bibliophale: (excuse you | no)
[personal profile] bibliophale
"You did WHAT?!"

Oh dear. He did not mean to snap. He shuts his eyes and draws a breath for patience.

When he'd asked Melanie if she'd had a nice time in last night's dream he had been making conversation - it was a lovely dream, surely nothing bad had happened, but in fact exactly that had happened. She met Rashad, AND Illyria. And she invited Illyria over.

"I'm sorry," he says in a clipped tone, "it's all right, I'm not angry, I'm just - I'm concerned, is what I am. Illyria is very dangerous. I do not want her knowing about you. And it seems like every time I encounter her she wants to do battle."

Oh lord. Is he going to have ward her out now? She won't like that. He saw how she tried to break through the barrier around the island, which is far more powerful than anything he could create. He sighs heavily and drops his head into his hands.
bibliophale: (excuse you | no)
[personal profile] bibliophale
Aziraphale arrives at his shop on the morning of the 4th, only some hours after meeting Crowley in the park, after meeting Gabriel at the diner, after his difficult discussion with Melanie, after that dream, and finds Illyria sitting in the back just as he'd left her. All that had gone on and she'd just been here, contemplating space. Right. His mind's been made up. It was a trying night for many, many reasons, but he's refreshed now, and he's ready to finally face this unfaced problem.

"It's time for you to move out," he tells her sternly. "Come on now. We're getting you a proper place to stay. Can't have you in here all the time. Up you get."

He will suffer no further God-Kings. He'll put her somewhere close by, where he can keep an eye out - he's still concerned about Winifred Burkle showing up again, for instance - but his shop will go back to being his, thanks very much.
bibliophale: (resignation | welp)
[personal profile] bibliophale
Aziraphale's personal spaces are beginning to get a bit crowded. It isn't that he requires privacy wherever he goes. If that were so he wouldn't have put his shop right next to Sunshine's bakery. Spike is a wonderfully effective and low-maintenance employee, and Sunshine is a friend who brings treats when she visits. Crowley's occasional (increasingly occasional) stays in the back room are an assumption. And he certainly doesn't mind having Melanie in his flat - that's quite nice. Nicer than he thought it would be.

So really it's just Illyria. Suffering the God-King of the Primordium, squatting as they are, both in his shop and in another person's body, is really a bit much to ask, he thinks. All the rest would be fine. If it weren't for this one nuisance.

Well, at least she doesn't make too much trouble. And she seems content to mind her business and sit motionless for long periods of time.

Actually, that last part is a little creepy. And right now, as he's trying to read the lovely 1893 copy of the Sanskritized Hindi translation of Macbeth he had the good fortune to come across, it's distracting.

He lowers the small volume and looks at the God-King. "Illyria," he says, "do you ever sleep?"
noteasybeingblue: (u done fucked up son (pissed off a god))
[personal profile] noteasybeingblue
The longer she dwells in this world, the more she despises it.

No one will see her.

A vengeful God-King is not something so easily ignored. She is destructive and regal and demands the attention of all who would worship her. But there are no worshipers here. There is nothing here, nothing at all, just endless swarms of humanity that apparently care nothing for Illyria the Merciless, Ruler of the Primordium, even as she grows ever more indignant and ever more enraged and ever more desiring in her need to do violence.

The vermin are to remain untouched. The vermin are to remain untouched.

So she will not touch them. She will not touch anything here. Illyria will not remain here any longer than is necessary, even if it has long since ceased to become necessary.

The mortal-built bridge will be her focus point. She stretches one shell's hand out, testing the scintillating tear of unclassifiable dimensional energy against her vessel. There is resistance there, a barrier intended to prevent any motion beyond the isolated pinprick of too-small, too-confining space. If she can reach past it, she can escape this metaphysical prison and thus seek out the way back to her world.

The God-King's shell smiles, small and self-satisfied. Nothing can hold a god.

She reaches further. The crackle of foreign energy against hers is unbearable. And then further - the shearing, rifting edge of the barrier begins to screech against her being.

