A lovely day in Clearwater. The air is breezy and cool, the sun bright and shining overhead. The University is a buzz with students and faculty going to and fro, and some visitors are even on campus.
     Out on the basketball court, there's a ton of pickup games. Young men in shirts pulled over their heads are running up and down court, talking trash and hitting jumpers to make professionals jealous. Waiting for their turns to take on the winners. For you, one of the young men out there looks horribly familiar. Or at least feels so. Eyes are on him -- how can they not be -- as he commands his team about. A tall red-head, extremely muscular. His shirt has been lifted and is behind his head...it's enough to make the court split between jealousy and drooling. He wears a pair of red shorts and the black and red Air Jordans aren't cheap. That would be the Malakim, Soldekai. And at the moment, his hands are on his hips, him mostly sweaty, and looking at the umpire and calling a foul on someone else. The other team, of course.
     "Oh, come on," comes Soldekai's golden baritone. Tanned...despite it being Minnesota, "...he was all over him!" He sighs as his call is rejected, and walks back onto the court proper, hands still on his hips, walk languid and much too gunslinger-like.

     Hey, Kit...what are you doing up? It's only one o'clock. That is the only cheer he's given. Recognizable face on campus. Known for a lot of things -- eight a.m. classes not being one of them. And usually, the "gym scene" is not really his. But he likes basketball alright. Or at least one of the young women who is in the Middle Ages of America: Discussion on Walt Whitman course...who also frequents the basketball and gym area. See, The Lord's Universe is a marvelous and circular place -- where everything is connected.
     Kit is, in many ways, your very opposite. He's dark, where you are bronze -- black hair, barely bronzed skin (you have to actually be out during the day, it turns out, to get a tan). Where you are tall and extremely muscular, Kit is not as tall and not as muscular. Athletic...yes -- but in a very "soccer poet" way ...formed by the grace of good genetics and various activities. He's a good 5'9" -- but that's as far as it goes. He's wearing a pair of khakis and a grey shirt over a white shirt. Grey eyes with a silvery glint -- tongue with a silvery charm. And the obligatory I'm A Poet and Singer In A Band Part-Time University Literature Grad Student goatee. But there is a careless, dark and secret beauty to him. The sort where you might not even realize it, until he's gone.
     Somewhere on your side of the court, Kit Marlowe eases his way to a seat. "Hey Marlowe!" The self-same girl in the crowd. Don't give me that look, it's Work, Soldekai. Kit half-watches the game and leans over to receive a hug from Carla...and half-smile to words whispered after.

     Not that he'd noticed. Soldekai's getting the ball inbounds at the moment, and playing point guard. Sad, he really should be a power forward. Control. You know those Malakim. Appreciative eyes watch him direct and move the ball, pressing pass to another guy on his team. Setting up. Three, four, two to the post...and a jump shot by another on his team. Nicely done. Only then does he glance to the stands, then goes back to defense. There's a call of last point from someone on the side, someone quick to see this over and get a chance to play.
     Soldekai's defense is less effective than his running offense. Holding his key, someone leaves open the two point outside jumper and it's taken. And it's Soldekai who stands there, under the net, grabbing the ball and then letting it drop. His team's walking off court. They lost. He stands for a long moment before moving, then tosses the ball to someone else, turning his six-four frame your direction. Eyes continue to watch him, of a variety of individuals.

     What is it about that smile? It seems to Promise much, as it smooths across his mouth. Upturning. Slanting. And the grey eyes -- silvery -- catch the light and glint. Arms fold across his chest, muscled -- but not overly so. Evident, past two t-shirts. Black hair hangs before his gaze, a half-veil. Like a dream, half foretold. Half explained. "Aye...the gig begins squarely at ten," he says to the young woman beside him, Carla, and her group of friends around them. He nestled in a little pocket of half-distracted humanity. "...Sure...I've got two hours of Shakespeare to look forward to, but ...I'll be needing the coffee..." A glance to the approaching Soldekai -- and yes, the girls' eyes around him are being drawn away. Ah well, so it goes. He is used to it. He is, afterall, the Insinuation of Dreams and Aspirations. He captures Carla's attention. "...Let's meet at The Flying Saucer ...4:30?" And Kit's on the move. His voice is baritone...deep and quiet and smooth. With a lilt of an accent -- somewhere between British and Irish. "I'll see you then...I have to try to grab that extra thirty minutes of nirvana..." Sleep.

