#megariel

[cast-you-dxwn]

“Can Gabriel and Satans respective fleshlights PLEASE stop having a bitching competition?”

[cast-you-dxwn]

“Oh, what is it, little starling?”

The Monster of the Host, Scourge of Hell, the Legate of the Second Legion, crouches in front of the fledgling, holding out a dark-skinned hand. Of course, Lyriel has only ever known her as Auntie Megariel, and a smile plays across her scarred face as she runs a thumb over the rock, holding it up to examine it closely.

“It looks somewhat like a bird, doesn’t it? One who has eaten far too many worms for its own good!”

Pulls on your sleeve! Here! Have this rock she found on the ground. It's kinda shaped like a fat bird.

[it-fits-i-ships]

Please enjoy this beautiful color piece of Meg and Ariel done as part of a commission by @thenamelessdoll (posted here with permission)! The necklace Meg is wearing is from my fanfic

[disneyfemslashcomics]

Thoughts on meg x ariel? (They’re one of my fav ships tbh)

I love them so!! They're one of my all time longest OTPs and one of the first things I made for this blog was the header!

Meg’s experience is a great combination with Ariel’s reckless curiosity.

[sunevial]

38 and 44 for Megariel?

38. What treasure/item/artifact that your character has collected during the adventure is the most important to them?

Well, actually it’s [redacted], but on her current adventure, she really appreciates the two little gemstones that the Captain gave her. They’re pretty and shiny and a sort of signal that maybe these people aren’t so bad after all.

44. Does your character think more with their heart or their brain?

Brain. Her line of work doesn’t take well to wanting to help people out of pity or self-sacrifice. She still does, but she’s gonna keep herself and any crew she runs with alive before she thinks about keeping them happy.

This being said. She is a known philanthropist. That’s more because she just doesn’t believe in money, despite being a thief.

[cast-you-dxwn]

Three heads raise their attention from where Saint Michael lay, the cot in the Embassy they had brought the pair to, their attention turning towards the loudspeaker that relayed Adam’s message throughout Pride.

“That sniveling little cocksuck.” Megariel snarls, pushing off of her place on the floor, immediately storming off into the barracks rooms to marshal her men.

Sarothia and Tarakiel, for their part, stand as well, but continue to look down at the injured angel before them.

Michael shifts, sitting himself up on his elbows, a sneer apparent on his lips even as the torn flesh of his cheek slowly knits back together, hiding the stark white of his teeth. “A coup. I cannot say I am shocked. Rally the Legions, Sarothia, you- ugh!”

He grimaces, and the pair reach for him, only to be waved away by a massive hand.

“Sarothia, you serve in my stead. Put this power grab down, by any means necessary. Stop any of the Fallen who wish to take Adams offer, you and I know he will not keep to his word. Tarakiel, I imagine the Legions still in Heaven are moving against this. Make contact.”

Sarothia nods, the woman donning her helmet and setting off immediately. Tarakiel, however, holds Michael’s gaze for several long, silent moments. Blue meets silver, and he seems to take a measure of the Great Saint.

Slowly, he raises a fist to his chest, bowing his head.

“It will be done, High Seraph Morningstar.”

A voice would break out across all of the Pride ring.

" Hello my former brothers and sisters! I am sure you all have noticed we have a few new fallen angels! The first proper throw aways in literal millinias! Michael just like Lucifer put himself above God, he chose who he wanted in Heaven and who to throw away to centralize his power! That is over now, and I come with the words of our holy father! All fallen Angel's save for Michael, and Lucifer are pardoned! From exorcists to the highest seraphim! Please, I implore you to return to Heaven and help me return this kingdom to the holy father! Act soon! Don't let this moment slip you by!"

[cast-you-dxwn]

A Proper Punishment for Heresy

“Allow this to be a lesson to all citizens of Heaven. None are above the law. No Archangel, Seraph, or Councilor. None are exempt from His justice.”

Michaels voice was cold, hard, dripping at the edges with fury as it rings out over the courtyard that stands before the great steps of Heavens Council hall. The bodies of those of the Council Guard who had refused to surrender had been since removed, but their ichor had dried upon the stone, gold dust that flaked off and drifted away in the wind.

