aziraphale, guardian of the eastern gate (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
atreefull) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
felldenlogs2019-11-05 10:27 am
atreefull) wrote in felldenlogs2019-11-05 10:27 am
Entry tags:
CLOSED, QUEST; this party's just another haunted house
WHO: Aziraphale + NPCs
WHAT: Aziraphale travels to the manor in the Western Isles in search for answers and, of course, a book.
WHERE: The Western Isles.
WHEN: The end of October/Early November.
WARNINGS: Blood, murder.
Travel to the manor in the Western Isles alone. Step only in the library. What you seek will be waiting.
Aziraphale would be the first to admit that he is slow to adapt, that he likes what's comfortable, and that Fellden is directly challenging him in so many ways that he deeply dislikes. Humanity has made him feel helpless before — they're good at that, at finding new ways to be cruel to each other, and little miracles only help so much — but everyone is suffering at the hands of something he doesn't know. He cannot help in the way that he wants to, in the ways that he should be able to; so when all is clear and done and everyone is left picking up the pieces, Aziraphale makes sure to keep the bookshop open. It's a little thing, a small thing, but if he can offer one place as a safe haven it will have to be enough.
It's hard to shake the idea that the cards are stacked against them, against this world. Unlike Earth, where he knew and dwelled secure in the knowledge that the Almighty was watching over them all.
He doesn't expect the letter, or the person who brings it. Crowley wouldn't bother sending something like that when they have their compasses or when he could simply swing by in person. The letter is short, to the point, and when he looks up to find the courier to send a reply, they're simply not there anymore. His eyes drift back to the words — The Western Isles; a place he hasn't been to yet, having no reason to. Well, there's a first time for everything.
Tucking the letter into his coat, Aziraphale makes his excuses to the shop owner of why he's leaving early in the day. They're kind, kind enough to give him the time off without pressing further — something Aziraphale appreciates, considering he's nervous enough as it is. Traveling back home had always come with a sort of understanding that he has seen quite a lot, and that there aren't many places he hasn't been. A quick stop in Auckland, a nip on over to Santiago after — it's nothing new, he knows what to expect from every corner of the world almost. And delights in each part of it, of course. It's Earth, created by Her hand and Her will, and filled with impossible, wonderful things.
Fellden…. well, Aziraphale still doesn't really know what to make of Fellden. He can only assume that he was meant to be here, for some reason. Some ineffable reason; why else would he and Crowley have arrived at the same time? That he's taken it upon himself to find the truth, to find a way to save all worlds, to save the things he loves, well. That would have been a given. He's done a lot within the past, oh, year, to do exactly that. To save books, good food, and the potential of holding Crowley's hand once more. That much, at least, hasn't changed.
So Aziraphale makes his way to the Western Isles, to the dwarves and their lands. The mirrors are hardly his favorite choice of transportation, but teleporting still only seems to work with any measure of success in short distances. It doesn't remind him of anything else on Earth or Upstairs — they always simply traveled up stairs and there he was, surrounded by white and emptiness. Earth had always felt, well. Better. Just the right amount of crowded and busy and full of life instead of empty. He'd always, in his heart of hearts, felt more at home there than Heaven itself — a secret he's kept wrapped up inside of him.
Traveling amongst the dwarves gives him the same feeling, as if he's out of place amongst their grand inventions — dressed in his cremes and tartan — and the looks they send his way do nothing to soothe his nerves. Twisting in his anxious way, he makes the sort of empty pleasantries that humans expect before catching a glimpse of his destination.
It is unlike anything he's seen on Earth except for those images captured by the imaginations of humans, and it makes him so curious the feeling burns in his chest bright and aching. Fellden, at least, has done its best to teach him that nothing is impossible.
Abandoned, perhaps? Or perhaps not — he can't say for certain even as he knocks and gets no response from anyone inside. But it doesn't feel as if it has been left alone. And when he steps inside that feeling only grows stronger; there is something here. He takes a step off to a side room, curious, only the moment that he tries there is a resounding everything that seems to tell him that he shouldn't. A force so powerful and overwhelming that for a moment Aziraphale thinks it might be Her.
Perhaps it is.
It's enough that he heeds it and keeps on his path to the library. Opening the door, he cannot imagine what might be there — or how much time he might need to spend in it to find all that he wants to know.
It isn't what he expected.
Mostly because there aren't any books, and he looks around, dismayed. Did the letter writer intend to send him on a wild goose chase? It wouldn't be the first time, he admits, but he'd hoped for… well, for anything but this. Wandering to a shelf, Aziraphale drags a finger through the dust — it's been ages, surely, but where did they all go?
He wanders around the library, looking in nooks and crannies for some sort of hint if he's missed something, anything. Nothing, and he's about to turn and take his leave when he feels the rush of displaced wind of something just materializing in thin air, displacing it. Ah, he thinks, and reaches for the book in front of him. This, this is what he's been looking for.
Excitement takes over and Aziraphale simply flips it open then and there, eager to read as much as he can as quickly as he can. Nothing, however, seems as easy as it should be — there's nothing he can read on the pages; not in any language he's ever known to exist. And oh, he knows them all. He blinks, flipping to the front again, and sighs at the first line: Our story begins in Caph. It's something, it's more than he thought, and he tucks the book under his arm — the rest will take some time to figure out and, well. Better to take it with him so that he can take care of it rather than leave it here in the library to rot.
The day seems to be full of surprises, however, because he does not expect to find himself face to face with something that no longer has a body. Surprise runs through him, as well as a resurgence of his nerves, and he shifts from foot to foot before hazarding a greeting.
