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Feb. 18th, 2007 11:20 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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neutral_omensDate: December 4, nighttime. (Backdated to after the interrogation of Uriel)
Setting: Raguel's room
Status: Private, Complete
Summary: Report making and angelic grooming.
Raguel knelt in the darkness on the floor of the room to which he had been assigned and made his report. With bowed head and hands rested carefully in his lap he related, dispassionately, all that Uriel had told him, as concisely as could be managed. He answered the questions which were posed in return, and, after politely denying having formed any personal opinions as of yet, he was left alone once more.
Outside it was night on Earth, and the room was without light, though Raguel hardly needed it. He straightened, his back arching and stretching, and in a moment a great pair of wings had filled the space, each wingtip just brushing a wall. He shook them once, and then, slowly, methodically, began to groom them.
His fingers moved carefully over each shaft and pinion, cleaning, straightening, and removing old feathers so that they might give way to new. The gentle path of his hands left behind them wings soft as thought and bright (should they have been in the light) as belief. But when he came to the nearest part of the wings, just beneath his shoulders, not far from where the feathers met skin, they missed a small clumped patch of feathers, feathers that looked old and stained by use. These two spots were left, for his hands could not reach them.
When he had finished at last, he folded the wings in upon himself and, cradled is his own feathers, he spent the night in quiet contemplation, and in prayer.
Setting: Raguel's room
Status: Private, Complete
Summary: Report making and angelic grooming.
Raguel knelt in the darkness on the floor of the room to which he had been assigned and made his report. With bowed head and hands rested carefully in his lap he related, dispassionately, all that Uriel had told him, as concisely as could be managed. He answered the questions which were posed in return, and, after politely denying having formed any personal opinions as of yet, he was left alone once more.
Outside it was night on Earth, and the room was without light, though Raguel hardly needed it. He straightened, his back arching and stretching, and in a moment a great pair of wings had filled the space, each wingtip just brushing a wall. He shook them once, and then, slowly, methodically, began to groom them.
His fingers moved carefully over each shaft and pinion, cleaning, straightening, and removing old feathers so that they might give way to new. The gentle path of his hands left behind them wings soft as thought and bright (should they have been in the light) as belief. But when he came to the nearest part of the wings, just beneath his shoulders, not far from where the feathers met skin, they missed a small clumped patch of feathers, feathers that looked old and stained by use. These two spots were left, for his hands could not reach them.
When he had finished at last, he folded the wings in upon himself and, cradled is his own feathers, he spent the night in quiet contemplation, and in prayer.
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