“The Councilors that kneel behind me have been implicated in a plot most foul. One to tear away children from their mother, to torture them, to twist them into fodder for a war that need not come to pass. Children, my good people. Little girls not so different from those all have cherished in your life. Not so different from your own daughters, whether they be with us in Heaven or live still upon the earth. Can there be any greater crime?”

He gestures over the gathered whispering crowd with his right hand still gripping his sword, the blade still glinting both with the noon light and the still-wet ichor that drips from its tip. As though the question is not rhetorical, as though he welcomes any objection. There are none.

“You have heard it said through the mouth of the Lord Most High! You have read it in the Book and known it in your hearts!” He raises both hands as though in supplication, his eyes narrowed and his teeth bared, and they, too, are speckled with blood. “If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.”

He turns then, away from the crowd, to those accused. Twelve of them, forced to their knees, blades at their throats, each with a member of Sarothias First Legion at their backs, eyes blazing and grip white-knuckled on the hilts of their swords. The Councilors themselves are bruised and battered, their eyes distant and fearful, as though unable to comprehend what has befallen them. Remnants of their inquisition as it had been administered by Legate Megariel, though the torture had claimed the life of Councilor Farthiel soon after she had given her confession.

Unfortunate. But twelve would set as good an example.

“Arahiel, Emmachriel, Maitiel, Arinne, Phabiel, Barmeine, Baraton, Hadraziel, Qasda, Yabbariel, Amyel, Sekinnel.” Each of them flinches, or shakes, or simply closes their eyes as their names are called. Pathetic creatures, unable to face their deaths with dignity. Had they been so sure of their actions, why not gladly die for it? Their fear is as sure a sign of their guilt as any.

“You have been accused of Kidnapping, Attempted Murder, Conspiracy to Commit High Treason, High Treason Against The Kingdom, Heretical Action Unbefitting of Your Station, and Blasphemy Against the Holy Spirit.”

He reaches out, touching the flat of his sword beneath Phabiels chin to tip his face up, to look him in the eye. The Ophanim winces as the blade bites into his flesh, tiny streams of ichor collecting in the hollow of his throat. His eyes shine with tears and fear alike, but he finds no compassion in Michael’s own.

“I find you guilty of all. Your are sentenced to death by the sword, to be carried out immediately by the present soldiers of the First Legion.”

Phabiels teeth clench, and his lips part, as though to raise objection. Michael simply flicks his wrist and his blade parts the flesh of the Councilors throat as easily as it did air, whatever objection he was about to raise cutting into a whistling, strangled wheeze. His hands snap to his throat, instinct to put pressure on the wound, fingers and flesh glowing with healing magic. But his flesh burns, it does not knit back together, the terrible effects of the Seraph of Justices blade as fresh, warm ichor spills out from between his fingers like a golden waterfall to soak both the steps and Michael’s boots.

Michael watches dispassionately as Phabiel falls sideways into the rapidly growing pool of his own lifeblood, writhing and hacking and seizing, his movements growing weaker and less frenzied with every passing moment until he finally falls limp, and lays still. His open throat still weeps, and a small river of ichor once more begins to flow down the steps, much to the terrified gasps and whispering of those gathered.

The other accused gape openly at their compatriots corpse, resignation and traumatized daze broken by fresh horror as Michael raises a hand, and eleven blades press to their throats, the ichor that clings to them still fresh enough to stink.

“Add to them punishment upon punishment; may they have no acquittal from you. May He have no mercy upon your souls.”

His hand curls into a fist, and the lifeblood of angels once more stains Heavens holy brickwork.

[bluebeans1982-blog]

Friends and lovers trapped in a blizzard. Luckily they've got a mountain of firewood to burn.

[it-fits-i-ships]

mom: It’s your birthday, what do you want to watch?

my hopeless shipper ass: Little Mermaid (because Megariel) and Raya and the Last Dragon (because Rayaari)

[cast-you-dxwn]

“In His Name.”

In defiance of all of the emotion and fear Michael had shared with his brother over the past years, the Seraph of Justice is…remarkably placid, on the surface. Cool, cold, exacting. Precisely as he had been on that day so many years ago when Heaven has fallen to pieces the first time.

