Barachiel was one of the oldest Angels left on Earth. He’d served long and he’d served well. With his cultivated Father Time beard that was whiter than his now grey wings, Barachiel’s features had been chisled away by age; wrinkles were engraved on his face, veins pushed against his thinning skin. Once a towering figure, shrinking had caught up with Barachiel. His less than illustrious surroundings betrayed his immaculate appearance, his long-flowing silk grey robes wonderfully maintained. Barachiel sat in a dingy private room in a grimy backstreet nightclub, the black walls clashed horribly with strip lightning where soundproofing wasn’t even attempted. On the table, Barachiel’s trademark pot of freshly boiled tea waited patiently to be poured.
The door opened. Barachiel felt his eardrums being scratched from the racket coming from the club. I hate that music. What did Zera call it? Swedish House Mafia? He smiled to himself. That sounds more like a flat-pack furniture cartel. I should’ve bought my radio so I could listen to Beethoven or Dvorak. When you get to 8850 years old, musical innovation just becomes noise.