King

She's the best.

It isn't "teleportation." It's accelerated travel through an alternate, parallel realm where real-world physics don't necessarily apply. It's quite similar to how incredibly fast creatures can "appear" behind a person, giving off the impression of teleportation, when in all actuality they just moved faster than the person can comprehend. I discussed the subject with supernal before I even entered the thread.

Rafael never bluffs. While it's true that the Terran government does not enjoy unnaturals, they do recognize the sort of backlash that comes with assisting-- either directly or indirectly --with the kidnapping of foreign royalty. Yes, Rafael doesn't have as many "final forms" as Freiza or the ability to just shrug off or ignore death, but he does have manners and a pretty substantial web of political connections. It isn't like he's invading Terrenus to try and conquer them or spit on their way of life; he's trying to rescue his pregnant cousin and leave (which is a big part). On that note, there are far scarier weapons in Terrenus' arsenal than their orbital bombardment satellites.

As a great beast once said, "It's only fun if they run."

I see what you did there and I like it.

Lucian could hardly argue with the chance of further discussing the matter. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to tame the curse coursing through his veins; exercising a sliver of patience hardly seemed an unfair request. “It would be greatly appreciated, however, if we had this discussion sooner than later,” the warrior added. His hand moved to the ring ‘pon his left hand, hidden by the thick leather glove there, and he twirled it habitually. “My situation is dire.” Blinking back from his thoughts, Lucian nodded in agreement. “That being said, your terms are more than agreeable. As of this moment, House de Martel stands alongside the Order. Our resources, our men, our swords, our intelligence, yours.” It went without saying they fully expected the same to be returned, and their efforts matched by the other houses in the meeting. To that end, Lucian took better stock of the man and woman in attendance. The old man, Kreigstad, appeared very much an individual of merit. He spoke with the authority of a commander, if a bit long-winded, and had the air of one that had lived through as much as he’d seen. He was old guard, a relic from the ages Lucian’s father would tell him stories of. There was something comforting in that. The young woman, Celine, had the youth of pack in her-- all eagerness, excitement, and impulsiveness. More than that, however, she seemed without a home to call hers, and could bring little more to the table than her speed, wit, and beauty (which was not to be ignored). It was an interesting assembly of wolves, to be sure.

Nathaniel couldn’t help but ponder what Bodice was thinking as she blushed like an impressionable young elf, no doubt surprised by her escort’s confession. Whether she understood-- or even believed what he’d said --was irrelevant, as the archdaemon knew well his meaning and intent. Perhaps, when next they were alone, tangled in the throes of passion and desire, she would look for the truth in the way he touched her, handled her, and find that which she sought. Or, perhaps not. “It is not my business to judge you or any of our customers,” Nathaniel continued with a disarming, fatherly tone. “You are the artists, gentlemen, painting and shaping your fantasies and desires to your will. I merely provide you with the materials. But, if it would put your mind at ease, believe me when I say that, whatever your needs or tastes, I have serviced those with far worse. Mortal men and women are not the extents of my clientele.” Humans, always thinking they were the center of existence, the worst or best of life. Approaching the table, Nathaniel produced three business cards from his breast pocket. He placed them on each other on the table’s end, and then slid them to the left in an arching reveal. “That being said, the prices aren’t cheap in my line of work-- even for well-off men like yourselves. Take some time to think about it.” Tapping the cards pointedly, Nathaniel glanced at Bodice, studied her for a moment, and then looked at the invested expressions of their three guests. “But, and consider this something of a bonus for being such good associates of Bodice’s, if you do find yourself making an order-- I'll double it, just this one time.” Nathaniel started toward Bodice, a sudden lightness and spring in his step as if he were close to dancing. “If you have any questions or concerns, you’re free to ask,” he added absentmindedly, his thoughts elsewhere. At her feet, the archdaemon offered a hand to his beautiful companion. He plucked her from the chair, twirling her into his embrace, her back against his chest. “There’s a beautiful song playing on the third floor,” he whispered into her ear, letting his lips enunciate against the tapered appendage. “Dance with me while these men consider my proposition.” With another twirl, he brought the high elf to face him, and thus began their slow, sensual dance. Nathaniel led, as he did in all things concerning Bodice, and she followed immaculately. They moved around the room weightlessly, dancing to a song only he could hear. “I don’t believe I told you how decadently beautiful you are tonight,” he murmured to the high elf as they swam through the room. “You may have outdone yourself tonight, my love.”