How had they allowed this? He wonders idly as the two fall step-in-step, the Right and Left hands of God The Almighty. They had not always agreed in all things, come to quarrel more than once. Yet Michael had always known in the end that Gabriel wants what he wants. The Light. Righteousness. Justice. Gods Will. Their charges since their creation, once more reared its head to be fulfilled.

“I believe that discord is the point. If Adam succeeds then he will be lauded as a hero, and they will attempt to bring him ever more power. If he fails then he will be a martyr, used to rally ever more support to the Warhawks aims. Clever, in their way.”

He exhales deeply through his nose, the pair cutting a truly biblical sight as they make their way to the street.

“The Third is working to combat their misinformation. Legates Sarothia and Megariel stand ready to commit troops where they must. The seven-seven-eighth is baying for retribution. The traitors will be revealed, and all will see truth. If not?

Father gave us swords for a reason.”

“Gabriel. The traitors make their move. It is time.”

✞  " I see. "

He stands from his desk, the air in front of him overfilled with holograms of information and contacts he's parsing through, trying to shape order out of chaos, as he always has, feeling the maddening discomfort of a supposedly perfect system not working as it should. The more people he demanded answers from only uncovered how deep the rot seemed to go-- when suddenly, all at once, it seemed the Will of God... no longer had influence. Not when asking politely, at least.

" I am with you, brother. " His holograms are sent away, stepping around his desk. " Everything about this is... wrong. They're not even pretending to follow procedure anymore-- I can't understand... what is the POINT of all this? What is there even to gain by sending outnumbered, out of practice, ill-prepared soldiers to die? Are they possessed!? " His baffled frustration is evident in every word as he comes to walk beside them. Even within the motivation he assumed the extermination were always for-- this seems pointless.

He sighs, steadying himself. " Let us put an end to this madness. And restore order after. "

[sunevial]

A Mermaid’s Deal

Why do I like writing hypothetical scenarios involving my dnd characters? Idk, it’s just fun, I guess.

This hypothetical scene features Megariel Rapidfin, my merfolk rogue, perhaps two or three years into the future from the current campaign.

--- “Hey, is it rude of me to ask where we’re going?” Megariel asked with a slight lift to her voice, straining her ears to hear much of anything through the cloth bag over her head. There was no response, just the continued pounding of boots on stone and the occasional rattling of chains. She sighed internally but kept pace. Not that she had much choice in the matter; the rope secured tightly around her wrists kept her from doing much of anything, and rough hands on both arms made sure she kept moving forward. 

No sight, no real hearing, and restricted movement. 

Not ideal.

But they wanted her alive. That was a start.

A door rattled open, creaking on hinges that even muffled sounded desperately in need of oil. Something cold pressed up against her wrist, snapping the bonds as the bag was unceremoniously yanked over her head. Now blinded by the sudden influx of light, two hands took advantage of her temporary weakness and shoved her into the room. Stumbling over her weary feet, she turned around in time to see a solid oaken door slam shut behind her. A sharp click confirmed she was locked in. 

Megariel pinched her eyebrows together and let out a long sigh. Perfect. Jumped by no less than seven guardsmen when she just wanted something to drink, grabbed with barely even an attempt at a fight, and dragged off to a place where she was pretty sure even The Heart Tree didn’t know. Wonderful start to the evening. Grumbling a little under her breath, she glanced down at her wrists and gingerly started working blood back into her hands.

“My...apologies for the interruption, my dear,” a voice said, low and sweet to the ears. Ever so slowly, Megariel turned to her left, spotting a simple table with two chairs set across from each other. One of the chairs was already occupied by a man, relatively short but well dressed, jacket adorned with golden metals and colorful stripes. He sat proper, shoulders back and head held high, offering a gloved hand to the empty seat. “I do hope my men weren’t too rough with you.”

“Oh no, definitely not, the pins and needles in my hands must be from something else,” she replied, meeting his gaze but remaining where she stood, kneading the sore tendons and muscles at her wrist.

“Please, have a seat. I must insist,” the man said with a charming smile and cold eyes that indicated that this was not a request. 

With cautious but still lively steps, she strode over to the table and plopped down, dusting off her royal blue coat and straightening her hat once she had settled in. Her toes just barely graced the floor, but she sat up as tall as she could in the surprisingly well crafted chair. 

