Angelic is a daring new blend of styles – a dramatic comedy, with memorable characters, nefarious villains, emotionally engaging storylines, and cinematic climactic moments. It will make you laugh, and sometimes, make you cry. (Well, that’s the aim anyway.) With a story spanning Heaven, Hell, Earth and even the realms beyond, angels, demons, mortals and more will come together in a tale that must be seen to be believed.
God’s Throne Room
God’s Throne Room is a large white rectangular room, with stairs at one end which lead up to a dais that hosts the throne of God. Around the sides of the room runs a raised platform, wide enough to comfortably accommodate a couple of people, and about waist high from the ground. This platform joins the stairs as they reach the dais. Other than that the room is largely empty and unadorned.
The throne itself is an imposing white chair, carved and decorated with intricate designs. It has arm rests, and looks fairly uncomfortable.
Heaven is a city floating in a sea of raw untouched Creation which appears as a mass of swirling white, the remains of the Second Plane, a universe that never came to be. Anything that The Eternal intended for it has been lost, although anyone with a strong enough will can bend matter to their whims. Heaven has no true physical location, since only Heaven and Hell exist on the Second Plane at all; there is nothing else to reference position by. The actual Kingdom of Heaven is situated on what appears to be a gigantic bank of cloud, although in reality it is just an incredibly sculpted mountainside, wrought in the shape of Earth-cloud by the angelic artisans. Both the mountain and city of Heaven are subject to change at the whim of God, and they usually reflect his mood; the ‘clouds’ that Heaven rests on will darken and take on a stormy hue when God’s wrath is rising, and lightning has occasionally been witnessed during his worst rages. The ‘sky’ too reflects God’s moods, turning the red of fresh blood should he be angry. The soft blue and white that usually surrounds Heaven is the result of God’s generally laid-back and carefree attitude.
The city of Heaven is the stuff of dreams; buildings can take any shape, any form. Many, like the mountain, appear cloud-like. Others, such as Archangel Raphael’s house, take the forms of huge shimmering beasts, lions, eagles and sharks. Some appear as shining instruments, others as beautiful statuesque figures. Many of the buildings seem alive, they are imagination and personality in physical form. Simplest of all the dwellings are those who have little imagination, or simply no interest in architecture. Uniform and angular, unadorned and unimpressive, they are still beautiful in their simplicity for all angels naturally gravitate to aesthetically pleasing things. More interesting angels create their own houses in whatever colours and designs they choose, usually reflecting their personalities and interests, although white remains the dominant colour, and dark colours are almost unseen.
The city rises from the base of the mountain in concentric circles, with the lower-ranked angels and their houses at the bottom and rising up through increasingly elaborate buildings until reaching the Palace of God on the heights. The Palace of God represents everything that humanity has striven for when building. Majestic pillars support sweeping elegant beams, carved with intricate friezes and statues so lifelike they seem to breathe. Above all hangs a dazzling piece of lightning, frozen in time during The Eternal’s flight from The Immortal and hung by God as a reminder of that sacrifice, and what still lurks beyond, trapped in the First Plane, waiting to break free.
(Which shall be descibed as if you are outside, looking through the door, which is in the front left corner.)
Dorian’s flat is on the upper levels of Ashmore Gardens, and is one of the smaller flats. It was originally two rooms, but Dorian and Royston have clumsily knocked the centre parting down, leaving a rough circle of bricks in the middle and a larger space. From the ceiling hang two dust-covered and badly connected lights, with lampshades. The carpet was once cream, and has a rug that appears to have once been a Border Collie.
There is only one bed, although it is a double, and the sheets are always in a heap. The covers are black to suit Dorian, and the once white sheets are horribly stained. It is situated just to the right of the door, the head against the wall. Between the bed and the door there is a bedside cabinet with no legs and an alarm clock and empty beers on it, and a standing lamp.
To the right of the bed, and the corner of the room, there is a large wicker chest, which no one has ever seen inside. Above the bed, there is an attempt at a two-tier DIY shelf, which is slanted and shoddy.
Along the left wall is what remains of an antique wardrobe, though one door hangs off one hinge. There are no clothes in the wardrobe, but there is a jumble of blankets in it, for this is where Royston or Dorian sleep when the other is using the bed.
Still in the first part of the room and next to the wardrobe against the left wall, is a similarly sized bookshelf that contains no books, only silent ranks of empty alcohol bottles of all shapes and sizes. On the right there is a writing desk with a chair, though the whole surface is covered with junk.
Passing through the circle of bricks into the second half of the room, the right wall is home to a wooden writing desk and chair. There is a lamp shaped like an old film camera, and a small mountain of uneaten toasties. There is also a camping stove and a goldfish bowl with a dead hamster in it. The chair is used to hang towels.
In the middle of this section of the room is a lumpy and uncomfortable antique sofa, with one of the arms falling off. It faces the left wall, where an old CRT TV stands on a dining table, surrounded by Royston’s clothes and general rubbish.
The windows are at this end of the room, two smaller ones to either side and a larger one in the middle. They curve outward, and stretch from about waist high to near the ceiling. Their tattered maroon curtains are ragged and half-shut, the windows themselves are grimy and one is cracked. The light that filters through them is pallid and has an unclean feel to it.
The ceiling is fairly high since the house is so old, and is a very pale blue. The walls are covered in decades old blue wallpaper, covered in marks and dirt, and where the wallpaper peels, older wallpaper can be seen beneath, and in a few places, still older paper beneath that.
Barrel is the quintessantial town o’ scum. It is full of architechture from every era, every style. Tudor wattle and daub mansions rub shoulders with lines of cramped Industrial-Revolution style houses. As a general rule, the largest and nicest buildings tend to cluster near the town centre, or toward the South-East corner that was formally known as the Marble Quarter. The Marble Quarter no longer exists, and has been replaced with an ever-burning wasteland known as The Ashlands, where near to a full quarter of the town lies in smoking ruins, with gouts of flame and dust still frequently arising.
Barrel was initially a closed-off village for prisoners and petty criminals too unimportant to waste valuable prison space on. Over the four hundred years it has been in existence, Barrel has spread like a disease, crawling over the landscape like an inexorable wave of flotsam and scum. The streets snake like the tentacles of some great kraken, and everywhere are the signs of decay. Litter is ever-present, heaps of dumped waste and piles of rubble mar many corners. A veritable warren of alleyways run between the streets and houses, narrow and dangerous. The tightest nest of these alleys forms the area known as The Darks, a den of gamblers, drug-runners and addicts, gangs and disease-ridden prostitutes.
Many houses are abandoned, especially in the South-East near to The Ashlands, where few wish to live other than the scavengers that risk life and limb on the ash. Further North and West, the population grows denser, and it is here that the majority of shops and entertainment facilities have opened their doors. Barrel Market thrives here, close to the North Gate.
At the centre of Barrel sits the Council Offices and the official house of the Mayor of Barrel, elected by popular vote, or largest bribe. Very few of Barrel’s Mayors ever try to improve the city, but the current Mayor, James Vurkel, is trying his hardest. Here also stands the Barrel watchtower, constructed after the events of D-Day (not the historical one) to prevent any repeat occurrence of such. However, it is a well known fact that the watchtower is for little more than show; it is seldom manned.