     Not that he's paying much attention to the girls. Soldekai stands at the bottom of the bleachers, cooling off. One foot is on the lowest bench, and he leans on his knee and watches you. Waiting patiently. A few pass by and tell him that he'd played a few good games, and he gives the fraternal nod and cool appreciative bob of his head.

     "That guy should have bought your lad a nice dinner before mugging him like that in public." There is a slight tsk as Kit pauses beside you. He's a student -- among other things -- but he carries no books. A slight tsk, but the smooth pull of a smile. Dark and deep. Layers beneath the obvious. You know what is beneath The Facade. The dark dreamer with the chiming spheres of Dreams, Hopes and Aspiration. They are reflected in the silvery eyes.

     "Yeah," Soldekai looks around, "...he did manhandle him, huh. Refs." Then comes a smile. That is Gabriel's Chamberlain. He turns about and plops onto the bench, reaching down and picking up a bottle of water from a bag tucked between bleachers. "What's going on with you?" he wonders. Is he so drawn by his own hopes and aspirations? You might know. None have heard him utter anything since taking the Chamberlain's position over a millenia ago. All is kept to himself. What can you see in his dreams?

     The rakish smile -- poet and pirate simultaneous. He takes a seat on the bench, twisting about -- a half-turn to give Carla and her friends a wave. A grin. A twinkle of his eyes. His intentions -- good and neutral. Never evil, of course. Wicked...perhaps a little. "Ah, well now...I have a lecture on Hamlet in about half an hour: Is Hamlet Merely A Metaphor For Forgiveness? A bit of coffee with Carla and the ladies, and then a gig with The Mad Danes pubside, ten o'clock until the witching hour of night." Kit pauses and leans in, voice lowered and brows quite nearly waggling.
     "Perhaps a little... juggling afterwards...if I'm lucky." He sits back, giving the area a scan of his gaze. "And you, Oh Wilt Thou? Chamberlain?" Chamberlain. The Being beneath the skin -- as well as a basketball pun. Kit looks to you again, a raven brow arching upward. And yes, when his eyes look at you...they look through the vessel and seek what lies beneath that. And beneath that. And beneath that. Shall we talk of inspiration and aspiration over a dollop of coffee and a scone?

     "A fine play," Soldekai smiles in like kind. He can appreciate a good joke. "I'm fine," he waves his hand at the court, "...a bit of sun and heat, a bit of exercise, a bit of sport." What else can there be? If not Chamberlain, then Avenging Angel of Sports Failures. Or something of the sort. "Just visiting the guys." Mortals. A Malakim who likes them, an almost archangel who doesn't mind being in the trenches. "Just getting out of the house..." he grins at you, "...as it were." Ah, those amber-hazel eyes. They speak of desire, they speak of fire and energy contained...to serve Gabriel. Particular Archangels require particular service. If he were with another, perhaps he should be different. But She and their Legion come first. Otherwise...who knows what Dominic and others might do with them.
     "Nothing going on at home in particular, so I'd rather spend my time down here...until work calls." The Seraphim Council. Work...is an understatement.

     He tilts his head and takes on a wistful expression. Fingers scratch the goatee. Profundity is sure to follow -- or would, were it midnight and he three tankards into a fine tub of Guinness. Kit grins then, a very rogue's curve. "I don't blame you, friend...but myself, I prefer the negative image to a sunny day. A silver sun...a midnight noon." The baritone voice is likely quite beautiful and compelling when he sings. He has that ...sing-song quality that makes a sentence into a ballad. A sonnet cadence. He watches you. He studies you. He sees you. And Kit smiles. Smooth and secretive. Something held back. Something to remember. Something to discover.
     "So...basketball does it for you? I always thought you more of a Jean-Claude Van Damme-age sort of chap...kicking the crap out of something and yet maintaining that winning image without a hair misplaced."