“Ah, that’s better, don’t you think?” the man asked, cocking his head to the side ever so slightly. Despite his proper posture, his movements were with a slowness that comes with the absence of fear. Either a general or the head of intelligence. Probably both. “So, this is the infamous First Mate Meg. I have to say, I’d thought you’d be taller.”

“Everyone says that,” she replied, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair until she was balancing on just two of the legs. 

“An accomplished gem thief turned right hand woman to the most powerful pirate in the seas,” he continued, giving a flippant hand gesture. “Cunning, bold, and slippery as a fish, appropriate given you’re one few merfolk to openly walk on land. Quite the resume you’ve got there.”

She held his gaze, refusing to blink or so much as give a smile to the supposed compliments. “Cut to the chase, what do you want with me?”

“Just as to the point as the rumors say,” the man said with a chuckle, folding his fingers together and planting his elbows on the table. “To business then. Tell me, Miss Meg, have you ever considered using your…rather unique set of skills for more legal endeavors?” 

“I was under the impression that you government types didn’t hire, what was it you guys called me, oh right, ‘low life scum’.”

The man let out a low chuckle. “Well, my dear, things have changed quite a bit since that motley crew of yours has been terrorizing Aeros. Information on anything regarding the S.S Nutmeg is…highly prized, you know. Sure, civilian reports can get us the occasional lead here and there, and magical detection does have its merits…but what better way to know a ship’s secrets than through her crew?”

“So at what point does the floor drop under me and the torture begin?” she replied in deadpan.

Almost amusedly, the man leaned over to rest his chin on his hands. “This is not an interrogation, my dear. This is a job offer,” he said, unfolding his hands and holding one out. “I am General Omaren, the King’s current Head of Intelligence.”

At this, Megariel raised one of her eyebrows. Ever so slowly, she uncrossed her arms and shook the outstretched hand. “You want to hire me as a spy?”

“A double agent, precisely,” he continued, breaking the handshake. With the same deliberate movements, he laced his fingers together and set them on the table. “While your capture would certainly prove…beneficial to our cause, having you amongst the crew would help us more in the long run. 

“A force from the outside unites a people. A force from the inside destroys it beyond repair,” she said in response.

The man nodded in agreement. “So you understand. Your captain has been notorious for sniffing out our agents, so I thought it was time for a…different approach.”

Megariel leaned back a touch further in her chair, mulling her thoughts for a short spell. “What’s in it for me? Cause right now, all I’m hearing is that I wouldn’t be stuck here.”

“You would be compensated, of course, handsomely,” Omaren said, gesturing with a hand. “A full pardon from the king for your service, potentially even a noble title and some land to accompany it.”

She leaned back even further, a slight smirk on her face. “And if I refuse?”

Omaren returned with a smirk of his own, slimey and calculating like that of a venomous water snake. “Unlike other members of your crew, Miss Meg, you have a much longer history of being on the wrong side of the law. There are warrants for your arrest on every island in the archipelago, and coupled with your recent endeavors into piracy…the other option for you is a spot on the gallows,” he replied, his eyes glimmering with an uncaring logic. 

For the first time since she had entered the room, Megariel broke her gaze from the general and let it wander to the dull gray ceiling and walls. Silence stretched between them, only interrupted by the occasional creak of wood or deep breath as the rogue gave thought to the matter at hand. After a rather uncomfortable amount of time, she simply shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

Omaren simply smiled and rose from his seat, walking around the table with pointed movements before stopping at the door. “You’re a smart one. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,” he said, swinging the door open and locking it behind him with an audible click. 

As soon as she was alone, Megariel kicked her feet up onto the table, closing her eyes and humming a tune under her breath. She rocked back and forth to the rhythm, listening to the creaks and cracks of the wood under her.

Decisions, decisions… 

---

Shots and alarms rang through the guard tower as Megariel ran, soft shoed feet pounding on the stone below her. It had been comically easy to pick the lock and almost as easy to locate her confiscated weapons. Now bearing her signature rapier in hand, she took stairs two, three at a time as she fled ever further down. Blindly, she raced down hallways and stairwells, only to turn back at the slightest indication of guard movement. She ran in circles, weaving between decorative suits of armor and storage rooms to no real avail. It wasn’t long before she was forced outside and into a large courtyard, surrounded on all sides by men and women holding much larger weapons at the ready.

