[RP] Dark was the night, cold was the ground, I could barely make out the sound...

[uberboned]

All's quiet on Chicago streets. There's snow on the ground, ice clinging to places where the salt trucks can't get to, and at this hour most people are in bed like any sane person should be.

Sane is relative in Chicago, of course.

In front of the Empress Theater, a Rift springs to life and 5'7 worth of Biblical Archangel-slash-Trickster God practically rolls out of it, hits the curb, and then scrambles to his feet just as the damn thing closes again. There's a silver stiletto blade in his hands and there's blood on it, which probably had a lot to with the fact that on the other side of that particular Rift, there's a dead archangel.

Raphael never did fucking know when to quit.

"Your timing is fantastic," Gabriel, because he stopped calling himself the Trickster a long time ago, spits at where the Rift should be. He wobbles a bit. He's not hurt terribly bad for an angel, but for something that passes as human, he sort of looks like he got on the bad end of a really vicious fight.

Probably because he totally did.

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[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Murphy was out for a walk, on the alert for monsters, on the alert for... Anything, really. It's been a quiet few weeks. She hasn't seen Michael, the Doctor, the Trickster, Des, though she's talked to Des a few times since they met. There's still no sign of Harry.

Murphy closes her eyes and tilts her face skyward at the sun that isn't there. She's going to go crazy if she doesn't hear something soon. Even a trail to follow in the case of Michael's kidnappings would be a blessing.

She's rounding the corner to the front of the Empress when she hears the Trickster's voice. Murphy hisses in a breath and races around the corner and skids to a halt.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Who did he kill?