amenities

A few ounces of pure lazurum. The fossil of an angler fish embedded in an amber stone. An exotic, curling and yet geometric deep-sea coral. These were the items necessary for the ritual that would expand Eridianus' spirit over Casper like a cloak against the cold night. The act of giving Casper back to the sea would, in theory, rid of its last shreds of unnatural energy. Effects at the same hands as this last plague would be prevented by the very nature under the influence of the loci beneath which Casper would henceforth exist.
With the remaining patients one floor beneath them, Michael and Li'El stood in a laboratory that was cleared save for the Taen artifacts gathered on the sheeted table. Michael's blue eyes focused, matching the matte sheen of the table and the walls as he brought his hands over them. The grey rings in his eyes shifted upward upon Shikai.
"This could be dangerous..." There was uncharacteristic hesitation in his voice. "This isn't a group of bandits or heathens we're messing around with, it's the very nature of Valucre. I have never interacted with a genus loci to this level— I barely know what they are." He rubbed his hands together, bringing them back to hover over the objects. "I'm going to try to crystallize all of these items together, and project their latent energies until they perforate the Lagrimosan loci and conjoin Casper with the other pieces of the Eridianian loci. Now, put your hands here with mine and focus. I need both of our energies."
As Commager finished speaking, a blue light began illuminating the frame of each Taen thing on the table. He would not continue, only look knowingly at Li'El. Before the light ascended from the items up to them, a warm sensation like seawater touched their hands and began climbing up their arms. Through Michael and Li'El, the very spirit of Eridianus would flow into Casper. The ebb and flow of the new loci was forgiving, gentle, soft as it passed through the very valves of their hearts into Casper.  The sweet songs of Valucrean sirens whispered in their ears, telling tales of love and beckoning them into the velvet water. Despite the process being gentle, however, great rivers of energy would flow too out of them.
It would be a nearly two-hour long process in which a chrysalis of gossamer white sinew gathered around the lazurum, fossil, and coral. Soon, the architecture of a perfect diamond was laid around them and a great blue crystal was born. From it would radiate a light that, indeed, imbued Casper with the strength of the ocean. Before they could even go downstairs to check on the patients their recovery took place with unprecedented rapidity. The duo, however, would be enfamined and tired by the end of the process.
"Sir, sirs, you did it!" Doctors poured in and congratulated them, Michael accepting the thanks but focusing his eyes on Li'El. 
"You alright?" he spoke over them, his matte eyes sharp with concern.

*hack! hack! hack!*
Each time he swung he swung harder, a grunt for every blow. A snowy haired child brought his sword down again and again on a great chunk of blessed wood. Around him was a courtyard, a loving mother sitting on the step of an open sliding door. It was late afternoon and the smell of a cooked meal wafted out from the kitchen. Behind her stood the boy’s father.
Falling to the ground in exasperation and exhaustion, the boy flung his sword away.
“I’ll never get through!” he wailed to himself.
Strong hands grabbed the boy beneath his shoulders and lifted him to a standing position. Their rough fingers took his hands in them and placed the sword firmly back into his grasp.
“Don’t give up, Ash,” said the father to his son with a hardened, prophetic gaze. “Never, ever give up.”
Here, now, the young samurai was frozen in fear. Before him lances of red javelined through the air and cries of pain from foolish friendly fire and the attacks of Ash’s comrades alike filled the darkness. What could he accomplish by heaving himself up out of the shaft but an embarrassing death and a liability to his teammates?
<You fought invisible attacks from me for months..>
How monumental the task before him seemed. How incredible everything surrounding his ascent through the Dead slammed into him in this moment. Yes, he’d fought the invisible attacks, but was that enough? She hadn’t been trying to kill him and these guys most certainly would.
“Don’t give up, Ash. Never, ever give up.”
The words of his father rang in his ears, and an inkling of strength began welling up in his chest.
"Don't worry lad! I'll brighten things up a bit!"
Then came Shikai’s slicing of the zenith of their abyssal barrier. A crescent of night sky tore through the canopy, and in this blackness it was like an intense blue ray of light penetrating down to the floor of a dank cavern.
<Trust the team, Ash.  Trust the work.> 
She was right, he thought. They were right! He was gonna get into this fight and prove something, dammit! It didn’t hurt that he could actually see a little bit now, too— that was when a ball of fire flew past him and down into the elevator shaft.
Looking back Ash watched the ball of fire descend, becoming smaller and smaller. Then it blossomed and became larger and larger, ascending at a much faster rate.
<We need you out here.>
There was just no damn choice. Panicking, scrambling, Ash dashed out of the open shaft just as a wall of fire erupted through after him. He slid, rolled, and tumbled away and out of the path of fire even as it lit his ass on fire, literally. Skidding to a stop in the three-point position with his sword around his waist, Ash immediately perceived the ball of fire growing on his back.
The explosion itself was about as self-reckless as possible on Amirah’s behalf. Now some of her own men were attempting to fling the fire off of themselves, fan it away, stop drop and roll. What’s more, the distraction had allowed him to scamper onto the scene without making too much of an impression. In order not to be caught flailing on fire, though, he needed to act fast, and unfortunately that meant… taking his clothes off.
Shirtless, pantsless, but thankfully with boots and boxers fully intact (white with heart patterns), Ash’s battle instinct had taken over. It was with this battle instinct that he would drive a blade through the throats of the Dead’s foes and, eventually, his own greatest foe.
The laser would never emerge a second time to sear a piece out of Phoebe’s forearm. As the henchman took aim at the First, he would feel a suddenly numb sensation from the knee down on his left leg as Ash’s blade found the ligaments there, chopping in an upward loop and sending the henchman into a half-backflip that landed him fatally on his neck.
If Phoebe turned, she would see Ash’s underweared figure. If she didn’t he would stand with his back to her. Either way, what came next would be the continued dismantling of Amirah’s dome of darkness and the woman herself. They turned, Ash guarding Phoebe’s six and Phoebe Ash’s, and like this Ash surveyed the room. While he surveyed, Phoebe would get the chance to replenish any psionic shield she was exhausting without his defense. By now he had well cleared his mind of the worries that had gotten his clothes charred away from him.
“They’re wearing suits. We crashed a little party, it seems.”
Meanwhile, Mykur’s wound on Amirah’s dome of darkness began widening and exposing the scene more and more. Up ahead Ash could see Amirah, her men and women swelling in numbers around her.
“Looks like we just need to fight straight into her,” he said, coming to stand side by side with the First Officer and the General as they faced Amirah and her cronies, all preparing to charge and fire at them in their various proportions. He was looking back and forth between Phoebe and Shikai. He laughed timidly in the tense moment before their clash. “Anyone have a shield I can use?”
His fear was gone, but his awareness of his situation was not.