August smirked, watching as Shakarri move light and graceful as a cat. It was fitting, and more than symbolic, that her companion was the dire panther, and his the wolf. For when the hunts proved troublesome, and their nights apart long, he would look into Ylva’s eyes and see his lover, beautiful and fierce. The great wolf was a constant reminder that he was never alone, not truly, and that was an invaluable comfort in the untamed wilds of Genesaris. “My past it is,” he said while patting Ylva’s side with an armored hand. The wolf spared another long, contemplative look at the massive city before breaking into a slow trot. “How much could have changed since last I was here?” More than any would dare wager, he added privately. The Red City was a living city, as ever-changing as its people-- he did not expect much to be as he remembered it. As he stepped beyond the threshold of the city’s high outermost walls, he felt the only constant within the Red City surge through him. The strength of the Faith-- which had only grown stronger in his absence, many times stronger --wove itself in and around and through him, welding to his body like invisible cords of iron. It gave him pause, for the briefest moments, took his breath away. He leaned against Ylva for support, shaking his head to clear away the disorientation. Fortunately for Shakarri, one far removed from the Faith and its influence, the ether’s presence manifested as little more than a slightly unpleasant humidity. The streets teemed with life, crowded and overflowing with merchants and those eager to buy their wares. A cacophony of voices rose up all around them, drowning the small troupe in a variety of dialects-- elvish, dwarvish, common, Sitraic, orcish, ancient, and all those that found themselves in between. Armed guards moved through the crowds with ease, as the people made way for them like water parting on a stone. Their imperial plate shimmered in the daylight, each heavy piece connected by smaller shards at the joints, fitted together with intricate precision. A group of three sentinels passed August and Shakarri by, paying no mind to the giant beasts accompanying them. There were far stranger creatures coming and going with the merchant caravans, and greater horrors still in the dark underbelly of the Red City. But one guard, the apparent leader of the bunch, stole another glance at the rugged man August had become. “Commander?” a hollow, metallic voice echoed from the blue inlaid helm. August glanced, recognizing the voice. “Aye.” The guard stormed over to the group, towering over August in her full suit of armor. “I thought that was you.” An enormous hand flipped back the helm’s visor, revealing woman’s scarred face. She looked to be in her early twenties, with piercing blue eyes and fiery red hair if the strands flicking about her cheeks held any truth to their color. At one time, before the scars, she may have been beautiful-- but she was hardened and grim now. “Castella,” August replied. “It’s nice to see a familiar face.” The two shared a brief salute, thumping their hands against their chests, right over their hearts. “Word had it you’d died in the wilds,” Castella said. “It’s good that words mean little then, hm?” “Indeed.” Her gaze rose to Azaro, then Shakarri. “Friends of yours?” “She’s a good bit more than a friend,” August matter of factly. “As are these two.” He gestured to Ylva, then Azaro. “Her name is Shakarri, and these two are Ylva and Azaro. We’re just heading to my apartment. Figured it would be nice to show her around the city for a bit. She’s a country girl.” Castella nodded. “Mm, I see. I’ll be sure to catch you before you leave. It was good seeing you, Commander. And it was a pleasure meeting the rest of you.” The guard lowered her visor and pressed on, leaving the group as they were. While he was thankful Castella had been the only one to recognize him so far, it was surprising. He half-turned, glancing at Shakarri as he scrubbed his chin with the backside of his glove. “Do I really look that different?” One’s appearance mattered least out there in the wilds, though he couldn’t imagine that stark of a transformation.

