[OPEN] nature, nurture, heaven, and home

[unwings]

WHO: Castiel and Free Cities residents
WHAT: Intro and catch-all for December
WHEN: Through December
WHERE: Cadens and the Horizon mostly
WARNINGS: None as of yet, will update as needed



MUSEUMS; Castiel sees some sights

[ While Cas spends his first few days in Cadens touring each of the popular museums, he finds himself intrigued most by the history museum. Much time and attention is paid to the mention of Fey and Daemons, their near extinction and claiming of a territory christened ‘Nocwich’. Studying a map, the trek there seems a long and arduous one, requiring navigation across deserts and mountain ranges. Not likely one he’d be able to make soon, but his interest remains all the same.

Curiosity eating at him, Castiel can’t help but seek more information from any source, once he’s finished studying all he can of the exhibits. ]

When was the last time the Fey were in contact with human settlements? [ Cas asks the museum guest standing nearby, assuming anyone in this city will know more on the topic than he does currently, ] Do expeditions often venture to Nocwich?

[ The Fey of his world are wiley but ancient creatures, though clearly the preferred option to daemons. Either race might have a more accurate insight on the nature of the Old Gods and the Singularity than he trusts the humans of any faction would. Perhaps that should be his next goal. ]

CITY EXPLORATION; Castiel makes a friend

[ Cas doesn’t sleep, not unless he’s extremely low on grace, or grievously wounded, neither of which apply currently. Dean’s made it very clear that standing sentry over him while he’s “getting his 4 hours” is “creepy”, so lingering around the barracks they’ve been provided cots in isn’t an option.

Instead, he takes to exploring the streets of Cadens after dark. Anywhere between midnight and dawn, Cas can be found leisurely pacing along major streets or dirt roads, anywhere in town, browsing along with eyes scanning the scenery like he’s perusing a museum, hands clasped behind his back.

At some odd hour of the night/morning, he happens upon a stray cat. A scrawny, tawny colored thing, fur likely stained darker from grime and dirt. He follows her, joining the journey from one alley to the next, scavenging for scraps in dumpsters, trash cans, and compost piles. When she finds a rubbish bin too tall for her to knock over, or covered to keep her from jumping in, Castiel courteously assists, removing a lid, tipping over the container, or even unwrapping bundles for her inspection.

Catch him anywhere, exploring or on a journey with his new cat friend. ]

Academy of Medicine; Castiel Auditions for Grey’s Anatomy

A; [ Castiel’s toured the museums, which led him to the medical academy, where he paces now in the lobby area, a goal in mind but not entirely certain how to get there. Spotting someone in similar robes to his, he approaches to question them. ]

Hello. [ Short, curt, but not unfriendly, ] I’d like to offer my aid as a healer. Whom should I speak with?

[ Cas has no clue if this person is any level of authority in the medical academy, or local hospitals, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. Ask enough people enough questions and he’ll get there eventually. ]

B; [ Or perhaps he had no luck in the lobby, and snuck his way into the halls of the academy, wandering until he happened upon a group of students, led by an experienced doctor, in a crowded room with pockets of other doctors, staff, and patients about. They appear to be teaching, with two patients set on exams tables at either side of the doctor. Quizzing, the students declare symptoms and propose possible diagnoses, when Cas approaches without invitation, assuming the question is open for anyone to answer.

He leans to the side, and takes a sniff of one patient’s shoulder, before announcing confidently - ] It’s a respiratory infection.

[ When he glances at the patient on the other side, the man’s staring at him as if Castiel’s grown a second head (technically, his true form has 3, so, not entirely inaccurate). The angel takes it as cue to diagnose him as well, leaning over to give a quizzical hair-sniff. ]

This one’s diabetic. [ Cas reports promptly to the attending physician, ] Type 2, insulin resistant.

With mild indigestion.

[ A pause, the group staring at him unsure whether to comment on the rudeness of his interruption, or the audacity that medical conditions can be sniffed out. Either it goes over his head, or Cas doesn't find it worth acknowledging, as he continues on with his goal. ]

Does your Academy offer employment?

Market; Castiel Gets His Hustle On

Blacksmith; No, I don’t have any currency, but I can offer services.

[ the woman attended to customers at the counter between a blacksmith's workshop and market streets arches her brows suggestively, a little waggling, while the muscled wall of a 6’5” man behind her, most likely the husband Castiel’s realizing, looms menacingly, idly slapping a forge hammer against the palm of his hand. There’s been a misunderstanding. ]

No no, not... not those services. Do you need anything lifted? Or killed? [ the smith immediately points to his competition, another blacksmith set up directly across the road. Another misunderstanding. Castiel’s getting worse at this, not better. ] I should’ve specified. Any game animal or malicious creature killed, not fellow citizens.

[ No offense, but you don’t look like you could lift a laundry basket, let alone anything here. The chuckle is a deep, patronizing tone, and Cas tilts his head with furrowed brows. The blacksmith claims no offense, but seems an awful lot like he meant offense. The angel squints, barest hint of a frown forming. Eyes travel past the smith and into his shop. Without requesting entry or preamble, Cas paces past the man, his wife, and his onlooking apprentice, to the massive anvil they’d been hammering on moments ago.

