D E A T H.

Godric had never been anything but hospitable to her. She didn't think what she had done in Dallas had been the work of a hero. All she had really done was snuck into the church (got herself caught in the process mind you) to try to find out if Godric was being held captive. Truth be told, he seemed to be more in control than anyone else thought he had been. She might have been brave for standing up for vampire rights against a bunch of stake-wield Christians, but that was about it. Still, she was apparently thought highly of by Eric's maker. It was nice to be held in high regard; a flattering feeling.

With an eerily quiet grace, the vampire manuvered to serve his guest a glass of the fresh tea in front of them. "This has always interested me," he commented. "Tea is more ancient than I am and it is a staple in nearly every culture." He places the glass in front of her before taking a seat at the low table. "But you did not come here to discuss this." Godric was willing to withhold assumption that the halfling was asked here at the favor of his concerned and stubborn progeny.

"Our outlook seems to be improving by the minute," he agreed. Freeing and healing the vampire was a positive start. He didn't fancy staying inside the circle until their captors returned, though, given the option. He nodded toward the painted symbols. The Enochian was worded specifically to contain heavenly power, so it should have no effect on any other kind of being. "I would be grateful if you could break this trap. A scratch through one of the symbols would do it."

It was a reasonable enough response. The Bible got that much right-- people's first reactions to heavenly power were usually fear. Angels weren't benevolent, fluffy-winged, harp-playing guides. They were warriors of heaven. "I assure you, I have no quarrel with you or your kind. And those are merely for show these days." The light faded along with the shadow of his scorched wings, until it was just a middle-aged man in a trench coat standing before him again.

The vampire was no stranger to violence against one's own kind---- human or vampire. As a human, he had been brutalized by other men, and as a vampire he had been hunted by both the living and the dead.

He turned his attention to the detailed runes etched on the floor, not immediately recognizing them. Turning his head enough to peer at them more closely, Godric decided that they must comprise an alphabet--- an ancient one. No stranger to the power of symbolism, he crouched in the dirt and curiously wiped at the edge of the closest image. It came away easily enough to satisfy his hesitation.

"Angels must keep to themselves then," he ventured while continuing to scratch at the symbol. "If you are a target for capture." Yet here they both were, captured. "Most kinds have a quarrel with my own, and justifiably so," he looked up from his work to grin. "So are these." The elongated fangs still protruding from his top lip.

By the time they finally reached the warehouse, Shiloh could feel her fire flickering wildly in her soul. Burning to be released. She was unbothered by the darkness in the building. She figured Godric could see fine and Shiloh herself had better sight in the dark than a normal mortal. Plus, there would be plenty of light soon.

His chosen warehouse remained abandoned. It was too decrepit for most human occupants but that hadn't prevented a handful of delinquent teens or the underserved to use it ocassionally, and much to their misfortune when they were caught.

Taking her jacket, he stood in stony silence as his companion appeared to easily draw upon her power to produce the shield of flame from her hands. Perhaps a cautious vampire would not have bore witness to a display of the one element that could cause irreparable damage to them. His people--- his human people--- had been ones who worshipped the water they made their home upon, yet Godric had little fear of fire even in life.

Never turn down those in need, and never offer an ear that is deaf. He moves closer, and Anne shifts so there is room for him to sit again. It is a beautifully carved blade, and not a style she has ever seen in person, nor read in the heavy tomes that kept a too-eager mind at ease when it wanted to see the world. A hand lift and a finger brushes against the flat edge of the blade. "It's beautiful. I have never seen a thing like it." She does not move to disguise the childlike fascination in her eyes, nor the almost gormless part of her mouth. "I feel as though we have lost plenty of importance to time, where so many are keen to move into the new ages."

It is nothing simple, either, for she can think of endless speculations she has heard or read about in her twenty-something namedays, and recounts the crossness of a far younger Anne who had, ultimately, decided that people were foolish for not writing down their every thought. Especially when there were quills by the armful, tucked in the crevices and crannies of all sorts of places!

A part of her still clings hopefully to that bitterness, as though it would offer up something that might slake her curiosity. To this day, nothing ever really has.

He holds the blade tenderly cradled in his open palms, the way one might a baby animal, unsure what move to make next for concern of appearing distrusting of others with his possessions. This may be the singular possession which Godric would feel any need to protect. It did an immortal man no good to be materialistic. However, he did appreciate the clear attentiveness she paid to the moment. "There likely is nothing like it," he agreed. "Unless you consider the merits of A Tragedy in Black, but that is a folk tale and is often considered an inaccurate account from a young boy who went mad after a Dremora encounter." Although Godric would not count himself among those who discredit folklore--- he was a folk tale, and yet there was some truth to the stories told in his wake.

