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iii. Though Crowley likes to pretend he’s all teeth, he has always been too sentimental for his own good. I suppose it would be a kindness then, to tell this part of the story for him. The end begins at night. It is ordinary, as nights go. Cold and meaningless, sullen in the autumn wind; dulled by grey clouds, kept alive by the heat glow of street lamps. Most of Andelusia sleeps. It is unaware of Damien’s festivities. Though tomorrow is his birthday, he has seen fit to start celebrating a little early- but really, when has the Tyrant King ever needed an excuse to celebrate? In a way, that also makes this party relatively ordinary; with lords and ladies, generals and advisors, all of them basking in their ruler’s habitual debaucheries. There’s even a priest or two, just to keep things interesting, among the creeping notion that there might be conspirators lurking about. Speaking of conspirators: here are four who will matter a great deal. They make their way towards the royal castle. Each of them is a wondrous sight. Towering in gleaming sets of plate, they look unstoppable in their strides. They make the guards ahead fidget, whisper, stand up a little straighter. It is the proper reaction, after all, when faced with a group of gods. This is not hyperbole, by the way; I defy you to think of the Oathsworn as anything else. As anything but the beings who stand uncontested, who can shake mountains and quell storms, who command the people’s fear and adoration, and who’ve ultimately shaped the fate of this kingdom in abhorrent conquest. You might argue part of this by saying Damien played a role in the latter. And you would be right to an extent. He is an instigator. But - this is important - his hands had nothing to do with it. His are not the one who’ve fought themselves endlessly bloody for his small, ill-minded dream. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a charlatan and a fool, and if they so much as mention his pathetic Black Knights-  ... Forgive me. I've forgotten myself.  We were talking about splendour, correct? Right, yes, well, there is little splendour in what these four have come to do. Regicide is messy business, you see? And it is always unpredictable.  Still, the time for caution is over. It needs to be done. The kindest of the Oathsworn knows this as she steps forward when the first of the guards stop them. He looks her over carefully, as if considering his options. Before he can put any of them to the test, she places a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.  “Go home,” she says softly. “Take the night off.” Her hand squeezes. The pressure is gentle, like a caress- and yet it is as inexorable as the ocean itself. She watches as the guard begins to understand; understand how easy it would be for her to crush him, until his bones turned to powder and his muscles into fraying paste. The three armoured figures at her back step forward, and he goes a shade whiter than he already has.  “Understood, Lady Corrin.” It’s a miracle he doesn’t stutter. The other guards merely stare in silence as he lets the knights pass. Once they’re about a minute into the castle, a conversational voice peaks out. “That was awfully nice of you.” Corrin glances to the side. “You disagree?”  Her eyes have trouble focusing on him. Even under ambient lighting, Crowley is hardly more than a silhouette. “On the contrary,” he says breezily. “In fact, I think anyone working tonight deserves a paid vacation.” Another voice joins in. It’s coarse, like gravel. “I didn’t realize you'd be in such a plucky mood.”  “Ah but see, I’m not in a plucky mood,” Crowley corrects. He wags a finger at Noriok’s hidden scowl. “Just terrified, is all. There’s a world of difference.” Eventually, the four find their way to the edge of the throne room. Another set of guards stand sentinel. These ones are clad in black and don’t buckle at first sight. Beyond them sounds of the party carry over, wafting on a still breeze. It is the comfort of many people laughing all at once that sinks deep into Crowley. Maybe, he hopes, they won’t see him as any more of a monster after this. Maybe they’ll rejoice rather than scream, and isn’t that the goal in the end? “Halt.” They halt, of all things, before the Black Knights. This time it’s Crowley’s turn to step forward. His every movement seems to drink in the light. The Captain doesn’t bow. “Sir Crowley. We weren’t expecting you.” It is a polite way of saying you’re not supposed to be here. “In full plate, no less. Is everything alright?” There’s a guarded edge to that last question, so faint you couldn’t call it a hint.  “Yeah,” Crowley replies, shifting. “Everything’s just dandy. We’ve actually got some business with Damien, if you don’t mind stepping aside.” His answer doesn’t sway the Black Knights. Instead, they stand a little straighter. Two of them have the audacity to rest their hands on the pommel of their swords. A silence passes over the hall. Perhaps Corrin should’ve handled this one too, he thinks. “I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate,” the Captain says carefully, very carefully. He knows Crowley and the King haven't been on the best of terms lately.  Crowley tsks. “How about we skip all that and you just let us in?" he tries. "Go for a bathroom break while you're at it. Anyone asks, tell 'em the good man Walt gave you permission.” “I can’t do that, sir.”  “Yes, you can. And I strongly suggest you do.” “I understand but-“ “Listen, you little shitweasel,” Crowley hisses. “Take the hint-“ Thel, quiet Thel, suddenly lunges forward. No one expect this. He’s so unassuming; so easy to miss, even as a hulking mass of metal. With an impossible grace, he summons Himei and slices the guards open in a single, fluid whirlwind. The Oathblade blurs, vibrates, as it tears their armour apart. Of course, none of this makes a sound. Himei swallows it all with an appetite. The Black Knights collapse. None of them twitch so much as a finger. Blood begins to soak into the stone floor, and Thel adds to it by flicking his Blade clean.  “They weren’t going to move,” Noriok says for the mute.  Thel nods, as he usually does. He steps over one of the freshly-made corpses, then pauses to look at Crowley expectantly. “I guess,” Crowley sighs. “There’s no turning back now.” His lips flatten into a thin line as he considers the first victims of the night. It’s a brief, fleeting moment that disappears with an adjustment of his shoulders and a skyward tilt of his chin, then a final breathe in, breathe out moment that doesn't quite relax him.  This is it, he says to himself. This is it, he says to himself again. And finally, when he says it to himself so many times that the weight of the statement begins to sink in- This is it. He pushes the door open and steps into the throne room.

Unable to help herself, she plants a smooch onto the robot's helmet before stepping back, not wanting to confuse it too terribly. While giving a leisurely stretch she allows her eyes scan the area with interest, wondering where to start first. The singing and the strange hum of energy she had felt touching the droid meant there was something here. She didn't know what, but it had a lingering familiarity that made her bones buzz with anticipation and her heart pulse inside of her ears. She had to get inside of the facility one way or another.  But then the sky fell and the facility changes and everything happened in a matter of moments. Madness flowed through the air while madness seeped through the cracks of the building, turning her senses inside out. A crazy face with sharpened teeth and the dark eldritch familiarity of power sung through her veins and plunging her into a shattered fragment of reality. Time didn't work, her senses failed her, and everything was nothing while it was everything all at the same time- And as soon as it started it was over. It all comes back to normality in a manner of seconds. She stares at the facility with blank eyes, stunned from the whiplash she just experienced. Eventually a tight-lipped smile lopsidedly forms on her lips a raspy chuckle tumbling out of her mouth. Well then, apparently it wasn't just a leisurely study after all. It's almost disappointing to have gotten her hopes up about this place, maybe it was the cute singing robots that caught her off guard. Unfortunately that just won't do.  "What the fuck." he murmurs in disbelief, still smiling from the absolute strangeness of it all. Petrichor sighs, sneaking a glance back at the bot with a frown. She gives it a reassuring smile, muttering that everything is fine. Not like it seem to comprehend what she was saying besides its own tasks. Exhaling through her nostrils heavily, she pulls a long red rusted wrench from her satchel. She twirls it around her hand feeling the comforting hardness of the metal and the heavy weight upon her gloved fingers. Tightening her drip on it, she sets towards the facility with a sudden sharpness in her dark blue gaze. Maybe she could keep one of the singing robots for herself after the job was done...just the one at least surely. It isn't as if anyone would know one robot is missing. After all, there wouldn't be much to find in the ruins and ashes.