News of the Empress’ departure had reached the far corners of Genesaris, but Rafael thought it rather poor taste to broach the topic before Corvinus. In spite of their difference and the perpetual threat of a possible conflict looming over their two great nations, the Elder did, in many ways, respect the mortal before him. There were few in this world that understood loss as intimately as Rafael, for his family had been ravaged by the Collapse long before even the first of these mortal’s ancestors had crawled from the depths of the ocean. It was, by no means, a subject to be made light of. “It pains me to hear of her departure,” Rafael replied, his confession sincere. “I had hoped the reports were untrue. The world is a darker place without Leoa in it.” In spite of their brief meeting at the wedding, the Elder had come to see something of a kindred spirit in the Empress. There was pureness about it, untainted by the ruthless, manipulative, and cunning manners of her political efforts. She was a mother that adored her children and loved her husband above all else. Perhaps, the vampyre wondered, he saw reflections of his own mother in her. “But, let us not sour her memory with dreary talk.” Stepping closer, the Elder scooped Zenahriel’s hand in his own and lifted it to his lips. He kissed each of the High Lord’s knuckles, reveling in the Raven’s warmth and the silkiness of his flawless skin. He was in no rush to see the intimacy finished, passionate a creature as Rafael was, and dwindled not the High Lord’s due affection. “Corvinus, this is my mate, Zenahriel. He’s been my better half for a great deal of time now. I suspect I would have tried to conquer the sun, itself, was he not here to tell me it would have scorched me to cinders.” Their journey to the reception area just beyond the bridge was short, and inside the structure of smooth glass and shimmering white concrete, the three titans and young babe found reprieve from the violent, chilled winds sweeping over the city from the Cold Mountains. It was warm in the palace’s upper spires, well-lit by the sun high above them. Plenty of chairs occupied the open spaces in tightly fitted rows, and both the entrances and exits were well-manned, guarded by sentinels bedecked in imperial plate. They acknowledged their sovereign with firm salutes, hammering their gauntleted fists twice against their breastplate over where their hearts would be. Allowing Corvinus a moment to choose whether or not he would sit or stand, the Elder paced leisurely, eyes dancing from the grim emperor to the giggling bundle of joy in his armored grasp. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Corvinus?” The joy had bled from his voice, the friendliness too, yet it remained even and welcoming. “I can’t imagine you’d come all the way from the South, let alone Kadia, for a friendly visit with a non-human.”

You would be so proud of him, my dear Liliana, you and Samuel both. I see the two of you in him, but our genes are undoubtedly strong. There is no denying he is your son. Gabriel has grown into a fine young man, one of strong principles, character, and ambition. And of course, I have kept my word-- Gabriel is far removed from the cruel politics of our people, and none are the wiser of his true lineage. He is the last shard I have of our family, and I will protect him until my last breath. —excerpt from Rafael Bartolome’s journal, Memoirs of a Monster It had been quite some time since Rafael found himself in the upper spires of Lana’thel, in the west wing that was his and his alone. Of course, it hadn’t always been such a lonely, dreary place. More than once, a woman or two that claimed absolute love and loyalty to the emperor had stood beside him there, shared a bed and passion with him there, composed beautiful duets of keys and voice, and served as the muse for his pastel, acrylic, and charcoal masterpieces. But those times were gone, those ties severed, those lovely promises broken, and Rafael found himself in the only company he could ever truly rely on: himself, and family. In the comforting quiet of his gallery, the Elder surveyed his work thus far. There were many familiar faces in the portraits that hung over every visible inch of the walls, each one fitting into their proper place, and in those that had gathered in tall stacks on the stables and seats, or those that still sat inclined on their easel. To the left, you might see the striking figure of a voluptuous mortal bandit laid bare; to the right, an ethereal, celestial nymph with all the elegance and mystery of the starry night; and ahead, the Elder’s dear cousin, her molten gold eyes equal parts enchanting and accusing, warm and cold. “It would seem the dearly departed Evaristus was not nearly as strong as he believed himself to be,” Rafael said, a dull amusement lilting his voice. For all their technology, their “will,” and their advancements in the occult, a human was still little more than a human. A base lifeform, its existence continued only by the mercy and approval of the world’s superior species. “While I cannot say that his family and those closest to him deserved the fate you dealt them, I do understand. No one wishes to live the rest of their life looking over their shoulder.” Stepping deeper into the labyrinth of artwork, the Elder happened by one of his more enjoyable pieces, a bust of the High Lord forever in his mind, his heart, and by his side. It was from a time before their bond, when the Raven was a more rugged – but nevertheless beautiful – man, weighed down with infatuations and a trivial sense of loyalty. It was a reminder of how far they’d come since those dark times when Rafael was naught but a foolish knight, and Zenahriel, a ‘pigeon.’ “His sword, may I see it?” The Elder half-turned to punctuate his inquiry, and extended his strong hand toward his nephew.