*hack! hack! hack!*
Each time he swung he swung harder, a grunt for every blow. A snowy haired child brought his sword down again and again on a great chunk of blessed wood. Around him was a courtyard, a loving mother sitting on the step of an open sliding door. It was late afternoon and the smell of a cooked meal wafted out from the kitchen. Behind her stood the boy’s father.
Falling to the ground in exasperation and exhaustion, the boy flung his sword away.
“I’ll never get through!” he wailed to himself.
Strong hands grabbed the boy beneath his shoulders and lifted him to a standing position. Their rough fingers took his hands in them and placed the sword firmly back into his grasp.
“Don’t give up, Ash,” said the father to his son with a hardened, prophetic gaze. “Never, ever give up.”
Here, now, the young samurai was frozen in fear. Before him lances of red javelined through the air and cries of pain from foolish friendly fire and the attacks of Ash’s comrades alike filled the darkness. What could he accomplish by heaving himself up out of the shaft but an embarrassing death and a liability to his teammates?
<You fought invisible attacks from me for months..>
How monumental the task before him seemed. How incredible everything surrounding his ascent through the Dead slammed into him in this moment. Yes, he’d fought the invisible attacks, but was that enough? She hadn’t been trying to kill him and these guys most certainly would.
“Don’t give up, Ash. Never, ever give up.”
The words of his father rang in his ears, and an inkling of strength began welling up in his chest.
"Don't worry lad! I'll brighten things up a bit!"
Then came Shikai’s slicing of the zenith of their abyssal barrier. A crescent of night sky tore through the canopy, and in this blackness it was like an intense blue ray of light penetrating down to the floor of a dank cavern.
<Trust the team, Ash.  Trust the work.> 
She was right, he thought. They were right! He was gonna get into this fight and prove something, dammit! It didn’t hurt that he could actually see a little bit now, too— that was when a ball of fire flew past him and down into the elevator shaft.
Looking back Ash watched the ball of fire descend, becoming smaller and smaller. Then it blossomed and became larger and larger, ascending at a much faster rate.
<We need you out here.>
There was just no damn choice. Panicking, scrambling, Ash dashed out of the open shaft just as a wall of fire erupted through after him. He slid, rolled, and tumbled away and out of the path of fire even as it lit his ass on fire, literally. Skidding to a stop in the three-point position with his sword around his waist, Ash immediately perceived the ball of fire growing on his back.
The explosion itself was about as self-reckless as possible on Amirah’s behalf. Now some of her own men were attempting to fling the fire off of themselves, fan it away, stop drop and roll. What’s more, the distraction had allowed him to scamper onto the scene without making too much of an impression. In order not to be caught flailing on fire, though, he needed to act fast, and unfortunately that meant… taking his clothes off.
Shirtless, pantsless, but thankfully with boots and boxers fully intact (white with heart patterns), Ash’s battle instinct had taken over. It was with this battle instinct that he would drive a blade through the throats of the Dead’s foes and, eventually, his own greatest foe.
The laser would never emerge a second time to sear a piece out of Phoebe’s forearm. As the henchman took aim at the First, he would feel a suddenly numb sensation from the knee down on his left leg as Ash’s blade found the ligaments there, chopping in an upward loop and sending the henchman into a half-backflip that landed him fatally on his neck.
If Phoebe turned, she would see Ash’s underweared figure. If she didn’t he would stand with his back to her. Either way, what came next would be the continued dismantling of Amirah’s dome of darkness and the woman herself. They turned, Ash guarding Phoebe’s six and Phoebe Ash’s, and like this Ash surveyed the room. While he surveyed, Phoebe would get the chance to replenish any psionic shield she was exhausting without his defense. By now he had well cleared his mind of the worries that had gotten his clothes charred away from him.
“They’re wearing suits. We crashed a little party, it seems.”
Meanwhile, Mykur’s wound on Amirah’s dome of darkness began widening and exposing the scene more and more. Up ahead Ash could see Amirah, her men and women swelling in numbers around her.
“Looks like we just need to fight straight into her,” he said, coming to stand side by side with the First Officer and the General as they faced Amirah and her cronies, all preparing to charge and fire at them in their various proportions. He was looking back and forth between Phoebe and Shikai. He laughed timidly in the tense moment before their clash. “Anyone have a shield I can use?”
His fear was gone, but his awareness of his situation was not.

"It's pitch black. I'm afraid I'd be a burden if I jumped in like this."
<You fought invisible attacks from me for months..>
Her encouragement floated back on steeled thoughts, smooth despite the effort Phoebe exerted as she wove through the fight, ducking a fast-moving swipe from one of the fiery red lines as she shaped her Will into lashes that punished those near her.  She took a breath in, pushed a breath out, and cleared the area with a circular push that sent the wrought iron deck furniture scattering.  In its wake, there was nothing - just open air and claustrophobic darkness, like the Dead and their victims were already settled in their graves.  
She reached out again, her thoughts for Ash alone.
<Trust the team, Ash.  Trust the work.> 
In the pitch, her violet hair stood out in flashes as she moved, here and there in staccato chaos.  Phoebe ground her teeth; a fist flashed, curling her spine as she bent to avoid it.  The guards were closing- melee was becoming untenable- and she urged the boy forward again.  
<We need you out here.>
A shaft of crimson light shot out from behind her, just slicing past her face before two slugs shot past; it was the guard to the left of the elevator, once stunned, now aiming, firing, as the area in front of Phoebe erupted into a stream of flame.  The rush of heat hit the First like a raging torrent, quickly beginning to strip away the shield she threw up.  Like a child with a mirror, Phoebe began to shift and angle the fire, working her shield like a deflector and using the shed fire arcana to set one of the guards near her aflame.
The laser behind her emerged again, bouncing off the interior of her shield and searing through the top of her forearm, tearing a sharp curse from her painted lips.
<Gods-damnit!  Somebody get my six!>

Umbrakinetics, laser guns, and magical night vision were not what Shikai had anticipated when he had signed up for this mission. But Phoebe had been up-front with him about the fact that she had precious little information about their target. The surprise was hardly a bad thing either. The thrill of combat came from the surprises that one encountered during the heat of battle. For example, he could not have predicted that Amirah would have someone in her employ with the ability to control darkness. Yet by that same token, she couldn't have known that The Dead would have someone who could do the same!
Well, control, was a bit of an overstatement. The Legendary Blade Mykur did have the ability to control darkness and shadow, but only once it had been properly awakened. Shikai had gotten good enough with the sword that it no longer drained him to use it; but he didn't currently have access to its higher abilities. But even in its dormant form, the weapon was a potent spell slicer. 
"Don't worry lad! I'll brighten things up a bit!"
The shinobi bounded into the air, easily reaching the top of the dome; and as he did he slashed at the umbral wall with his blade. While the magic at work was powerful enough that the strike didn't undo the spell completely; but he had managed to cut a wide gash into the working. Light flooded in, making it easier for those without any kind of augmented vision to see.
Landing among a cluster of guards, Shikai wasted no time slashing away at the men with the razor sharp sword. However, these men were better than just mere goons, and he took a few laser blasts as he cut them down. As the last one fell, he tossed the blade at the bartender; who dodged out of the way to let the weapon sink into the wall behind him.
"You're mine, Sunshine!"

“I found this pocket dimension first in my search for Blade Sweeper,” said Cain as the Sphynx lilted gently up to the pier that was a mirror of the same pier they had met on. “I found that whatever inhabits this realm is replicating Umbridge Isle no matter who enters or when, and that’s what led me to the Isle. I searched everywhere there and couldn’t find anything, just plants with black flowers everywhere, and… a bunch of horses. There wasn’t a lot to work with, but I think the horses have something to do with it. One thing is for certain, this illusion isn’t about us. I think that Isle is just where it found the ship we’re after.”
It was almost indiscernible, but a dark laughter tickled the edges of the Dead’s collective consciousness as Cain spoke. It was cruelly feminine; whatever had manifested the laugh could be nothing but blasphemous, the saliva on its tongue nothing but acid and blood. Thenceforth, they would hear its purr in the back of their minds.
“This.. demi-god, or whatever it is, is damn powerful,” Cain was already onto the extended gangplank, salted night air filling their cabin as he paused to invite them into the abyss. He was still holding the black rose, like he had imparted upon it some sentimental value. The smile he lighted upon them was telling, disarming. 
“That’s why I brought you guys.”
And then he left the Sphynx, approached the mirror version of himself. 
Everything here seemed similar besides the time of day, but the Cain up to whom Cain walked was not entirely Cain. It was a man like Cain but with pale skin and black hair. He wore a black admiral’s coat, which was not the present Cain’s brown suit, but it was certainly something Cain would wear.
The black-haired man, hands in his great jacket’s pockets, averted his gaze from the oncoming ship to look sidelong at Cain.
“Back for more? Oh look,” the black-haired man said with mock surprise, his bare feet shifted through the mat of white petals on this pier. “You brought friends.”

“I found this pocket dimension first in my search for Blade Sweeper,” said Cain as the Sphynx lilted gently up to the pier that was a mirror of the same pier they had met on. “I found that whatever inhabits this realm is replicating Umbridge Isle no matter who enters or when, and that’s what led me to the Isle. I searched everywhere there and couldn’t find anything, just plants with black flowers everywhere, and… a bunch of horses. There wasn’t a lot to work with, but I think the horses have something to do with it. One thing is for certain, this illusion isn’t about us. I think that Isle is just where it found the ship we’re after.”
It was almost indiscernible, but a dark laughter tickled the edges of the Dead’s collective consciousness as Cain spoke. It was cruelly feminine; whatever had manifested the laugh could be nothing but blasphemous, the saliva on its tongue nothing but acid and blood. Thenceforth, they would hear its purr in the back of their minds.
“This.. demi-god, or whatever it is, is damn powerful,” Cain was already onto the extended gangplank, salted night air filling their cabin as he paused to invite them into the abyss. He was still holding the black rose, like he had imparted upon it some sentimental value. The smile he lighted upon them was telling, disarming. 
“That’s why I brought you guys.”
And then he left the Sphynx, approached the mirror version of himself. 
Everything here seemed similar besides the time of day, but the Cain up to whom Cain walked was not entirely Cain. It was a man like Cain but with pale skin and black hair. He wore a black admiral’s coat, which was not the present Cain’s brown suit, but it was certainly something Cain would wear.
The black-haired man, hands in his great jacket’s pockets, averted his gaze from the oncoming ship to look sidelong at Cain.
“Back for more? Oh look,” the black-haired man said with mock surprise, his bare feet shifted through the mat of white petals on this pier. “You brought friends.”