Wordlessly, Cas lifts the iron monstrosity several feet off the ground without a flinch, grunt, or gritting of teeth, easy as rearranging kitchen chairs. Expression flat, he abruptly drops it back into place, rattling the sword stands, tools, and tables around them. A slight crack splinters the stone beneath it.

After an awkwardly silent few seconds, the wife breaks the silence.

Flooring’s added to your tab. What kinda sword you looking for? ]

Bakery; [ In his exploration of available commercial goods, the scent of fresh bread and pastries seizes Castiel’s senses. Following it to a popular local bakery, his eyes drink in the wide array of breads, muffins, pastries with fruit toppings or fillings, and pie. Observing for a moment, he watches a customer barter a basket of eggs for a loaf of specialty bread, someone else with milk for muffins. It gives him an idea. Perhaps not a great one, but we’ll see how it pans out.

Trekking back into the streets, more towards the outskirts and farmland, Cas can be found creeping along after a stray chicken that’s toddling through dirt roads, eyeing this stranger crouched behind her with a suspicious cluck. Usually it's wayward children and bored dogs that stalk the hen, not full grown adults shuffling feet against gravel and earth to sneak closer and closer. The chicken’s right to be wary, and a distressed squawk or three sounds when Cas snaps his arms out to grab her.

Wings flap, feet kick, Cas gets a mouthful of feathers and a couple winged slaps across the face before he finally touches a couple fingers to the bird’s tiny little head. Whether the chicken wants to or not, it goes limp, unconscious. Great. Bartering item acquired.

Ten or so minutes later, he’s back at the bakery, loose chicken feathers stuck in his hair and dirt smudged on his cheeks, yet he looks as if he’d just won the lottery - quite proud of himself. Once at the front of the line, Cas presents the dozing chicken like the grandest prize in the world. ]

I need pie. Please accept this poultry in exchange.

[ some minutes later, he’ll be short one chicken but gained a cherry pie, self-satisfied smile on his face. Somewhere in town, an irate farmer is looking for their missing hen. Feel free to intervene at any point in this process. ]

Comments

Ciri & Dean; Monster Hunting

[unwings]

According to the locals, the deserts often contain basilisks and something like a cow-sized armadillo with spikes.

[ Castiel shuffles through some notes on parchment as he walks beside Dean through the desert and grasslands on the outskirts of Cadens. Given their typical occupation, investigating local monster life seemed like the natural course for their first order of business, so here they are, investigating. He hands the parchment with a rough sketch of this armadillo creature to Dean, the word “Chaigon” scribbled below it. The spikes are… definitely some spikes. He frowns, glancing at the tunic Dean’s in. ]

Perhaps armor would’ve been wise.

[ Beyond some distant hills, the distinct sound of a woman shouting hits Castiel’s ears. Not any particular words, more like… a battle cry? Or rigorous exercise. Possibly frustration. He halts abruptly, a hand reaching up to clamp on Dean’s arm and stop the sound of boots on dried vegetation (or whatever string of words might be coming from his mouth). ]

Did you hear that?

[righteously]

( Of all the words and their terrible implications, the one Dean fixates on is- )

Cow-sized?

( But it's less a real question and more an incredulous mumble under his breath.

It probably doesn't need to be stated right now that the honest-to-god truth of the matter is practically the first thing Dean tried to do was get a suit of armor. Turns out, those bitches are expensive. He'd need like... forty yaks or something. What's the exchange rate on yaks to armor? How much is a yak worth in Real People dollars?

All questions that'll have to wait, because - yeah, he totally heard that.

What Dean does have, though, is a freakin' sword. Yoinked it from the training grounds — he's not actually sure whether or not they're for personal use or just rentals, but whatever, until he can get a magic gun he's not walking around un-strapped.

Also, maybe he feels a little badass pulling the thing out right now. Better safe than sorry. )

What're the odds a cow-sized spikeadillo's mating call sounds like Xena: Warrior princess?

( Just... pitching that idea out there. A beat later, he pats Cas on the chest with the back of his hand. )

Come on. Let's go check it out.

[wiedzminka]

[ As it turns out, Xena: Warrior Princess is not actually too far off the mark. Though the sound isn't coming from the spikeadillo. Or even its friend (mate?), the second large and pointy beast lashing its long, muscular tail back and forth in the sand where it thrashes, unable to get its bleeding leg to carry its weight.

No, the yelling is coming from the young woman precariously balanced in a crouch on the armored back of the uninjured animal, one knee planted in a safe area without spines, and both hands firmly gripping the hilt of a sword she's wedged into a crack between the bony plates. As the two men approach, they may notice the shouting coalescing into something more coherent. ]

Fuck! Stay still you... ugly fucking... sand turtle...!

[ Among similar curses, grunted out between snarls of exertion while the beast shakes itself this way and that, letting out a distinct, almost catlike squeal.

Despite its unwelcome passenger's distractions, the chaigon notices it has extra company. Before Ciri can shove enough of her weight down onto her sword to really pierce the armor, the already blindingly furious creature takes offense to being interrupted in its home yet again--

And charges, lumbering toward Dean and Castiel with a surprising speed.

