. Older than old. By most accounts, already there before the world was created by the Lord. Stories varied by culture and regard, but always, she was outside His domain, only once having given thought to His requests, with the first son: Adam. And that, by known accounts had not gone well. Her pique had followed.

"So, she seeks to offer reparation." The vaguest of gestures, a nod only in implication, is given. "You are her handmaiden. Much as I was a warrior of the Lord."

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella shrugs. So much for being allowed to question Castiel, but then, he does come off as the type who expects to give orders rather than take questions. "Reparation is impossible for the dead. The only thing she can do is attempt to stop more among the living from joining them, for their deaths will come for them soon enough on this horrible world, and will be terrible enough without her failed attempt at vengeance making their lives shorter and worse."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel lets her words settle over him, sitting with them before giving an actual nod, the gesture existing only momentarily before he's a stillness again. Still knelt at the man he heals. "It would seem we share goals. What do you wish to know?"

Vampirella has posed:
    "Who is the lord of your warrior choir? Let us begin there."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's lips twist over a bitterness of smile, the gesture welling from deep within the man. Not a body memory, but something the angel bears upon himself, past the vessel. "That would be Michael. Why? You seek him? He would cut you down sooner than consider your intent. You are anethema. Or so he would see."

That, or the Archangel might be wont to find a way to twist the daughter of Lilith to other ends and means. Castiel is no longer certain what voices Michael hears anymore now that Heaven seeks to break the seals. There was rumbling about that, but no dissent. Only his own. The lone voice lifted in outcry; the singular action against.

Vampirella has posed:
    "I neither seek your kind nor avoid them, Castiel," Vampirella explains quietly. "Nor fear. I only search for the the questions that will explain to me why you think I am to know you and yours. Michael, though... I may know this name, and if I know it, then it may explain much. You are of the god of loaves and fishes, yes?"

Castiel has posed:
The bitter edges of Castiel's smile soften, turning into something of an irony. "So He is known by some. By others merely I Am. Yahweh. He Who Shall Not Be Named. The Beginning." The angel stops himself as the litany of names could continue for longer than either would care to spend in this place. Especially when real discussion could occur.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella nods. "I see. I know something of your people and their struggle. It is not my struggle, and your prey are not my prey, yet I am told those you would hunt are anathema to humanity, and may be my enemies as well as yours." She seems unconcerned by the revelation that Castiel is an angel. "I would be understood, Castiel of the choir. I will not interfere with your hunting of demons, but they are your fill, not mine. Our goals do not align today, yet neither do I perceive them to cross. Do you disagree with my understanding?"

Castiel has posed:
His task with the human done, Castiel stands, the gesture smooth and at odds with the awkward stance he holds after. Body stilled, and looking much like it is caught in a perpetual need to press forward. Shoulders at an askance angle, head held just so..

"I do not think we are at odds. I would not disregard your offers of unity. Nor would I regret returning such."

She may be right, they might not fight the same 'demons' - but ultimately, either ilk goes against what each is trying to accomplish, if the principle of least harm to humans is applied.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella gestures to the cultist with a twist of her neck, pointing at him with her chin. "You show great mercy to one who would have slain you. Do you do this because he is too weak to harm you?"

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's answer is long in coming. It's not something he rightly understands himself, or, more to the point, how to explain his moment of compassion towards one who he could have just as easily dismissed and take out of the equation. It would have been a different kind of mercy he would have shown. Or perhaps less of one..

And that is where he pauses, understanding somewhat, why.

"They are.. necessary," he rumbles, drawing himself up to a more erect posture. "Their kind. I do not know what foibles must be. You prevented the summoning. To kill him would have been a choice of anger, not of protection."

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella nods slowly as she considers this. "You pity them? I suppose that is the difference between a hunter and a warrior." She seems content to let it go at that, because she changes the subject: "Well then, Castiel of the choir. I think we have met better than we might, since neither of us has killed the other," she observes with a twinkle of wry humor. "And there is a nobility about you which I find useless but charming. Your company threatens to even be pleasant. I wonder, can I repay the kindness you showed when you 'rescued' me?"

Castiel has posed:
The angel's lips twist over a wryness of amusement at her assessment of him. Hands spread at his side in an encompassing gesture that ends in a shrug. "Only threatens to be pleasant?" The moment passes quickly, however, his hands going deep within his trench coat pockets then.

"Perhaps there will be a time in the future." He pauses, taking a moment to consider the human sleeping on the floor. "Compassion," the angel corrects. "Pity is both more and less. I do not know anymore if we are that."

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella shows a white crescent of her teeth in a little grin. "It is a terrible threat, which I take very seriously," she promises. "But very well. I shall remember what I owe you, Castiel, if you call on me, though I know not where I will be when your call may come."

Castiel has posed:
Her smile is returned only in a thin press of his lips together. A threat of a smile one might say. "I would say you could call upon my name as well."

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella nods, and lays the pad of her forefinger against the side of her nose. "I have your scent," she agrees, in a tone that suggests she doesn't need anything else to be able to find the angel. She pauses, then adds, "Tell me, Castiel, what do you of the Choir do when you hunt not for demons nor heal their cultists?"

Castiel has posed:
If he's put out by the scent taking, or amused, it does not show, the angel merely a calm stillness before the woman. "We once were guardians," the man rumbles softly. "Mighty and powerful in the Lord." It's an answer of evasion.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella nods. "We are stronger when we fight for those we love," she agrees. "Is your love all there is to you, then? Is that why you don't answer?"

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's answer comes after a pause - interestingly shorter a pause then his usual, despite the deeper difficulty of the question and answer. "I believed we were that Love. I do not know that we are anymore."

Vampirella has posed:
    "I would consider you my enemy, if love is all you were," Vampirella says, bluntly. "If each of you are love, then none of you are individuals, just parts of something else. A Legion of one who are also many, indistinguishable from the others. It is a monstrous thing to be."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's shoulders do that fractional rise and fall. The fabric of his trench coat pulling along his back and settling into its usual rumpled line. "I would not be here if I were only that." His act of Falling one of defiance. Not so great as Lucifer's perhaps, but his path certainly left room for a complete snapping of the thread that still tethered him to Divinity.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella smiles. "Then there's more to you than a single dimension. Good. I had my suspicions you might be a person, Castiel, but now I begin to suspect you might even be worthwhile."

Castiel has posed:
That might be an inclination of head from the angel. But there isn't so much motion as implication of motion. The barest upturn of the corners of his lips. His eyes, though - those sparkle. Something of infinite amusement within. Or merely acknnowledgement. "And you are more than what history would paint you. I am glad I stilled my blade." It is as far as he bends to immitate her words, but the intent suffices.

Vampirella has posed:
    Vampirella laughs. "I think you're trying to make me blush, Castiel, you sly thing," she teases, and for the first time since tackling the cultist who tried to steal her boots, starts walking: toward Castiel, only to veer off at the last moment, smiling, to hunker next the sleeping cultist and rummage under his poncho-robe to find his wallet. "Ah!" She pulls out his cash, stands, and stuffs it into Castiel's pocket, then slips her arm through his. "Come with me, Castiel. Your friend down there has done penance for his sins by donating to your cause, and we shall honor his attempt at atonement by finding an enjoyable activity to indulge together." She's already walking to the back door, the secret entrance Castiel neither found nor needed. "Let us find a repository of art, and enjoy it."