@amenities@L E V I A T H A N
dang......nice posts, friendos

Matte’s revelation as Michael wasn’t for anybody in particular, but a simple shedding of a mask that dampened his true self. It felt, between his true self and De Viento, only necessary. As virile as the greatest of warriors, as hungry as the most active, Michael’s sense for adventure was a blade unchipped and undulled by decades of adventure. If so virile, so hungry, so capable a man were to say something of the future— something he was bent on making happen with all of that capability, hunger, and virility— and he made it so time and time again, would it not be fair to call that man a prophet?
Woooooaaaaooooooo!
As seasoned a land adventurer as he was, Michael was an amateur in matters of the ocean. He only knew it was a whale because of Tyra’s buoyant exclamation, and his excitement was piqued all the more.
“A whale!?” burst the Terran Major, hopping to keep up with Tyra. While overt brilliance and an intelligent optimism in his eye were key features to Michael’s persona, outright surprise was less characteristic. “I’ve never seen one before!”
Michael and Tyra and Yshmael wove through the trees like new strands of DNA. Perfectly grown, not overly so but enough to create a veritable obstacle course for travelers and denizens alike, the foliage allowed the trio to dart on this side of a vine or that, over this branch or under. What had sounded like the groaning of bowing limbs, the orchestra of orcas— the falcon’s feathers’ flutter— birthed sounds from their own tonal rises and falls, evolved into the cornucopial symphony of something even larger than the sentinel life that had already psychedelically enraptured them from the site of the first runeception. Well, the runeception had grown and grown and grown as they bobbed and weaved inward like Sun Wukong’s apes, and suddenly they were within the reverie that was the true De Viento.
“Ships… Bioships….”
“Bioships…” he echoed. Standing on the branch beside Tyra Michael gazed out at the unprecedented everything before them.
It was as if every possibility were spelt out before them, the runes expanding to reveal their own prophecies.
All good plants must be cultivated.
Just as the thought stamped itself on his brain, the sound of beating hooves carried a herd of musical notes. ♫♫♫ As they ventured over the curve of the horizon encapsulated in the deceptively large horizon, the scale of the manta ray daunted him— they ran right beneath its fluttering wings as it roomba’d across the flats. Dazzled by its hypnotic undulations, Commager had yet to even behold the majestic masts and yawning yachts heaving up from the fantastically fertile field.
The instant he first breathed in De Viento’s menthol corona, it caught in his chest like a cancer. Choked him, like one who was not yet welcome— who had not yet passed initiation of some sort. He felt that there was an avenue into being accepted by the great forest, the spirit of the trees, surely a very extension of Michael’s own Mother. He felt that he must find it.
He saw the orc-goblin again.
“You guys, I gotta be honest with you. I think there is something weird going on in my head.” The levity gone from his voice, Michael dropped from the branches. As he landed, the hair that had trailed behind and that he normally kept tucked behind one ear, curtained his face. Masked his intentions. He continued talking without looking back.  “Remember what you said about splitting up? I feel like… like there’s something I need to take care of.”
Michael held a hand off to the side, grinding something in his fist before scattering it. Fragments of light like shards of glass twinkled to the dirt. Down there in the brush, the twinkling stardust looked unlikely to be disturbed by such large creatures. From the stardust emanated an aura the two would be familiar with and found that they could sense the location of wherever they went.
And just like that, Commager left them.
Minutes later found him in his own stretch of De Viento. Striping the godly forest were fields and rows of vegetation born of all different planets and possibilities. Walking through columns of strangely straight reeds that shot up from the soil, down a conspicuously straight path, Michael felt he needed to continue this way. Up ahead was a wall of trees so dense, so perfectly planked, there would scarcely be a spot for him to slide through sideways. Through the slats, though, there shined a light like nebulas shimmering through diamonds.
He plucked a reed as he approached the glowing monolith, swatting at some grass idly to test its strength.

While her psionics fought with the unceasing ferocity and flexibility of a Hydra, snapping and crushing and bashing at the berserker's massive body, a more mundane elbow to its face had cleared Phoebe some room.  It was enough to shift her legs, to try and tilt and wiggle out from beneath the heavy, ropey, heap of intestines her knife had ripped free of the demon's abdomen.  The furious pace of survival precluded thought- she was hardly aware of much, just another animal fighting to not be dinner, but at her core, she wondered if she was already dead.
It didn't take a genius- vampire bites were pretty self-explanatory.. and she was pouring blood.  As she covered up against its claws and threw her arm up to cup her head, drops of it flung forward like a fountain.  The pair were a frenetic spasm in red- arms, and legs, and teeth - her knives, its claws, in a crimson lake of both their blood.  She could feel it inside of her - there was an echo in her head, a call that was shattered glass and rusty iron, like the fallen boundaries of an abandoned graveyard.  Her mouth tasted like acid, and that same rot raced through her veins as if it were being chased.
Which it was.
Inside of the First, the pieces of her which were once PRIME James Efonte began to build its armaments with Thor's hammer.
The rev of a heavy engine turned over, distant.  Its roar, and the pop of its cylinders, was a far off curiosity that Phoebe wondered about - its curiousness weighed as crucial to her exhausted mind as the hooked bone claw she saw raise above her, high in the sky like the distant chimneys, and dragged out the last remnants of her will out to mount a defense.
...It didn't really even hurt that much anymore.
In her thoughts, the Mindgorger raged, but it could only magnify, and she had nothing left for it to work with.
Phoebe wove ethereal threads, once ropes, once chains, into a thin net to catch the oncoming strike, and mused through fatigue and fog that Feedback would be her ultimate killer- the berserker was just a convenient weapon.  It was astonishing how completely Feedback's machinations had unraveled her- how fast it had hollowed her out and unwoven the binds that connected her to her abilities, then left her to mull over its warning while she tried to reweave and rebuild herself into a version of her whole.
There just hadn't been enough time.
When the truck hit, she only noticed it as a shadow- a rush of motion and noise that was deadened by shock, and blood loss, and the bone-deep burn as the virus scoured her skeleton.  It hit, hard- the berserker was there, and then there was the crushing, violent impact, and it was gone, and the blood began to flow back into her legs as its massive body tumbled down the alley with its intestines unspooling like an unwound ball of string.
There a moment of grateful silence, and then Cain, backlit by the truck's interior light and the sick quaking bloom of his troubled aura.  Phoebe didn't need the furrows of his brow to gauge his concern; it crept like scouts across his spirit, shot flares like a rampaging cavalry, and replaced all its embattlements with medical tents.  She stretched a bloody grin, feigned competence, and watched Cain from behind sclera veined with black.
"I can help you with the injuries, but.."
"I know."
She knew.
In the fog, and the pain, and the remote clash of entities in her flesh, she knew.  Her thoughts turned to Aristotle and their daughter, and she wondered if, even across this distance, their bond held - if he could feel whatever thing the vampire had left in her; if she knew what was happening in that way that children knew realities they shouldn't; if it was cold there, like it was here. 
She mourned what could have been.
Slowly, Phoebe summoned the strength to pull one leg in, as if she were going to stand, but the weight of Cain's hand as it slipped beneath her shirt couldn't be overcome.  Against her cooling flesh, his palm burned like a brand as the Troll flooded in, patching and filing innumerable voids where the berserker's claws and teeth had carved through her body.  Where he gave the Troll he felt something given in return- a vibration, low and ancient, that pushed up into his hand and trampled his nerves like an over-wound clock.  As he carried her, it persisted, spreading until it felt like his body resonated in time with hers, and he could believe, at that moment, that the two were really one in a way that he and his puppets could never be.
A literal spark, blue and burning, leaped between them, landing on Cain's outstretched palm as he secured her in the idling truck and turned away to return to the driver's side.  It would be the first of many.  An actinic star blossomed from the spark's origination in the center of Phoebe's chest and rapidly crawled out, unbidden, spreading across her ribcage like frost across a winter lake.  Its scrawl was a nothing language, all jagged peaks, and forked edges, that seared its flourishing signature down her arms on a path to the door handle, where it landed and exploded in a fountain of sparks.
She seized; her eyes wide and unseeing as every muscle flexed.  She rose up off the seat straining a spine-breaking arch that threatened to snap the woven seat belt as the last sparks landed, dashed against the grimey floor mats and smoldered briefly before being snuffed out as she collapsed back to the broken pleather seat.
"Fuck, James.."  Through her exhaustion, the words were barely a whisper, but she could feel him now- his petulant joining, lending his basest capabilities only when he stared at death alongside her.  They were out now, though - hers, if she could keep them.
Somehow, despite the nerve-burning shock, she looked better- there was color in her cheeks and the rebirth of life in her light eyes.  The storms would continue through their ride and the vampires' capture, each incident less than the one before it, but still chaotic- still painful.  The truck would take the brunt of it, its fake leather a melted mess by the time Cain had built his earthen cage and trapped the chairman in it, and while Phoebe's fingertips shook and dispersed small bolts into the air from time to time, she had begun to flex her body- to wiggle her toes, and roll her shoulders, and wonder.
"The lab rats are going to love this.." she murmured, watching a spark as it jumped unprovoked between her knuckles, while Cain climbed back into the truck.