Ciri looks up. When the fuck did they--?

Oh, no. ]

Run!

[unwings]

What nation was Princess Xena warlord of?

[ The puzzled expression evaporates quickly, not Castiel or Dean's chief concern, because more shouting comes, now with words. They hurry towards the sound, just in time for sand-turtle-spikeadillo to spot them and alter course.

'Run' isn't a notion they're well acquainted with, but given Dean's aforementioned lack of armor, Cas feels it should at least apply to him in this situation. A hand slapping on his shoulder, Dean gets a hard shove to the right, tossing him out of the spikeadillo's trajectory, with Cas content where he is.

Once in range, the angel takes a slight step off to the side and hooks hands underneath the shell next to the creature's head. It drags him a few feet, until he digs his heels in and yanks upwards hard, letting sand-turtle's momentum give it some air, before slamming it down on its back. Another catlike shriek sounds, and its over-sized critter legs flail towards the sky, Cas on his knees as he tries to keep it from flipping over. ]

Kill it. [ Cas requests firmly, through gritted teeth as he wrestles, a tail coming around to smack hard against his back, winding him and causing a wheeze. ] Please.

[ one of you assholes with a sword incapable of remembering the term 'chaigon'. whichever of you isn't occupied with the other spikeadillo, get over here and do your hunter thing. ]

[righteously]

( You know what, for once Dean doesn't actually know the answer to a pop culture question. Cut him some slack, it's been like fifteen years, and he definitely wasn't watching it for the plot at the time. That's kind of the silver lining for their distraction.

They may not find Xena exactly, but it sure as hell looks like they might've found end-of-the-show Gabrielle. )

What the f-

( Way too busy bug-eyeing the situation to notice the angel about to shove him out of the way. Probably a good call, though. Maybe a little too rough on the delivery; he goes sideways, and fumbles the landing thanks to the sword in his hand and the slight preference not to hari kari himself on it.

He spends about 1.2 seconds glancing over at Platinum Kristen Stewart to decide whether or not he should prioritize helping her, but uh.

Yeah, she looks like she can handle herself. And the turtles. And probably them. Simultaneously.

Kill it- )

Okay.

( Yep, right, yeah, on it.

He scrambles to his feet again, flips the sword around in his hand to face the ground, and plunges it straight through the thing's mouth. The screaming turns into a gross gurgling sound, and he heaves it in a little deeper, earning some delightful coughed up blood and turtle spit in the face for his troubles.

Seems like it works, though. Kind of a split-second choice, smarter than trying to figure out where the armored plating begins and ends. )

[wiedzminka]

[ The chaigon's sudden change in trajectory and Ciri's precarious perch with her sword stuck in its armor make for a bad combination. It charges, and she nearly loses her balance, managing to yank her sword free and jump off before it can throw her completely, just as she's shouting for the newcomers to this chaotic scene to get out of here.

When she lands on the hard earth, rolling into a crouch, and looks back up to make sure--

What the fuck? This not at all what Ciri expected when she saw two men just ambling around in the desert. (This isn't even a main road on the way to the outpost. What the hell are they doing out here?) The glint of metal catches her eye, and she notices one of them is holding a sword -- but it's the other one who shoves him out of the way, sending the actually armed man careening away, with apparently very little idea of how to land gracefully with a weapon. They look like they're about to be people jam smeared across the dirt in about three seconds, honestly. ]

Get out of the fucking way!

[ The unarmed man ignores her. And then, he does the most unexpected thing. He stops the chaigon, grabbing it by the edge of its shell and forcing it to a standstill. And then he flips it. Like it weighs about as much as a heavy pot.

Okay. Point taken. At least one of these guys can take care of himself.

Satisfied she doesn't have to figure out very quickly how to take on two of these creatures at once and protect a couple of helpless bystanders, Ciri lets the exceptionally strong fellow do whatever he will with the other chaigon and turns her attention to the frenzied, bleeding one trying to lash her with its tail. The thing has curled into a spiked armor ball with a tail like a club and all other fleshy bits tucked under, but she's killed a few of these by now; she knows the tail is powerful and thickly scaled, but softer than the shell by necessity.

Ciri ducks under the lashing appendage, rolling and coming up on the other side to spin immediately back around, letting the momentum carry through her sword arm, around and back-- just as the chaigon swings toward her in response. It hits her sword in motion, and practically cuts its own tail off. ]

Sam Wilson (& Dean later); Meditating into the Horizon

[unwings]

[ Speaking with Sam Wilson during his not-patrol of the great hall, Castiel came to learn more about this Horizon thing everyone’s been mentioning, intrigued by the method involved in getting there. The man’s friendly, warm openness is admirable, and Cas is pleased he found such a generous man willing to help him access this other plane of existence. Following him back to his home, he’s still asking questions as they walk through the door. ]

What form of meditation will we be using? Mindfulness and breathing techniques, yoga, or perhaps Vipassanā meditation?

[ He’s kind of particular, forgive him. ]

The Tibetan Buddhists cultivated such incredible insight in reflection into one’s own mind. And, the best senses of humor between all the 9th and 10th century spiritualists.

