O.D. 12.17.1999 [12:32 p.m.]

(This is part of a scene with Azra'il, my fallen-angel-type, and Chance, one of Rachel's great chars. Unfortunately, I can't find the first bit (I think Rach might have it, actually...) because I'm a retard, but generally I think he tried to drown her *chuckles*

And, yes. This diary is more or less named after THIS Azra'il...mainly because he was my favorite alter ego at the time I made said diary.)

[Chance Solomon]

Fri 19:05 CET ~ How long can he hold his breath-undoubtedly longer than her, panic floods her mind as water flood her gasping lungs. Underwater the world is surreal, like the land of dreams -the rattle of 4 sticks and the crash as the jangle to the ground- Read your fortune? ~

There are Dreams..there are Fantasies, and there are Nightmares.

You might dream that you won the lottery and came to Egypt. Exotic land..of intoxicating people. You might dream that you were in the penthouse of an exclusive hotel, a dark wined angel by your side with the face of a devil��

~ -the rattle of 4 sticks and the crash as the jangle to the ground- Read your fortune? ~

You might fantasize about his body, naked and taut aguinst yours. Rippling muscle against your own sleek flesh, rendered frictionless by the water . His mouth hugrily attacking yours, even as you wage war on him..a war as old as time.

~ -the rattle of 4 sticks and the crash as the jangle to the ground- Read your fortune? ~

But in the land of nightmares you see only the the loss of breath, and the cold hands of a killer about your neck..your choking and arms flailing, you will soon..die again..and in this land of nightmares..this would be your second death by suffocation.

~ -the rattle of 4 sticks and the crash as the jangle to the ground- Read your fortune? ~

She sees his dark hands sinching her neck, the grim encrusted fingernails, her screams are silent in the water -you WILL die. But today�for once the ending is different, fevered hands flail around and grasp the cold handle of metal (was it luck?-whose to say?) and within a second she is sinking it deep into his flesh, pulling yanking ripping a gash as big as her pain�blood swirls in the jacuzzi water as she leaps out like the long legged spider..in two long legged steps she gone from the bathroom. The dagger clattering on the floor behind her.

[Azra'il]

Fri 19:14 CET Underwater, screams are nothing more than bubbles.

The tub bubbles violently, overflowing with hot water and soap...and blood, an instant before it erupts, an instant before it births Dark Venus, tormented and unnerved, onto the marble-tiled floor. A dagger clatters to the ground, and before it even stops its mad dance she is gone. Behind her, more than a little taken aback, the angel with the black wings hauls himself out of the water.

Perfect. He is perfect, and so very flawed. The length of lean, sleek-muscled body interrupted by an angry red gash; the heavenly facade undermined by a dark soul full of black secrets. He catches his breath on the side of the tub, reaching out to attend, first, to the dagger cast upon the ground. Already the wound closes; already the blood fades--into his flesh, as well as into the cold steel of the dagger. But she is not there to see.

Finally, as the river of blood slows to a mere trickle, he stands, wraps a towel about his waist, and follows her trail from the bathroom.

[Chance Solomon]

Fri 19:25 CET She is coughing wildly kneeling by her knapsack her chocker in her left fist. Pulling off her wet clothing and already searching for dry ones, Her heaving water slicked body dries under the attention of the whirring overhead fans. If he followed her, She ignores him--or can't hear him as she continues her mad search, obsidian black eyes exhibited rarely seen emotion, though they are hidden from his view. Assorted items in the knapsack cast aside not the least of which a plastic baggie containing 4 more black feathers, as a pair of jeans finally emerges from the pack.

[Azra'il]

Fri 19:29 CET He sets the dagger carefully aside on the dresser, brushing a speck of dust from the blade burning blue-white in the sunlight. Crossing to her, he crouches beside her, and his voice is more terrible in gentleness than it could ever be in mockery, in derision. "You all right?"

The wound is nothing more than a faint red scratch turning pink, turning pale and smooth, vanishing.