“Have you ever seen a lighthouse?”
Blooms eyes were wide with perception, while Cain’s were sharp with it. Where she absorbed on a broad scale, Cain delved into her with his words. He had not yet laid his suspicion upon her, but for his purposes of deciding who or what and how worth the Dead’s envelopment she was, Blooming Rose’s silence throughout the duration of their journey was… insufficient. Nonetheless, his question had been rhetorical; as the mysterious ocean’s waves lapped them to the lone probing light of foreign shores, the lighthouse became starkly familiar.
“Welcome, everyone,” said Cain in the Sphynx’s dimness. The only sound following the grim breadth of his words was cool air hissing vents around the deck that smelled like freon filtered the scent of the dozen-and-a-half peoples’ existence for hours and across dimensions. Cain tapped the big digital map at the front of the bay, a familiar sight. In fact, it was a map of the exact same area they’d taken off from originally.
“To Umbridge Isle.”
As the waves gradually settled, and their ship’s propellers pulsed them gently forth, they saw a man standing at the end of the pier. There was a boat rowing up toward him with one single individual in it. From this vantage point they could also make out another ship approaching in the distance. Then, shrouded in the fog behind that ship, a barely conceivable dreadnought loomed miles away.
“Look familiar?” Cain’s lips formed the words bitterly. There was no humor in his voice, his back to the team and his stabbing gaze on the man at the end of the pier.
Then, only after the ugliness of such bitterness had left his face, he turned to face them. Now, he sought the black rose Sierra had laid upon a silver banister. After an hour and a half it lay flat against the polished steel, its petals pooling in the flower’s lushest of death throes. He brought it to his nose and drew in its scent, a memory of love lost. 
“I’ve been here before,” the rose lowered to his side, twirled in his fingers as Cain’s gaze now listed toward the back wall  in memory. “This realm is inhabited by a demi-god that uses some type of mirror magic. It seems pretty hell-bent on protecting whatever’s in here. Nevertheless, it is apparent to me that we’ll all face some version of ourselves in here.”

“Have you ever seen a lighthouse?”
Blooms eyes were wide with perception, while Cain’s were sharp with it. Where she absorbed on a broad scale, Cain delved into her with his words. He had not yet laid his suspicion upon her, but for his purposes of deciding who or what and how worth the Dead’s envelopment she was, Blooming Rose’s silence throughout the duration of their journey was… insufficient. Nonetheless, his question had been rhetorical; as the mysterious ocean’s waves lapped them to the lone probing light of foreign shores, the lighthouse became starkly familiar.
“Welcome, everyone,” said Cain in the Sphynx’s dimness. The only sound following the grim breadth of his words was cool air hissing vents around the deck that smelled like freon filtered the scent of the dozen-and-a-half peoples’ existence for hours and across dimensions. Cain tapped the big digital map at the front of the bay, a familiar sight. In fact, it was a map of the exact same area they’d taken off from originally.
“To Umbridge Isle.”
As the waves gradually settled, and their ship’s propellers pulsed them gently forth, they saw a man standing at the end of the pier. There was a boat rowing up toward him with one single individual in it. From this vantage point they could also make out another ship approaching in the distance. Then, shrouded in the fog behind that ship, a barely conceivable dreadnought loomed miles away.
“Look familiar?” Cain’s lips formed the words bitterly. There was no humor in his voice, his back to the team and his stabbing gaze on the man at the end of the pier.
Then, only after the ugliness of such bitterness had left his face, he turned to face them. Now, he sought the black rose Sierra had laid upon a silver banister. After an hour and a half it lay flat against the polished steel, its petals pooling in the flower’s lushest of death throes. He brought it to his nose and drew in its scent, a memory of love lost. 
“I’ve been here before,” the rose lowered to his side, twirled in his fingers as Cain’s gaze now listed toward the back wall  in memory. “This realm is inhabited by a demi-god that uses some type of mirror magic. It seems pretty hell-bent on protecting whatever’s in here. Nevertheless, it is apparent to me that we’ll all face some version of ourselves in here.”

A bloom of telekinetic anchors rushed out from Sierra, creeping into any available nook or crack and twining around the ship's solid core, as they sought to secure the Dead and their white-garbed associate against the ship's violent crash into the pocket dimension.  Their pressure was as steadfast as the tribeswoman's expression and, but for the curl of her brow, equally unmoving.
“We’ll have to ram straight into it.”
Oh, that's fun.
An idle glance from Sierra took in Cain sidelong; the tilt of her chin, and spark in her eyes, suggested amusement at the tumult.  
It was never a boring day.
For a long moment the Dead sat in silence and blackness, lulled by the gentle rock of the ship as it drifted.  It could be that the entirety of this world was like this - a wide expanse of nothing, and nowhere, with no one to conquer and nothing to collect.  It pressed on her; the threat of nothing was somehow claustrophobic and she fought the urge to cast her Will out in search of something -- anything.  Her breath slipped over her lips, past the twin strips painted down her chin, like the last gasp of the fallen and she stared at the horizon as if the land could be forced to emerge.  Moments passed, marked by the steady sound of her fiddling with the hammered metal ring wrapped around her thumb.
When the light appeared, the tension that had crept across her frame fell like the distant waves, and her eyes angled up toward the stars.  "I thought we were trapped in nowhere, for a minute," she spoke, her words on the exhale, thrown to no one in particular as her black gaze cast out across the dark blue expanse, toward the lighthouse's distant heartbeat.  "What a strange place."

A pocket dimension? Interesting.
She was both relieved and disappointed that the cabin barely felt any of the turbulence upon reaching this new realm. It would have been the quite the new experience but fate was just cruel to thirsty woman like her. The unquenching thirst for knowledge and new experiences had always been one of her greater flaws.
Her eyes drifted to the new world outside. Dark and possibly barren except for the neverending waters and the beam of light that came and went ever so often. But not all was lost as their ship was still working. Yes, that was the most important thing right now.
"That lighthouse does seem interesting," she spoke out loud."However, can we still locate Bladesweeper?"
Just need to focus now. The important part is that the signal hasn't been lost yet. It would be bad if they had to search every nook and cranny of this new land. Using that method to find two airships did give her quite the headache.
"Hmm...what else is there outside," she mused as she expanded her own senses pass the airship and into great unknown hoping to find something of note....

The Dead General had been on enough airship to have built up some tolerance for turbulence; but the winds that buffeted the Sphynx now were testing his limits. Scenes of their craft breaking apart and scattering him and his comrades to the heartless winds crept into his mind; and he realized his heart rate had become elevated. Death did not scare the shinobi; he had been in its presence long enough to grow accustomed to its silent embrace. Helplessness, however, was a terror that had been cultivated in his heart during the hell that was his childhood. To his mind, few situations seemed more helpless than plummeting through the sky from so high up.
But he was not a child. The man who sat on the bridge of the Sphynx now may have been shaped by the experiences of his youth; but with great effort, he was learning that those traumas did not define him. He needed only look around to see that he was no longer helpless. It was through his own strength that he had come so far; overcoming all obstacles put before him to gain the life he had. Even if the ship should break apart, he would find a way to overcome that as well.
His resolve remembered, there was still relatively little Shikai could do as the ship attempted to break through to another dimension. As the ship finally pierced the veil, there was a sensation akin to pushing hard on a door only to have it suddenly opened. Their new surroundings were dark, save for a single light that flashed over and over again.
"I know what a lighthouse is," he chimed in, "And what a lure is too. But It's not like we're spoiled for choice, huh?"

