June 15, 5:12 am.

Cape Cod, Pilgrim Monument. Massachusetts.

At the top of the tower, beyond the stairs and going around the edge, the view shows the entirety of the peninsula. The rising sun sets the sea ablaze with hyacinth purples, the sky of pink roses. Old towns dotting the land, here since the western world's age of settlement.

Behind where the stairs end, white cement encloses the stairwell from the othering sides. Behind the entrance, near the view, the back white cement holds a pair of doors only seen to those allowed down upon the earth. French doors, old and yellowed, shining blinding white light through their windows illuminate the granite stones. The sound of music faintly streaming through along with it, I Say A Little Prayer by Aretha Franklin.

Walking around the corner comes a longhaired redhead. Bathed in peach white button down, and dark brown tweed pants held up by a leather black belt. Black oxfords silently tap against the tower's ground as white feathered wings make their way between the top of the edge walls and the continuing tower's height. As they make their way towards the door, the hair tie is released from a redlocked low ponytail.

The angel stops before the doors, leaning back against the wall and breathing in the air for a moment.

After the light dims, a small little gold card on a white-gold ring clip stand reads the following words in calligraphy, ‘Cafe God.’ It stands atop the acacia wooden valet station before a sea of tables.

A snort leaves the angel.

“Say, Seraph, where is Machiel?”

To the right, the dark skinned woman pauses in her harp playing, the music not of its strings no longer playing from it. Her back towards the taupe stucco walls and sitting on a wooden chair, two great white wings cover her eyes, tips pointed to the tall ceiling, the other four laying upon the ground around her long deep red skirt. She points to the other end of the room, past the many sheet covered tables towards a posturing man, before continuing back to her playing.

The view is spectacular from what can be seen. Floating islands with water running off them, sprawling greenery in the distance. Small little pieces of heaven, all on display before the party of angels relaxing and waiting for the chance they may be called upon. At each of the three roman columns stand cherubims, armored and two pairs of wings covering their forms. Five in total, one at each end, guarding the line between the empty dining room and floating terrace.

Walking across the black, past the gold detailing of the carpet and onto the tanned roman concrete. Besides Machiel sits many angels, all upon differing colored couches, all taking a short rest to talk and chat, exchanging useful information that may not have reached every ear. The couches, while looking quite comfortable, are an array of ‘off-putting’ bright colors, the angel muses. His golden cane lays casually against one of the more horrendously yellow ones.

Before reaching the angel of the hour, having just finished gossiping, he spots the newcomer to his party. With a smile and great reaching olive arms, “An archangel! How wonderful to see you again, dear actor! Any news on the wind blown flats?” He learns forward as he says the last part, hands clasping behind his back, mirroring the archangel before him. Black curls bouncing as he leans far too close to the redheads liking, luckily their pure white eyes don’t betray their emotions.

A false, fake, amused smile to placate him spreads across their face, “I’ve just gotten here and you’re already trying to get information out of me?” The entire party feels unnecessary to them, there’s plenty of time to talk to others, in quick succession, when on the ground. These party’s, all to watch an endless expanse and exchange words over drinks, are far too familiar.

The dominion gives a wider smile at the words, lower lids yet to shift, “Oh come now, you can’t blame me for trying can you? A big job for yourself, it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of help from others now would it?” The white eyed man gestures around to the whole of the party. Angels and principalities all talking amongst themselves, few sparing glances at the archangel. The occasional power sits alone, wings folded up against themselves, focusing on the show.

Many of them wear teal or tans, the occasional red ever being seen on the powers. Deeper colors besides the basics are rare to be seen, all of them having vacant white eyes lacking irises and pupils. The form of clothes are mostly casual business wear, with the exception of the dominion Machiel and a few others. Again, the powers stand out in their fully black sports wear attires.

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Further in the back is a man wearing an Egyptian cotton shirt, tan wool pants. Brown, wavy hair that barely reaches the shoulders. From the side profile, the view is akin to a roman statue, chiseled from Emperador marble and pure white eyes. Staring out into the great expansive skies and hands in his pants pockets, ignoring the rest of the party with a glass of champagne resting on the table beside him.

“Hah,” Sarcasm heavy in their voice, they turn from their scanning of the party, “I’m alright with what I have, and as I’ve told you. I’m not supposed to share,” the archangel looks back towards the entrance. The ever-present, invisible, sun and its light make it practically impossible to tell the time. Unfortunate that these personal heavens work to the same speed as Earth, yet clocks seem to be impossible to find.

