The Fortunes of War

**Antal indlæg** : 652

Time: 8:54 p.m.
Date: November 24, 1918
Location: Archie’s home in Oakheart
Attire: A black, pinstripe three-piece suit,
a crimson tie, dress shoes, and a black fedora
Dedicated to: @Archie
_________________

Tranquility had fallen over Earth. With every drop of rain, the remnants of the past slowly washed away—wounds were healing and grief was mending. Hope and faith would eventually restore. But the memories would remain. Never to be forgotten. The past four years had been exhausting, draining his time and energy like nothing else. All because a great war had been declared, and he was the leading archangel in such an event. It had been a constant struggle balancing all his responsibilities. Giving strength and courage to soldiers, guiding angels to better help humanity cope, fighting at the frontlines, and helping in any way he could to save lives and put an end to the war. All the while not interfering too much—his father’s command. And although it had brought so much misery with it, life went on. For him, the fighting never ceased. It just happened elsewhere.

This evening he’d traveled to a mansion belonging to a newly discovered enemy. It stood tall and opulent in the distance, serving proof of the success he’d obtained from his illegal endeavors while others had lost everything. It wasn’t fair. But the person living inside the grand walls wasn’t free of misery. Far from it. And so, he had to trust that fate, however enigmatic, brought justice to some satisfactory extent.
He’d neared the house in invisibility, sensed the magic that kept him from trespassing and decided to lean against a wall in the courtyard. The rain reduced to a light drizzle as he waited, his gaze fixed on the house. It was only yesterday that he’d learned of what this man had taken from him. That Barnes Ltd. had put his weapon for sale in the underground trade. He couldn’t remember when he’d lost it exactly, only that once he returned to camp, it was gone. The weapon in mention had the appearance of a Colt 1911 45 ACP with a white chrome barrel and a gold-plated handle. The entirety of it was engraved in golden, heavenly symbolism. Naturally, the carats of gold appraised it of high value, although it in all respects was priceless. Like the majority of his arsenal, it was created to harm and kill unholy beings, regardless of their developed immortality. But what set this apart further was that it harbored an endless supply of ammunition. A highly convenient trait during wartime. However not so convenient to lose.

The thought had crossed him to search for the weapon himself, but he figured it was heavily guarded and possibly already sold, in which case he had to search elsewhere. So, confronting the leader should prove to be the quickest solution. And from what he’d gathered, he would take this approach much better than the alternative.
The two of them hadn’t properly met before, although Michael knew of Archibald Barnes. He had once harmed an angel when they’d been caught spying on his firm or they’d spied on something nearby one of his operations. Whatever the case, they hadn’t done anything except listening for information that could be of harm to humanity. It had in no way warranted the injuries caused to them. So due to this, he considered him an enemy. Or at least someone he’d presumably never be on good terms with. Not because of the things he’d heard about him but because he’d attacked his soldiers first and then had the nerve to steal from him. It would be clear to a weapon’s specialist to see that it belonged to Heaven. The symbolism and power it held couldn’t have made that more apparent. That kind of disrespect and carelessness wasn’t something he took lightly.

An hour passed before a door finally opened and he grabbed the opportunity to sneak inside. The magic breaching for the person, only barely allowing him because of how closely he followed. Sure, his presence wouldn’t go entirely unnoticed for someone who knew what an angelic aura felt like, but to most, it would only create a safe and trustworthy feeling that caused them not to suspect anything to be amiss. He walked quietly as his gaze scanned the interior of the house, sensing the moral compasses inside and heading in the direction of the one he thought belonged to Archibald Barnes. He became visible the moment he’d found him and customarily took his hat off. With all the demeanor of belonging there as a guest rather than an intruder. “Good evening,” he greeted casually, his eyes staying with him for a moment before they searched the room. As if it would give any indication of where he’d hid the pistol. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” He returned his attention to him as he stepped forward, setting the hat down on a nearby table. Except there wasn't much pleasure to gain from this except the retrieval of his weapon and the possibility that he’d refrain from messing with his angels in the future. “I’ve come because I’ve heard you have something that belongs to me and I’d like to have it back,” he stated, cutting to the chase. After all, there wasn’t any reason to stick around longer than necessary. Surely, Mr. Barnes could agree with that.

