abraxaslogs | [Closed]

"Ah. So if the entire flock is black sheeps, made up of the rejects, but still a unit, they're still undeserving of any protection? Just because they're out from the majority--" He huffs and waves a hand. "Nevermind you can keep your stringent shepherds."

That puts a dent in Lucifer's plan and his petulance is just on the fringes of his attitude.

He's not going to change a god's mind about what should be inclusive. That's the entire reason the little idiots had flocked to him, anyway. The entity outside the 'norms' that treated them like adults (because he didn't really know how else to treat them, but apparently that didn't matter). He's never going to be able to get rid of them, or even find them secondary protection.

"Clear skies," he hums, thinking of the easy route though the desire to ask more about those last two in the list is haunting him, "sounds simple, so what's the dark side to that?"

"That's not how flocks work."

Michael can't resist an opening to issue a correction, especially one directed towards his brother. Lucifer had once been part of a true flock; he ought to know better. Either none of them are black sheep or there's a larger group they're deviating from and they're not the cohesive unit he thinks they are.

He knows nothing of the group of ducklings who've imprinted on Lucifer, though, so he has no further comment on the matter.

His fingertips tap the arm of the chair as he considers the question, a practiced display rather than something that comes to him naturally. Michael hasn't heard many stories about Kew-Is-Sema, and none in the same vein of warning as those about Spyndlveiss. Though of course, Michael also hasn't engaged in anything but surface level conversations with the locals regarding their beliefs.

"The same as dealing with any pagan god," he says, after a moment's thought. "Get on his bad side and you'll be cursed with darkness and clouded skies, all the 'negative' aspects of the elements under his purview. He seems a relatively benign figure compared to the likes of the Heralds."

"Well it should be," he gripes under his breath, because once upon a time Lucifer wanted to just fit in and he couldn't and how's that fair to him?

Because in the end despite any newly-developed intentions everything, still, is clearly painted in a way to make things harder for Lucifer.

One day the black sheep will outweigh everyone else and even then they'll all be in the wrong.

He puffs out a breath.

"Can't believe I'd rather play it safe," he admits with a scoff. "But I don't particularly want to know how a 'guardian of those without purpose' does when you piss them off," and that is the closest Lucifer will come to displaying interest there, "so perhaps risking more lightning to my feathers is best." Clear skies could be in a benefit to him if he ever manages to find a way to send local merchants on a risky job.

That's not saying he's buying into anything, he just needs to find the right way to approach the matter.

Michael would have a thing or two to say about Lucifer's alleged desire to "fit in", too. To his eye, Lucifer has always wanted to be the center of attention—the one whose counsel was listened to above all others, and how is that fitting in?

Lucifer doesn't say it, though, so neither does he. Instead, Michael voices another thought with an even sharper point.

"What feathers?"

Mean-spirited, but honestly, Solvunn's moth-god would have to go digging to find a feather to smite on his brother. Michael moves on before Lucifer can get an objection in.

"Innominate allegedly takes that which makes individuals who they are, when angered," he says, answering the question Lucifer claims not to want to know. Personally he doesn't see how Lucifer could be any more divorced from what he was made to be than what he is, so it seems a safe bet to him. "Though again, you needn't choose one of them. These are only the names they speak of openly. You might attract interest from other parties."

Whether or not that's desirable is a whole other matter, but engaging with pagan gods isn't something either of them really wants to do in the first place.

Said feather bristle because excuse you for all the talk of Lucifer being Fallen his wings have always been fine, unlike the damaged hundreds, Castiel included, from the expulsion from Heaven and actual fall. The flash of a sneer and glare are turned towards Michael, and the tumultuous anger remains boiling under his skin but he doesn't react further with the way Michael continues.

If only Michael knew just how far off Lucifer's own created, beaten path, even he's gone in order to survive, but like hell is he letting any of his brothers figure out that detail. It isn't even shame, he just knows what to expect, Sam's 'because you're an old dog and that's your old trick' still under his skin.

"I already got Sannleikr's attention when the Heralds were making their debut." That high he got from using the afflictions made him feel like himself up until it gravely backfired on him and he's only recently recovered from some of those marks. "I don't want another. But we don't get what we want here." And he's tired about being ill-prepared.

"Any powerful being can create a show and earn a following." He tilts a smirk towards Michael. "No secret followings towards you back in Solvunn, Michael?"

There are crueler things he could say. Michael has a list and he doesn't hesitate to pull from it when angered. But Lucifer doesn't escalate, so he leaves it be.

"Nor what we deserve."

Whether that's an expression of judgement or of sympathy—well, archangels aren't made of soft edges. Michael's hard expression says the rest. Lucifer, like Castiel, has already had more chances to get it right than any other angel, more opportunities to get what he wants. Yet here he stands, grace in tatters, mocking because Michael hasn't made himself head of a pagan commune.

Being in Lucifer's company these days is sometimes like watching an animal in its death throes, snapping at everything and nothing.

"Is that what you think I want, followers? All I'd need do is announce myself openly. There are Catholics here." Why put in the work with the pagans when he's got fanboys already? Michael tilts his head, suddenly contemplative. "The pagans do seem taken with the shark, however.

"But we're getting off track. Go on, then. Tell me what you'd make as an offering to Kew-Is-Sema."

"What, is it not all blood offerings? Someone's fingernail?" he asks, amused. That's what he would do, but that's the easiest option. Blood of a vessel. Not even... noticeable.

That likely doesn't make it a decent offering.

He sighs. Holds out a palm, and because they're in the Horizon, even in a domain that isn't his own, pulls a dandelion into his palm, the yellow petals slowly transitioning over to the white-seeding fluff, holding it up.

It's stupid.

It should be... nothing.