“I must say, Miss Meg, that was a quite impressive display,” Omaren said, giving a slow clap to her as he approached from one of the wings of the building. “But what about our little deal?”

“Thought it over, and my answer is go fuck yourself,” Megariel replied, eyeing up the various guards to her left and right and front and back. Ten to one, with crossbows pointing down from the rails above. 

Not great odds.

Omaren laughed, the sound scraping against her ears like a bad nightmare. “And what exactly do you plan on doing now? You, the rogue who refuses to kill?”

Megariel thought for a second, glancing up to the darkening sky. She smiled, taking the rapier in hand and placing it back into its scabbard.

“You’re right, I don’t,” she said with a slight nod upwards. “She does.”

With an enraged roar and a blast of frigid winter air, ice rained down from the sky. Screams erupted from the guards who weren’t frozen on the spot, crossbow bolts firing widely against a target they could see but would be lucky to hit. The clash of claws on steel rang through the courtyard as something large and powerful slammed into the ground, knocking those not paying attention off their feet. A massive tail whipped around, slamming into the remaining men and women left standing until it was just the large silver dragon looming above them all.

“GET. AWAY. FROM MY FIRST MATE,” the dragon growled, her voice bellowing around what little remained of the courtyard. Any guards who could still walk scrambled away from the still standing rogue, staring up in abject terror at the massive winged creature before them.

With a large smile on her face, Megariel strode over to the dragon and swiftly climbed onto her back, hands and feet finding long since remembered holds. The second she was settled in between the dragon’s spines, they were airborne. “Thanks for the lift, Captain.”

“Stop on Aeros Major, they said. Restock supplies, they said. It’ll be a short trip with NO ONE CAPTURED, they said,” Nutmeg seethed under her breath, raining down another swath of ice onto the ruined guards station for good measure before flapping her wings and flying off at breakneck speed into the night sky. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Captain. They were more interested in getting me to turn coat than stick me full of holes,” Megariel replied, giving the cold silver scales a reassuring pat.

“That’s, what, the fourth time this year?” the dragon snorted, turning her wings into the wind and towards the north. “What’d they offer you?

“Full pardon, whole heck of a lot of money, a ladyship, and maybe some land,” Megariel said with a shrug, settling back against one of the captain’s spines.

Nutmeg let out a low whistle, an impressive feat for a dragon. “Enough to have you set for life and then some.”

Megariel snorted, giving the dragon another pat. “Oh please, they’d sooner pardon you than honor a promise like that. Not to mention you wouldn’t let me betray you like that.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Nutmeg curtly agreed, slowing her wing flaps as a large ship came into view. There was a long pause as they circled over head and shouts came from the crows nest. The large dragon swung her head around, one large eye looking her over. “Meg…you wouldn’t actually take a deal like that, right?”

Megariel smirked. “Nah. Got everything I could ever want right here, Nutmeg.”

A smile crept across her face. “That’s what I thought.” 

With a quick tuck of her wings, the two of them swooped around the mast until both dragon and rider were level with the ship. Cheers rung out as the other crew members caught eye of them both. As soon as the two of them were close enough to the deck, Megariel jumped from the dragon’s back, landing on the wood with only just the slightest of wobbles. Not long after, she was joined by a woman just a touch taller than her, sporting a spotless white blouse and long brown coat. 

“Seems the imperial court thinks the crew of the S.S Nutmeg Three is up for grabs,” Nutmeg barked, stomping up the steps and to the wheel, coat and hair billowing in the late night wind. “They’re about to learn how wrong they really are. Set course for Aeros Major!”

Megariel smiled and gave a quick salute. “Aye, Captain.”

[cast-you-dxwn]

An overview of the first three Legions, so you know what I’m talking about when I mention them.

Legio Angelica I; His Sword

Legate: Sarothia

The First Legion were amongst the first Angels ever created, moments after Michael himself, given to him to command and to defend Creation in accordance with the wishes of the Almighty. They are the progenitors of Heavens military traditions, pre-dating even the Guardian Conclaves by millions of years.

