DEVIL’S INFLUENCE + VISITING

[toboggan]

The choice had been made, a choice which may have been depraved of forethought. The angelic creature bid his exotic home of the Typhoon farewell, departing the luxurious isles to fly. But where was his destination, precisely? That question remained unanswered once he had first taken off, though now, it appeared quite clear; Tanglewood, or whatever the swampy tribe had called themselves. For one to detach themselves from a paradise-like locality in search of a repulsive biome such as a morass, it would have to take a fair amount of stupidity, or good reason; it had been a bit of both, in truth. In all actuality, it was not the group which he yearned for, but an individual - a specific phantom for which he had very strong ties to. Was it smart to converse with a group not on the Typhoon’s allies list? Perhaps not.

Kilometres of violent ocean had come to pass when the angel spotted land. A shore, the lynx judged as his altitude lowered. It was one kept in careful condition, and upon closer inspection, one could see that the sights matched exactly what Marco desiderated: a plentitude of quag, joint with hints of civilization. And, of course, not to mention his clairvoyance, that practically drove the fibrous feline in his decision-making and opinions, has been thrust into a frenzy lustful for results.

No sooner than he caught glimpse of the place, he touched base with a just magnitude of grace. Once the dust settled, his surroundings revealed that where he stood were the outskirts of a community with an aesthetic comparable to those he’d seen in his early days of angelhood. It was within these looming trees and murky bogs, he’d find his brother, Beck, and he was sure of it.

+ rushed because of my draining battery!

[VIGENERE CIPHER.]

[beck.]

    It was mere poltergeist nature to aimlessly roam. Never lingering long enough to tie himself into meaningful bonds, always remaining long enough to damage at least someone or something. Unlike his estranged kin, he was never fond of the tropics. Too stickily humid, too sandy, too... exotic, he supposed. Discomfort resulted in the boy fleeing from yet another group he would soon forget the existence of along with its unwelcoming residents. But Tanglewood? Tanglewood drew him back like the moon pulled the tides closer into a temporary embrace, clearing the isolated haze in his mind as though a natural remedy. Mud, filth, cicadas, rivers, shadows, lilypads, alligators; he wasn't shy to admit he adored it all for its familiarity. A properly hated swamp for a hated creature.

      Yet the poltergeist was unaware of equally beckoning the holy entity, slipping from his grasp as soon as it seemed the angel's fingers would close around him like a minnow disappearing into a silvery stream. Not that he cared about evading his brother's efforts in the first place; nobody really mattered enough for him to care at all, as his personal mantra told him. Mortals were all finite anyways, but they were entertaining to observe. Slumped against the stairs of a decrepit porch fashioned from a cypress chopped and carved decades ago, Beck bemused himself by arranging the most recent leftover bones and teeth from Audrey's meal into a string, mindlessly crafting a barbaric necklace he would bestow to the first creature that walked by when he was finished. The thud of a familiar scent's landing disturbed his work, earning a frustrated snarl as bandaged paws clumsily strung the prey bone fragments back onto his wire once again. When Vigenere strolled past, he looked up to glare in his direction out of pure spite, only for nearsighted eyes to lock onto the lynx he was approaching instead. The scrawny feline scrambled, tentatively resting his bone chain on the porch step before limping after the captain, curiosity snatching his attention away. The recognizable burning of the halo's glow kept him from staring directly at Marco for too long, yet he peered out from behind the taller serval, nose flaring as he sniffed at the air. Through Vigenere's sulfuric musk, he remembered the haybale-and-wine of Marco from a foggy memory, and he shyly wheezed with suspicion lacing his stuttered words, "Di-id ya follow me?"