There was no condescension, there was no deception, there were no buttplugs. One of the greatest assets of externalizing Tori— the now-intricate crystal once a stolen jewel lodged crudely in Michael’s left eye socket— was the Warmind’s ability to draw from Michael’s stores of energy without him having to divert his focus as well as expending the energy.
“Sword fight, huh?”
A red tinge growing around Michael, the unknown knight stood, unperturbed either by Michael’s arrival or his attire or the crimson becoming him. Ashton brought his sword along, but more importantly he exacted his runic ritual. Michael, too, understood that these realms sucked from their participants a cruel sense of duty. Made, maybe, mere beasts out of generous men. As the cloud broke from Ahston's shimmering rune and made its own web of the stuff of fantasies, the nightgowned man’s gaze hardened, pushing everything but focus on the objective at hand from within. Red light climbing its fingers and manifesting in its palm his extended hand closed, and within it like the flip of a lightswitch there was indeed a magical sword of Peachy Keen light. A magical sword fight is a sword fight, he was clearly trying to imply.
“No, I don’t think that I do.”
“Huh, we’ll see.” So that’s how it was going to be. Michael’s expression didn’t deflate at the remark, but he did rove his blade to create a vertical neon line between them. It illuminated the scar on his eye where once there had been a jagged rock embedded.
What’s more Tori, formerly known as the red earring on Michael’s left lobe, left her perch as Ashton and the cloud moved forward. A singular node, a tinge of red separated Michael from the advancing cloud of shimmer. When the cloud met the plane Tori created between Ashton and Michael, though, something interesting happened. It would be like smoke washing over glass, Ashton’s cloud spreading over the fine outline of Spirit Fire.¹ A bubble of the mage’s magic extended from the crystal hovering at chest-level between knight and knight to form a blazing nucleus in the existence between Michael and the cloud emitting from Ashton. Almost immediately upon cloud meeting fire, Michael’s grim face was illuminated by the sword, the space around him darkened, his hair stirred with the vacuum of the flames around him.  Magical discharge hissed from the point of contact between Ashton’s spell cloud and Michael’s barrier. A dark warbling emanated from the orange blade in Michael’s hand.
“Ready?” asked the mysterious warrior as he raised his blade.
“Ready,” said Michael.
At his response, a focused red incendiary beam pinged directly for Ashton’s chest. It wouldn’t bore a hole in his sternum or anything, but it would burn the shit out of it, and what’s worse, it didn’t stop; the beam would last for about three seconds. ²
 

As the Emperor bit into his neck, Shikai initially only felt a brief, sharp pain; followed by a strange sensation that he couldn't entirely quantify as his blood flowed into the vampires mouth. It was sort of like a bite and a kiss all at once; painful, but also somewhat pleasant. But as he was fed upon, he began to feel an old, familiar fear; like someone had teleported a freezing stone into the pit of his stomach. Memories bubbled up from the depths of his subconscious; recollections of a time he had tried his best to put behind him. Suddenly he was a scared teenager again; helpless to stop a more powerful man from doing with the shinobi as he pleased. The urge to break away, to fight back flared with a fierce intensity like a firework rocketing into the sky before exploding in a violent flash.
Yet even as his oldest fears echoed within his mind; he forced himself to remain still, and let the feeding continue. Until recently he would have done anything to escape from the thoughts and feelings running through him; but not anymore. With the help of his comrades, he was beginning to face the horrors of his past and come to terms with him. So with great effort, he allowed Rafael to drink his fill; offering a shaky smile to the man.
"You honor me with such praise."
Giving one last bow to the Emperor and his Empress, Shikai rose to his feet and walked away from the throne; rubbing his neck absently. Now that the adrenaline was leaving his system, he felt the urge to find some comfort in a familiar face. He knew that there were other members of The Dead were attending the celebration; but he wasn't sure what rooms they might be in. Scanning the room, he soon found Willow being fed on by a vampire he didn't recognize... and one that he did. Though her face was covered by a mask, her scent was unmistakable; as were her eyes.
"Quinn?"
The shinobi moved over to the trio and flashed a smile to the unknown vampire before turning his attention back to the Doctor. Drinking in her exquisite appearance; a blush colored his cheeks as he realized that he was basically naked from the waist up. the v of his hips just barely visible. Rubbing the back of his head, he struggled to find words to express his conflicting feelings.
"Uh, hey! I didn't know you would be here. You look, um... well, really, really nice. Uh, beautiful that is."
Before he could stutter out anything further, he noticed Quinn inspecting Willow, and when he did as well he grew concerned. The girl seemed relaxed, which was better than the stress she had clearly been feeling before. He had seen the effects of blood loss often enough to recognize it when he saw it. Ducking down to get one of Willow's arms over his shoulder, he looked for one of the refreshment tables.
"We ought to get her something to eat before she gives anymore blood."
@vielle @DarkHorse @Mickey Flash
"Indeed, and a wonderful moment it was," he flashed an almost predatory smile, "Such a shame that it had to end so abruptly... but perhaps we can make up for lost time."
During their first meeting, Ben had been posing as a teacher at Bronte academy; his reasons for doing so not important enough to be worth remembering. He and the Headmistress had begun to make love, but then something strange had occurred. Something in Bodice had resonated with the powerful inhuman blood that flowed in his veins; and they had met an ancient being that claimed to have entered a pact with his ancestors. The Headmistress had made a deal, and received a strange tome fashioned from his flesh and blood. Ben himself had gained access to a new tier of power. In the aftermath they had both been too exhausted to pick up where they had left off, and he had returned to Datsuzoku soon afterward. But he had often thought about Bodice in the intervening years; and it seemed fate had seen fit to reunite them. 
"I'd love to get you a drink," he offered her his elbow, "But I shall need to know what kind of red you prefer."
@Jotnotes

There were things you can prepare for, and things that you couldn't.
For someone like Amirah, a known and feared/respected member of the underworld, it wasn't a leap to think that some enterprising moron might try to launch an assault on her place of business. Working from that possibility, she could prepare her security to repel any such incursion. She could come up with various strategies; equip her men with top of the line weaponry, and psionic enhancements. Amirah had drilled her guards to the point that they could enact their roles in a combat situation practically without conscious thought. When the intruders had come up through the elevator, they had all responded with practiced precision.
But there were certain things that you couldn't train for. How did you prepare your guards for a woman who could kill them without so much as laying a finger on them? Or a man who could leap twenty feet into the air, and kill three men before the other three had even pointed their weapons at him? There was simply no way to prepare for freaks like these.
Fortunately, Amirah was a freak herself. 
She threw one of the balls of fire into the elevator; causing an explosion that would damage anyone nearby as well as incinerate any further potential intruders coming up the shaft. Next, she zeroed in on the Psion, and loosed a steady stream of fire at her.