     Soldekai smirks, rolling his eyes and shoulders, "I have my moments with kicking ass," he admits, "...but it's not everything. And energy has to go somewhere...when you're not out dancing with the bad guys." There's a call for him to come take someone's spot, but a hand lifts and waves it off for later. He sighs as deeply as he inhales. "And you're looking the resident professional student these days," he comments, moving onto another topic not him, "...how goes your new job?"

     "I am a poet in search for an Epic." He is a cherub...he has not yet found his One. "But...I speak with aspiring students of The Mind by day. Two nights a week, I sing over a pint. And by the light of My Master's Stars, I fight a metaphoric war. Symbolism as a sword and colors as a shield." His voice is low. Though there are students and fans of The Game around you. They do not hear it. To you, the eyes might well seem far more...molten silver. There's a grin then, smooth and slight. Pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I like it very much ...in the Visceral..." he murmurs, sing-song. "And the accomodations in the bell tower are quite spacious. I'm the only raven left..."

     "Well, that's good," Soldekai nods. Always nice to see someone on the lines who's happy in their work and has a comfortable place. "I need a tower," he grins, looking up, "...in the sky somewhere. A converted bell tower..."
     "Maybe," he quirks, "...I should spend more time in the Darkness."
     Midnight. The Witching Hour. Do you know where your children are?

     The laughter has a lyrical quality. Warm and rich. Smooth. Languid. "I can manage that you know. A raven familiar will cost you extra, but what's a few favors between friends?" Yes, you have a tower and he will haunt it. If he...can...haunt that is. Kit cocks a brow and lips pucker in a moment of Thought and Consideration. "Aye..." he says after a moment. "To see but by day is to view with One Eye. The Darkness...is a treasure and a gift. A promise. When Fortune is Dawn, the Darkness is Hope Embodied..." So says the Master of the Realms of Night, the Herald of Aspirations. "You have never...wished upon a star?" Insinuation, his voice against the air. Wonderment. Yes, what do Almost Archangels wish for? Vacations?

     Wished upon a Star. Soldekai continues to stare directly into the sun. A no-no to most mortal eyes. His only flare with it. He forms his lips to say no, then he smiles. "Yes, I have. My Star has a name." Gabriel. But his star is rarely seen. There's a small sinking to that, but it is quickly dismissed. "Daystars have promise," he says, not meaning Lucifer, "...why does Promise only walk in the Darkness?"
     But it is like Promise has gone. Walked out with the Divine Flame herself, gone with the Lightbringer. And perhaps it is Heaven that is dimmer for it. Blandine now has to do the work of many gone away. "There used to be...promises," he smiles wanly, then inhales, "...and now, there is Work." To make the Promises come back, maybe.

     "They don't. But it is easier when the Mind and Will are quiet. When We (humans presumably for those overhearing, if any) ...let the Noise of Living and Unliving quiet to a hush. Yogis who meditate have found Promises by day. But it requires far more discipline in the Waking Hours. Far more than most are either willing...or able...to exert, when having to tame the Triplicity of the mind." Super Conscious-Conscious-Sub Conscious. Kit's arms fold against his chest again. He leans in toward you and gestures toward a few of the mortals playing basketball. "They play the Game by day. Who can think of the wish and want and dream of last week in the rush and push of the one-on-one play? When the formations are doubled, who stops to think of the desire and aspiration. The secret hope within. When the Darkness comes, all the rest is set aside. As God Wills...it must be...and in the Hours of Rest, the souls play out a hand of Dreams. Things are done. Things are seen."

     Ministry to an Angel. Soldekai nods and sighs, bringing gaze from the piercing sun. He needed to hear that. To think that Promise had gone with the others is too much. That there was Promise even in Hell. He does miss the Lightbringer....they say that Yves and he are the only two who will wander to Lucifer's Cathedral. The spires of Light, rising crystal upwards. The one that now has the finest of hairline cracks, drawn in black. He fears it not, save for the emptiness that it reminds him of in a small part of himself. That part of the Symphony that is Fallen. As he listens, he is a bit restored, smiling finally. There is Promise in Day, in the Sun, still with you all. "So, what are you doing for the rest of the day?" he asks quietly enough. His chin sets a little. "Well, before your other committments." Soldekai looks at the watch upon his wrist, seeing the Time.