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[toboggan]

For a local to virtually immediately herald his presence, Marco’s dense cheeks sloped upwards into a smile, marginally pushing his eyes into a position which was barely more than a squint. Not a touch of hostility resided in this fellow, nay, he could see it clearly through those olive hues of his. Instead of exhibiting aggression or a foul attitude, like what was shown by some of those attendant on his first day in the Typhoon, the yellow-ish inhabitant of Tanglewood provided an aura of harmless eagerness. Compared to what he had seen firsthand back at home, if he could call the tropical isles that, the angel heeded the native’s conduct as acts of hospitality. Thus, the lynx happily complied, and without hesitation, he’d answer the feline’s query.

"Hello to you, as well," he’d return in a rather pure tone, ”my name is Marco Dragomir, and I have come to your pleasant little operation here in search of a specific individual, whom I believe is lodging here?”

The large feline had paused, allowing his introducion to sink into the creature’s mind, ere he continued to speak. However, the chance to resume never came; the noggin of none other than his older brother had timidly peered out from the backside of the male that Marco had been previously gabbing with. Riveted by this, as well as being somewhat awestruck, the right brow from his own mug flung up in an enticed manner. Either insatiable luck had been on his side, or that boisterous clairvoyance has been right all along.

Did he follow him? Had the lynx trailed his sibling across land and sea to unite with him? Indeed he had. It would be a lie to reply with a “no”, and he was not a dishonest man. Though, another thing to consider was if Beck would appreciate the truth. Would the ghost welcome the fact, or would he turn up his translucent snout and accuse him of being a creep? He did not know. There was no definitive score in view at the current time, only theories. Deep down, he had faith in Beck, in that, as a brother, he’d embrace the angel’s occupancy.

Shooting a nod to the other male, as if to state that the ”specific individual” was in view, he’d then shift the entirety of his focus unto the poltergeist. ”I do believe that I have followed you here, Beck. The others may not have entirely appreciated my decision (or my existence there in the first place), but I could care less about them right now.” It was true, not everybody in the Typhoon were exactly head-over-heels for an angel; especially the demonic folk, like a certain male at hand on the eve of his departure. If he hadn’t felt that he owed them labour in return for allowing his squatting, Marco likely would not return. Yet, he felt exactly that way, and things were to go as planned. Persisting with a playful shrug, he’d glare at Beck once again to speak. ”I’ve finally found you after decades of searching, and you slip out of my grasp once more. Can I count on you staying here so we could possibly have a conversation? Or are you planning to take yet another trip somewhere?”

[beck.]

    Any rememberance of the brother had been stolen by her protective hand, leaving nothing but the hazy sense of an anonymous sibling missing an identity. He didn't want to remember Marco and the pain that followed the mention of the younger boy; not the smoldering field of trampled wheat and bodies, not the flickering embers stinging his knees, not the way blood trickled from under raven hair and drizzled down a tanned forehead, not the hitching breaths fending off sobs as his little brother rolled his eyes back and fell limp. It was a selfish act when he reflected back -- god, why was he so selfish? He forced himself to forget in exchange for relief, burying anything related to his family only to lament over being forgotten himself.

    Scarcely anything about the lynx before him screamed "long lost brother" to the little ghost, albeit his name sent a pang of nostalgia through him. Two creatures could not be so different as they were, inside and out. Marco was everything Beck could never be: tall, strong, attractive, polite, confident... his list could go on for another eternity. Scrunching his nose as the divine entity turned his olive gaze on him, the poltergeist curled his bloodless lip at the response. Following? People that followed him typically sought to either capture or kill him, as prior experience mournfully warned. Don't trust him, Becky. He's an angel -- ya know what angels are s'posed to do to things like us. Beck sucked in a hollow breath at the voice hissing in his ear. As much as he hated to admit, the other was right. Fuck it, this was the most interesting event to happen this week and boredom was threatening to make him snap. Visibly gnawing his tongue as he grasped for the correct words to piece into the sentence jigsaw, the poltergeist settled upon a vague rasp, "Dunno. Just go whe-ere the wind, wind takes me, I guess." He paused to arch his back, twitching his flanks to satiate a tic before casting a glance back towards the town he founded. "But I'm, um, stayin' l-longer than usual." After all, he had nothing better to do.

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