She will test these waters no further. Illyria launches herself at the barrier, driving forward with fists and blazing intent, and the strength of the unfamiliar matter rips at her, eliciting a blistering, tearing roar of utmost pain and displeasure. It is unbearable. It is intolerable. But Illyria is not yet through. She will continue driving at it, regardless of the shrilling agony webbing its way through her shell, into the core of what she is -

The God-King's strength, once glaring and eternal, runs out. She no longer possesses the will or instinct to even draw herself back. Her shell howls, the pain of simply being is exquisite and unquantifiable, and Illyria falls away from the torment of the conscious world.
wildmage_daine: (lion calm)
[personal profile] wildmage_daine
There is a lioness on the Great Lawn, and folk are looking right past her as if she's no more exotic than a golden retriever.

Daine's a little surprised, though perhaps she shouldn't be. Once she realized that something was wrong - that she might as well be invisible for all the attention most two-leggers would pay her - she'd been thinking of ways to test just how bad it was. And she'd already been visiting the People in crow shape (they, at least, still acknowledge her as if everything's normal). So she'd thought of taking the sort of shape that might at least earn her a startled glance or two - something big and exotic and obviously out of place. Not to cause a panic or anything, just to see if anyone noticed.

And so far, they really haven't. She's hardly invisible - the lawn is crowded enough that folk have needed to skirt around her, and they've all managed it without treading on her tail or anything. They see her, they just don't care. Or something. She hasn't quite worked it out, yet.

Well, since no one seems to mind her presence, at least she can stay here, basking and thinking on her own little patch of grass. Maybe a little later, she'll go for a wander to see if she's more noticeable on the move.

[ooc: feel free to run into Daine on the Great Lawn, or elsewhere in the Park. I can be flexible re: getting her places if it makes things easier for other characters.]
noteasybeingblue: (let's liberate some spines)
[personal profile] noteasybeingblue
She will rend them.

She will shatter their skulls, play glorious harmony with their spines, rip through skin and muscle to crush the beating hearts within, and if they lack hearts she will grind to dust their brains, and if they lack brains she will shred their miserable vermin bodies, and she will wreak beautiful destruction upon everything she sees.

She cares not of what or who she strikes and damages and destroys, only that she deliver destruction unto all of them for incurring her wrath. She may lack the grandeur of her true form and the full might of her true glory but she is still Illyria, God-King and regal chaos incarnate, and they have made her wrathful.

All of Hell has risen to meet them. Illyria will make memorable their reception. She wishes violence, she revels in it, she prides herself in her methodical infliction of it.

And despite it all, still she grieves.

She grieves.

Illyria is grieving.

It is an emotion, pathetically human, welling up from within her or the shell she occupies, she cannot tell, and it is so profoundly alien that she has no choice but to accept its presence. And seethe.

Thus far she finds the sensation of grief to be disagreeable. And no amount of violence seems to rectify it. She refuses to believe that it is not rectifiable. It is a taint, a sickness upon her shell, and sicknesses are rectifiable. All things are rectifiable. And if they are not Illyria makes them so.

She will administer pain and bloodshed until this also becomes so.

There is a shift of energy behind her but she pays it no heed; the energy here is ever-constant-changing and always has been, and if it has been more volatile on this day it is because the forces of Hell have been set slavering upon this world, so Illyria dismisses it. She will focus on her current work - namely, enticing a lowly demon to part ways with its spine. Forcefully.

She rips the inconsequentiality free with a glorious spray of blue-tinged gore - a truly neon specimen of demon, as would befit its Pit-origins - and stands, victorious, gruesome trophy in hand, and then her world changes.

It wrenches in her as it happens, the rip-burn of dimensional tearways screaming past the whole of the God-King’s being, and all she knows is that her world of violence is gone.

In its place is one of peace and clouds and rain, and Illyria can sense them, vermin, everywhere, crawling on every surface, tiny and mindless and simple and everywhere. They are still here, carrying themselves like a blight over the world that was once hers by right. Disgusting. Grating. Virulent.

She does not know where she is, nor does she care. She just wishes to return. But she is no longer the all-powerful and feared being she was, this universe no longer simply aligns to her, she cannot tear through the walls and barriers between dimensions so easily, the voids remain closed to her, and this world will not succumb to her will.

Illyria stands in imperious revulsion, gore-spattered and rain-drenched, disembodied spine dangling, and bitterly wishes a return to her world of Hell.

[ooc: if your character is running into Illyria after she's met Aziraphale, she will be significantly less bloody and scary-looking courtesy of unexpected angel deep-cleaning services]


bigapplesauce: (Default)
The Big Applesauce


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