[ A chuckle that gradually fades, as Cas realizes he’s the only one with actual memory of those monks and said humor. ]

[falcony]

[ sam had caught his fair share of newbies out near the bunkers, explaining the basics of what they were here for and why they should - exactly - pay full attention to the speech they're given. he's helped them get to the city proper, helped them figure out jobs and places to stay. it shouldn't bother him as much as it does that the free cities are still doing this and are still messing up this badly. it shouldn't dishearten him how it does to know more people are out and about.

and yet, it does. it really does. but sam has done enough over the last few weeks of sitting with that uncertainty and it actually feels quite good to get out there and do something. even if that something is just the welcome committee.

still - cas (castiel, his name is castiel, but sam's not sure he's going to be able to keep with that full name for long, so cas it is) had looked lost. really lost. and knowing that he might actually be able to help out on something tangible actually has sam feeling pretty alright about all this.

so cas gets a small tour through the city, all the way to sam's little building. magpie (the landlord) doesn't seem to be out and about, so cas is spared that overly friendly introduction and instead heads upstairs, up to sam's door and inside. it's clean and tidy (a trait from the military sam hasn't quite been able to kick) and sam gestures cas inside. ]

See- not sure about that last one, but it's more of the basic kind. Clearing your mind, focusing for long periods of time. It doesn't take too long, and I'll help you in the first time too, but. [ sam smiles a little, somewhat entertained by...all of this conversation. sam motions to the couch, or the table, whichever he feels more comfortable sitting in as he heads over to the semi-kitchen, because good hosts always have snacks and at least water on hand. ] You sound a bit like you might have known a few Tibetan Buddhists in your time? [ it's supposed to be a joke, but sam had a sudden realization it might not be, so he keeps going. ] Which is gonna make all this pretty easy for you, if that's the case.

[unwings]

[ good they were able to dodge the overly friendly landlord, Cas isn't great at responding appropriately to enthusiastic interest in his person yet. it's a work in progress.

once inside sam's home, castiel's eyes are everywhere. unfortunately, the offer to take a seat is either missed, misconstrued, or declined. far too curious to sit still and keep his hands to himself. instead, he's distractedly inspecting sam's walls, any decorations, clocks, pictures, or calendars he may have, peering closely at books or knick-knacks, anything and everything. some things he picks up and turns over in his hands, inspecting delicately while he speaks. ]

Sakya Pandita and I didn't exactly speak, but I enjoyed watching him write. [ one of sam's books in his hands, there's a rustle of paper as cas turns the page. ] His debates on logic were superb, though he was quite the skillful dancer.

[ not an ounce of humor in the comments, it's pretty clear he's serious about that one. cas does take note of the organization and tidiness Sam keeps his home in, and he's certain to put anything he picks up back exactly where he found it. nosey though he may be, cas respects the order of a person's things. this, at least, he's learned after perhaps a few lectures from Bobby while perusing his library. ]

Yes, likely so. I've often enjoyed silence and focus for long stretches of time.

[ like, centuries, maybe. ]

[falcony]

[ yes, well, depending on where cas decides to hang his proverbial hat, he might be seeing a lot of this overly friendly landlord. and he might just get used to the warm, matronly welcome. still, it's fairly early, and they don't need to be talking about longterm housing. not when sam brought cas here for a reason, and that reason was pretty straightforward.

sam notices the curiousness in the other man, and watches as he investigates the apartment. he'll find some books, some little trinkets sam's collected (there seem to be a lot of birds, but cas has probably noticed red wing - a red with silver tipped falcon who lives in the corner of the living room), some desperate attempts to bring something modern into a very not-modern setting. the room is lived in, though - well loved and well used. it's not a cluttered space, but sam has been here for over six months now, it's his home, even if he could up at leave it if need be.

he's not a spy, he's not natasha - when sam settles somewhere for more than a couple of days, he settles, and cas can probably tell as much. items he's collected, things he's bought, maybe even gifts he's been given. there are probably sketches of something that looks oddly like a bird-shaped drone but hey, he misses redwing. so sue him. ]

Huh. [ sam is...a little lost. but hey, he can roll with it. especially when he is not actually sure if this is supposed to be some sort of elongated sarcastic bit or...well. anything else. when cas finds a moment to look back over to sam, he smiles back. friendly. ]

Well, if that's the case- this will be really easy. [ a beat, and then sam offers a jug in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other. ] So...you hungry? Or do you want to get right to it?

[unwings]

[ he does notice red wing, and that's where castiel's attention stalls for the remainder of the conversation. the bird's head tilts one way, and cas follows, then the other, like they're playing a mirroring game. when sam emerges back into the living room, he's still there, with one of sam's trinkets still in hand, forgotten in favor of the avian friend. ]

No, I’m never hungry, but I appreciate the effort for hospitality.

[ very thoughtful of you, sam, if he had any use for bread he'd take you up on it, but given the state of medieval economy and food scarcity, he'd rather not take from sam's provisions frivolously. besides - molecules, it's all just molecules to him. the new conversation's enough to pull him from communing with the falcon (who was probably ready for the weirdo to stop staring at it anyway), and his interest returns to Sam, eyes finding him with a small, polite smile. unfortunately, still clutching the trinket, as he might've forgotten where he picked it up by now. ]

Thank you for welcoming me into your home. It seems... nested.