     "I try not to make commitments," Kit quips back. "It turns the miraculous into the ordinary." Lips slowly spread. He takes a glance toward the sun. He thinks of Blandine's left eye. And then he inhales. "Well, old friend...I can miss the lecture on Hamlet...would you like to head to my apartment," located conveniently over a pub. And there are still atheists running around on campus. As if they required more proof? "My real gig doesn't begin until nightfall. We've hours till then..." Divine hours even. His voice is quiet and even. But the accent is lyrical. Turning sentences to verses, every one. Silvery eyes glisten when he looks to you and he tilts his head back. "I view time as more of a guideline than a fast rule anyway." The slim smile is the birth of a grin.

     "Sure," he says casually...even after his almost-suggestion. Soldekai stands up and pulls the tshirt back over his head and down. "I've got a while before I have to get back." He grabs the water and the bag from the bleachers and waits for you, giving a wave to those still on the court. Shorts, sweat, rumpled shirt, and tennis. The very essence of a frat boy's afternoon.

     One of the campus drags is an eclectic gathering of small shops, gypsy boutiques, head shops, pubs and coffeehouses. Strategically placed on the Liberal Arts half of the University? That gets back to the question: Does art imitate life, or does life imitate art? In either case, this is Aspiration and Inspiration drag. Where poets scrawl verses on the walls, and musicians busk on the street corners in between classes and gigs. Dreams throb in the laughter of young coeds. Lost dreams pool at the gutters of the oldest buildings, waiting to be revived. This is where Galadriel lives -- at least part of the time. Surrounding himself in his work...
     The apartment is a loft above a pub, accessible by a stairway to a locked door. Posters of bands -- including The Mad Danes -- serve as wallpaper reminders that some dreams take a great deal of sweat and toil. Dedication and discipline. Kit handles the "luck." The interior of the apartment is ...artistically cluttered. Books and chairs and coffee cups. And shiny objects with haphazard meanings. The gathering of a raven on the midnight lawns of the campus. A couple of watches not yet given back to the lost and found. Stones and geodes. And sitting beside the large, velvet comfortor/recliner, three silver spheres that chime when lifted and held. Meditation globes, but these seem brighter...more metallic than those found in chinatown or the local headshop fair.

     Kit tosses his keys on the table neares the door and off comes the grey t-shirt that covered the longer sleeved white shirt. "Have a seat, feel free to toss the mess about. I've been...in a creative mode lately." A smile tossed your way. A guitar rests on the coffee table...papers scattered around it.

     There's a nod of okay as Soldekai's eyes hastily scan the area. So much. Attentive eyes light here and there...fascinated by the colors and baubles. His world is not so. The bag is tossed down and he runs hands across his head, left then right. "Wow," he nods, "...this is...I mean, you've done a great job..." being a mortal. He..doesn't have this sort of feel for it. The body, sure, the speech sure...but not the Living. This is not where he resides. He could use a shower right about now, but instead, hands are drawn to the geodes, picking some up and examining.
     "Hematite," he says of a bit of silver stone. Heat and pressure created. That he knows. There's a smile and he sets it back down. "You like it around here, huh?" he asks, twisting about the room here and there, wandering while you do whatever. Unsure of what might be next.

     The smooth ease of laughter. "Chaos. Darkness. These things I know. I thought...how best to recreate the hodge podge of the Marches?" Kit perches upon a chair, elbows resting against his thighs. He balances his weight on the balls of his feet. The grin is ribald. The eyes are unveiled. Silver. Beaming. "I like the Discovery. The challenge. The ...more visceral contact. I live in a waking dream...and exist in the dreams of others. It is thrilling. I have to make it so....lest I get too homesick." A wry twist of lips at that. "Tell not Blandine that. If my Grace of the Midnight Journeys thought me capable of homesickness, it would ruin a millennia worth of hard-earned reputation." A wink to you. "Ah ..yes...hematite. One of my favorites. So silver." Like his eyes. Hematite. Precisely. The stone of streams...of the banishment of nightmares. The Grounding Pebble. "How often are you here, Soldekai? You wear it well, I have to say..."