That's why my pistol's name is Draco, actually.

The shadows continued to stir around Rodan, shifting, dancing, as the creature in their depths paced eagerly around him. The growl he’d heard moments before maturing into a fearsome snarl, and then a snapping of jaws as the wolf revealed itself. The shadow along Rodan’s western flank donned two white eyes, and then rows of wickedly sharp fangs and razor-sharp claws as it stretched long and wide across the open air. The wolf took shape, sculpted from the nothingness, snapping its jaws still dripping with ink-like saliva. But in spite of its vicious appearance, the beast was far from a mindless predator seeking an easy meal-- it stalked Rodan with purpose, guided by some invisible will not its own. Every movement was nuanced and purposeful, methodical, as the creature of shadow and smoke weaved in and out of the darkness, seamlessly merging and separating itself from tides of black. Its eyes never left the man it had stumbled across, sharp and piercing as twin blades of moonlit steel. Barely ten feet separated Rodan from the instrument of his impending doom, which very much appeared to be studying its quarry, gauging the situation at hand. Or, perhaps and more likely, waiting for permission. But there was no great howl like before, no harsh words, or sharp crack of will that ripped through the establishment. The shadow wolf lunged forward with inhuman speed, as smoke and shadow leaked from its figure in coils and wisps. Its teeth, white as moonlight, glistened while its gaping maw-- large enough to fit all of Rodan’s head inside its pit, with room to spare –-sought to clamp down on his right shoulder. It was with enough supernatural force to crush every bone in that area of his body, and without pause or interruption, tear it away from his body completely. Elsewhere in the Anima Imperium, Lobo watched the events unfold, licking his massive chops as he gnawed at the Black Queen’s placating will. He obeyed her because of her relation to his patron, because of the Bartolome blood that flowed through her veins, but it was a tenuous thing, fragile as the life growing inside her. All it would take was one from the man beyond these iron and metal walls to see it shattered, reducing all in or near the room to pulpy stains of blood (or in Agony’s unique case, blob and ichor). The alpha wolf, older than many that lurked in the hall, hardly seemed perturbed by Agony’s bold proclamation and appeared to welcome the challenge as his posture changed – sinking low to the ground, tense with excitement. Suddenly, Lobo’s eyes weren’t white, but red. “You have far greater concerns than my wolves, I assure you,” a distinctly accented voice came through the wolf’s salivating maw, and likewise reverberated through wolves still lurking in the shadows along the walls, across the floors, and amassed in faraway corners. “Weak though you may see my cousin, she has a habit of surrounding herself with beings of power-- the patian king, the warlord, the High Lords of Genesaris. You’re all very much out of your depth. I was told to arrive with a message, and here it is...” While still uncertain of Roen’s involvement in these dubious affairs, Rafael could not afford to put his distaste for the patian king’s antics ahead of Gabriela or the child’s welfare. There would be time later to uncover any half-truths, anything that might be useful in condemning him further. For now— “...I would not be standing here without the full consent of the Terrenus government, who has been made very much aware of this organization’s involvement in the kidnapping of foreign royalty. They’re a rather draconian bunch, these Terrans. All fire and brimstone and salt the earth.” Rafael smirked at the thought, remembering the harrowing tales of the failed alien invasion. Oh, how swiftly those Gaian outsiders had been put down. “If Gabriela is not returned to me immediately so that her child may be born on Orisian soil, and Roen allowed to follow unimpeded, a fury the likes of which you have never seen shall descend upon you. You and all of your conspirators will be erased from the face of this planet.” Perhaps now they would feel the presence of the true storm outside the Anima Imperium, for Rafael had been standing naught five feet from the establishment’s west side, well within its defenses. A single wolf stood at his side, its shadow his means of transportation. “I will give you thirty seconds-- just thirty, to comply. But if you truly wish to call my hand, by all means, take even a second longer.” Rafael stood unmoving against the tempest wails, daemonic screeching, the wailing undead, or the abominable remains now pulling themselves from the veil and forest shrubbery. Through Lobo’s red eyes, he watched Gabriela and her unfortunate company, pondering their answer-- and to some distant, fleeting extent, Roen’s.