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30th.Jan.2006 | 10:28 pm
mood: Complaining
posted by: azangkaa in angel_diaries

Tuesday wasn't home, but I really want to talk to him. So I've stayed and waited. The flat is freezing, and as bleak and grey as outside. The rain has been coming down the wall again. The bucket will overflow soon. The computer is worryingly damp-looking.

I have searched the internet for recent references to the Raven and his followers: nothing. Didn't really expect anything, but I can't think what else to do until Aza gets back.

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29th.Jan.2006 | 12:13 pm
mood: worriedworried
music: None.
posted by: azangkaa in angel_diaries

I'm sitting in an internet cafe, on the main road near our flat. What's an internet cafe doing open in an inner city on a Sunday? Not a clue. Judging by the battered look of the machines and the paintwork, they need all the custom they can get.

I woke up some time on Thursday morning - not long before light. Tuesday was sleeping. He'd cleaned off the blood - as he always does- but I could still smell it in the room. I knew we hadn't talked in ages... But somehow, I wasn't in the mood to face another conversation, especially not with that hanging in the air around us. I wandered out into the granite-grey morning and disappeared. It's perhaps not the best thing to do in such situations, but four thousand years in this bloody place have taught me that it's the easiest.

I wandered throughout the morning. At some point in the late afternoon I saw, walking out of an office block, the man who had passed me by on Wednesday morning. The black suit he was wearing was a cheap cut, but he carried it well. On his way up, without doubt - at least in his own eyes. I followed him. He was intriguing - people always are, and he provided a nice diversion from the eternal business of living.

He rendezvoused was some girl in a side-street café after about half and hour. All smiles. It was boring, really. I was on the point on giving up on his ever doing anything interesting when he tipped the waiter five hundred quid. She was in the toilet at this point. Just after she’d gone, the waiter – a guy of maybe fifty, with brown receding hairline – had walked very quickly across to their table. I realised after that he must have been watching them carefully for a chance to speak to the young man alone. The man presented his credit card as he handed back the bill, along with the ‘tip’. Ten, crisp fiftys. I counted them as the waiter did. A nod, and they separated. The transaction had been entirely wordless, taking place in less than a minute. Intriguing indeed.

A few hours later, I spoke to the man. I don’t remember what he said his name was; I wasn’t listening that hard, just guiding through the pleasantries. We were sitting at a bar – nothing interesting, all very mid-market – and I had bought him a drink. He was already slightly tipsy – they none of them can hold their drink these days – and was rambling pleasantly through some uninteresting story. I think it was about a taxi driver.

I was starting to wonder if I would find anything out like this, as he was keeping any personal information very close, when he suddenly slammed his drink down on the table in front of him and stopped talking. I looked up at him, somewhat surprised. He looked around, shiftily, before saying You’re not a fucking queer, are you? His speech wasn’t yet slurred from the alcohol, but it had that clumsy, over-confident edge. I assured him he nothing to worry about from me and bought him another drink, but comments like that piss me off. I’ve never been entirely sure where that particular prejudice came from. Not from our side, certainly.

Anyway, I led the conversation on from there. With the easy flowing drink, it wasn’t so hard to draw out a few interesting pieces of information. He was an ‘underground political idealist’ (his own words). His particular political ideals involved driving out anyone not provably British for ten generations, and ‘removal’ of anyone that didn’t quite fit his personal moral system: queers, dykes, Muslims, blacks. That cream Neo-Nazi scum that people like the BNP seem to be breeding with horrible success in the high-power business gutters of today’s Britain.

At last, we wandered out and said our goodbyes. I had long worked out what would most perfectly humiliate such a man as this. I halted him, a hand to his shoulder, and met his eyes. I drew and blew out a breath imbued with magic like warmth on the cold night air, and blew a kiss at him. Even as I turned, I saw his stricken face colour deeply, and his hand slammed to cover his swelling shame. He couldn’t take his eyes off mine, though. Hah. That’s one memory that will torture him for a while yet. They told us not to punish, to let God deal with the sinners. Well, I’ve been there, and it’s not a system that I trust.