[seventh room]
Phoebe’s and Cain’s was a simple role to play, and they understood it without flaw. It was, for better and worse, who they had actually become. The stifled space between their warm bodies wasn’t entirely bereft of love, but enough so that nothing would likely surface between them; their execution as partners was outwardly perfect both because of that love and because of its gated desire. The electricity between them was such that the press of Phoebe’s guiding fingertips on the side of Cain’s abdomen was but a spark.
Together they saw through the windows Red City’s formidable buttresses rising like fortresses, its flags rolling slow like spectres in the winds of the dark distance. 
“Yeah,” he said distantly, his arm rising to grasp her waist and pull her close to his side as they looked. “They really are amazing. I’ve heard that the Red City was built on the treachery of a great general’s son and wife. They must have been here for hundreds of years…”
As She remarked on the flawless glass before them, He remarked on the city without. They would both know what the other meant, before he reached up to glide a fingertip along the glass and feel its cold, smooth texture, his dry flesh leaving not so much as a smudge on the crimson surface. The singular hole in his ring finger indicated that this was, in fact, that Shadow of Cain. The original body. It was absolutely most fitting that he brought the most heathenous of his forms for the evening’s delicacies.
“Lovely night isn’t it?”
Over the always-manageable, but growing din of the arriving guests, Cain heard her voice and turned upon Quin, leaving the red light to stand beside her. Together Cain, Quin, and perhaps Phoebe looked up at the thrones. One of them was conspicuously vacant, and Cain didn’t know why, but his eyes were focused through the eyes of his mask on the occupant of the other throne. There was no malice or contempt for anything that could ever have happened or ever would, only a pair of smiling eyes and lips forming words meant for somebody else. For tonight, the man channeling Anubis was a great benefactor to all those present, it would be an insult to impart on him anything but gratitude, an insult Cain would never sully himself with even while wearing a mask.
“Lovely indeed,” he said as he approached, gesturing to the hypnotizing rivers of blue rippling across her outfit. “I can’t imagine being surrounded by more beautiful a pair of killers than you.” At first his words carried excitement in them, but upon reading her body language his tone changed. “I hear that our host has procured some of the finest blood there is for us to drink tonight! Soon when the real treats arrive, we may even have a chance to thank him ourselves.” 
Their eyes rested on Rafael for one last moment before he turned from the king, placing himself between king and Quin.
“But in the meantime, let us mingle,” the last word flicked off his tongue with devious intent. Although all their intent could be summed up as ‘networking,’ he carried an almost unavoidable tone of (and penchant for) mischief.
A glass of champagne had found its way into Cain’s fingers, and one in Phoebe’s.
“Are you old enough to drink?” his sarcastic voice and a third glass probed out for Quin.

[Room Seven - Black]
Encroaching into vicinities was something Cain had always prided himself in. He read Quinn’s feelings from well before the moment her expression indicated discomfort with accompanying the two top agents in her organization to a feeding frenzy. As he extended the glass toward her, as she laughed brusquely at his light jest and then broke its stem, a razor’s edge in his eyes bespoke judgment. Only was the highest grade, most uncut product of focus on the mission at hand worthy of the Dead. In the same snapping instance as the glass’s stem breaking, its holder caught the bulb of liquid in one hand, extending his left foot so that the base of the glass tumbled down his robe and rolled along the ground.
Cain did so with not entirely casual ease, but nearly; downing the contents of the baseless glass and placing it on the tray carried by the same waiter who offered them the glasses and paused nearby at the sound of breaking glass. Visibly unbothered either by the moment or the flute of champagne in his dead gut, he swiveled as his skeleton made off to create something for him to observe later, her chapter in a collaborative work of art they would build from the ground up.
As the others made off to make that something more, the Lich scanned casually across the room and drank in its interactions. He laid eyes on Helena of the House of Kharon and Foy as she approached the Lord Father. His golden eyes watched their lips move silently in the growing murmur’s tide, the colors and faces around them melting into abstract. And then Helena withdrew, and silence became the suite, and the Anubis-laiden King spoke. After introducing his Empress, Cain watching with the sadness of love lost in his eyes, Raphael opened the dams of blood with a scrupulousness Cain had never achieved; it was the same reason he did not feed tonight. The type of blood Cain prefered coursed with more than just the lifeblood that sustained vampyres, more than just the fear behind raising an arm or passing out— it was the knowing that death was upon one, a type of blood which could not be taken consensually, that Cain preferred. He knew that what he had made of himself was a mere beast among these elegant creatures, and so he abstained so as not to make a monster of himself. Or worse, a mockery.
He watched with admitting jealousy as the willing offerings poured into the suite. How many thousands had he harvested over his years in Tia, the vast majority of them of dry and used quality compared to this? What would it have taken, how many more years, how many more resources and lives for him to reach this pinnacle? His envy was far outweighed by his respect for the high one.
When Shikai entered the room, heading straight toward Raphael, instead of taking to his own business Cain watched over his second glass of champagne. At some point the two of them would catch eyes, and through his mask Shikai would see Cain’s eyes glazed with tacit approval for the General’s wishes. From a lean on the sill where She and He had stood half an hour earlier, he watched with a grin the Black Room become a controlled, luxurious orgy of blood. Its rich scents of iron perfumed with raw emotions filled his nostrils, all of it enjoyable but none of it quite what he had come to indulge in.
Cain watched as Raphael laid hands on Irene with supple grace, the passion in his eyes even greater than the promise of his rules’ enforcement.
Cain watched and absorbed, for now was not the time for the conversation he wanted.

TOTEM ONE models existed as an assortment of armored plates that moved freely around the operator. Each of these were equipped with filters manufactured by Argus to mitigate the worst effects of the gas. Whirring around them as they stood interspersed throughout the front lines, the plates created a veritable wind that absorbed much of the fog through their filters. However, the effects would still be felt partially. This was where the traumatizing memories of nerve gas to the face and torture simulation chambers would crash in on each of the soldiers as the same mettle that had got them through all the other wars by Michael’s side was put to the test once more. Clergymen who saw that some of the mists could not be affected on a physical level began their prayer for holy mists that would act bulwark against Xelken and Kahd’Xel curses.
When the flying Xelken overtook the barrier they would not find Aspyn shut up in its houses. Children were locked away, but as the first cretinous creature overtook the wall it was hit by a flying balloon that exploded into its own gas. This noxious fog was an unforgivably acidic agent that would immediately encrust even the tiniest of creatures in stone. Balloons and ballistics of all caliber rocketed upward from the barrels of projectile devices prepared by the first ready Aspyn citizens to get some shots off.  Next there came enchantments that froze the stone bodies of the Xelken in midair only to pelt them back at their allies. 
Kahd’Xel and his invaders would immediately find that, not only had Gaia’s children wallowed in her beautiful creation, they had made something damn good— damn strong— out of it.
Still though, even one death was too many.
Within the night fog, the froth of insectoid gore, it was almost unimaginable that Suujali would ever lay paws on Biazo Isle, yet here they were. Many Biazoans had seen Suujali, but they had never heard of Xelken. It was these human-sized bugs the Aspynians and friends were most concerned about. Their gigantism more than the curses they plagued upon the earth were the stuff of nightmares to the refugees. The assaults Terrenus had been broken apart by over the years were endless enough that the collective public had become broken by the sickness it inflicted on them. The Suujali, though, appeared to catch the military outside the walls off-guard the most at first. The very first Terran death was, in fact, a soldier being pounced on and mauled by a Suujali.
That was when the underground assault was launched, though. The Suujali was neither stabbed nor bludgeoned, launched or set on fire; it was pulled beneath the earth. Not like drowning, where it sank— much more like being drowned, where it was dragged under. Such would be the fate of every Suujali and its rider, every groundborne cockroach the clergy laid eyes on. For this land they crawled across, killed on, shit on like savages, this fucking land was Gais’s land.
Except, with focus split between all the factors of Kahd’s attack, stingers and stabs and assassinations grabbed lives out of the darkness.
‘He told me the end would be fiery; said there’d be shadows and monsters, my worst nightmares. He said that when it all happened, He would still be standing there. He would be my last enemy…’
Gaian chants and the chaos of battle filling the fog around them, Michael’s palms felt the coolness of Marigold’s shoulders, his fingers closing around them like a gift he was about to turn around and show the world, his first tragedy of the evil night occured. Marigold, his expression frozen in delight at their delicious plan about to unfold, turned into ash.
‘But this? This is nothing like that…’
Flinching forward, clutching at the ashes, trying to hold the dead Marigold together, Michael’s own face warped into sheer horror at his compatriot’s sudden dissipation. It (Marigold, that is) fluttered to the ground, through the grasp of Michael’s aching hands and forearms even as the fog washed over him, as the forces of good and evil clashed in silent rainbow explosions all around him. One of Gaia’s Disciples, dead before the battle had even started. How? Why? Even as the light gathered around Michael’s flesh, he fought away the desolation of Marigold’s dissipation.
"Fuck," Michael whispered to himself, then shouted into the air that was crisp with death. "FUCK!"
The anomalous assaults on Aspyn were so multitudinous, it was hard to tell which happened first. One had begun weeks earlier, only the fact that he had agents on the case to keep it out of the Major’s mind, but now came the rally of broken cogs and wheels that actually held the potential to spell disaster for Aspyn. It was becoming increasingly clear that much of the burden would, again, rest on his shoulders. He would not be afraid, though, he was determined for his Mother. 
“Sir, incoming!” said Tori as Marigold’s remains crumbled like sand through the unbelieving Michael’s hands. “It’s something big.”
Turning, Michael saw that he stood before ‘something big' indeed. Something so big itt made him look tiny. He gazed up at the shadowy frame of Kahd’Xel— even though much of the fog was whipped through the filters of the TOTEMS, the sources of fog, the Xelken and Kahd’Xel were still shrouded semi-densely. So it was that Michael looked up upon the fogged frame as it fouled the firth between good and evil with its fallacies. There was no pause for surprise in him, for that sort of thing was long dead within Michael in the need for action. Tori projected Kahd’s image into Michael’s eyes immediately. His fists, though they ached sorely, clenched with furious holy duty, and the white flare around him verged on eruption. While Kahd’s features seemed shrouded and still as he spoke, Michael’s were fiercely illuminated. Michael believed that those who most unjustly spoke ill about their competitors were prone to hide their forms, so it was fitting. He spat in the dirt, summoning all of the zeal his burgeoned, blessed, healthy, adrenalined body could muster, and then the heretic’s words came.
"Misguided servants of the traitor Gaia.  Long have you wallowed in your goddess' vile filth, Tonight I free you from your chains, tonight you all help kindle the flames of Justice."
“Don’t talk about...”
Kahd’s words were exactly the gasoline the kindling flames of Michael’s power needed. The roiling white flames licking at his frame suddenly became a volcanic inferno that blasted and roared off of him. The smaller of the two spread his feet, lowered his center of gravity, preparing both hands to pump forward as Kahd’s mouth open. His voice was as loud as an atom bomb.
“My mother...” 
As the gas came from Kahd’s mouth, Michael’s fists splayed their fingers wide, his arms punching forth.
“THAT WAY!!!”
From his hands, up toward Kahd’s face as he and his breath blasphemed all over the front lines, came his first attack: an exploding star of white Spirit Fire. Its sole aim was to swallow the Arch-Demon and his curses. Had it been a hoard of Suujali, a hoard of Xelken, or Kahd himself, the attack would have resolved the exact same. Michael was glad it could be right in Kahd’s face.