Emne: Sv: The Fortunes of War Fre Jan 21, 2022 9:03 am

The library was blissfully quiet. The world around it could be every bit as hectic as it felt like, but there, in the dimly lit library with the crackling fireplace, there was solitude and calm. A sheer dullness lay across the mahogany dominant room from cigarette smoke trapped by the heavy curtains and padded furniture and with it, a quite particular smell of cheap tobacco.
The old banshee was sat peacefully in a large, brown leather-armchair with his legs crossed and his eyes focused on a book, wrapped in a beautiful, deep maroon cover with intricate golden details neatly sewed into it. His shoulders were lowered, his back casually pushed back into the seat and his mind fully invested in the adventure that unfolded to his eyes with every word they scanned. He wasn’t usually one to sing high praise, but right there, in that moment, he felt content. Happy even, if you’d really think about it. A faint smile softened his usually stern face.
On a round chinoiserie table next to the chair, was placed glass of golden whiskey, and with a low hum, he reached for it after turning a page.
Something just at the edge of his consciousness, made the rare smile fade amidst all of the calm; something just fair enough for him to still let his eyes brush past the many letters in front of him, his eyebrows slowly knitting together in his forehead. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but something had changed. Another little hum escaped him, probably to tell himself that he was overthinking it, and instead he reached the glass of whiskey to his lips. And then, as soon as the beautiful liquid touched his tongue, it hit him. The feeling wasn’t his at all. The sense of disarmament and satisfaction. It was an aura; and a very powerful one that.

He had had no time to look up before a shuffle of movement in his peripheral sight finally clocked the final pieces of information that his fussy brain needed to understand. An angel. An ancient angel, he corrected himself.
The man entered the room, and Archie took a nonchalant second before he granted him to look up from the book; his face plain and unimpressed by the fact that who-ever-this-was had managed to enter his heavily surveilled premises.
The casual greeting didn’t exactly surprise the old banshee; it did however annoy him slightly and he hummed disapprovingly to himself, refusing to amuse the casual conversation that the angel had set for them. Instead he simply nodded as a greeting. Judging by the powerful aura and cold confidence of this guy, he wouldn’t need anyone to say anything anyway, and would continue speaking without any verbal encouragement.
Archie’s harsh eyes carefully followed the intruder, his left eyebrow raising slightly, as the hat was placed on the cupboard next to the door. He observed every movement of this proud creature, paying silent attention to the subtle seeking of his eyes as they wandered across the library room.

In the silence, Archies arms finally lowered themselves, placing the richly decorated book on his lap and the crystal glass on the side table. He didn’t particularly like the look of this guy. Meant trouble for sure.
“Right,” he finally stated, the cigarette dangling from his lips; the northern accent thick with a light roll on the ‘r’. He drew and exhaled, moving the cigarette between his finger to gently flick the burnt end off before turning back to the angel. “I’ve lots o’ things. Why don’t ye tell me what yer lookin’ for and why ye think it still belongs to you?” A genuine question that. They had after all just come out of war, and property was a very fluid concept these days. A lot of people felt sore about losing material things and Archie couldn’t exactly blame them that; but that didn’t mean he cared. Business was business and his was going splendidly.

**Antal indlæg** : 652

He had been lucky to find him alone and in a calm state. In midst of enjoying a drink and a smoke while reading. For had he intruded many a thing, he’d found him less cooperative and a great deal more irritated. The library wasn’t grand in comparison to his own, but decent enough. As he’d surveyed the room, he’d noted a few worthwhile titles. However, no weapons or secret door latches. So, his focus returned to stay with the banshee. His demeanor seemed a good sign. He was unimpressed and disapproving to be sure. But it was better than the alternative hostility. The flight or flee response he usually received from demons before he could get much of a word in. It wasn’t what he wanted to provoke. He simply had some business that needed to be taken care of, and right now, that meant he needed to intrude and take some of this man’s time. The amount of which was entirely up to him.