Because of this they are considered to be the most old-fashioned and orthodox in terms of equipment and tactics, though they would likely say that this orthodoxy only came about due to the fact that all of the other Legions walk in their footsteps. They ware a panoplía visually similar to the armor of a Greek Hoplite, and indeed it is theorized that the crested helms that seem to fascinate humanity from time to time are inspired by encounters with the Angelic Legions.

Their Legate, Sarothia, is widely considered to be the Second in Command of all of the Legions, despite her technically not holding rank over the other Legates. She is the most trusted of Saint Michael’s confidants, and the Praetor often takes command of the First personally, with her as his XO.

Legio Angelica II; His Hammer

Legate: Megariel

Created but a few years after the First, the Second and Third Legions were raised in response to the ever-encroaching darkness that sought to probe for weaknesses in the fortress that was Creation after The Lord and His council set to work creating the universe as we know it. They were thrown immediately into vicious, high-intensity combat from the moment of their creation, and this has impacted the culture of the Second more than most.

They favor a supremely aggressive philosophy of warfare. Hit as hard as you can, as fast as you can, and leave the enemy no chance to strike back, as you have already killed them. In this they are more heavily armored than your average Legionnaire, the interlocking angelic steel plates of their armor as much a weapon as their spears, cracking skulls with their vambraces and dropping upon enemy positions from the sky to be crushed beneath their boots.

Their Legate, Megariel, is a viciously tenacious angel whos unwillingness to retreat or reposition serves her Legionnaires well, for if a bulldog is latched upon your arm, you are not likely to notice its pack mate lunging for your throat.

Legio Angelica III; His Shadow

Legate: Tarakiel

Created alongside the Second, the Third Legion was present in Heaven during Lucifer’s betrayal and the subsequent Rebellion. For many hours they were the only true soldiers Heaven had to defend it, until Michael and the other Legions arrived from Earth to reinforce them. They engaged in brutal cat-and-mouse warfare with the Fallen, unable to determine who was a hapless civilian and who was a rebel waiting for a turned back to strike.

This had an extreme effect on the philosophy and culture of the Third, who noted the effectiveness of the Fallens tactics early in the battle and have since adopted them as their own. The Third operate far more clandestinely than any of the other Legions, often eschewing their armor and weaponry for human forms, infiltrating cults and demonic covens, playing with them from the inside until they are wholly broken before finally revealing themselves to cut them down.

Their Legate, Tarakiel, is a shrewd and calculating angel with something of a mean streak, preferring to cause some manner of mental anguish to his foes before allowing them the release of death. His loyalty to Michael is paramount to him, but even so he has toed the line more than once.

[puffythepigart]

i’ve decided that for my own mental health i should not continue to force both art and fic out of myself every day, but i will continue to post my fics. so here is day 12 of femslash february, which was rewind! it’s ariel/megara, and i hope you like it!

[sunevial]

Are you still doing the writing thingy? If so, can you do one with one of your dnd lovelies meeting small mouse child?

The island of Leona, center of trade and commerce among the Isles of Aeros, a place where magical artifacts sat up against the rarest of silks and the latest in gunpowder weaponry. Dragonborn from far off lands conversed freely with triton merchants, tabaxi looking to part with fine pottery roped in elven traders looking to offload the finest of woven rugs, goblins swapped intricate clockwork inventions for gnomish elixirs and tonics among the bustling open air markets.

It was a place easy to get lost in, which is perhaps why Megariel had chosen that island as a starting place after she had left the grand city of the merfolk behind. After all, if no one batted an eye seeing aasimar and tortles hawking goods in alley ways, they certainly weren’t going to notice a little human-like girl with strange mannerisms and…fairly broken common. 

She’d have to get better at that if Leona’s division of the Outcast’s Charter was going to take her seriously. If there was one thing she desperately needed while on land, it was a functioning network of people she could count on.

Darting between the shadowed buildings, Megariel poked her head out from behind a row of boxes in one of the back warehouses. This was the artisan’s district, better known among the thieves as Jeweler’s Row for the unfathomable amount of diamonds, rubies, and especially turquoise that was delivered almost on a daily basis. 

Rumor was that if you dug deep enough into the dirt roads, you could find enough diamond dust to fund a small kingdom. 

As tempting as that was, however, Megariel needed whole jewels for the charter.

