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Beautiful, the night sky carries a certain allure for those trapped at ground level. Speckled stars burn in the firmament, mostly forgotten within the light halo surrounding the city below. Look up and only the most twinkly stars appear: Sirius by the summer, Polaris year-round. Nothing among the more modest court presents itself only to those willing to make the effort to leave behind artificial enlightenment for true illumination on high. It's hardly trouble for Lucian, who cavorts easily on the wind as step out of the wavelengths visible to the human eye.
He munches on a muffin he does not need, the scoured skyline of brick rooftops and pointy water towers all around. Nothing beautiful in this, nothing elegant. That's all for Manhattan, not the rooftops of the Bronx, but the Bronx gives a quieter reveille than Harlem and has more height than Brooklyn.
Such a view deserved to be appreciated, though the librarian must do it from the safety of her railed apartment porch. She finished dinner a while back and now, she sits in one of the metal deck chairs, looking out across the cityscape. Her eyes invariably rise to the stars themselves, twinkling at the right angle as the heated air rises and obscures their straight light like a mirage in the desert.
Wistful musings carrying his name are likely soft, little things, no louder than the coos of doves, but maybe they carry up into the darkening sky, where the archangel wings. Rosemarie pulls the sleeves of her lumpy, thickly-knitted sweater up around her hands and folds them away, leaning her head back against the chair's pillow, tempted to doze just a little there in her personal nest.
A railed porch is not the place to admire the sky. Twenty-thousand feet up above the cloud ceiling to smother the bright lights of the city holds a greater appeal, not that Lucifer is going to be able to immediately convince her of that. He chews on the muffin, thoughtful in his way, remote and colder than the lifeless moon lurking somewhere in a smudgy argent circle overruled by cumulus screens. At this point, something closer to a thousand feet is a generous estimate, beyond the reach of human builders and largely where prayers hit their pinnacle. Anything higher is a desperate spaceship or a jet encountering serious difficulties, and the Morningstar is not Superman. He's not going to go rescue Pan-Am 1084 from smashing into a corn field.
Eventuality will pull him down, arrowing him in a swandive fall. Fold those wings of pure energy and he crashes out of the stratosphere, graceful as one pleases, more nimble than the whistle of a Centaurian arrow.
The brightest star beckons her attention, glittering through the light pollution of the city. A sigh turns into a random note which turns into a hum. Her lips curve into a gentle smile, mockery turned lightly at herself, as she sings softly,
"When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are…" She holds the note well enough before continuing on. "Anything your heart desire will come to…" The song fades out as she sits up, squinting at the blurred object hurtling down out of the twinkle-strewn canopy of night like a falling star itself. "Lucifer?" She asks, mostly of herself.
Hey, at least the first syllable of his name rhymes with 'you'. Eff you, Dad.
What star burns up there is not the Morningstar, or even a star, for Venus traverses the low horizon. Alas, she's blocked out by too many of those staggered buildings filling the cluttered skyline. Nonetheless, Lucian plunges into the velvet blackness tinged by a topaz glow from the countless streetlights igniting the evening, humanity's perennial terror of the night overcome. He rotates on an effortless flip, righting himself and planting one perfect designer shoe upon the railing. The rest of him is, naturally, connected to said shoe and with the ease of a prima ballerina, a prince of the Bolshoi, there he is balanced.
Rosemarie's song warrants a quirked brow, his mouth lengthening considerably under that specific song announcing him. "Wishing upon a plasmic ball of gas is not known to provide such benefits, unless one is literally departing from the orbit of a variable star like Eta Carinae, as you call it. Then being away from the expanding outer layers before they obliterate you is beneficial for your continued existence." And astronomers everywhere cried out in rapture and error. "You were expecting another?"
Rosemarie laughs despite herself, the faint blush giving away the fact that she was caught, red-handed, being wistful about the archangel.
"M-Maybe Michael, b-but your wings are b-brighter than his, I think." No, she's actually very certain that the elder brother has the more luminescent of wings, given his very monicker is Morningstar. Oh, but that pining doe-eyed look travels along the vision of those wings now. No small wonder the Shi'ar Otherness doesn't mind either of them.