After he’d stated the matter of his imposition, he awaited the man’s reaction in silence. His eyes followed the movement of the book and glass before his first word was spoken and his eyes lifted to his face. He perceived it to mean something agreeable and stepped closer, but as he continued with something more cantankerous, he stopped midway. Slightly surprised by the adversity. He scoffed vaguely, averting his eyes from the banshee. He had to be joking, the way he dared question its ownership. The smile quickly faded from his lips before he returned his eyes to him. Did he in all seriousness want him to believe they had multiple heavenly objects in their possession? Or was it simply his way of stating that he wouldn’t hand it over so easily? Either way, it was an unacceptable response, though not all that surprising. His nerve and manners proved to be exactly as he’d imagined. But if he somehow had any reason to question what he was looking for, he’d have no problem clearing his doubt.

He reached a hand inside his suit jacket, ensuring that the muzzle to the pistol was facing the ceiling as he pulled it out. It would be quite fruitless and self-destructing to his goal if he were to shoot the banshee. The pistol was another Colt, matte black with a checkered wood grip. He then laid it flat in his palm and raised his other hand above it. A stream of light emanated from the hovering palm and the Colt started to change coloration to that of his lost weapon. For emphasis, he etched holy symbols into the barrel, even if he couldn’t remember the exact ones used. It was all for the purpose of appearance. It required much more to enhance it with additional power. “Why because I created it.” He doused the light, showcasing the gun by giving him a better view of it, though never pointing it directly at him before he secured it inside of his jacket. In his mind, that meant it belonged to him, and thus Heaven. Why else would he take the trouble of coming here and demanding its return? If he’d wanted to otherwise trade with the man, he wouldn’t have personally shown up. “And it would be very injudicious for me to let it be sold to whomever you decide.” It was already a grave sacrilege to have been in his possession at all. And he could only guess as to who he’d try to sell it to—that was if he hadn’t intended to keep it for himself. “I lost it near Cambrai about a month ago and it wasn’t until now I knew who’d ended up with it. As I’m sure you can imagine, the war has kept Heaven exceptionally busy.” Hence he’d first initiated an extensive search once the war had ended. Michael wasn’t one to waste his time; time was better served by helping those in need. He wouldn’t spend it discussing business with an immoral unless that business was personal. Nor would he have come here with these accusations unless he was certain of his claim—that the weapon either had been or currently was in the possession of Archibald Barnes. And now that there couldn’t be much doubt as to the object in question, he expected some concrete answer as to how or when it could be recovered.

Emne: Sv: The Fortunes of War Lør Jan 29, 2022 8:21 pm

ATTIRE: Link.
Charcoal-grey tweeded three-piece suit over a white shirt,
a muted maroon tie, a golden pocket-watch chain and black brogue boots.
Never too late for attire, is it?

He had spent a great amount of time studying the facial features and expressions of the angel, but as he broke eye-contact through the halted step, Archie's eyes darted downwards, taking in the pinstriped three-piece suit. This guy clearly had good taste; expensive too if he was to judge by the look of the fabric and the immaculate shine of the shoes. Then again, he wouldn't have envisioned otherwise from someone with such overpowering confidence and clear self-importance.
The scoff was obvious enough for him to divert his eyes back onto the disapproving look that was being sent his way, lightly raising an eyebrow as he did so. Normally, he would have never granted anyone the satisfaction of seeing his eyes flicker, but as the angel reached for his inner pocket - a well-known pocket to store a weapon - the old Banshee found his eyes following the hand movement and the raised eyebrow fell down and knitted into a small 'v' in his forehead. Had he so severely misjudged his character; and was this guy stupid enough to attempt to do something as dull as pointing a weapon at him? The disappointment quickly faded, as the grip on the weapon clearly wasn't meant for attack. Instead, his face loosened up and fell back into the usual impassiveness.
The lightshow was clearly meant to impress, but Archie's face didn't move a muscle. It could easily have fitted into an informative statement of 'a Colt 1911 with a golden handle' and he would have known exactly what the matter was about, even if he hadn't known the second, he'd felt the wholesome angelic aura.