TOTEM ONE models existed as an assortment of armored plates that moved freely around the operator. Each of these were equipped with filters manufactured by Argus to mitigate the worst effects of the gas. Whirring around them as they stood interspersed throughout the front lines, the plates created a veritable wind that absorbed much of the fog through their filters. However, the effects would still be felt partially. This was where the traumatizing memories of nerve gas to the face and torture simulation chambers would crash in on each of the soldiers as the same mettle that had got them through all the other wars by Michael’s side was put to the test once more. Clergymen who saw that some of the mists could not be affected on a physical level began their prayer for holy mists that would act bulwark against Xelken and Kahd’Xel curses.
When the flying Xelken overtook the barrier they would not find Aspyn shut up in its houses. Children were locked away, but as the first cretinous creature overtook the wall it was hit by a flying balloon that exploded into its own gas. This noxious fog was an unforgivably acidic agent that would immediately encrust even the tiniest of creatures in stone. Balloons and ballistics of all caliber rocketed upward from the barrels of projectile devices prepared by the first ready Aspyn citizens to get some shots off.  Next there came enchantments that froze the stone bodies of the Xelken in midair only to pelt them back at their allies. 
Kahd’Xel and his invaders would immediately find that, not only had Gaia’s children wallowed in her beautiful creation, they had made something damn good— damn strong— out of it.
Still though, even one death was too many.
Within the night fog, the froth of insectoid gore, it was almost unimaginable that Suujali would ever lay paws on Biazo Isle, yet here they were. Many Biazoans had seen Suujali, but they had never heard of Xelken. It was these human-sized bugs the Aspynians and friends were most concerned about. Their gigantism more than the curses they plagued upon the earth were the stuff of nightmares to the refugees. The assaults Terrenus had been broken apart by over the years were endless enough that the collective public had become broken by the sickness it inflicted on them. The Suujali, though, appeared to catch the military outside the walls off-guard the most at first. The very first Terran death was, in fact, a soldier being pounced on and mauled by a Suujali.
That was when the underground assault was launched, though. The Suujali was neither stabbed nor bludgeoned, launched or set on fire; it was pulled beneath the earth. Not like drowning, where it sank— much more like being drowned, where it was dragged under. Such would be the fate of every Suujali and its rider, every groundborne cockroach the clergy laid eyes on. For this land they crawled across, killed on, shit on like savages, this fucking land was Gais’s land.
Except, with focus split between all the factors of Kahd’s attack, stingers and stabs and assassinations grabbed lives out of the darkness.
‘He told me the end would be fiery; said there’d be shadows and monsters, my worst nightmares. He said that when it all happened, He would still be standing there. He would be my last enemy…’
Gaian chants and the chaos of battle filling the fog around them, Michael’s palms felt the coolness of Marigold’s shoulders, his fingers closing around them like a gift he was about to turn around and show the world, his first tragedy of the evil night occured. Marigold, his expression frozen in delight at their delicious plan about to unfold, turned into ash.
‘But this? This is nothing like that…’
Flinching forward, clutching at the ashes, trying to hold the dead Marigold together, Michael’s own face warped into sheer horror at his compatriot’s sudden dissipation. It (Marigold, that is) fluttered to the ground, through the grasp of Michael’s aching hands and forearms even as the fog washed over him, as the forces of good and evil clashed in silent rainbow explosions all around him. One of Gaia’s Disciples, dead before the battle had even started. How? Why? Even as the light gathered around Michael’s flesh, he fought away the desolation of Marigold’s dissipation.
"Fuck," Michael whispered to himself, then shouted into the air that was crisp with death. "FUCK!"
The anomalous assaults on Aspyn were so multitudinous, it was hard to tell which happened first. One had begun weeks earlier, only the fact that he had agents on the case to keep it out of the Major’s mind, but now came the rally of broken cogs and wheels that actually held the potential to spell disaster for Aspyn. It was becoming increasingly clear that much of the burden would, again, rest on his shoulders. He would not be afraid, though, he was determined for his Mother. 
“Sir, incoming!” said Tori as Marigold’s remains crumbled like sand through the unbelieving Michael’s hands. “It’s something big.”
Turning, Michael saw that he stood before ‘something big' indeed. Something so big itt made him look tiny. He gazed up at the shadowy frame of Kahd’Xel— even though much of the fog was whipped through the filters of the TOTEMS, the sources of fog, the Xelken and Kahd’Xel were still shrouded semi-densely. So it was that Michael looked up upon the fogged frame as it fouled the firth between good and evil with its fallacies. There was no pause for surprise in him, for that sort of thing was long dead within Michael in the need for action. Tori projected Kahd’s image into Michael’s eyes immediately. His fists, though they ached sorely, clenched with furious holy duty, and the white flare around him verged on eruption. While Kahd’s features seemed shrouded and still as he spoke, Michael’s were fiercely illuminated. Michael believed that those who most unjustly spoke ill about their competitors were prone to hide their forms, so it was fitting. He spat in the dirt, summoning all of the zeal his burgeoned, blessed, healthy, adrenalined body could muster, and then the heretic’s words came.
"Misguided servants of the traitor Gaia.  Long have you wallowed in your goddess' vile filth, Tonight I free you from your chains, tonight you all help kindle the flames of Justice."
“Don’t talk about...”
Kahd’s words were exactly the gasoline the kindling flames of Michael’s power needed. The roiling white flames licking at his frame suddenly became a volcanic inferno that blasted and roared off of him. The smaller of the two spread his feet, lowered his center of gravity, preparing both hands to pump forward as Kahd’s mouth open. His voice was as loud as an atom bomb.
“My mother...” 
As the gas came from Kahd’s mouth, Michael’s fists splayed their fingers wide, his arms punching forth.
“THAT WAY!!!”
From his hands, up toward Kahd’s face as he and his breath blasphemed all over the front lines, came his first attack: an exploding star of white Spirit Fire. Its sole aim was to swallow the Arch-Demon and his curses. Had it been a hoard of Suujali, a hoard of Xelken, or Kahd himself, the attack would have resolved the exact same. Michael was glad it could be right in Kahd’s face.