The next couple of days were inconsequential. I was almost home when I saw a body in the gutter. Not a drunk, this time. The blood had been washed away from his lips by rainwater, but I could tell anyway. A brief look showed that he had been run through the chest. A sword-wound if I ever saw one. And his thumbs had been cut off: the sign of the Raven. He was deep in the shadows of a side alley – no-one would find him here for weeks, and they would have cleared away such evidence long before. I left him: no point in messing with them so directly. But it will need dealing with.

I wonder if Tuesday will be home?

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28th.Jan.2006 | 05:58 pm
mood: draineddrained
music: My Dying Bride - From Darkest Skies
posted by: azusaanga in angel_diaries

Oh, sweetness. The Lilim presented far more of a challenge than I expected. My original recon had only indicated that there were about nine or ten of the bastardlings. When I smashed in through their window, there were a lot more. A fuckload more. Twenty-one, when I finally counted the corpses.

Not that it was there numbers that bothered me. No, it was the fact that two of the pitiful bunch had stayed off the smack long enough to learn some bastardised Wiccan/Ars Goetia sorcery, and had set up a patchwork of wards against angels. So as soon as I entered their lair, it felt as if someone whacked the inside of my head with a sledgehammer. After that, facing a bunch of vicious demonlings with little interest in self preservation got quite a bit harder.

I killed them eventually, but not before getting punched, bitten and stabbed multiple times. It took a little magic of my own to take down the two sorcerers; they had hidden themselves inside their protective circle, which I had to unweave before I could get at them. Still, they died bravely enough.

After that, their magicks came apart pretty easily, but the crushing headache they had inflicted on me did not dissipate. Bleeding quite badly, I limped back home. Azan was there, passed out in one of his bloody opium circles. He's as bad as the fucking Lilim.

I slipped into bed, and passed out into the healing coma. About four hours ago, I woke up. My wounds had healed, and the headache had passed, but Azan was nowhere to be seen. Again. What is that, two weeks now since we've spoken face to face, friend?

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25th.Jan.2006 | 08:51 pm
mood: Blank
music: Silence
posted by: azangkaa in angel_diaries

Somehow, I reckon I'm starting to like Britain. Of all the places you could wake up in the gutter, with a mind-raping headache, it has to be the best. Whatever you see first as you open your eyes just always seems perfectly to fit the hangover mood. I was woken - somepoint today, not sure when - by the water dripping onto my face from the slightly overhanging house above. Bloody lovely. Judging by my head, and my general level of dehydration, I must have got hold of considerably more than just that vodka. For some reason, I can't remember what, when, or how, though...

After about half an hour, someone walked by. It was a young guy - maybe twenty? - quite attractive. Mid-length curly dark hair framed a face I couldnt't see for glare. Been staring at the sky too long. He looked at me with curiosity and - I'll admit, perfectly justified - disgust, before skirting around me and on. Hmm. Probably a sign I should be getting up and doing something about myself.

I got home maybe another hour after that. I walked the streets for a bit, trying to clear my head with far-from-clear city air. On the way back to the house, I passed a burning one. Thankfully the days' of rain have soaked everything, and the fire had all but spent itself, leaving only blackened rims like eyeshadow around two of the windows. Not entirely sure whether I care if people were in there or not. I'd quite like to believe that I wish the wasn't anyone.

And now I'm back. The computer's off - good - but the window's open and it's fucking freezing. But there's still a warm patch on the bed, bedclothes strewn outward from it. Tuesday can't have been gone long. Off to murder another bunch of the Lord of the Flies' shit-spawn, no doubt. Well, each to their own. Can't see the bloody point myself. Still, I wish I hadn't missed him. I never seem to see him these days.

Oh well. Hopefully he'll be back at somepoint tonight. I've drawn a chalk circle on the floor, and lit a stick of the Indian AD1432 Bahmani Dynasty inscence. You can't get stuff of this quality these days. It's become a cheap new-age fasion accessory. Back then they knew how to make it strong - along with what I infused into it myself. I love that slightly sweet edge to the smell of opium. I'm going to meditate for a bit. Ridiculous, I know. Mixing cultures. But hey. It's a headache cure that's always worked for me.