But Lucifer cares about the planet Earth (he just hates what humanity did to it), so that is always what he pulls from as his source. And as much as he gripes about pagans and faith in general he can conceptualize a thought. The whites seeds break apart out of his hand, moving in a small swirl before forming back into its whole.

Lucifer doesn't know any of the spiritual context to dandelions. Any context at all, really. He just thinks about the wisps floating through a clear sky, in the hundreds, and if Michael doesn't understand it, well that's his problem.

This is how Lucifer thinks about clear skies. It's either that or conjuring a small weathering effect. An idea as an offering, anchored to an object.

Edited 2023-06-29 07:04 (UTC)

"Flesh sacrifices are advanced High Magic. You wanted basic."

And this is, most certainly, a very basic offering.

When Michael looks at the puff of a dandelion in his hand, he thinks of those he's met in Abraxas. He's sure Claire would have a thing or two to say about the nutritional value of the plant; maybe something about its use in teas.

He glances between Lucifer's hand and face a moment, deciding if there's genuine sentiment behind the selection or if his brother means to offer an old god a weed. There might be a double meaning to the gesture, but he's quick to decide it's real enough. Lucifer does like nature. He's probably offended on the dandelion's behalf that it's been widely dubbed a weed in the first place.

"It'll do. The quality of an offering is in whether or not you believe it's worthy rather than its intrinsic value, remember that. Now put it in the bowl."

He motions at the stone offering bowl atop the altar he summoned to replace the table a few minutes ago.

Cryin' shame that flesh sacrifices aren't considered basic. But also he's hardly going to bleed for an experiment.

He's almost surprised that Michael does accept Lucifer's choice, expecting maybe a fight just 'cause or... something. Always brimming with positive thoughts about Michael, Lucifer is.

"Belief holds power regardless of the deity," Lucifer says as he places the dandelion into the bowl. Belief and faith and the intertwining of the two.

Mind, that's how you also can get fanatics, but that's a different story.

"Something like that."

The value of faith and belief are both in question. They got him exactly nowhere with their Father, but that's not a conversation he's ready to take up with Lucifer of all people.

"Congratulations," Michael says after Lucifer has let go of the dandelion, his voice flat. "You have performed the most basic of High Magic. Do it out there and you may even get something out of it."

And that is the other reason he didn't bother arguing with Lucifer's choice of offering: it doesn't matter. He's pretty sure offerings in the Horizon don't hold the same weight as in the physical plane, and he's not going to pretend to grant Lucifer some sky-related boon. Most of the time it's not an immediate reward anyway.

He wonders what would even happen if he started to give offerings to a god in Thorne.

Maybe he could find some disenfranchised natives, that just need a little something other to put their hopes and dreams to. Something that they can act like is backing them. Isn't that what religion basically is? Something Good and something Evil to base all their life around just to make them feel better for five seconds, like everything isn't on them?

... It's a possibility, anyway. It's been there before in his mind, but he didn't have the knowledge of what gods Abraxas houses.

"While I don't imagine this will do anything," he waves at the bowl, then glances at Michael, "I don't believe they have no influence, or some connection to the Horizon." He doubts the heralds coming forth and the affects on the Horizon were mere coincidence. It could be that by influencing the Summoned, they influenced the Horizon.

Too many theories, zero answers. Per usual.

He says in false, childish tones, batting his eyes at Michael, "Do I get a gold star?"

Does this face look like it's handing out gold stars, little brother?

(The answer is a firm no, just in case his years away from the cage and a few months of separation in Abraxas have blurred Lucifer's recollection of what irritation looks like on Michael's borrowed face.)

"Not from me. Or do you plan to start making offerings in my name?"

Though mocking, he doesn't sound particularly excited by the opportunity to be elevated to godhood. He had it—sort of—and all he got out of authority was a lot of work, whining subordinates, and a trip to Hell. It's something the other version of him might've set his mind to, but not this one. At least not for now.

Unfortunately, there is Lucifer.

"Wouldn't that be something," he says lowly, but there's a wickedness to his gaze that is all the warning Michael needs as Lucifer continues, loudly, all feigned mysticism, "O Glorious Saint Michael, protect us from our sins and that vile--dastardly--Serpent!"

He nips at his finger to roll out a dollop of blood and makes to literally drip it to the floor.

This is more-than-likely how he gets punted out of Michael's domain.

If they were in the diner? Quite possibly. But they're not, and they don't have an audience—the larger the crowd, the shorter Michael's temper gets—so instead he looks on with a disapproving frown.

This is what he gets for giving his brother the time of day. Somehow, he's not surprised. For all the names he's known by, Lucifer is always Lucifer.

(i.e. a brat, most of the time.)

"Are you sure that's what you'd ask of me?" Michael snaps his fingers and the walls of Josselyn's home flicker. For half a second they're the bars of the Cage, a featureless black void stretching beyond. He still has that replica kicking around a dark corner of the forest. The vision is gone as quickly as it came, and the blood on the floor along with it. "I help you, and you antagonize me in my own domain. For all your harping on about change you prove over and over again that you're incapable of it, little brother."

Michael stands. They're done here.

"Clearly you can figure out blood sacrifices on your own."

Clearly.

Half a second is time-too much. Lucifer's instant-reaction terror is there, quickly swallowed up by rage, stepping up to the bars even as the vision fades.

And then the rage dips down under another, just as dangerous level. Delight.

He brought this upon himself--isn't that how it always goes? But he's already shaken out his wings, his nerves, his anger. He smiles and it nearly reaches his eyes.

"I'd have to be able to put my faith into you, for me to ask anything of you that would have any effect," he says melodiously.

They are done here.

He drops out of the Horizon.

[Closed]

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