Taking her crowbar, she carefully jammed it under one of the lids and carefully turned her ears to the street. A minute, two, then the loud clopping of a horse drawn carriage bounding past. As soon as they were close enough, she pried open the lid to a small fortune’s worth of uncut sapphire and emerald. Eyes glimmering, she grabbed four handfuls worth and shoved them into her pouch before slipping the lid back on and tapping the nails back into place.

Even if someone recognized the tampering, uncut gems were less of a loss anyways.

A triumphant smile on her face, Megariel slipped both pouch and crowbar alike back into her little pack before slipping into the alley. Dusting off her clothes, she just caught sight of a tail slipping behind a small barrel around the corner. 

A spy then…

Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, she carefully stepped towards this not so subtle watcher, one hand on a small bag of ball bearings. As she turned the corner, however, she did not find a tabaxi or kobold as she had perhaps expected. Instead, there was a mouse the size of a hafling, dressed in scraps of mismatched clothing and failing to hide themselves behind a barrel. 

At seeing this, Megariel took her hand away from her pouch and jumped on top of the barrel, putting on a warm and cheerful smile. “What’cha doing there, little one?”

The little mouse startled, looking up at her with nervous eyes and twitching whiskers. “Um…I’m…hiding…” It was a high voice, likely feminine, though probably best not to assume.

Megariel tilted her head. “What from?”

“Um…you, miss. I…I thought that you…that you would…get angry if I…if I saw you,” the little mouse stammered, curling into a yet smaller ball.

“Get angry with you? Come on, thieves don’t get angry with people,” Megariel said, her smile softening. “Not good ones, anyways. Attracts too much attention, after all.”

“Oh…I…I wouldn’t know…I’m…I’m not a very good at stealing…things.” The mouse paused. “So…you’re…you’re not going to hurt me?”

“Of course not, as long as you don’t tell anyone about me,” Megariel replied with a wide grin. “It’s bad luck to hurt a fellow thief.”

The mouse-girl folded her hands over each other, the jittering slowly fading from her body. “I…didn’t know that.”

“Well, now you do.” Shifting her weight on the barrel, Megariel pulled out a small pastry from her pouch and broke off half, offering some to the mouse-girl. “What’s your name?” 

“Ryana…Ryanakiki,” she replied, taking the bit of pastry and nibbling on it hesitantly, then more fervently. “Th…thank you for the food.”

“Don’t mention it, kid,” she replied, leaning back against the wall. “Call me Meg. Seems to be what everyone is these days.” 

Staring up at the rooftops, the inkling of an idea began to spin around the merfolk’s brain as she looked between the young mouse-girl and the pouch at her side. She pulled out a small uncut sapphire, holding it up to the light and peering through the murky blue surface. If she held it at just the right angle, it was almost as if she was in the waters near Azura.

If you’re going up there, remember that being generous will win you more favors than greed.

Tossing the gem into the air, she caught it and dropped it into Ryana’s lap. “Here, take this. You look like you could use it more than me.”

The little mouse caught it with widened eyes, looking back up at her with fidgeting hands. “What…what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Go to the Bravado’s Tavern and ask for a tall glass of Cheryl’s finest. Tell them Miss Turquoise sent you,” Megariel said with a smile. “I’ve got some friends who might be able to help you out, especially if you have a little money of your own.”

“B-bravado’s Tavern…tall glass of Cheryl’s finest…sent by Miss Turquoise,” Ryana repeated, nodding her head slowly. “T-thank you, miss Meg.”

“Just Meg.” She gave the little girl a pat on the head, feeling her soft fur between her finger tips, before standing up on the barrel and pulling herself onto the low hanging roof. “Hope to see you around sometime, little one,”

And with that, the little thief bounded away on the rooftops, weaving in between a thousand and one ramshackle buildings until she was lost in the crowds once more.

[cast-you-dxwn]

He embraces her tightly, fearfully, an arm wrapping about her waist and the hand of another cradling the back of her head as it rests in the crook of his neck, his breath shaking as he holds her. He’d thought Satan would be far too busy consolidating his power to begin targeting dissidents, but he had feared for her nonetheless.

“It will. I will allow no harm to befall you, I promise.”