“‘Tis a shame. Regardless, care to indulge with the crowd? Someone's heaven just so happens to be crumbling down around them,” He gestures again, towards one of the clouds. It has a small cottage on rolling hills of green, sparse green oak forest almost completely hiding it from view. The water rolling off of it differing from the others as its torrents off the sides and beyond its river bed, dewy green taken over by a darkness spreading from the clouds core beneath the home. Two people can be seen just barely in the windows, panicked and rushing towards each other.

“As interesting as that sounds,” An angel can be seen, a personal guardian angel by the looks of it, rocketing off between the edges of the cloud scape. The personal heaven quickly darkening into storm clouds as the center of it begins to collapse in on itself. The angel's wings quick to darken just the same as they lunge towards the middle, hand outstretched. A sneer spreads across their face and the party erupts in claps and sounds of awe, “I meant to ask you about where to find a Michael Sword.”

His head shifts from its view of the now empty space towards the archangel, “A Michael Sword?” His head tilts as his posture willingly relaxes, full body turning towards her. A quick wave and his cane comes back to his hand, slowly growing into a staff. Its still shorter than his towering height.

The rest of the party is completely ignorant to their conversation, but a few do seem to shift in place. The brunet at the end of the party tilts his head slightly towards them, now looking off into space again from previously enjoying the show. The cherubim's at their stations have yet to move, but one by one their wings recombobulate themselves in disorganized order.

“Yes,” the archangels stance becomes a bit more guarded, shoulders squared back. They keep their head forward and attention focused on the dominion before them. Their red hair barely moves from the soft breeze, hiding the quick twitch of their hands behind their back.

An almost cruel smirk seems to spread across his face, mole beneath his lip only ever now moving with it, “Now now, you know how this works. You may not have been angelic before, but you do have good faith, don’t you.”

“Yes, I know. Trade information in good faith,” His words do nothing to get under their skin, all of this is simply a matter of business. Intimidation has no value at this moment, only objective.

Again, an invitatious tilt of the head, an attempt to beckon information, “So? Or do you refuse to share?” His eyebrows seem to twitch for a moment, eye movement seen despite their pallor.

For a moment the archangel looks away, a moment to think of what to trade without spilling secrets, “...I was recently near a deal being made. I believe it may have been Paimon aligned.”

“Paimon? Really?” His skinny shoulders seem to match in tenseness for a second, before immediately relaxing. The pale eyes seem to flicker around a bit more, perhaps an attempt to make more sense of the new information.

The redhead's own stance barely relaxes for a moment, now leaning on one leg, “As far as I’m aware, it seemed likely,” they say with a nod.

His head lifts a bit higher at the words, “Oh my, do tell.”

“Oh? And your information of good faith?” They beckon, a confident chin lift as they attempt to meet the dominions gaze. The olive skin of the higher tiered angel seems to glisten bright beneath the light for a moment, the attempt to meet eyes made useless by the closing of his eyes. Long black lashes brush his skin as he takes a moment.

With a click of the tongue, his eyes become alight with holiness, “Past the tower and within salt, you may find the silver of blades. Flats of intrigue may lead and follow, desire could be akin to necessity when found in unkind places.”

“Thank you,” The archangel immediately turns around, missing the momentary troubled look marring the dominion's face as the light dies down. Continuing on their way past the rooted cherubim.

“I- wait,” He attempts to follow for a moment, but his staff refuses to move with him, gaunt legs only making it so far, “That, that was far too quick. It- there was- how would-. From God?”

He shakes his head as the redhead is already halfway to the seraphim at the entrance, attempting to shake off the cold breeze that invaded his robes, “Perhaps it was just the fall, must’ve been,” returning to his seat on the edge of the outrageously yellow couch, quick to laugh along to one of the jokes made by a power.

As soon as the doors close as the redhead walks out of the personal heaven opening, all the cherubims wings slowly spread open. One pair pointing towards the ceiling, the other pair having the lower edges of the feathers barely brushing the ground in front of them. The brunet man of sculpted stature walks out past them, unnoticed by everyone other than the dominion who gives a quick nod.

Sunrise by Norah Jones slowly comes to its end as the man makes his leave through the same doors, giving the redhead quite a bit of a head start.