In a world of magic and intrigue there isn’t much pause over. Certainly, if you live long enough, you eventually become desensitized to all of the preternatural oddities. It is perhaps then, why the most mundane of things, those truly unremarkably, are the ones that are the most jarring. Ashton pauses, mid draw, at the appearance of Michael, not because Michael appeared from nowhere… no that’s common enough. But rather it’s his choice of attire that leaves him befuddled. Although, even this is short lived and almost immediately written off as an attempt at subverting expectations.  Present yourself as harmless and then capitalize on the opposition’s hubris. It’s a tried and true tactic, one that the redhead has leveraged a few times.
“Sword fight, huh?” He stands, his right hand grasping the hilt of the sword, pulling it up with him. At the same moment his left hand grasps the newly formed rune, crushing it1. A fine glittery powder seeps from between his fingers, each shimmering particulate a letter of a spell. It dances through and against the air currents, traveling some unknown leylines, writhing its way toward Commager as an expanding cloud of glimmer.
Unable to identify where a sword could be secreted away on Michael, save for his prison pocket, Ashton concludes one of two things. Either tucked beneath the nightgown is a rather large and sharp butt plug, or there will be a magic at play. Assuming it’s the second, clearly deception is at play because a magical sword fight isn’t a sword fight.
“No, I don’t think that I do.” He finally answers the question as he initiates his trek into the newly formed cloud, which does little to obstruct either’s vision, but does provide some nice magical ambiance in the form of soft white outline glows, and gold and silver shimmering.
The tip of the sword drags along the ground as he advances, bumping over rocks and branches, while its otherwise dull, though heavy, blade barely leaves a noticeable ravine in the soil. And as he approaches the 7’ mark, Ashton hefts it up, swinging it not directly at Michael but merely to place it in a superior position to attack, later. Remaining squared off with his opponent, a single hand on a two-handed sword, the tip pointing to the sky at a 30-degree angle, Ashton pauses to afford Michael the chance to try to capitalize on his subversion or at the very least raise any further objections. “Ready?”
 

Y S H M A E L ,  T H R I C E - B L E S S E D  A G E N T  
 
       Weaving through the forest fed the wanderlust in the Nomad's heart. His spirit sang with virility as the verdant vastness twisted and flourished time and time again. Just when he came to know some great and fantastical scene or entity, another was on its way to grace their eyes and ears (and sometimes the tongue!). When the three moved by some runescribed trees, the colossal entities whirred to life with a pulse felt in the very earth and air around them. Beasts and Vegetation alike moved and came to know the well-received guests. DeViento was much aware of the good company it was sharing space with, judging by the fact they were not dead yet. An active landscape like this would happily dispose of oppressive entities, he felt-- or hoped. 
 
       When slowing toward the end of the corridor, they lightened up on the root system travel and guerilla weaving drills; the Apprentice looked around again. They were deep within her, now. Tyra's awe was infectious. The life felt en masse around them was hailing their presence. As realizations came upon them all, Yshmael took to an in-through-the-nose, out-through-the-mouth exercise to calm his beating heart. It all closed in on him before something reached out, called to him.. Only for his focus to be broken by further excitement.
 
 “They...they sure aren’t trees! Or whales!”

"No... No they are not." Was all the Cadre Constituent could muster at that moment. 
 
“Bioships…” echoed Michael.
 
      Xenia was upheld as DeViento treated her guests with more hospitality than many had ever offered the Agent. The complexity of the forest was beyond many parts of Blairville's integrations, but it was unique nonetheless.  Yshmael could do nothing but begin to look around him. Again, his mind grabbed at information coming in from all around. She was sharing.. Something was reaching out to him. He had to find it; whatever it was.
 
“Remember what you said about splitting up? I feel like… like there’s something I need to take care of.”
 
       Yikes.... and then there were... well, by now it was mostly him on his own. This was fine. Tyra was being drawn in, Michael left his trace and went on by his lonesome, and so it was that Yshmael now stood alone within a mega-forest. Onward! His mind pushed. Deeper and farther from the corridor's exit did he go. Much like earlier, he listened for the tug at his spirit drawing him into the forest's interior. 
 
      Zaftig trees enforced zazzy zones of zeal as the eyes wandered over the treescape set about them. It was almost enough to distract the Gaian from his goal: cultivate a relationship with an entity that would be there to further  proselytize Her Will. No, it was not an impossible feat, as shown by the secular fleets owned by Chesterfield and its inhabitants. The Apprentice was not here for an every-day experience; he was not here to leave with something mediocre or something he did not wholeheartedly feel and enjoy. The Agent of Gaia was here to find life with which he could traverse the Continent (or further!) with. Something he did not have to worry about perishing so easily, like his dearest horse. The beast survived all the traumas he had, and Yshmael sought to give the steed a good life in that he would retire it someplace safely.
 
       As he moved on his own through DeViento, he began to feel and touch and see more in the runescapes and formulae set against canvases bark and stone and leaf. It was all coalescing now within his mind's eye. Shades of every posibility under the great living canopy were playing out within his mind, but each flash and image and smell and taste brought to him drew him further along the path. The patch of trees opened up a bit to what seemed like the colassal tramping ground of what he could only assume was some DeViento denizen's old resting space. 
 
      Beneath the obfuscation of flora and bioluminescence came awareness like none other. Clarity, even, as he neared what would be his. Shades of the earth and forest danced behind his eyes, and he ruminated in his reverie. What would he find? Would it be something worth awe? How alive were these ships? He could feel their presence all around, though none spoke or sang or reached to him to match the feelings that had delivered him thus far. For now, he inwardly invoked the graces of the Wyld to escort him to his prize in this endeavor. He was close... How much further, though? Time would Tell.

[Room Seven - Black]
Encroaching into vicinities was something Cain had always prided himself in. He read Quinn’s feelings from well before the moment her expression indicated discomfort with accompanying the two top agents in her organization to a feeding frenzy. As he extended the glass toward her, as she laughed brusquely at his light jest and then broke its stem, a razor’s edge in his eyes bespoke judgment. Only was the highest grade, most uncut product of focus on the mission at hand worthy of the Dead. In the same snapping instance as the glass’s stem breaking, its holder caught the bulb of liquid in one hand, extending his left foot so that the base of the glass tumbled down his robe and rolled along the ground.
Cain did so with not entirely casual ease, but nearly; downing the contents of the baseless glass and placing it on the tray carried by the same waiter who offered them the glasses and paused nearby at the sound of breaking glass. Visibly unbothered either by the moment or the flute of champagne in his dead gut, he swiveled as his skeleton made off to create something for him to observe later, her chapter in a collaborative work of art they would build from the ground up.
As the others made off to make that something more, the Lich scanned casually across the room and drank in its interactions. He laid eyes on Helena of the House of Kharon and Foy as she approached the Lord Father. His golden eyes watched their lips move silently in the growing murmur’s tide, the colors and faces around them melting into abstract. And then Helena withdrew, and silence became the suite, and the Anubis-laiden King spoke. After introducing his Empress, Cain watching with the sadness of love lost in his eyes, Raphael opened the dams of blood with a scrupulousness Cain had never achieved; it was the same reason he did not feed tonight. The type of blood Cain prefered coursed with more than just the lifeblood that sustained vampyres, more than just the fear behind raising an arm or passing out— it was the knowing that death was upon one, a type of blood which could not be taken consensually, that Cain preferred. He knew that what he had made of himself was a mere beast among these elegant creatures, and so he abstained so as not to make a monster of himself. Or worse, a mockery.
He watched with admitting jealousy as the willing offerings poured into the suite. How many thousands had he harvested over his years in Tia, the vast majority of them of dry and used quality compared to this? What would it have taken, how many more years, how many more resources and lives for him to reach this pinnacle? His envy was far outweighed by his respect for the high one.
When Shikai entered the room, heading straight toward Raphael, instead of taking to his own business Cain watched over his second glass of champagne. At some point the two of them would catch eyes, and through his mask Shikai would see Cain’s eyes glazed with tacit approval for the General’s wishes. From a lean on the sill where She and He had stood half an hour earlier, he watched with a grin the Black Room become a controlled, luxurious orgy of blood. Its rich scents of iron perfumed with raw emotions filled his nostrils, all of it enjoyable but none of it quite what he had come to indulge in.
Cain watched as Raphael laid hands on Irene with supple grace, the passion in his eyes even greater than the promise of his rules’ enforcement.
Cain watched and absorbed, for now was not the time for the conversation he wanted.