entrancelogs | (no subject)

Who: Balthazar (or Mirror!Balthazar), and OPEN
Where: the gardens
When: Wednesday-ish
Rating: PG-13-ish?
Summary: Balthazar is just having a nice little booze picnic. The Mirror version is looking for information.

Armed with a blanket from his room, a cooler of beer and bourbon, and a set of sidewalk chalk he retrieved from his closet, Balthazar has found a place to settle, amidst the garden he first stumbled through when he arrived. Now he's in a better state to appreciate the beauty. They may all be in a prison, but at least it's a pretty prison, and well-stocked with comforts.

Anyone who comes upon him will be offered a drink, of course. The later in the day he's found, the more elaborate will be the chalk design he's sketching onto the brick path. It's not recognizable as any specific person or item, just a tangle of color and repeating patterns. Maybe it means something to him.

Leviazar is not interested in alcohol, except as a tool to lubricate social interactions and get others' guards down. He's even less interested in chalk art. Today, he's stayed inside, despite having seen his real depart for the open air. There are other people to watch, on both sides of the mirrors. But a close observer on the realside may catch him tracing Enochian sigils in steamed-up glass, with the tip of one finger.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She stands a moment longer, eyes moving slowly between the art and the angel in quiet contemplation before she gives a single nod. Just a small tip of her head, and then she drops down onto the floor next to him. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she reaches out a hand to drag a finger through some of the chalk and traces out a small spiral.

"Purpose or not, it speaks the words his mind shrouds, tells the stories she can't hear. It's an exercise in expression even when the hand moves without the guidance of thought. Bypass the mind and bare only the soul. Can he hear her like Castiel can? We talk."

As she says 'talk' she touches the side of her head lightly, gaze dropping back to the designs on the floor.

"Like a zen garden, you mean? That wasn't my intent, but you're right, I suppose. Only I don't have a soul." He smiles at her, watching the spiral form and wondering what the widening, anarchic design he's drawn says about himself.

"I can communicate that way, yes. I wouldn't intrude without permission, but if you want to, I'm willing." He switches chalk colors, choosing a dove gray. "You're close with Cas. Good friends?"

"A soul is a construct. To him it may be quantifiable, a thing that can be seen and touched and broken, but to her it's not tangible, earned not demanded. He may not have a soul by the standards of a different world, but that is not all there is any more. Does an angel wish for one at times?"

If it says anything, River isn't telling. Angels are hidden to her as it is, a brief relief from the ongoing barrage of thoughts and feelings, but even if he weren't its just not polite. She's learning still, okay? She's never really had to deal with being around this many people before, it's all new to her, and the etiquette of psychic intrusion isn't something they taught her in The Academy.

"Just curious. We can talk in whatever way makes him happiest. Sometimes people prefer the feelings of vowels and consonants in their mouth. Sometimes they prefer the echo of a voice that isn't really there."

"I'm told soul and spirit are two different things. But perhaps you're right. It may just be a matter of semantics." He smiles wistfully. "What I tend to wish for seems to be mostly a matter of having my cake and eating it, too."

He begins tracing feathery shapes in gray on a dark patch of brick, testing the effect of narrowing strokes. "Would you believe I prefer to keep things mundane? I got used to it, living on Earth."

"And why would he have a cake if he wouldn't eat it? Don't let it go to waste. On the rim they can't live like us, you know."

It's a fairly amusing comment as far as she's concerned, so she laughs a little. It's what her mother always used to say after all. She edges a little closer when she sees the latest shapes though, shifting to carefully kneel beside him.

"Why would he choose that?" It's certainly interesting to her, the idea of an angel living on Earth. "To observe, or to join us? Was he following or hiding?Or maybe he'd prefer to talk about that cake."

He's not sure what she means by 'on the rim', but she seems to be enjoying herself, so he just smiles and lets her laugh. He shifts just a bit to let her see what he's doing better, game to share the activity. "To be honest, I didn't have any plan when I left. Just...fear and grief, for the most part. I learned to enjoy a few things in my time on the planet, though."

He taps the chalk on the brick gently. "Art among them. Different species seem to be blessed with different gifts. Angels aren't really made to be artists, but humans are."

"Castiel told her the angels are made to be soldiers." It's a quiet comment, more off hand than anything, but she can't help but wonder if that's got something to do with the fear and grief that he mentioned.

"She wanted to be an artist, once upon a time. Before she went crazy." She pauses for a moment to think about that, then adds with a slight grin, "He's much better than she ever managed though. it wasn't written in the stars for River. Only dancing, and running."

"That's true," he says quietly. "Or so we've been told, for hundreds of thousands of years. I'm not sure any of us really knew the mind of the Creator, though. Maybe he had intentions we're not aware of."

He blinks at her, caught between surprise at the compliment and sympathy for her. He reaches over and pats the back of her hand. "Dancing is art, too, darling. Anyway, stars are the worst critics I know. Do what makes you happy, even if it only works for a moment or two."