Marik had not changed a bit honestly, there was a fire that burned within his partner's eyes. An undying flame that moved Max's soul on the deepest of depths, it was something that no other living being on this planet could do to the man. Slightly narrowing his eyes the mention of Dragon's brought a whole new level of energy to his persona. "I dare say we have a list growing now don't we?" Laughter rumbled from his lips as food traded places with words every now and then. Sussano howled in approval at the mention of a long road trip, as it was the duo were nomads. They had no absolute home which meant every day was something new to look forward to. Swiftly jumping to his feet he placed the food between his lips before opening his palm to let Thalan tumble out of his skin. Absorbing the flames the blood orb hummed in acceptance. "I am experimenting absorbing other forms of energy or 'life' as one might call it. Fire breathes air to survive so it might as well be alive no?" Winking at Marik the food disappeared into the void of his mouth and into the pit of his belly. Whistling to the now grown Direwolf he slung the broken armor over it's back. Strapping it down, Diesus remained upon his back secured by several metal clips to keep the greatsword in place. Looking back to Marik he had no doubt his friend was more than ready to go. "Sorry about your mount, if you want you can tag along on Sussano's back he can carry up to five tons. It's really something actually the demonic energy in him is astounding." A brow quirked as he jutted a thumb out to point at Sussano.  Whether or not Marik took the offer, Max quickly jumped on the beasts back and gestured for Marik to point the way before they took off. The wind began to howl in their ears as trees whipped past left and right. Max had learned earlier to keep his head low ducking branches to avoid being struck atop his head. 

Rashvana felt a bit worried at the thought of being carried. She was heavier, and taller than the winter girl who fluttered around anxiously gathering materials. She wanted to help her, ease some of her burden, but every step stung, and each time she tried to flutter her wings, it was complete agony. She walked forward anyways, wanting to help Iridia in anyway she could. She tried to hide the pain she felt in each step, but stopped as she found the girl was suddenly in front of her. She flinched slightly, not used to being so slow.  As Iridia hovered above her, she felt the cloak around her shoulders, and she smiled gratefully, "Oh, thank you." She said softly, loving the chill she felt tingle down her spine. This felt homey to her, and she loved it. The sharp stabs of chilly air piercing her skin, made her forget about the pain for a while. As Iridia held her arms out, she shifted nervously on her feet.  "Are you sure you're rested enough? We can wait, I don't want you to feel rushed." She said, her voice cracking from the anxiety she felt welling up in her chest. She didn't know why she felt this way, but the thought of Iridia's tanned arms around her made her stomach feel fluttery. Like when a child flew for the first time on their own, at least, that's how she remembered it. 

Desmond listened to the cackling of the old woman and the strained voice of the young man; the two made for a terrible cacophony of sounds that made his jaw clench.  No matter the title he wore and no matter how high he sat above the people of Kalopsia, he is still an outsider trying to show them his worth. A significant amount of disrespect has been thrown at him by way of hatefulness, eggs (a favorite), assassination attempts, and a variety of other transgressions against his person. This particular moment the woman had thrown a rock at him and much to the annoyance of his guards, it hit him hard enough to cause a little droplet of blood to appear above his brow. The two are coated in red as their anger reach a boiling point. The guard let the woman's opinions get the best of him, causing him to raise his weapon threateningly. Not that it mattered much, the aged woman took one step forward, showing that underneath her wrinkles is a warrior who will not stand being silenced. Soon enough this mild confrontation drew a crowd of curious onlookers, all a mix of for and against the Maharaja. For a moment he felt awkwardly out of place, not at all liking the heated criticism but knowing he deserved every bit of it.  Kalopsia, despite its apparent woes, moved to the rhythm of its history. With stubbornness carved into their bones and pride staining their dark skin, the people of Kalopsia carried on with a massive sense of ease and comfort. The looming dangers mattered, but the one person they depend on to keep their lives intact has shown little worth to sit upon the golden throne.  Rebuilding relationships while trying to save his home has occupied most of his thoughts and days, making him almost aloof as he became a slave to his work. This is his second chance to do something good, and he will not squander it like he had the first time around. He will show his people that he can do this, that he can rule with them, not just above him. Countless failures are staining his reign, shaming him and the people who had first put him on the throne; reputations have been soiled because of his ignorance and selfishness.  He has to rectify the damage. "Up!" Milky hues did not shift upwards - useless when you can't see anything. He felt and smelled it the magic threading its way through the air in a delicate, almost sweet manner. In the back of his mind, he felt a memory slowly coming to life, as if the magic was water to the wilted flower that is his thought.  Pushing aside the grabbing hands of his protection, Desmond was quick to rush towards the soon-to-be landing spot of their new visitor. He didn't want the dragon and its rider to be attacked by the guards who've already withdrawn their swords from their sheaths, prepped for an attack. The Maharaja stood in front of the guards, a smile on his face as the blossom in his head was fully bloomed. It has been years since he danced and drank fizzy drinks with this lovely woman, and the memories were enough to make him want to go back to that time.