Though perhaps not the best place to spend a brilliant evening, night time found Glim sitting in an empty theatre staring at an empty stage. He wasn't interested in his surroundings (though they certainly were not hard to the eyes)—in fact, he seemed deep in thought, smoking a cigarette and ashing on the ground, looking blankly into space.

But in fact his mind really wasn't that busy—he had nothing really important to think about. Perhaps he could ponder about Ines, but she was the last thing on his mind right now (which was interesting, because he really was beyond infatuated with her).

In all actuality, he wasn't thinking of really anything.

Just...relaxing, so to say. Which was funny, because Glim didn't need to relax.

And he's about to get les relaxed.

Imagine a feeling like the sun returning after years of darkness-- like a warmth igniting in your bone marrow after years of frigid cold. Imagine the way a dog must feel when he hears his master's car pull into the driveway.

Azrael has appeared, silently, in the seat behind Glimmerman. His skin is dark, today-- a warm brown that contrasts totally with the chill of his eyes. His hair is long, black, and pulled back into a braid. He wears a suit of rough-woven, undyed cloth that is only white-ish, not blinding white as is his nrom. And, despite the snow still on the ground outside, the feet tucked under Glim's seat are in sandals.

He's smiling, waiting to be acknowledged.

So far was Glim in his thoughts, that it takes him a slow, dragging moment to become aware of his surroundings. It hadn't seemed weird to him that suddenly he felt like he was basking in a volcano when just moments ago he felt as if he was in the middle of a glacier. But when he came to, he sat up straight and drew in a quick breath, uncomfortable and completely aware of Azrael. He turned quickly, unsure of what to say.

"Azrael."

"What were you thinking about, Jakob?"

As if he didn't know.

He's sitting there, so perfectly arranged, the dark lashes he's currently wearing down and half obscuring his ice-white eyes.

"Nothing. Jesus. Nothing really." He said 'jesus' like an oath, not as if he were worshipping him. And he didn't want to tell Azrael that he surprised him, because the god most likely already knew.

Familiar tinges of nervous, embarrassed energy immobolized him. He was excited, but at the same time ready to bolt like a rabbit. It had been a long time since he had felt such emotions—Azrael was the only one who could really make him feel. Upon later observation, Glim would realize that he was looking for those feelings in Ines, but Azrael was irreplaceable. But as for now, all thoughts of the beauty he was obsessing over vanished under those white eyes.

Those half-lidded white eyes. The lashes dip, just a bit more, and lazily he reaches forward to rub his fingers through Glimmerman's hair.

As though he were a faithful pet-- but just try and not enjoy it, Glim. Just try.

"Nothing, hmm? I think perhaps you've had too much free time on your hands, of late. Yes?"

Glim sort of wanted to flinch away from the fingers, but did not move an inch. Instead he kept his eyes straight and center, thank you, and didn't breathe.

Not that he necessarily had to breathe.

He did enjoy it, but a small part of him was repulsed by it. That part of him was like a teeny lump of coal floating somewhere in the pit of his stomach, clinging to the idea of humanity and independent existence. It was a part that had to struggle to exist, that was constantly attacked from all vantage points by so many negative forces—dependency, insanity, inhumanity—but it was still there.

But the rest of him leaned against those fingers, just barely.

"Yes." How could he disagree with someone who had complete control over him? He may have time on his hands, but it was time he wanted to use for himself. Time to win over Ines and perhaps gain some of that feeling from her. Time to create his own independence, if that was possible. Time to make that gnarled part of him that clung to humanity bigger and—

Oh, who was he kidding? He loved killing, fucking, and doing all the things that should have gotten him put on death row ages ago. That little lump of morality in him could rot, for all he cared.

"Mhmm."

He rubs his fingers through Glimmerman's hair, re-enforcing that dependance, re-enforcing that need for Azrael, his presence, his touch. Fuzzing his mind, just gently.

"Now, what sort of task an we find for you?"

What an interesting question. As if he had a choice! But his mind was warm and fuzzy, like an old blanket reminiscint of his childhood. He shrugged, not really caring what he had to do. After all, what was he? Really nothing but a puppet with faint memories of a life he had once had complete control over. But that was so long ago, an eternity, a lifetime, a millennium, eons—he couldn't be bothered with such thoughts, especially right now.

"Anything," breathed he out, disgustingly pliable. He would do anything, just for that touch.

"Mhmm."

Fingers in hair, slowly rotating-- slowing-- stopping.

"Organize me a cult. Find me followers, devotees. Worshippers."

Damn. Really? Glim wasn't really a "people person", so to say—it would be a challenge to get people to actually want to follow him. Then again—

"Does this mean I can force them to do a ritualized mass suicide?"

"If they devote it to me? Absolutely, Jakob."

Te fingers are still on his head, but not moving, now.

"If you please me in this, I might grant you something you desire."

Oh, now that' specific.

Well, he supposed he could try some skillful manipulation. Maybe threaten their families if they didn't comply by his wishes. 'Follow me or I'll kill your first born'. Hey, it worked for Christians, didn't it? Or were they just trying to get rid of the evidence? Whatever, Glim couldn't keep his myths straight.

What did he desire? His ideas were so conflicted these days. He desired death. He desired sex. He desired Az and Ines and maiming and warmth. He desired humanity but shied away from the very idea, because he rather liked the whole pillaging and plundering bit.

Under those delicious fingers, Glim nodded. He had yet to turn to Az.

Cold and life-giving in a very special way, the fingers move down from his hair, through the ends, to the nape of is neck.

"You will make a good cult leader, Jakob. Just try not to kill anyone before they devote their death to me."

That would be the challenging part. But he nodded again in acquiescence. Anything for his god. The stray idea of he himself being his own cult made him smile slightly, but he did not voice his thoughts. Instead he arched his head back slightly, his solidly black eyes staring at the ceiling. "May I kill them after? What with, you know, virgin sacrafices and all..."

"If their death is devoted ot me, then yes. It gives me a certain..." He doesn't want to say 'power'. "Satisfaction when you kill on your own, as everything you do is in my name. But if they devote their death t me themselves, it's... better."

He couldn't pretend to understand, because the way gods worked was beyond his comprehension. Plans were already forumlating in his mind—how he would, ha, seduce people over to the dark side. He wanted to ask how many, but decided on his own that there was no limit. He could make this order last for an eternity.

"Is there anything else?" His voice was quiet, perhaps because the spacious theatre called for such respect. Though he certainly did not show this consciously—Glim was not impressed by theatres, his unconscious mind forced this strange sort of gentleness.

"Mmh. Nothing else."

He takes his fingers away, pullnig the fuzziness with them. Well, mot of it.

And fades, leaving only a cold spot on the seat he'd been in.

Filled with a rush of disappointment, Glim stared ahead with hard, flat eyes. More empty than before (with only that lingering feeling of contentment to tease him), the puppet stood and went hunting.