High above Los Angeles, the Aerie reflects the final red-tinged rays of the sun from spire to bronzed spire until the Heaven-built edifice seems to gleam with its own radience.
On the lone terrace that served as balcony and landing platform, an angel lie flat on his back, eyes closed and wings spread to collect the last warmth of the sunset as he meditates on the world below. Zauriel does not precisely sleep, but mortal flesh must rest occasionally. It is not a limitation he is altogether happy with. Even now, his mind remains alert to the Aerie's warning systems and to the JLA communicator afixed to his bracer.
Gemma's words come to him as if a prayer, but muffled and somehow further away than mere distance should allow. Within moments, he has donned his armor and taken flight.
Zauriel closes the distance between Los Angeles and Louisiana in only a few minutes, but the feeling that Gemma is somehow beyond reach persists, even as he touches down on one of Bete Noire's steeples. Gemma's presence should draw him like a beacon at this proximity, but he still cannot pinpoint her. Bete Noire writhes with old magic. It is as if the city itself has somehow masked her from his perceptions. His alternatives are to waste what may be vital moments searching on foot --
'Calm yourself. She did not seem distressed.'
-- or to seek help from those who might have faster methods of locating her.
Zauriel sighs quietly as he takes to the air again. It had to happen sooner or later.
Minutes later, Zauriel knocks firmly at Shadowcrest's front door.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2006-11-15 09:03 pm (UTC)On the lone terrace that served as balcony and landing platform, an angel lie flat on his back, eyes closed and wings spread to collect the last warmth of the sunset as he meditates on the world below. Zauriel does not precisely sleep, but mortal flesh must rest occasionally. It is not a limitation he is altogether happy with. Even now, his mind remains alert to the Aerie's warning systems and to the JLA communicator afixed to his bracer.
Gemma's words come to him as if a prayer, but muffled and somehow further away than mere distance should allow. Within moments, he has donned his armor and taken flight.
Zauriel closes the distance between Los Angeles and Louisiana in only a few minutes, but the feeling that Gemma is somehow beyond reach persists, even as he touches down on one of Bete Noire's steeples. Gemma's presence should draw him like a beacon at this proximity, but he still cannot pinpoint her. Bete Noire writhes with old magic. It is as if the city itself has somehow masked her from his perceptions. His alternatives are to waste what may be vital moments searching on foot --
'Calm yourself. She did not seem distressed.'
-- or to seek help from those who might have faster methods of locating her.
Zauriel sighs quietly as he takes to the air again. It had to happen sooner or later.
Minutes later, Zauriel knocks firmly at Shadowcrest's front door.