Megariel and Sarothia stand by, arms at hand, flanking the portal that still stands open, ready to bring the matriarch back from whence they came. Sarothias slender hand finds Orianas shoulder, her voice soft.

“Come, Lady Oriana. It is long since time that your exile ends.”

“You are coming home. It is not safe for you here.” (Hail Satan maybe?)

Throwing her arms around his shoulders, Oriana buries her face in the crook of Michael's neck, relieved, but also devastated in light of the circumstances and the misery she is sure he has had to endure in recent days. It is a terrible fate which has befallen hell, there is no saying wether it will endure the ensuing storm.

"Will it be safe for me there?"

[cast-you-dxwn]

Hey question do you have a list of all the muses that happen to be on this blog? I know Michael but I'm not as familiar with the rest of the cast here xD

I need to make a muses page, but I will list them here until I do!

Sarothia: Trueborn Legate of Heavens First Legion, Michaels Right Hand, one of the three Eldest legates, an upright, dutiful, yet accommodating angel who is willing to parley and even be friendly towards those who would normally be considered enemies of the kingdom according to her Praetors will.

Megariel: Trueborn Legate of Heavens Second Legion, a zealous and fearsome warrior driven by hatred and desire to see all darkness purged from creation, the Legions Hammer and unyielding adversary of all things profane.

Tarakiel: Trueborn Legate of Heavens Third Legion, Michaels spymaster, and enigmatic and secretive man with eyes and fingers in everything, with something of a sadistic mean streak though he is more often than not very polite and professional.

Baldwin IV: Mortal Legate of Heavens 778th Legion, former king of the Crusader State of Jerusalem. A cold and unyielding zealot in every way with little but contempt for the denizens of Hell, though consciously tempers his disdain with reminders of The Lords boundless mercy and grace, clad by Michael’s orders to humor Princess Morningstars venture at redeeming Sinners.

Saint Jeanne d’Arc: Mortal Centurion of Century 14 of the 778th Legion, hero of Orleans and Savior of France, a faithful woman of unbending will, assigned with her Century to garrison the Heaven Embassy in Pride and watch over the operations of the Hazbin Hotel.

Alistair Von Licht: Decanus in Century 14 of the 778th Legion, a former German nobleman and Knight-Brother of the Order Hospitaller during the Second Crusade, later executed for insubordination after he refused to take part in the Massacre at Beziers. Generally uptight and outwardly cold, but has a great deal of sympathy for Sinners, as he is intimately aware of the thin line between salvation and perdition.

Albert Saltern: Legionnaire and heavy gunner in century 14 of the 778th Legion, serving under Decanus Von Licht. A former member of the 101st Airborne division from Georgia who was killed during the Battle of the Bulge in 1944. A jovial and friendly man who is sympathetic to the plight of Sinner and Hellborn alike, the former because he (and indeed any of the Saved) could have been in their position, and the Hellborn did not ask to be what they are.

Emmanuel Ramirez: Legionnaire and designated marksman in Century 14 of the 778th Legion, serving under Decanus Von Licht. A former member of the 1st US Marine Division who was killed in the Second Battle of Fallujah in 2004. A somewhat prickly and sarcastic individual who nonetheless carries a great deal of care for his comrades and those who he considers his friends or under his care.

Adalia Kyrkos: Legionnaire and explosives expert in Century 14 of the 778th Legion, serving under Decanus Von Licht. A Greek peasant woman murdered by Ottoman soldiers who sacked her village in the 17th century. Mischievous and prone to pranks and other shenanigans, though with a strong maternal tendency over her comrades, the most likely to strike up a friendship with unlikely individuals.

Lucius Morningstar: Only son of Saint Michael and @deifuriae’s Oriana, the youngest of 61 children. Large and imposing owing to his mixed heritage despite his young age, he is nonetheless and friendly and helpful boy, eager to make friends with any who offer their hand and do not make the monumental mistake of maligning the women of the Morningstar family in his presence.

Shepherd: A Fallen member of the Fabricator choir, an odd and mechanical fellow who speaks robotically and seems less prone to emotion than he is to pure machine logic (an affectation he puts on). Fell for providing weaponry to the Fallen Rebellion at the beginning of time, he now serves as the armorer for Hells Royal family.