[ Light is all there is, at first. Searing, piercing, coalescing into a physical element with form and heat to it. It can be felt, as if it could slip under your skin and possess you. Those close to Castiel when he arrives in the Horizon might feel him as much as see him, a vibrating and pulsing in the air, molecules gaining sentience and swirling, dancing, between what’s solid and logical, and what isn’t. Soon, his form begins to settle, developing lines and boundaries. It isn’t so painful to look at him, but it doesn’t help with making sense of what you’re seeing. It’s inconsistent, constantly shifting, like the creature’s way of breathing, every time the light moves, a new limb, another head, another flurry of wings, which disappear out of view just as quickly. It’s difficult to tell this is a living being, and not some alien monolith that’s invaded the Horizon.
One thing is clear - the form is massive. Looking up at him from Sam Wilson’s lawn is like craning to see the peak of the Chrysler building from the sidewalk. Where he touches the ground, nothing’s disturbed. No feet, not any recognizable animal hooves or paws, more like smoke or roots that scatter or come together to form a more solid limb as needed. Enormous, slowly rotating, intersecting wheels of golden-white light orbit the whole of him, perfectly circular rings spinning in unison at a peaceful, slow pace. They’re decorated with ancient inscriptions that blur and change, symbols shimmering like a mirage in the desert.
Feathers with an iridescent, multi-colored, oil-slick sheen to them form wings, some stretched out at odd angles, idly lifting and falling, like a cat’s tail swaying thoughtfully. They obscure a direct view into the core of the being, but as they shift, glimpses of heads, body, and limbs can be seen. At least two heads, maybe three or four. One animal-like with horns and fangs, another a marble-still, serene, near featureless human mask, eyes blank as a statue. The arms are mostly human, though far too many in number, and on closer inspection, some have talon-like fingers, and some more like tendrils. Disembodied eyes, some with lids and some without, of various sizes, but all a startling shade of brilliant blue are everywhere. On the rings, the wings, over the limbs. They blink, vanishing, and move from their station, emerging somewhere else on the angel’s form. The trunk of the body isn’t completely solid, the center giving way to a cosmic darkness, a swath of stars or nebula clouds of vibrant interstellar gases in a constant, mesmerizing swirl.
The others sharing the plane with him entirely escape Castiel’s notice for the first handful of minutes. He can see across the entire plan of the Horizon - the volcano, the dark forest, the smaller houses and temples, the terrain a quilt of conflicting realities. It’s fascinating, and he drinks it all in at once, no need to turn and look one direction or the other.
One large eye finally settles on Sam below. The oscillating wheels and wings slow to an easy, gradual stillness. The creature that one assumes is Castiel absorbs him for a moment, the focus of the eye drifting over Sam, head to toe, pupil narrowing and widening as if breathing, before finally blinking closed, fading back into the whole of him. Castiel begins to shrink. It all pulls inward, wings curling in to encase him like a chrysalis, the eyes, wheels, the window to the universe at his core, all folding in beneath the wall of feathers and light. The smoke and roots that touch the ground twist together, smaller and smaller, as the entire form funnels down. The light builds and builds to near blinding again, until an abrupt fade, dissipating.
A human man stands there instead, grabbed in a simple, white robes that don't completely fit his body, insignia of The Hanged Man embroidered in gold on his chest. The white fabric’s stained and torn at the edges, pieces ripped or burnt. When he shifts and the fabric sways, there’s light armor on his forearms and legs below. Not shining, more burnished and old, the metal faded from a luster it may have had long, long ago, cracks and dents decorating it now. No elaborate designs, simply functional. ]
Hello. [ he greets, voice soft with a lost curiosity to his expression, gaze losing Sam but drinking in everything surrounding them with open wonder ] Is this your home?
Sam Wilson; Feeeeeelings in Horizon
One thing is clear - the form is massive. Looking up at him from Sam Wilson’s lawn is like craning to see the peak of the Chrysler building from the sidewalk. Where he touches the ground, nothing’s disturbed. No feet, not any recognizable animal hooves or paws, more like smoke or roots that scatter or come together to form a more solid limb as needed. Enormous, slowly rotating, intersecting wheels of golden-white light orbit the whole of him, perfectly circular rings spinning in unison at a peaceful, slow pace. They’re decorated with ancient inscriptions that blur and change, symbols shimmering like a mirage in the desert.
Feathers with an iridescent, multi-colored, oil-slick sheen to them form wings, some stretched out at odd angles, idly lifting and falling, like a cat’s tail swaying thoughtfully. They obscure a direct view into the core of the being, but as they shift, glimpses of heads, body, and limbs can be seen. At least two heads, maybe three or four. One animal-like with horns and fangs, another a marble-still, serene, near featureless human mask, eyes blank as a statue. The arms are mostly human, though far too many in number, and on closer inspection, some have talon-like fingers, and some more like tendrils. Disembodied eyes, some with lids and some without, of various sizes, but all a startling shade of brilliant blue are everywhere. On the rings, the wings, over the limbs. They blink, vanishing, and move from their station, emerging somewhere else on the angel’s form. The trunk of the body isn’t completely solid, the center giving way to a cosmic darkness, a swath of stars or nebula clouds of vibrant interstellar gases in a constant, mesmerizing swirl.
The others sharing the plane with him entirely escape Castiel’s notice for the first handful of minutes. He can see across the entire plan of the Horizon - the volcano, the dark forest, the smaller houses and temples, the terrain a quilt of conflicting realities. It’s fascinating, and he drinks it all in at once, no need to turn and look one direction or the other.
One large eye finally settles on Sam below. The oscillating wheels and wings slow to an easy, gradual stillness. The creature that one assumes is Castiel absorbs him for a moment, the focus of the eye drifting over Sam, head to toe, pupil narrowing and widening as if breathing, before finally blinking closed, fading back into the whole of him. Castiel begins to shrink. It all pulls inward, wings curling in to encase him like a chrysalis, the eyes, wheels, the window to the universe at his core, all folding in beneath the wall of feathers and light. The smoke and roots that touch the ground twist together, smaller and smaller, as the entire form funnels down. The light builds and builds to near blinding again, until an abrupt fade, dissipating.
A human man stands there instead, grabbed in a simple, white robes that don't completely fit his body, insignia of The Hanged Man embroidered in gold on his chest. The white fabric’s stained and torn at the edges, pieces ripped or burnt. When he shifts and the fabric sways, there’s light armor on his forearms and legs below. Not shining, more burnished and old, the metal faded from a luster it may have had long, long ago, cracks and dents decorating it now. No elaborate designs, simply functional. ]
Hello. [ he greets, voice soft with a lost curiosity to his expression, gaze losing Sam but drinking in everything surrounding them with open wonder ] Is this your home?