"Ah, hello? Hello. Sorry to intrude, I was just— it was this letter, you see, and—" Oh no, that won't do at all. Aziraphale sighs, and tries this again. "Hello. Might I ask, and pardon me if this seems indelicate, but… who are you?"
( 1204 )
WHAT: Aziraphale travels to the manor in the Western Isles in search for answers and, of course, a book.
WHERE: The Western Isles.
WHEN: The end of October/Early November.
WARNINGS: Blood, murder.
Aziraphale would be the first to admit that he is slow to adapt, that he likes what's comfortable, and that Fellden is directly challenging him in so many ways that he deeply dislikes. Humanity has made him feel helpless before — they're good at that, at finding new ways to be cruel to each other, and little miracles only help so much — but everyone is suffering at the hands of something he doesn't know. He cannot help in the way that he wants to, in the ways that he should be able to; so when all is clear and done and everyone is left picking up the pieces, Aziraphale makes sure to keep the bookshop open. It's a little thing, a small thing, but if he can offer one place as a safe haven it will have to be enough.
It's hard to shake the idea that the cards are stacked against them, against this world. Unlike Earth, where he knew and dwelled secure in the knowledge that the Almighty was watching over them all.
He doesn't expect the letter, or the person who brings it. Crowley wouldn't bother sending something like that when they have their compasses or when he could simply swing by in person. The letter is short, to the point, and when he looks up to find the courier to send a reply, they're simply not there anymore. His eyes drift back to the words — The Western Isles; a place he hasn't been to yet, having no reason to. Well, there's a first time for everything.
Tucking the letter into his coat, Aziraphale makes his excuses to the shop owner of why he's leaving early in the day. They're kind, kind enough to give him the time off without pressing further — something Aziraphale appreciates, considering he's nervous enough as it is. Traveling back home had always come with a sort of understanding that he has seen quite a lot, and that there aren't many places he hasn't been. A quick stop in Auckland, a nip on over to Santiago after — it's nothing new, he knows what to expect from every corner of the world almost. And delights in each part of it, of course. It's Earth, created by Her hand and Her will, and filled with impossible, wonderful things.
Fellden…. well, Aziraphale still doesn't really know what to make of Fellden. He can only assume that he was meant to be here, for some reason. Some ineffable reason; why else would he and Crowley have arrived at the same time? That he's taken it upon himself to find the truth, to find a way to save all worlds, to save the things he loves, well. That would have been a given. He's done a lot within the past, oh, year, to do exactly that. To save books, good food, and the potential of holding Crowley's hand once more. That much, at least, hasn't changed.
So Aziraphale makes his way to the Western Isles, to the dwarves and their lands. The mirrors are hardly his favorite choice of transportation, but teleporting still only seems to work with any measure of success in short distances. It doesn't remind him of anything else on Earth or Upstairs — they always simply traveled up stairs and there he was, surrounded by white and emptiness. Earth had always felt, well. Better. Just the right amount of crowded and busy and full of life instead of empty. He'd always, in his heart of hearts, felt more at home there than Heaven itself — a secret he's kept wrapped up inside of him.
Traveling amongst the dwarves gives him the same feeling, as if he's out of place amongst their grand inventions — dressed in his cremes and tartan — and the looks they send his way do nothing to soothe his nerves. Twisting in his anxious way, he makes the sort of empty pleasantries that humans expect before catching a glimpse of his destination.
It is unlike anything he's seen on Earth except for those images captured by the imaginations of humans, and it makes him so curious the feeling burns in his chest bright and aching. Fellden, at least, has done its best to teach him that nothing is impossible.
Abandoned, perhaps? Or perhaps not — he can't say for certain even as he knocks and gets no response from anyone inside. But it doesn't feel as if it has been left alone. And when he steps inside that feeling only grows stronger; there is something here. He takes a step off to a side room, curious, only the moment that he tries there is a resounding everything that seems to tell him that he shouldn't. A force so powerful and overwhelming that for a moment Aziraphale thinks it might be Her.
Perhaps it is.
It's enough that he heeds it and keeps on his path to the library. Opening the door, he cannot imagine what might be there — or how much time he might need to spend in it to find all that he wants to know.
It isn't what he expected.
Mostly because there aren't any books, and he looks around, dismayed. Did the letter writer intend to send him on a wild goose chase? It wouldn't be the first time, he admits, but he'd hoped for… well, for anything but this. Wandering to a shelf, Aziraphale drags a finger through the dust — it's been ages, surely, but where did they all go?
He wanders around the library, looking in nooks and crannies for some sort of hint if he's missed something, anything. Nothing, and he's about to turn and take his leave when he feels the rush of displaced wind of something just materializing in thin air, displacing it. Ah, he thinks, and reaches for the book in front of him. This, this is what he's been looking for.
Excitement takes over and Aziraphale simply flips it open then and there, eager to read as much as he can as quickly as he can. Nothing, however, seems as easy as it should be — there's nothing he can read on the pages; not in any language he's ever known to exist. And oh, he knows them all. He blinks, flipping to the front again, and sighs at the first line: Our story begins in Caph. It's something, it's more than he thought, and he tucks the book under his arm — the rest will take some time to figure out and, well. Better to take it with him so that he can take care of it rather than leave it here in the library to rot.
The day seems to be full of surprises, however, because he does not expect to find himself face to face with something that no longer has a body. Surprise runs through him, as well as a resurgence of his nerves, and he shifts from foot to foot before hazarding a greeting.
"Ah, hello? Hello. Sorry to intrude, I was just— it was this letter, you see, and—" Oh no, that won't do at all. Aziraphale sighs, and tries this again. "Hello. Might I ask, and pardon me if this seems indelicate, but… who are you?"