See, now, there are bran crumbs to deal with, delicious crumbs. Mmm. Food that deserves to be devoured, piece by piece, morsel by morsel. He cannot help but appreciate the flavour and texture of the last of his muffin, swallowed in a single gulp. Deliciousness incarnate, something to be appreciated later.
"Yes, rather they are." The pale moon-silver edges only reveal themselves at oblique angles, defined by the ambient glow of the city the way a crystal lens filters the light and distorts behind an edged miniscus. His hand is held out to her, albeit a bit dashed by crumbs. Perfection cannot escape the penury of a baked good, no matter what he does. "Why stay down there when you can be up here?"
Never mind the crumbs, is this…an offering for a flight?! Rosemarie calms herself even as she gets up from the chair, her hand already stretching out to take the archangel's own. It might just be a hug — and that in itself? She's very fond of those, given how much warmth he gives off.
Even as she takes the final step and places her grip within his, the plumage azurine, both fans and even those fledgling wings, is sprouting at hyperspeed. FLUFF. Shi'ar hybrid, reporting for duty! Thank goodness for the dropped-back of the sweater itself; no sounds of tearing fabric accompany the appearance of the wings.
Tis indeed the very sort, breadcrumbs to a Shi'ar byproduct who may seek the sky and bliss therein. Whyever not? His hands are solid and steady, his perch upon the rail inviolate. Nothing short of a concerted effort will likely knock him down, and doing so will only warp the railing. Alas for the architecture, how little did we know you.
A swirling dustdevil blows across the patio as the attenuated atoms melt into further relief, widening, broader sheets of feathers outstretched to capture the doldrums of the lower atmosphere. A few lazy wingbeats generate sufficient wind to buoy up spindrift and fluff, the very sort of thing Rosemarie is alas heavier than, but who wants to be a puff-cloud on the breeze? He watches her fill out with indigo feathers everywhere, and no comment shall be made on the appearance of a blue chick to his chick.
Hey, he's got manners. up, up and away, no? His hand secure around her, he pulls up to finish the completion of some initial step to a dance, chest to chest, long enough to let those nascent feathers ruffle about doing whatever little blue feathers do. His solar sail effect is truly unkind. Flappity-flap, up they go.
Little blue feathers flap happily, straining to catch the wind as the much larger and more developed pinions do. Tucked up against him, Rosemarie is fearless, a far cry from the stuttering, shrieking creature she was so many months back. Blame the brothers angelic, they've awoken an insatiable need for the siren song of the eastern wind and the lift of the zephyrs from the south.
On the cusp of the lift, in that breathless moment of hanging, her laughter rings out. Eyes gone as golden twinkle and maybe — just — maybe, she's got the same sheer brilliance of joy that shines continuously from Lucian's younger brother.
The stuttering creature is something rather charming in memory, and given his inability to forget, Lucifer will maintain that memory deep and long into the annals of history for many a moon. His shoulders roll to support the flash of his wings, elevating her into the air, taking that burden in the flesh and supporting her in an upwards lift. Rosemarie need not fear too much about projectiles, be that rain or random arrows, though he cannot supply all the heat necessary without radiating like a beacon. Let's hope the sweater proves sufficient for the nonce, otherwise coming out of eclipse, his aura is bound to be particularly noticeable.
"Reach out as you're comfortable," he says, prepared to carry her like a boy running around with a paper airplane, in some sort of dramatic lift as necessary.
Thus encouraged, Rosemarie extends both arms out at least for a moment. The oceanic-hued wings spread out wide, primaries only just long enough to extend past her wings, proof of their inability to sustain her own flight.
"M-Michael normally tucks me against his chest, but I can still…flap." The explanation was fairly normal, but actually using that word in context with an extension of her own body? Just plain weird to consider. Nonetheless, she trusts in the devil not to let her fall from the heavens, a feminine Icarus unable to withstand the power of a star.