[Chance Solomon]

Fri 19:36 CET With a breath she gets the Jersey, and sets them aside. So strangely unhinged. Is this the same Chance? There is no more water to cough up, and still she heaves softly clinging to breath after breath"..sorry about the..uhm...stabbing." But even as she says this already she is calming, It isn't the past..she isn't twelve..and he isn't Barry--her eyes darken imperceptibly, black into black, the million shades of empty.--

[Azra'il]

Fri 19:41 CET He shrugs, and flashes a ghost of a smile. "It's happened. Just not with my own blade." He eases to the floor, his back against the bed, and watches her. As she moves to set the jersey aside, he reaches out and catches her wrist. Lifted brows, unsmiling lips. Azra'il...somber? "You want to tell me what that was about?"

[Chance Solomon]

Fri 19:45 CET Her body, perfection given form long lanky naked limbs crouched as he takes her wrist as she merely looks at him, the faded leftover of a past ghost. Sleek smooth, yet all too human. "I thouhgt you were..." A pause. "someone else.."

[Azra'il]

Fri 19:48 CET The answer is immediate, stabbingly quiet, as stabbing as the wintry green of his eyes picking away at her defenses, gleaning truth from her bones. "Who?"

[Chance Solomon]

Fri 19:52 CET Does she quail under this scrutiny, does she flinch or cry like a child? No she was made of sterner stuff than sugar and spice to be sure. The black of a moonless night absorbs wintery green, every leaf is eaten--none can be spared. "He dosen't matter. Past is past...right?"

[Azra'il]

Fri 19:58 CET He holds her gaze, unrelenting. "Past is past," he agrees, "but I want to know. Because I have a feeling it makes up something behind that mask of yours, Chance. You may as well tell me," and slowly, the grin resurfaces, reappears, as he lays a kiss on her palm, "because I -will- find out, one way or another."

It was a threat. Or maybe a promise. Or maybe just the truth.

[Chance Solomon]

Fri 20:07 CET They darken still in this unmasked moment eyes like the burning pits of hell, even as her body carefully intakes every precious breath. It seems almost as somewhere someone is counting, someone is keeping score, tallying and rationing every molocule of oxygen even as its absorbed. And of course there is anger bubbling from the depths of pain..there always is..with her. Somehow she dosen't doubt him and yet..here lies an oppurtunity to be had. "It isn't something..I can tell....to you. Maybe if you were more...maybe a tutor...it would be easier.."

[Azra'il]

Fri 20:16 CET The grin widens, millimeter by millimeter, until at last he laughs, tugging hard on her wrist and tumbling her atop her in a moment of unbalance. "You, thrillchaser, have a one-track mind." He arches up against her and captures her lips in a brutal instant of a kiss. He rolls her under in the next eyeblink and gets up, moving back into the bathroom.

"My answer is unchanged, Chance," he calls over the rustle of fabric as he gathers his clothes and stuffs them into a laundry bag for the cleaners to pick up. Re-emerging in a terry bathrobe (white, of course...white for the devil in disguise), he pours himself a drink at the bar and continues, "I will find out. But not from you, I suppose. And you, too, will find out. But not from me." He shrugs, eyes dancing, and lifts the glass in a toast before downing the drink. "Find Janalise, hmm? She will help you."

[Chance Solomon]

Fri 20:25 CET She blinks the activity leaving her breathless. (though admittedly that isn't a hard task right now)She grabs her clothing sitting atop the bed, and after putting on her choker, her clothing is dragged on soon after. Standing tall the long limbed spider..slowly makes her way across the marble floor her feet a making soft sounds as she steps with delicate precision...much like a spider on a carefully spun web. " I suppose.....maybe we could trade..a story for a story..if you're up for it."

[Azra'il]

Fri 20:31 CET "Hmm?" He pours another glass for himself as one fair eyebrow arches, disdainfully elegant. "I have stories spanning centuries. You have twenty years. That's hardly a fair trade." A shark grin, as he touches the bottlemouth to her lower lip. "A fairer trade: you tell me your twenty years. And I'll tell you twenty years out of my book of tales. If I like yours, I might even let you pick the years you want. Have we a deal?"