[ well-loved, warm and comfortable, suited to him. it seems sam's made the best of an unexpected relocation and created a proper home for himself. humans have an admirable talent for that castiel's never quite been able to grasp. even the brothers turned the impala into a familiar safe haven while on the road. ]

If there’s nothing else you feel I should know beforehand, yes, I suppose we could... get right into it.

[ copying the phrasing others use typically helps with his lack of people skills, or at least, cas thinks it does. there'll probably never be a day he's completely without some element of off in conversations with strangers. ]

[falcony]

[ red is absolutely enthralled with cas, just in case there was any question about that, perfectly happy to tilt his own head back and forth and watch cas follow. or, perhaps, red has just picked up on sam's ability to play host - entertaining the guests until sam returns, to which red stands and flutters his wings a bit before settling.

it seems a bit like the falcon is quite used to visitors, but who's to say for sure? ]

Never? Huh. Is that a 'I don't need to eat at all thanks to my body' kind of scenario, or are you just not really ever hungry? [ he has to ask, mostly because he has known plenty of people who start different types of meds and lose their appetite, but he's got a pretty good feeling that's not the case here. either way, he kind of just rolls with it, tearing off an end of the loaf and biting into his own piece, setting the rest aside.

there's a kind of smile, a kind of snort, at the nesting comment. he's not even sure if the other had meant the joke, but sam doesn't really give it a lot more attention, walking over to where the couch sits (the new couch, thanks to the mess this entire place had been just a couple weeks before) and gesturing for cas to take a seat. ]

Just a few things. [ sam settles on the other open spot, setting the rest of his uneaten bread on the table. ] First is that when you get inside, you won't remember anything. Not your name, not any specific memories, not this place- [ he gestures around, meaning cadens, meaning the whole continent, but then doesn't really give cas too much time to ask questions. ] Second is that I'll take you in this time, but the rest of the times you can do it on your own. It just takes some meditation, clearing your mind, but not much else. The only thing you have to worry about is that a lot of the people here in the Free Cities don't know a lot about magic, so they might get a little wary if they see you doing it out in public. Your body stays here and just sort of hangs out, but your mind will be gone. It's kinda freaky, if we're being honest, but you get used to it.

[ sam just kind of talks through it all, resettling the cushions on the couch, making sure cas has on for his back too and getting comfortable where he's sitting as well. there's no real way to tell when you get inside how long you'll be there, not the first time, at least. ]

Third- you're going to probably meet a lot of other people in there. The only other people you do meet are all like us- brought through the portal. I'll be hanging around pretty close by for most of it, so if you need anything, I'll be there to keep an eye out. [ a beat, and then a friendly - if not a little conspiratorial - smile. ] If you've got any secrets, time to spill. Chances are I'll find out about them in a very roundabout way.

Sam Wilson; Feeeeeelings in Horizon

[unwings]

[ 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?

Dean; Horizon

[unwings]

[ castiel doesn't know what he is, and finds that doesn't bother him much. the form he took to reflect sam wilson feels appropriate, but confining. Compact and restricting, as if the tangled multitudes in him were pushing at the walls of his skeleton and flesh to escape. besides that, far too short to get a decent view of the miraculous reality around him. From this height, he can see it all, the entire patchwork span of their reality, and it feels like flying. there's something refreshing and peaceful in that.

At Sam Wilson's, something odd started to follow him - scorch marks. Figures like a wide span of wings burnt into the pristine grass, embers smoldering at the edges, and a harsh ringing that felt like screaming, like agony.

he isn't running, he's going on a stroll. he's exploring. there's a difference. either way, castiel's leaving those scorch marks and screams behind.

the man he happens on Cas recognizes from waking at Sam Wilson's home, not far from there now. He finds him in a new domain, tucked underneath a machine, most of his body sticking out the other side. The arcana for The Lovers labels him, and Castiel wonders where those he's so loyal to have gone. bending down to inspect his domain while the man's busy beneath the machine, Cas doesn't find another soul anywhere in his patch of reality. How lonely he must be, to be made for connections, but isolated here.

Castiel has to lay most his form on the ground (careful not to flatten any trees or others' homes with wheels, wings, or stray tendrils), the head that appears like a marble, statuesque mask of a human face is laid flat on its side, next to the car. Somehow, he thought this one would be less alarming. a few of his many eyes migrate to dot the side of his mask-face closest to the ground, peering under the edge of the machine, bright blue blinking curiously at the man crowded under the machine. ]

Hello.

[ the voice is a soft rumble, but disembodied, a light ringing to it, more an ambient sound than something with one pinpointed origin. ]

What are you looking for?

[righteously]

( He likes where he wound up. He's not really sure why; rather, he's not sure specifically why. The dudes that he's spoken to told him about the memory loss, about how it'll come back, about how this is probably like his house, his comfort zone, somewhere he's been before. Something like that. It's definitely not his house — the sign nearby reads Singer Auto - self serve salvage yard. Singer ain't his name, and he doubts it's a nickname, either.

