The woman was very beautiful, he could see that, but whoever had posed her had done a terrible job, in Vitali's opinion. Easy enough to fix, though.

Her pale complexion was perfect, and going to waste against such a drab background, so he moved her to where the bricks of the wall were dark with some old, unknown stain. The contrast of the piece worked much better now, but something still needed to be done about her pose.

Vitali paced about, crouched down, looking at the scene from many angles as he thought about the mood he wanted to set. Sadness, certainly, but also peace... rest, after a long time of trials. Nodding absently to himself, Vitali settled down beside her, tweaking and fussing until everything was just right. Then he stepped back, head cocked to the side, eyes squinting at the picture he'd created, wishing for better lighting than the waning moon.

Arm lifted to rest on a nearby crate, the woman sat slumped a little to the side, her pale temple pillowed on the plump softness of her biceps. Her dishwater dull hair was draped over her face and shoulders artfully, accentuating the moonlit pallor of her skin, softening the harsh lines of her body without disguising her nudity. Her other hand rested in her lap, fingers slightly curled, just barely obscuring the dark hair between her white thighs.

Much better. The scene spoke now of weariness, and of rest. But not quite enough of sadness. Vitali sat back on his heels once more, expert gaze searching for that one missing element. It needed something, this picture, but for a while he couldn't quite grasp what it was.

With a soft sigh of satisfaction, Vitali leaned close one last time, reaching around to the woman's back, knuckles scraping on the bricks as he touched the wetness there, fingers tracing the ragged edges of the holes in her back. Too thick, now, to be of any use. Damn. He withdrew his hand, carefully wiping it clean on his pant leg.

Without a moment's further thought, he seized his own hand between his teeth, tugging and tearing at his skin. A recent wound, only just closed up, opened eagerly to his attentions and blood flowed, pooling in his cupped palm. Tipping his hand, Vitali sent the blood spilling down the woman's cheek, tracing the faint, flaking salt trails of long-dried tears.

"Holy Hell... Vitali, get away from there." Hands grabbed at him, pulling him back from the woman.

"She looks beautiful now, don't you think?" Vitali's gaze remained fixed on the dead woman, on her pose of restful sleep, on the tears of blood she seemed to be crying. "When they find her, she'll look pretty."

"Yes, she will, love. But we can't be here then. Come on, I'll take you home." Gabriel sighed, and Vitali finally glanced back at him. The sun must have been rising, because the light that kissed Gabriel's face was more pink than white, shining mercilessly on the first hints of worry lines marring his erstwhile perfect skin. Lines Vitali had put there.

"Not just you. I put a few there myself. But Father is right, we need to leave. As she has done." Uriel nodded at the woman's corpse, and said nothing further, turning and disappearing back out into the fading night outside the alley.