|
It speaks.
As does every devil. And yet, it is not. Are you so sure? Look at it, priest. Human flesh with a human mind. This creature, like those children, is not our enemy. And yet you slew them all the same. Something is awry here. EVERYTHING is awry here. Kill him, and have done. I grow weary. Liar. Until you have a battle for me to fight, Thomas.... Besides. You yourself sanctioned bringing that mad wilder among us, and she is a far more ready threat than this wretch. The deal with him in your new-found pacifism. We're wasting time. Diogenes addresses the strange man. "What is your purpose?" |
A question? That was better than the minnow-somethings attacking, in a way. Once they started, it was unlikely they would stop. He himself certainly would not. He tilted his head once more, then, his tone every bit as dull as his expression, he answered, "Life."
|
Diogenes assesses the strange man for a moment after the echo of his answers fades, then all at once, he slams his khukri home in its sheath at the back of his waist and turns back to the rest of the group, calling aloud.
"Did you hear that, priest? His aim is the same as ours." He begins to walk back to rejoin their party. "He lives to live. What greater honesty could we ask for?" Scowling, Thomas shoulders his way forward to confront the assassin. He does not bother addressing him in thought. "What are you doing?" Unperturbed, Diogenes replies, "Waiting for an enemy to show itself. So far this seems a mission for mystics and exorcists, not soldiers." He notes the raw, inhuman sight of the priest's cynbernetic hand. "You introduce a liability among us." "No. I've spared his life." "Mercy does not become a murderer." "Again, priest. Show me an enemy." Thomas holds his eyeless stare for an instant long, then turn abruptly back toward the gasping darkness that leads into the monastery. "Allow me." |
Still attempting to claw the gore out of his face and mouth, Dante yanked the ragged blindfold off his neck and desperately wiped his countenance of every last trace of the putrid innards that Thomas's gun had successfully splattered in a ten-foot radius. |
The bickering between the two males was watched with only vague interest. It was obvious that one of the somethings was accepting of him, for reasons he didn't care to dissect. So long as they didn't decide to kill, what bother was it to him?
Unafraid as he was, his attention shifted easily when one of them, smeared with blood and tissue, whirled around in some strange fit. Damaged. That much was obvious. Protective things, these somethings, to let that one hide among them. "What." |
Thomas is the first through the yawning doorway, followed by his soldiers in a tight formation. Diogenes proceeds warily after them.
Once more, the sight beyond is shocking. And once more, the way behind has vanished. They stand now under a moonless night, without wind or even the sound of chattering insects to break the dead silence. In every direction, endlessly, stretches a cemetery: rank upon rank upon rank of identical marble-carved headstones. An infinity of death. Only a small chapel in the distance breaks the uniform perfection of the graves. Thomas, frowning in irritation, stomps over to the nearest tombstone, his eyes flashing over the inscription, only to widen in a rare dismay from the merciless priest. He reads aloud. "Here lies interred the Savior of the World. May He be blessed." In hesitation, he steps to the next grave, a deepening worry creasing his aged forehead. "Here lies interred the Savior..." And again, another. "Here lies interred..." It is the fourth grave he comes to that halts him. The carving reads the same, and yet.... Exhumation. Disembodied. Empty. He reads the headstone once more, and notices the alteration, gouged by a crude, ignorant hand over the original: Here lied interred the Savior of the World. Here lied the Savior. And where the body should have lain, where lifeless earth should abide... is a stair, descending into utter darkness like a pathway to Sheol itself. Now the wind begins to stir across the field of graves. A fell light glows from the chapel. Thomas cannot bring himself to move. |
Hm. Wasn't this the person I noticed before...? Strange.
Shoving the thought aside, Dante turned to follow the rest of the group through what he assumed was yet another doorway. The sheer harshness of the pure silence was the first thing to hit him. The second was the utter lack of life and movement. The place was stale, stagnant... Furrowing his brow, he reached down to find his lighter in his usual method of soothing unsettledness. The sharp grating of the wheel was shockingly loud, especially in his heightened sense of hearing, and he ignored the turned heads from the others. "Here lies interred the Savior of the World. May He be blessed." ...What? And then he sensed the sudden confusion of Thomas. And a moment later, wind out of nowhere. "Well, I suppose I'm gonna sound rather dumb for asking, but...what's wrong?" |
Delicious.