Whatever the case, he feels at home here — and even more at home under the shining black muscle car he found parked by the garage. Slipping underneath it felt like slipping into perfectly fitting shoes, music started playing on a slightly-tinny stereo somewhere inside the garage, and to tell you the truth he's not sure how long he's been under there when it shows up.

It.

He double-takes. One glance over, then his eyes are back up again, then his brain processes what it saw and he yanks his attention to it again — and )

Holy-

( Wildly, stupidly, he forgets he's under the damn car and makes to spring himself to standing — just to bang his head on something metal and unforgiving. They can say this is fake all they want, apparently the car didn't get the picture, and neither did his skull. )

Ahh-

( He hisses, pressing his palm to his forehead for a split second. Just long enough for the pain to concede the 2% of brain power it takes his instincts to kick back in. He goes rolling out from under the car, socket wrench gripped tightly in one hand like he's gonna... what, hit that thing with it if he has to? That's a joke.

Something on his left shoulder twinges — like an itch, or a muscle spasm.

It occurs to him that if that thing wanted to hurt him, it could probably have just crushed the whole damn car with him underneath it. Also, he's... pretty sure you can't actually die here, but he did just confirm with ringing clarity pain is still on the table. He's not about to go pulling any triggers just yet, but he's about as wary as a man can be otherwise.

...what the hell is he even looking at?

Seriously, his eyes flicker around it, and no matter how hard he squeezes his eyes shut or re-opens them and scans the thing it's like his vision can't settle on anything... stable. It's all just a constantly shifting, moving, light... pattern... animal... smoke... wavelength... thing.

About seven or eight seconds after he's upright, he finally manages to breathlessly mutter: )

Did somebody slip me like a gallon of Ayahuasca?

[unwings]

[ the music echoes through the yard, bounced off the metal siding of the garage, and castiel watches the sound waves vibrate and drift through the air. he knows the tune, something familiar resonating behind the blur that conceals his memories from him. it endears him to this man, knowing they share a fondness for the same melody. the mask-face lifts and follows dean as he scrambles out from under the car, innumerable eyes constantly studying.

There is some unfortunate head trauma, but it doesn't seem so severe it could cause brain damage, still, castiel feels guilty for surprising him into injury. He would reach out to heal the lingering ache (can he? the urge is there, but is the ability?), but the man stands rigid and ready for a fight, his anxiety painting the aura of him bright and unsteady in castiel's vision. ]

You aren't in danger.

[ his wings shift, flutter, and fold back against his form, as if those are the issue with making him seem too big and frightening, the movement setting off a gentle breeze. the mask, at least as tall as the garage behind dean, tilts as he absorbs the man, watching the fluctuating tones of his soul, following the suppressed panic of his mind. ayahuasca, that word he knows as well. ]

I've watched over your homestead, no one's here to drug you.

[ which was the angel's concern - the lack of others around him, considering his arcana. castiel's can be found inscribed in various places on his form - etched into the rings, imprinted on the side of his mask-like face, a glowing sigil on the back or palm of some of his many, many hands.

why concern for this one man feels so compelling to him, he can't quite put a finger on, but cas follows the sentiment all the same. perhaps his subconscious recognizes something in him, or maybe it's just the nature of his being to worry over isolated creatures. ]

Have you lost your other Lovers?

[righteously]

( Despite himself, the wariness lowers down a notch at you aren't in danger. It's only maybe five, six percent, and he's not really happy about that much, but it's completely involuntary. Something about this... thing's form seems to telegraph intentions in a way that can't actually be put into words. It's not like it has body language, it's not like Dean can read any microexpressions on it's... face. Faces? Is that a face? Jesus fucking Christ what is happening right now?

Why does watching over his homestead feel familiar? The— guy(?) himself is completely alien, Dean feels reasonably confident even if he could remember his past it wouldn't include something like this on his typical Tuesday night, but the vibe surrounding it doesn't seem all that out of place.

Still creepy, though. )

No. Yes. ( He answers the question quickly and defensively, then corrects it with a little frustration and no real clue why. Maybe because he's still distracted to the point that he really doesn't see himself getting used to what he's looking at. It's there in his tone, still breathless, still a complicated mix of afraid and on-guard, tightly wound with a fight impulse rather than flight despite his uncomfortable awe. ) Probably, I don't know, I don't remember- look, could you be-

( He searches for a word, and all he can really settle on is a consternated: )

Less? You look like Lovecraft and Van Gogh had a giant three-way with I am the Walrus. It's making my brain bleed out of my ears.

( How he remembers what all of those things are but not his childhood or whatever is beyond him. )

[unwings]

[ the mask-face shifts back, almost indignant: ]

I don't share any anatomy with marine life.

[ castiel might not know what he is, but he's pretty sure it's not a walrus, seal, or sea lion. Elephant may be included on one of these heads, though. but he concedes, certainly not interested in furthering the man's potential brain trauma. ] Yes, I can be... less.