     He looks up from the latest stone, turning about to see you. "More often of late," Soldekai admits, "...but moreso...in places that need my Sort." Not America as much...the legions of Gabriel can often handle things here. Cruelty goes not unpunished. It is in the more difficult arenas that he goes to push that work. Afghanistan, Africa, the South Pacific, Cambodia. Places where the vicious have to be curtailed by more...aggressive and ending means. "But oddly, I've been in Clearwater a few times now..." he grins at you, "...see I can even remember the name of this place. Oh, six or seven times now, if I can remember right." He looks at you a lingering moment, then looks back at the stone in his hand. No he hasn't been the same since being in the presence of Andrealphus. He frowns at moment, recalling it, then turns to set the stone down, picking up another. "I should start a collection," he grins, "...of what I'm not sure. Maybe lava stones or something."

     A tilt of his head, and then the Balladeer sits proper in the chair, legs extending easy. One foot propping up on his own table. Guitar not far from his heel. A raven brow is quirked upward. And no...silver eyes do not leave you. It would be rather hard to look away, even if you were not so ....tall. "Clearwater is somewhat ...murky in spots. I'm not surprised. A cadre of Laurence's Malakim seem to hover around the local McDonalds...staring perplexed at the collection of Happy Meals. The city is getting a lot of attention." He is part of it. Would not Los Angeles be a bigger challenge. The city of Lost Angels. Lost dreams. Hopes broken on a casting couch daily. But then you switch to rocks and the Raven within the man can't resist. "There's something oddly alluring about pumice. I know it's only rolled up and condensed powder...but it's rather like the nut from a volcano tree. Fascinating...." And then something strikes him. Kit is out of the chair in a bounding moment, whizzing past you and heading to the bedroom -- it is a short hallway to your right, little more than a glorified alcove. He comes back with obsidian. Glassy. Brilliant. And dark. Held out on his palm. "A gift for you..." he murmurs. "You should make a wish on obsidian, angel of fire. It is the flower and bud of the flame. A star made crystalline..."

     He watched as you disappeared, craning his neck only when he thought you couldn't see. And when he heard your return, he went back to the rock. "Obsidian," he smiles, nodding trading it for the other, "...great. Make a wish?" he grins, raising a brow. "Um, for what?"
     "Well," Soldekai frowns, "I mean, that presumes you want something." He laughs a little and shrugs.

     The silver eyes smolder and the smile is one of a thousand secrets. The raven brow lifts, and insinuation is the sound of his voice against the air of his own abode. "You never know....and were I to tell you, it would ruin the surprise, Soldekai..." Something of the True Form begins to emerge, even within the confines of this earthly chamber. And his earthly vessel. "It is my duty to answer your dreams, but..." he places his finger to his lips. "Do not tell me...I prefer to ...guess." In the Marches, to discover. "Do you mind, malakim, if I become rather dreadfully comfortable. I am still getting used to the clay." The flesh.

     "No, I do not mind," Soldekai says, voice growing soft and trailing off. Eyes are back upon the obsidian. And what should he wish for? What happens when you have no wishes? Or you have forgotten them? You are the first to ask in...longer than he can recall. He fashions it in his hand a bit, turning it about. Revolving. A spec in the circles of the universe. Maybe there is something, but he would not speak it..that would be too hard. He grins at you and then closes his eyes. The obsidian is enclosed in his palm, within his fist, held for a moment. It is a picture, is it not, the Chamberlain's pose: curled hand touching his lips, eyes closed. A wish ever wished for. Then, he slowly opens his eyes, hand lowering and opening, palm up. "Is it alright to wish for two things?" he whispers, looking over at you. You know these rules better than he ever will.

     Close your eyes and Do Not Think. It will come. Look into the obsidian, angel...see your reflection in the ghost of a fire. And it will come. Look against the hematite of his eyes, and it will come. Galadriel settles in the chair and as you give permission....black wings whisper and thud against the floor as they are unfurled for a stretch. Dark as night. Black...unless glanced with light and then they reflect...Midnight. Dusky his skin, not as dark as his wings...far more earthy. The raw materials of dreams. His hair is obsidian. His eyes are silver, like stars against the tapestry of the Night Sky. Neither lean nor bulky. Neither tall nor short. "I make the rules up as I go along. It's more fun for me that way." Galadriel's lips pull into a smile. He makes a wave. "Make your wishes..."