Lev wiped his face of the gore and matter that had splattered it, and devoured what little he could pass between his lips without being caught. It was rancid, foul, but intoxicating. It was an appetizer that left him wanting more. Delirious, his eyes rolled back in to his head as he slid a scrap of flesh in to his mouth. His fingers trailed down his chin as he indulged himself. Oh, it was good to feed. It wasn't truly a meal, but it might tide him over. He blinked, gathering himself and realizing he had lost focus. He found himself with the rest of the group in the forlorn graveyard that seemed to stretch without end. His eyes passed over the graves, struggling a bit to understand the words written on them. They were not his first language after all. As he read, the mutterings of the one called Thomas sped up his understanding of the words. Not important. Just graves. All graves, all the same message, uselessly marking where dust that rose up from the earth returned to rest and rejoin the dust from whence it came. No point in a marked grave. He looked up when the man's recited message changed, noting the severity in his tone. On instinct he unslung his rifle, sliding the bolt back just a hair to double check that a round was chambered. "Do we have problem?" |
"We are in Hell." The priest speaks to no one in particular.
After a moment passes, he suddenly whirls around, gesturing to his soldiers. "I want these tombs opened." His head jerks to the three in front of him. "Be quick about it." And I want you to watch that staircase. If anything moves down there... stop it from doing so. His thoughts flash taut and harsh to Diogenes, who moves at once to obey. The soldiers waste no time, unsheathing military shovels and setting about the graves, their powered suits flexing with inhuman strength and clearing the dirt in minutes. Thomas stalks over to the first opened burial site, and staggers back, a look of sheer revulsion twisting his face. Heartless prayers escape his lips, "Dio domini omnipotentis..." Gritting his teeth at the priest's moment to falter, Diogenes stomps over to the open grave, keeping an ever-vigilant eye on the subterranean stair behind him with his psychic sight. Arriving, he glimpses the occupant of the tomb, his shorn hair, great thick beard, the punctures encircling his skull, the pearlescent robe stained crimson, the weeping stigmatic wounds in his wrists and feet... Lifeless. Soulless. He sees now Thomas' dismay. Moving to the next grave, the site is the same. Exactly identical, down to the merest molecule of blood. And he realizes, those were no prayers at all but an identification. Ieshua Christos. The Prince of Peace. In every single one of these graves, thousands upon thousands. Clones of Christ. He hears the intake of breath just before those lifeless eyes open with unearthly hunger, and his gun is already in his hand, a consecrated psycho-active HEAP round careening through the intervening space, detonating as it crashes against the corpse, blasting its skull apart. "Beware!" he shouts. "They rise!" Pushing himself to his feet, Thomas barks a bitter laugh. "What are three Heavenly days, anyway?" He shoulders his rifle as the graves all across the yard begin to swell and burst with exploding earth, pale forms -- mocking divine -- crawling from the darkness below. Something shakes the ground beneath them, a vacuous moan from the bowels of the world, shuddering the chapel in the distance. Something speaks to these unholy creatures. And they answer murderously. |
Odd that the minnow-somethings would so easily move on, considering the countless bodies they left behind them. Odd, but interesting. Much better than food. There was no question that he would follow, at least for a time.
Where they ended up next, however, nearly made him question that choice. Dirt. Stone. Silence, beyond the minnow mutterings. No signs of movement anywhere, even after the somethings took to their digging. Nothing. Until there was. Everywhere. The somethings took to action as quickly as life rippled through the bleak land. Different from the minnows and the young before, these things weren't about to ask pointless questions or speak to the skies. No. They were there to kill and feed. Hardly worth his time. He only watched the unfolding war for a moment before he turned, looking for the entrance that wasn't there, then turned again, to find where it had gone this time. |
"THE CHAPE--!"
Dante's yell was cut off as the bucking ground threw him to his knees. Half prone, he instinctively grabbed at his gun and blasted two shots into the...creature's...skull. But still it flew towards him, animalistic hunger and all. Wrong gun. With no time to react otherwise, he pulled his right leg up and sent it crashing through what he was sure was the monstrosity's rib cage, launching the corpse back. It landed a few feet away...and rose up, seemingly determined to devour presumably the only life forms that had unfortunately made their ways into the barren lands in decades. Dante staggered to his feet and reached for his blade. Then something landed on his shoulder, and Dante whirled around, his fist taking out the lower jaw of his latest assailant. And then another hand grabbed at his legs, the arm to which it was attached meeting its demise through the same means by which the ribcage had earlier. And yet they came. With no time to check on how the others were doing, he lunged forward, his fall-breaking roll interrupted by even more gaunt graying limbs. And they were too close, and too many...lights raced each other around in his head, knocking him off balance for what seemed the hundredth time. With a guttural scream of pure rage and annoyance at having gained no ground, Dante barely managed to unclip his sword and lashed out indiscriminately. Having cut a route out of the tangled mess, he left his weapon lodged in a mass of writhing bodies and finally pulled out the gun he had wrestled from Lev months ago. He fired until the gun was empty, then exchanged it for his smaller blade and flew at the creatures with new-found bloodlust, disengaging the larger sword as well and fleeing towards the lit chapel. |
As the earth explodes out to the horizon, Thomas wastes no time in letting his soldiers loose upon the encircling horde.