[ his head tucks down, multitudes of bright eyes blinking closed as wings fold in, and the entire skyscraper sized mass of him begins to funnel downward, a mesh of feathers and rings and light, until the last of the wings fall away and fade, leaving just a Jimmy Novak shaped Castiel. Simple white robes draped over him, well-worn and frayed at the edges, with antique but unremarkable armor on his shins and forearms, and the symbol of The Hanged Man embroidered on his chest.

immediately, cas steps into dean's space with concern painting now human features, leaning to inspect his ears, one side, then the other, then back again. um, there's no brain bleeding going on here, sir, that was alarming and now he's very confused. ]

Your ears appear normal. Do you feel dizzy? Is your vision blurred?

[ maybe he's concussed. a sense of protectiveness is unshakable, and cas would like to assume it's simply part of his nature, but while he'd been considerate and caring for Sam Wilson, it wasn't quite the same as this worry needling at him now. where are this man's loyal friends? they should be here to watch over him if he insists on crawling beneath heavy machinery. ]

[righteously]

( Marine life, what-

Oh.

Wait, seriously? Maybe he shouldn't be surprised that this apparently overly literal alien has never heard of the Beatles. Probably because it's been busy trying to contact Jodi Foster.

He watches with incredulous fascination as it- he- accordions himself down into form of a—

Nerd. Of all the shapes Dean assumes he could have picked — Stone Cold Steve Austin, Angelina Jolie, The Pope — he goes with this random... normal-looking dude. Probably a good thing he didn't notice the symbol for The Hanged Man floating around in his cosmic soup until just now. Really wouldn't have done him any favors in the intimidation department.

The socket wrench lowers for all of two seconds, until Castiel winds up right up in his grill, at which point it comes back up again with kind of a flail — except it's more curled against his chest than raised in any practical whacking position. )

What- no- dude, are you - ( kidding him, you giant... tiny weirdo. ) It's a figure of speech, Stranger Danger. Write that down beside personal space, it's like you're trying to wear my skin as a bathrobe right now.

( Not to mention it's making his arm itch like a mother for some reason, something he'll address by absently scratching at his shirtsleeve just as soon as Cas is a few paces out of french kiss range. )

Who the hell are you? ( actually, scratch that— ) What the hell are you?

City exploration

[cointosser]

[It is truly unfortunate (for everyone that Jaskier lives with) that he has learned nothing from Eifstide; he still has a penchant for wandering the streets at night. He attempts to be sneaky about it, but it is near-impossible to be sneaky around a Witcher and Ciri. But even should they stop him, he leaves their home behind, nothing but his journal and quill tucked into a bag.

Truthfully, he is not the man he was on Eifstide. A rather funny little thing to think, considering it was a mere month ago. And yet how long has he been here, listening to the petty battles between these kingdoms? The magic that was granted to him has only become stronger through use, and now he's... at least fifty percent sure he would be safe should Eifstide's raising of the dead repeat itself.

He pauses besides one of the taverns to pull his quill out, sketching a crow that has perched upon its fish-shaped sign. He turns his head at a rustling down between two buildings, cut into mostly darkness.

Is he nervous? Yes. Will that stop him from peeking his head in? Absolutely not.]

Hello? [He peeps, holding the journal open carefully so that the ink may dry. As he steps in further, an illusionary bird, its body translucent, appears in a flash of magic on his shoulder, lighting the alley up with the glow from its feathers.

Lighting upon a man. And a cat. And a bit of rubbish spread between them.]

Oh. You poor, pathetic thing.

[It's hard to say whether that is directed towards Castiel or the cat. Jaskier balances the journal on one hand, reaching into his bag with the other. The tip of his tongue sticks out of his mouth as he manages to untie his coin purse one-handed (a very rare talent, thank you), taking out a few coins. He holds them out for the hermit, insistent.] Here. At least get yourself a bit of ale and a pie, eh?

[Maybe a bit of lamb for the lad's feline. God knows Hector would not forgive him if he did not offer enough for the cat as well.]

[unwings]

[ the sudden light spooks that cat, and she jumps back, tail poofed out, before scittering away down the alley. Bye, friend.

Cas watches after her, then turns to regard the hand outstretched with coins like there's some mystery to it he's not getting. Puzzled, his head tilts, glancing up to Jaskier's face, and back down, then pushes to stand. Cas doesn't take the money, shakes his head with a mild frown instead. can a man not rummage through garbage in dark alleys with stray animals at the dead of night without judgment? ]

No, thank you, I don't need ale, pie, or excess currency. [ well, pie's a possibility for dean, but that's been covered with his trade of the found* chicken. ] Your generosity's better spent on others I think.

[ it's the crow composed of light that's holding his attention mostly, the latter half of that sentence looking like he'd addressed it to the bird more than the bard. ]

Are you one of the mages?

[ they’re few and far between in the free cities, so castiel’s yet to meet one, that he’s aware of. perhaps that's why the man's handing out money to strangers, a mage must make a fine living in a place where they're a rarity. ]


*stolen

[cointosser]

[Ah. Clearly his cat is not a fan of company, or... that was not his cat.

Truly unfortunate. Jaskier makes a face, sucking air through his teeth.]

