Kenspeckle narrowed his eyes at Ghastly, stepping around the table and opening his mouth to give the man a scathing retort, but he didn't get the chance.
"That would probably be wise, yes," Gabriel agreed, giving Tanith a rueful, but sweet smile. It was the only way the professor was going to be able to actually attend his injuries, anyway. Gabriel truly did hope Kenspeckle would be able to help his wings; it was the general strain in his body the Archangel was less sure about.
In any case, it was the most direct means of convincing the professor of the truth, and it was necessary besides.
"Please stand back," Gabriel said to the room at large, and gave them a few moments to do so before dropping his human cloak, slowly so as not to let his wings burst too suddenly into existence. He couldn't help a sigh as he did; usually, he would never even notice the drain. Even now, that drain was negligible, comparatively speaking, but the moment the cloak was gone he felt the ache in his body ease just slightly.
It was the glow that came first, really; not bright but soft and pervading. As it had in the other reality, it drew out the beauty in everything nearby; the tables and walls shone, the lights in the ceiling seeming almost dim themselves. The beauty in everything but one thing, that is. Valkyrie's ring was washed white, a stained and dirty-yellow sort of white, like old bone bleached in high sun. It emanated the smell of a pungent and rotting corpse, but that was easily overlooked beneath the scent of the antiseptic. The most pleasant parts of the latter seemed to be drawn out, so the room smelled clean and fresh, and banished anything offensive to the nose.
Tanith and Valkyrie looked like day-and-night goddesses; Fletcher an Adonis; Kenspeckle as an older man, yes, but hale and face shining with intelligence. Ghastly's scars, far from fading, were even accentuated--no longer horrifying, but fascinating and delightful.
Gabriel's skin was like bronze, and just as before, the light in the room shone off his hair like a halo. His wings ... his wings. They were curled around him, at first looking soft and downy, but then he spread them slowly. They trembled, and as his feathers parted the gaps in them came into view, the places where his flight-feathers had been torn out. The gouges where the Faceless One had torn into him weren't visible from the front, but griminess of its touch was visible in the sheen on his feathers at his wings' wrists and leading edges. They were ruffled, dirty, damp and slicked down by that oiliness.
The pain in the Archangel's expression was jarring and tragic, almost enough to make you want to weep. When he'd extended his wings as far as he could manage, enough to make their tips brush the far walls, he exhaled shakily, closing his eyes to brace himself and unconsciously gripping the edge of the table. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
All Kenspeckle could do was stare, his mouth closed, standing very, very still.
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"That would probably be wise, yes," Gabriel agreed, giving Tanith a rueful, but sweet smile. It was the only way the professor was going to be able to actually attend his injuries, anyway. Gabriel truly did hope Kenspeckle would be able to help his wings; it was the general strain in his body the Archangel was less sure about.
In any case, it was the most direct means of convincing the professor of the truth, and it was necessary besides.
"Please stand back," Gabriel said to the room at large, and gave them a few moments to do so before dropping his human cloak, slowly so as not to let his wings burst too suddenly into existence. He couldn't help a sigh as he did; usually, he would never even notice the drain. Even now, that drain was negligible, comparatively speaking, but the moment the cloak was gone he felt the ache in his body ease just slightly.
It was the glow that came first, really; not bright but soft and pervading. As it had in the other reality, it drew out the beauty in everything nearby; the tables and walls shone, the lights in the ceiling seeming almost dim themselves. The beauty in everything but one thing, that is. Valkyrie's ring was washed white, a stained and dirty-yellow sort of white, like old bone bleached in high sun. It emanated the smell of a pungent and rotting corpse, but that was easily overlooked beneath the scent of the antiseptic. The most pleasant parts of the latter seemed to be drawn out, so the room smelled clean and fresh, and banished anything offensive to the nose.
Tanith and Valkyrie looked like day-and-night goddesses; Fletcher an Adonis; Kenspeckle as an older man, yes, but hale and face shining with intelligence. Ghastly's scars, far from fading, were even accentuated--no longer horrifying, but fascinating and delightful.
Gabriel's skin was like bronze, and just as before, the light in the room shone off his hair like a halo. His wings ... his wings. They were curled around him, at first looking soft and downy, but then he spread them slowly. They trembled, and as his feathers parted the gaps in them came into view, the places where his flight-feathers had been torn out. The gouges where the Faceless One had torn into him weren't visible from the front, but griminess of its touch was visible in the sheen on his feathers at his wings' wrists and leading edges. They were ruffled, dirty, damp and slicked down by that oiliness.
The pain in the Archangel's expression was jarring and tragic, almost enough to make you want to weep. When he'd extended his wings as far as he could manage, enough to make their tips brush the far walls, he exhaled shakily, closing his eyes to brace himself and unconsciously gripping the edge of the table. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
All Kenspeckle could do was stare, his mouth closed, standing very, very still.