"Time moves forward, as it has no choice, yet what happens in its confines does not evolve at such a quick pace." He replaces the blade with deft hands at his belt, disappearing as fast as it had materialized. "This is both a blessing and a curse," he supposed aloud. Wincing slightly at his quick choice of the word, and hoping that this did not offend. Surprising himself at making a potential impasse where normally he would not concern himself with a poor word when he regularly commits more sinful acts.

"Our captors were counting on it." Castiel supposed they could always try it the old-fashioned way, with blood instead of magic, but he didn't see why one should fail where the other succeeded. He didn't truly believe that either would hurt the vampire. As far as he knew, they weren't damned, or subject to the rules of heaven or hell at all. Monsters (for lack of a better word) went to purgatory, which was still a kinder fate than where angels went. One encounter with the Empty was plenty of motivation to want to stay alive. But then, Cas was finding, there were a great many things he hadn't known before today.

"I have never tried to in mine, which now seems like an oversight." In his defense, he hadn't spent a lot of time on Earth up until the last decade or so, and his first encounters were with hunters. They didn't exactly get on well with vampires, but with a greater enemy, anything was possible. Castiel could sense all the wounds, so that seemed like a good sign. If he was aware of them, it followed that he would be able to heal them. If it worked on him, he would see the flesh start to knit painlessly back together, wounds closing over as if they'd never been there.

"I suppose if there is to be some trust between us, it is only fair that we be on even footing." His eyes glowed white as he let some of that heavenly power well to the surface. Only a little, the sight of his true form--many-winged and the size of the Chrysler building--would incinerate a human, and he wasn't positive even a powerful vampire would fare much better. The shadow of his wings flared out on the floor behind him, now ragged and tattered from his fall.

He was still preocccupied with the study of his newly healed skin, examining the places the stranger's light had touched to find any lingering side effects. Godric knew of only a small rarity of creatures who possessed the ability to heal others, and most of them had gone extinct. He also knew of an even smaller percentage of those who could emit a light source from their bodies, but this one did not smell quite the same---- although he did smell undeniably interesting.

"You have been captured often?" He sketched a brow, somewhere between amused and curious. Of course, someone with power of this magnitude--- and Godric felt justified in assuming that he had only witnessed a sliver of that power thus far--- would be hunted by those who feared it. "We have survived until this point, and I have yet to discover a reason why we will not this time," he said around his elongated fangs.

As they neared the exit, Shiloh placed her book on the librarian's return cart. Rebel as she may be, she still had an appreciation for some forms of neatness and order.

He walks beside her, his movements light and graceful. It's dark enough that there are few people on the street--- ones who are living, at least. At this hour, most who are still up can be found in the district boasting most of the nightlife, not likely to notice two who step from the library.

It was interesting the way in which water interacted with his body posthumously, as if the element recognized that he was no longer completely organic. That there was something unnatural about him. The other elements did not seem to care either way--- fire would still burn his flesh, the earth was still solid beneath his feet, air allowed him to enter its space like a bird. Godric played lying prone, looking disturbingly drowned, sinking like a stone. In fact, he had at one point in his endeavors to test the limits of his immortality, drew in a lungful of water only to find that the only effect was that his body would forcefully eject it through his mouth and nose. It had been uncomfortable enough for him to avoid additional attempts.

As his companion approached, Godric peered above the water line like an aquatic predator stalking its prey. He was about as clean as he could possibly be, but had no desire to get out. He noticed the pile of stolen clothing on the bank, no doubt carefully selected in regards to his presentation. Godric had existed in a state of feral undress for the centuries leading up to his encounter with this Prince, and since had it impressed upon him that dressing the part was a skill he had yet to learn.

The copper haired woman turned to fully face the vampire, leaned down to grasp his wrists, and urged him to stand with a light pull. “You taking me is easier then trying to remember directions.”

"As if I am a personal navigation device." His attempt at snark----- clearly a trait that had been aged out of him. A stone which was once jagged enough to cut, now smoothed with time. Although, there was more truth to this statement than he led her to believe; vampires were peternaturally gifted with an instinctual sense of direction. Plus, he knew this city's topography expertly.