The five hulking, power-armored forms brace themselves back-to-back, hefting their grenade launchers and waiting just a moment for the blasphemous creatures to form into a tight-packed mob before opening fire. In an instant, the silent yard becomes a cacophony of erupting barrels and automatic fire, incendiary grenades bursting among huge clumps of the attackers, filling the air with the reek of chemical murder. Hundreds die in the initial barrage, before the enemy pushes too close, and the soldiers -- as one -- switch to their massive, six-barreled autocannons, beginning to spread a fanning line of streaking, supersonic lead in an arc across the cemetery. Thomas adds his own automatic fire to the ruinous hail, but it is not enough. None of it is enough. Thousands of the abominations lay unmoving, but thousands more still advance, at a dead sprint now, and as they draw near, each reaches within its own mouth -- grasping fingers reaching impossibly into bulging necks -- and draws forth a burning bronze sword, immediately casting the graveyard in an incandescent glare. They make no warcry, their eyes remain dead and void of the passion of life, but nonetheless, they come, flailing in fury with the mighty warswords even as hundreds die every second. Diogenes follows the standard procedure for engagements, breaking away from the main group and launching himself from tombstone to tombstone, backflipping and cartwheeling and spinning in midair, landing perfectly each time. With inhuman eyes, he aims both pistols in his leaping flight, firing with perfect precision, destroying the creatures and never letting a single one come close to touching him. When both magazines are empty, he lands, and sprays fire from his flamethrowers to clear himself a path, then unsheathes his khukri, and pauses for a second. Breathes. Focuses his mind. And attacks. A streaking blur of black cloth and black steel, his moves among the fiery specters, cutting and slashing and severing: limbs and heads, again and again. Every foe to draw near is dismembered before it can begin its first lumbering swing. His free hand lashes out, open-palmed, and collapses chests, explodes skulls, a fatal telekinetic resonance thrumming audibly from his entire body. It is not until he finds himself broken free of the seeming-endless horde, surrounded by darkness broken only by the distant gleam of still thousands of burning blades, that he takes a moment to breathe. He reloads both pistols and sheathes his blade after cleaning the gore from it. Expending himself in a single burst like that was daring -- dangerous, and the fatigue he feels now is near-crippling, though he knows it will pass. Gasping for breath, he watches the slaughter unfold, content with the seven-hundred-and-ninety-four he laid low. Even still, there seems to be no end to their swarming ranks, even as he watches from afar. For every dozen to fall, a score more rising from the devastated earth. The priest was right, he muses. We are in Hell. His weapons readied, the killer advances once more into slaughter. Two-hundred and forty rounds remaining, the batteries in his flamethrowers half-depleted, and a dozen nicks along the edge of his blade, and the night is only barely begun. This will not last.... |
She had long since abandoned any kind of focused attack. The swarm proved too numerous, and as they closed in she sent another wave of psychic force blasting indiscriminately around her, sending desiccated bodies flying to collide with the next, and then the next, and then the next. Undead skin started to hiss, blister, and grow white hot, finally bursting into flame, spewing black and acrid smoke where unholy flesh burned to unholy bones. Broadswords dropped and knees buckled from muscles and bones no longer able to hold themselves together, but new, whole bodies kept coming, stomping or crawling over their wounded brethren, if brethren they may be called. Tarja hissed at them, gazing down another line of undead that suddenly erupted into flame. Mentally, she raised a clutch of flaming bodies and flung them about erratically like crude incendiaries, cursing the lack of any half-way decent projectiles besides the headstones that marked the graves the corpses crawled out from.
The swarm had moved in close again and she loosed another indiscriminate blast of psychic force, sending bodies and headstones flying in a wide arc as she cursed her growing headache. The air around her began to waver and buzz as half a dozen headstones were yanked from the ground, starting a slow orbit around the psychic and picking up speed. At terminal velocity they cracked into the approaching horde, breaking against undead bodies even as they crushed ribcages and skulls and shattered limbs. There was no shortage of headstones, but there was also no shortage of undead. White flashes darted across her vision with the throbbing behind her eyes. “The stairs or the chapel, priest?” She yelled out, not letting up with her cyclonic headstones, still finding moments to cast out a line of super-heated air even as she was starting to go blind from the pain. |
At once chaos erupted all around Lev. Scores of the undead monsters hurled themselves in a wave of rotten flesh towards him.