It was admittedly a beautiful showcase of an even more beautiful weapon. Had Archie come across such firearm at a younger age he would have been more tempted to keep it than sell it, but that had drastically changed. Money was a lot less tricky to keep around for longer and people usually didn't come looking for it.
Usually he would have wanted such a particularly powerful weapon out of the way as quickly as possible but he had found himself letting worry creep up on him, wanting to confirm just how powerful it was which had proven more difficult than he had made room for, and so there had been a slight delay in the sale. Hearing that it apparently belonged to Heaven - not just a heavenly or holy being but actually to Heaven itself as he had been told; Archie had not been sure of what to do with it. Though in the end it posed no excessive threat to himself – he had taken his own precautions to make sure - it did so to most of his family and his associates, but in the end the cons of keeping it had outweighed the pros and he had finally put word out that he was selling it. To his great regret it now seemed he should indeed have been faster.

The banshee had not applauded nor identified any recognition of the fact that this angel had apparently created the weapon in question, nor had he signalled any acknowledgement of its existence. His eyes only made their way back to the green eyes when the deep voice spoke again.
Injudicious? Archie's left eyebrow lifted and with the continuation of the sentence, it fell back down and turned into an annoyed frown. He shook his head at the smug tone of condensation and finally, slowly closed the book on his lap, placing it on the sidetable with the whiskey and reached to take the cigarette that had been placed between his lips. He lifted his crossed legs, placed both feet on the dark, wooden floor and leaned forward with his elbows rested on his knees, folding his hands in front of him with the cigarette between the index and middle finger. Injudicious!? "T’would also be very injudicious of yerself to break into me house, but ‘ere we are, eh?” The calm voice had grown a sharp edge.
He flicked the ashes off the cigarette before he drew the last draw, placing the burning end into a delicate glass ashtray and blew out the remain of the smoke after having inhaled it and moved back to fold his hands, firmly locking his eyes with the aggravating angel. “The war has kept us all busy. T’is a pity you’ve misplaced yer precious weapon, but t’is really of no grave concern to me.” He paused his words and dragged the pause slightly, before adding an encouraging ‘Mr.?’, urging him to finally introduce himself. He clearly thought himself important enough for Archie to know of him and it frankly was getting annoying not know exactly who this audacious guy was. The nerve of this guy was unbelievable. Had he no concept of how the real world worked?

**Antal indlæg** : 652

The man had no distinguishable reaction to his exhibition of skill. His eyes didn’t change in recognition. His head didn’t move closer in intrigue. His lineaments didn’t frown in confusion or denial. So, it seemed he already was aware of the weapon in mention. Disappointing as this was, he was at least consoled by the fact that he knew of it and that there now could be no doubt as to what he was after.
It was apparent from the annoyed frown and the headshaking that Mr. Barnes had taken offense by his sentence, so he wasn't surprised when he made a point of the way the angel had arrived. He sighed and glanced towards the windows where the rain fell heavy and melodious. He wouldn’t have needed to break into his house, had he thought he’d have a sensible conversation about this on his own account. Besides, there were more important things in life than to appear kindly in front of a criminal who most likely could care less either way. Not that he usually condemned thieves, because there were inequalities in society that contributed to such acts. But deliberately stealing something from Heaven was beyond that. So here they were, indeed.

He stepped leisurely across the floor until he reached a matching chinoiserie table and let his fingertips glide across the surface while his gaze studied its intricate details. Admittedly, he realized the respect he must have felt lacking for showing up in his house only to make demands. He was simply used to giving orders and having them obeyed; to ask and receive. But he didn’t mean to cause friction to the existing tension between them. That would only hinder his current objective. “I do apologize for intruding on your privacy in this manner, Mr. Barnes. But it is an affair I had to deal with immediately,” he said as he glanced to the stern banshee. Even if there hardly was going to be much of a friendly exchange of words between them, he’d much prefer if there stayed a degree of politeness and respect in the air. Besides, this was often the most efficient way of handling these types of problems. He sat down in the chair next to the side table which he’d just admired, leaned back, and placed each arm on the armrests.
Either way, the banshee couldn’t possibly think it that big of a deal. He was the one who had done wrong by the archangel in the first place. If he hadn’t, Michael wouldn’t have thought to trespass. Moreover, he couldn’t have expected that Heaven of all entities would let him get away with such crime. He could of course have thought the weapon belonged to some low-ranking angel on Earth because there were others like it from appearance alone. But that still didn’t excuse his disinclination to cooperate after he’d learned the truth.