     "I already did," Soldekai says slowly, watching Otherworld beauty unfold here. That...he knows and understands. Amber eyes watch you appreciatively, tip of wings to floor. He turns about to face you, arm extending to offer the obsidian to you, as keeper of his wishes. Bringer of his wishes. Shall you grant them both...or maybe just the one of them that you can? He steps forward to you, wishstone still offered.

     The stone is just a Focus. For him, a prop. Something to do with his hands. Something shiny and glistening to hold. It is...unnecessary, but colorful. "Sometimes, I grant metaphorically...sometimes...literally. Do you ...have a preference or shall you leave your dream's fate to my total whim?" Ribald. The smile that perches upon his lips. Haunting, in as much as a lingering dream of Beauty can play upon the senses after waking. Galadriel leans forward, fingers poised to pluck the stone.
     Eyes already studying and searching Meaning and Symbolism. Shall he grant them? Shall he not grant them all? To honor the Word of his Grace Of All Wishes and Dreams, and thereby honor his own? The Herald of Aspirations inclines his head. Dreamscapes unfolding in the space between you. Invisible Kingdoms...you pass through them on your way to him. The shining stone captures his image for a moment.

     "I shall leave it to you, Herald," Soldekai says softly. And there it will remain, between you both. Hand falls once the stone is taken. One...shall be perhaps tender and easy to grant. A bit of a lover's hand, for a while. The second...the restoration of Heaven. Can you grant that? Bring back Peace? Forgiveness and Redemption? Soldekai looks at you, then around the room. "You should perhaps rest," he says softly, "...your work begins at sunset." When the night comes, as you say, and stillness falls across the land. When hopes and dreams reach their crescendo. "I've taken up too much of your downtime as it is." He smiles and turns for his bag.
     The obsidian is turned about in a young man's hand. "Tonight...I lull dreamers to their beds with a guitar and a pint of stout beer. My battle proper will not begin until midnight tonight." You are studied. As you smile and as you turn. "The first of your dreams....I can answer tonight. The second..." There is no smirk nor smile for it. Nor quip of a joke. There is earnest seriousness...and quite nearly a straight answer. "...of your dreams...I must answer nightly, Soldekai. Some dreams...can be answered only by the sweat of a thousand toils. And the salt of a thousand tears." The stone is offered back to you. "Stay a while, my friend. As for rest...how think you I spent the better half of the day?" Ribald again, the Poet grins. A slow wink offered, the stone tossed to you. His finger touches to his temple. "Worry not, I have it memorized..."

     It is a celestial movement that drops the bag and catches the stone. Soldekai nods slowly, understanding the response to each. At the offer to stay, he cocks his head, "Are you sure?" not wanting to keep you from anything. In this, he's just a passing visitor upon the work you do. Eyes look at the stone in his hand and it takes him a moment to figure out what to do with it. A bend and he carefully puts it into a small pouch inside his bag, zipping it open and closed.

     "Would I ask if I were not? Hmm...If I were not sure, perhaps that is precisely when I would ask, but that tangle of logic aside...yes...stay, Soldekai." Kit rises from the chair, the embodiment of the Celtic bard-warrior. Lean and muscled, but not to excess. Carrying two blades. One...his mind. One...his tongue. But his words have a silvery quality -- as silvery as his eyes. "Desire is ...a portion of a Wish, of a Dream. Inspiration, your mistress, is another part. Subdivided, a dream is a lover with a horde of concubines. Why should we, therefore, be solitary? One is the dream...the other inspiration...together, intermingling...they can become prophecy..." The baritone voice is smooth and rich, and the accent plays upon it poetic. He is moving toward you, the stride takes its time.

     It is mesmerizing, listening to you, watching you. And he sees for himself why it is whispered that is Blandine's legion that is the vanguard, the true heart of the War. Amber eyes are dazed, words new, miraculous. Dream made incarnate. Something to cause the slumber of sweetness to draw over angelic worries, paramount fears. A drift away without a care. He can feel it pulling at him with each step you take towards him. Deer in the headlights. You speak, but he is already enchanted...

Posted by rowan at May 04, 2003 02:42 AM