No, I really, really insist. Actually, I'm quite sure you could do with a good deal of other things, as well. Perhaps a bath. And... a book. [You know, something that could waste time that isn't about digging around in rubbish? Maybe?

Consdering he's doing it in the middle the night.

Jaskier takes Castiel's hand and puts the coin in there. There. If he drops it, it's gone forever. And his fault.

His brows raise.] What? Have you got some mages offering you money? Now, I'm not saying don't take it, but you really probably shouldn't. From mages, not from me. I'm a bard, not a mage.

[He just has magic, and -- look, citizen, it's complicated.]

[unwings]

[ it was not his cat. cas was just helping out with her thumb and height deficiencies, it's a public service he was happy to provide. that wasn't the plan when he struck out for the midnight stroll, just where he ended up.

jaskier suggests a bath, and cas looks down at his person, giving his own shoulder a quick sniff. maybe the bard's advice isn't misplaced, he had been clinging to a chicken earlier. between that and cat assistance, he's certainly not smelling like roses.

apparently there's that and a good deal of other things he's so clearly lacking this stranger's been compelled to make comment. baffled, he's searching over himself, making sure he'd put on everything that's commonly expected of a human to wear out in public - pants, shirt, shoes, okay. hat? was he supposed to put on a hat? why didn't dean tell him he needed a hat?? there's a moment of trying to examine his own back, and cas nearly pulls a dog-chasing-its-tail before the grabbed hand keeps him in place. ]

Oh, um. My apologies, how embarrassing. [ a beat, and a thoughtful frown. ] Hygiene aside, what other things am I lacking?

[ clearly something that involves commerce, since the bard's pushing money into his hand, but who is he supposed to take this money to now? he'd known the middle ages were more particular on societal demands and appropriate dress for station, but he hadn't been prepared for this. already mired in confusion, he doesn't follow the part about mages any better, head shifting to a bird-like tilt. ]

Does being a bard make your insistence on paying me more trustworthy? [ serious question, and his hand is still hovering there where jaskier put it, flat, coin in palm, outstretched between them, like he's a life-sized ken doll to be adjusted around as needed. ] Is there a service tied to this?

[ is he signing up for something, or did this man just make a purchase from him? what even has happened here. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier blinks. If it was embarrassing, he doesn't feel the man should be compelled to be looking into people's trash for... actually, he's not quite sure anymore. If he's not hungry, or bored -- apparently -- then he's...

Fucking odd is what he is.

However, Castiel has chosen the exact wrong person to ask this very serious question to, because he looks over the man in the alley with a very perceptive eye, deciding that, yes, this is information he probably needs.] I didn't mean it that way, but when you phrase it as a question? Yes. I would trust a bard over a mage any day. [His preferences may have been touched by recent events, but -- let's be honest, no one should be trusting mages nor sorceresses on word alone.] No, no service. Charity. You look rather poor.

[LOOK, HE ASKED.]

I suppose you could return it to me in exchange for a song. [That's a joke, and his tone clearly indicates so. He circles back to the question from before.] Also, you wouldn't look terrible with... perhaps a bit of a goatee? A feathered hat to hide that... [He gestures to Castiel's hair.] Muss. And a well-tailored coat. I'm thinking... blue. Ah, yes! A dark navy blue. Very suitable for your skin tone.

[You know, at least from what he can tell by the glow of the bird on his shoulder. Which imitates Casitel's head tilt right back at him.

You may ask what sort of man would give fashion advice to someone he met in an alleyway, in the middle of the night, digging through rubbish.

Jaskier is exactly that man.]

[unwings]

[ fucking odd is pretty damn accurate, and 'painfully naïve' wouldn't be off the mark either, so it doesn't occur to castiel that jaskier isn't the expert on local tradition and culture that he's trusting him to be. the angel's eager to learn and the bard's clearly willing to teach, so this is happening.

you look rather poor. well, his pockets are empty of funds, and he isn't employed, though he'd never been employed, ever, since the dawn of time. still, jaskier isn't wrong. ]

I suppose that's not inaccurate. [ cas admits in a hapless murmur, eyes sliding off to the side.

while he isn't exactly in need of anything, neither does he have any real kind of income, besides lifting and moving heavy things for tradesmen in exchange for goods, or angel-teleporting insta-deliveries. there may be an marketable service in there, but how can he expect to gain clients if he doesn't look like a respectable member of this society? cas pays rapt attention to the suggestions, like he'd be taking notes if he had the money to afford parchment, but the first option earns a vague wince. ]

A friend once told me men with goatees are douchebags, beatnicks, or Guy Fieri. [ so, that's struck from the potentials list. thank you, dean winchester. ] But I did once have a coat.

Though, it was tan. [ a beat, and this is just getting more disheartening as he goes on. style has never been his strong suit. ] And ill-fitting, apparently.

[ usually a source of ridicule more than compliment. he's pretty fond of that coat, it's comfortable and warm, but a more tailored version wouldn't go amiss. the feathered hat - maybe that's a viable, more affordable option. cas lifts the hand still presenting jaskier's coin, and asks with genuine and unmasked concern, ] Is this enough for a feathered hat?