Yes, the war had kept everyone busy. But one could argue in what way. Michael’s gaze lifted to the grand library, knowing well what applied for the banshee. His business had only flourished during the war. When he claimed that it was of no grave concern to him, his gaze fell back to him with a subtle raise of the brow. He was quick to express his defiance. But it didn’t discourage Michael. He was used to facing much worse adversity and could be incredibly persistent.
After a pause, he added an inquiry to know who he was. It had been another unintended incivility. Because it hadn’t been important to him if he knew who he was or not. “Michael Sanctius,” he introduced himself. At this point, he had no expectation of Archibald Barnes to know of the archangels. Nor was he religious, for if he were, he’d surely passed on the information of his weapon by now. He tilted his head slightly as he looked at him, wondering if his name had been mentioned in connection to the run-in of their subordinates.
“There must be something I can do to make it a concern to you.” Speaking of how it posed a serious danger to society would hardly gain his sympathy, so he went with the safer bet of speaking to his self-interest. As much as he wished to demand its recovery without negotiation, the weapon rightfully being his, he also understood how this man operated. And if there was something he desired in return for his help, he was at least willing to consider it.

Emne: Sv: The Fortunes of War Man Apr 11, 2022 3:02 pm

Mentally prepared for a sharp reply, Archie had to hastily come to terms with having misjudged the situation severely. As the angel stepped forward, it was instead a collected politeness that met the banshee; and an added apology. Archie rarely offered apologies and had no real regard or respect for them, but a mellow acceptance caused him to reply with a nod. He could see it evidently in the angel’s eyes; the sincerity of the sentence, and he understood it. Knowing of the weapon, as he did, he could only imagine the stress its apparent creator must’ve felt. It also made him realize that his immediate judgement of the weapon had been correct and that the hesitation to put it on the market had been a good call.
The angel sat down and somehow those past few minutes had changed the atmosphere in the room. The built up anger that the Banshee had slowly let seep out, self-contained, and the small acknowledgement of the angel having said his apology had instantly made Archie feel slightly less concerned.
Never parley on your back foot. And indeed he wasn’t on the back foot today, he tought, as he slowly straightened his back again. He was the one with the weapon after all, and by the look of it, a bargain would not be an entirely bad idea.
Michael Sanctius.
A curious head tilt was a clear indication that the angel either expected Archie to know of the name and expected some emotional reaction to it. The name, as unfortunate as it was, hadn’t been one to ever come up in conversation, but was the most obviously angelic name that he could have ever come up with. The Holy Michael. Holy without a doubt; and strong too, it was a fleeting thought that hit him of stories he’d heard, but they stubbornly got pushed away to the back of his mind. He wasn’t one to assume. There were quite possibly millions of Angels named Michael.
“Right,” he added, breaking the mellow silence he had let fall over the room. “A glass of whiskey, then, Michael?” Seemingly a rhetorical question as he did not wait for the reply before pushing himself up from the armchair, grabbing his own glass before crossing the floor towards a small open bar cupboard.
The crystal glasses were surprisingly heavy and sturdy for such delicate details, and as he poured a generous amount of golden liquid into them, the angel spoke again.
There it was. The parley.

Luckily, Archibald Barnes was intelligent enough to understand the game, its rules and most importantly its limitations; he was a businessman and was fairly quick to see opportunity where others would see defeat. He also knew how to choose his battles and was nowhere near as foolish at it as some would believe. As a matter of fact, he was very well aware of the hierarchy that surrounded him, and the fact that there was a good amount of space between himself and who would be considered 'the top'. The intruding angel clearly wasn't faking it - there was absolutely no doubt about that - but that also meant that he was fairly certain that if he wasn't careful, the angel wouldn't hesitate to strike mercilessly. The few holy beings he had met, not that he had met many, seemed to have a certain apathy and feeling of superiority towards those deemed 'unpure' or 'unworthy' and would quickly reach a conclusion that whatever pain they'd cause, they had caused in the name of the Lord.
Meant you had to be careful with them, is what that did, Archie thought, still keeping his eyes firmly placed on the angel. He knew very well, that he was not on any list that would ever grant him access to Heaven, if such a place even existed, and so didn’t doubt for a second that formerly mentioned apathy could easily apply to himself.
“I’m sure we could find an arrangement,” he spoke, placing the bottle back on the bar table and walking back to the powerful being that sat in his favourite armchair and placed the glass on the round chinoiserie table.
First, there was a business to be cleared, so as Archie sat back down and placed his own glass back on the table, he fished his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit it up in a swift movement. The smoke blew into the air, momentarily clouding the fine wrinkles in his worn face. “Now, who sent ye ‘ere, Michael, ‘cause I’ll need a word with this person.”