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25th.Jan.2006 | 07:25 pm
mood: coldcold
posted by: azusaanga in angel_diaries

Azan and I have spent too long in Britain: all we talk about is the weather. Not that I have spoken to Azan for several days, he's always been out somewhere, or asleep. I guess it must be him that put out the buckets. I honestly had not noticed that the roof was leaking. That worries me slightly.

I have spent all day inside, wrapped up in blankets, shivering. It is cold, very cold. I don't think we could afford to pay the gas bill, so we have had no heating. I just kept sharpening my sword, in an attempt to keep myself warm.

Now that the sun has fallen, it has warmed up. Odd, that. A couple of streets away, a house has caught alight. The sound of sirens fills the air. It is most disturbing, and I can't concentrate. I think I might go kill something.

Yesterday, I sniffed out a lair of Lilim, squatting in an abandoned apartment a few blocks away. The stupid things have gone and got themselves hooked on heroin. Not that I'm judging, I've spent a couple of decades as a junky. But little half-demons don't have anything like the willpower of an angel, and they've taken to thieving to feed their addiction. They really need to be put out of their misery.

Normally, I'd wait for Azan, but as he doesn't seem to be around, I'm sure that I'm capable of ending the pathetic bastards myself. My sword is certainly sharp enough.

And I'll remember to switch off the computer, Azan. But don't you think my little messages are cute?

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24th.Jan.2006 | 10:15 pm
mood: frustratedfrustrated
music: Nirvana - The Man Who Sold the World
posted by: azangkaa in angel_diaries

I got back to the flat as it was getting dark this evening. The rain came back, just as predicted, and it's still chucking it down out there. When I got back here the buckets had long overflowed, and the wood flooring has brown-black water stains all along the edge. The bloody window was left open as well. The water will be dripping through and we'll get an irate visit from the old guy who lives underneath us. No sign of Tuesday.

The computer was on when I came in - far enough away from the window, thankfully. Cheap-site blue text on a white background glared out of the screen:

An Interview With An Angel
Learn how angels can help you in life in this channeled conversation with Archangel Raphael

Ha-fucking-ha. Sometimes I wonder how I manage to live in this riduclous place. Thankfully, I have some vodka left in the bottom of the bottle. Don't know where it's from, or when. Oh well.

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23rd.Jan.2006 | 05:40 pm
mood: Claustrophobic
music: Thursday - Paris in Flames
posted by: azangkaa in angel_diaries

The rain finally stopped this evening. Azusaanga doesn't seem to notice the water coming in along the edges of the roof, but it's getting worse. I put a couple of buckets I scrounged off the landlord, Zack (his real surname's Zając, but he's under the probably correct impression that the English pronounciation of it would be too upsetting), to catch the drips. The wall has unpleasant grey-green tinged streaks across the white, and the paper's peeling off all along the edges. I must've been to Zack a hundred times in the last four months, but he never seems to get around to doing anything about it. Perhaps he honestly can't afford to - who knows.

The clouds are already regrouping on the skyline: the grey on grey on grey cityscape that only England has truly perfected. I reckon we'll have rain again by this evening. I've got to escape this bloody flat tonight.

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22nd.Jan.2006 | 06:31 pm
mood: gloomygloomy
music: Fields of the Nephilim - Mourning Sun
posted by: azusaanga in angel_diaries

It is raining. I am poor. And I have run out of cigarettes.

All in all, this is turning out to be a pretty shitty century. Now the twentieth century, THAT was fun. They invented rock music. The Germans succeeded in losing two world wars. The Faerie Realm closed its borders. Communism stayed far away in Russia. Al demons found new professions in abortion clinics. They created Acid. People looked to be accepting atheism as a decent life choice.

So far, however, the twenty-first century is turning out to be a big disappointment. They greatest human threat to the world are religious fanatics. And Muslims extremists. The music is dire, and its looks like I might not be able to smoke in a club soon. The Lilim are getting uppity (although a few random massacres does make for a diversion from the humdrum of existence), and what’s more, Heaven is taking an interest in the Nameless again.

On the plus side, Fields of the Nephilim released a new album...

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