**Antal indlæg** : 652

A quiet settled in the room, diluting some of the heaviness and skepticism that his presence had brought with it. Enhanced by the closer proximity of his aura, the banshee should feel more at ease. Assured by his decision to let him stay. Not that he had any reason to be less wary of him, but if he could accept his business here and see the sense in coming to an agreement, things would turn out more favorable for both of them.
His jaw tightened at the sound of his name. He hadn’t expected the banshee to skip past the formality of addressing him by last name or title, but it was one way to level out their respective standings. Handling the affair like equals, not pretending that they were anything but that in here. Despite his initial disdain for this, he quickly shoved it aside and tipped his head, accepting his offer of a drink. He cared little for it with the direction this was headed. The simple gesture—even if it mostly was based on an intention to fill his own glass—meant exactly what he’d hoped to gain. That the first few moments of disinclination had passed, and that it was in his best interest to hear him out.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he replied. Anything less than agreeing to negotiate would be unwise, but that hadn’t come in the way of others in the past. So, naturally, this pleased him. Michael had no problem taking what he deemed right by force, but it was never his first choice. Even though he usually was reluctant to help men like him, crossing such lines could be a small price to pay. His hand wrapped around the crystal glass placed next to him before he raised it to his lips. Caramel, oak, and orange zest with gentle hints of smoke. For someone who didn’t experience the effects of alcohol, he had come to appreciate the complexity and variation of flavors found within the invention. Once the banshee broke the silence, he placed the glass back on the table, slightly dragging out the time. He understood why he wanted the name of the person who’d been at fault for the discovery. He had wanted to keep his agenda hidden to avoid a situation like this and if it was a mistake on anyone’s part, he wanted to address that to prevent it from happening again. But truth was, there was no such thing as keeping things hidden from heaven. Not if they dedicated enough resources to find it. “Destiny.” He was only half-joking as he said it because in his mind there was no way around it. He couldn’t disclose any information that’d lead him to his spy, who ultimately was the one who sent him here. And if he were to tell him the name of the associate he was in contact with, that’d make it that much easier for him to reveal his identity. The risk was part of the job description, but nevertheless, it was his job to protect his employees and there was no way he’d compromise on their safety. “I can assure you that your employee only did their job, so if you want to blame anyone, blame the person who falsely assessed the weapon. Blame yourself for keeping it. Hell, blame me for losing it. But just know that there wasn’t much you could have done to prevent me from wanting it back.” Coming from someone who frequently reprimanded angels who defied or strayed from their laws or commands, he didn’t see a need for it in this case. What happened was inevitable. It hadn’t been caused by any obvious mistake other than taking a heavenly possession in the first place. Maybe someone had been outsmarted in the process, but that could happen to anyone. “Or I don’t know… don’t deal with illegal, hazardous goods,” he suggested with a shrug and leaned back in his seat, a tad smug. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that this was his opinion. It was what any old angel would say. With this man’s intelligence and talent, it should be a swift deal to convert his business into something legal. It’d be less profitable to be sure, but also far less perilous.

“So, regarding the arrangement. Is it knowledge you seek?” His question might have been indicative of it, though it could as well have been a sidetrack—him trying to figure out what had happened so he could prevent a similar incident from occurring. An impossible task. He tilted his head vaguely as if contemplating what knowledge someone like him would be interested in. Michael wasn’t omniscient like his father, but it didn’t get much better than asking one of the first creations of this world. Not so much because he harbored it all himself—he wasn’t half as academic as many of his siblings—but because he knew exactly where to find it.