BOOM The concussion and blast of light from the first shot left an afterimage in his vision, but he ignored it. The slug launched itself from the barrel of his ancient rifle, hurtling through the air and ripping its way through the skull of one of the many many foes before him. Slide back. Slam forward. Chamber. Fire. Another one fell, several dozen filling the space where it had once been. Slide back. Slam forward. Chamber. Fire. The sea of dead surged forward towards their little group. Slide back. Slam forward. Chamber. Fire. He caught one in the chest with his fourth shot. Its back exploded as the slug fractured inside the rotted flesh, exploding in to shrapnel as it exited. It wasn't enough. It would have been easier for him to empty an ocean with a spoon. You will never be enough! His final shot was cut short. Rushed by one of the undead things, he was stuck to the ground by its assault. In the same moment the creature was on top of him, malformed and rotted hands scrabbling at the vest of body armor he wore. In a fit of defiance he threw the creature off, assaulting it with the barrel of his rifle. He pierced the underside of the jaw with sheer force, firing his last round directly in to its skull. Bone and brain erupted in his face, showering him in putrid flesh. You are losing. He pulled himself to his feet. The horde was closer. Ever closer. Always closer. His rate of fire would have to equal the rate of their advance. He unslung his AKS-74U submachine gun with one hand while shouldering his Mosin-Nagant with the other. A magazine was produced from the many folds and pockets of his person. And as he brought it up, teeth came sinking down in to his arm. Lev went down with a feral scream, shouting fury and pure rage as his body was overtaken by the scores of undead. Desperately he tried to fit the magazine to the gun. Claws and mouths hungered for him, pursued him to the ground, ripped and tore in to him, covered him, began to overtake him. He was lost to the masses. You will not prevail! Overpowered by the screams and moans of thousands of corpses, there was a quiet click as the bolt of a submachine gun fed the first round in to a chamber. "No ya ne sdamsya!" Automatic fire blew the top half of one of the monsters away. Another, and another. The pack atop Lev became a mass of tissue and gore as they fell to pieces on top of him. As he ate through the magazine, the lead he put forth ate through his attackers. He fought through the muck and blood to stand. He kept firing, finger caught against the trigger in a death grip as he retreated back. His clothes were shredded, tattered. Blood poured freely from his arms and legs. Tissue exposed itself from a deep wound on his cheek, and cuts and gashes decorated him like some sort of nightmarish Christmas tree of flesh. And through it all, he fought. Each change of magazines let them gain ground towards him, and each load of fresh ammunition pushed the tide back. The sea surged, but for now Lev Gurevich was holding as much as he could. You falter. Flesh will consume the flesh that consumes flesh here. Rotted putrid flesh. LISTEN TO ME. Blood stung at Lev's eyes. His wounds were many. The barrel of his submachine gun burned at the hand clutching it, searing the skin. His head was swimming. Blood, so much blood. Too much of his own had been spilled in the sea before him. He had escaped, but not unscathed, untouched. And like the wall of flesh before him, his own mind was being pressed in against. Assaulted. Pulled at. Let go... |
Dante nearly fell again as the ground trembled under his feet, but soon, he was only a few paces from the chapel. He glanced back at the fighting.
Maybe this would help them. Or utterly wipe them out. For once, he was willing to take on the brunt of any possible attack from the chapel. Several of the corpses had followed him, their arms and gleaming weaponry held high, and without further considering consequences, Dante stood to one side, swung his sword into the nearest window, then whirled around to climb into what he assumed was a sanctuary. |
Smashing the window, Dante is confronted with a gusting, chill breeze wafting from below the window, enough to make him pause at the contrast to the air outside.
At first, he can discern nothing but the cold, but after a moment, something manifests far, FAR below, a haze of distant power -- something... something appalling. |
Kadia watched while the titanic mercenaries fought what appeared to be a boundless horde of abominations. 'Gods, I wish I was back in the gang right now,' she thought. Rurik at her side whimpered and pawed at her “invisibility” staff. The power source, something she increased to last hours, was almost dead.
Kadia looked at the group, knowing that regardless of the battle’s outcome, she would be damned. Mercenaries, especially veterans, did not take kindly to followers. However, the demonic dead lacked even the capability of mercy. Her only hope laid in helping the mercs, hoping they would have mercy on her. The staff went dead. "Verdammt! Scheiß drauf!" she said under her breath. She made up her mind, and mentally reviewed what her father taught her. Kadia mentally lifted the flame wheels from her back. She used her bionic eye to pinpoint a group of foes. She sent them spinning into the fray, mentally lighting the fuel inside. ‘Dybuuk can’t be destroyed with fire...and these guys seem to be coordinated by something...perhaps if something were to surprise them...’ she thought. So, Kadia rotated the wheels around one another in the forms used by the martial artists of the past. It appeared as a spinning column, a blazing sphere. Some of the Dybuuk appeared to follow it. Activating her shuriken-wristguns, Kadia heard a smash over by the chapel. Rurik gave a mechanical growl as she felt a dreadful force… |
Would this...Is this...Is it controlling these things?! But it's too far down... He made a mental note before he was snapped back to the current situation by footsteps behind him. |
And then Lev let go.
The chatter of lead ceased, and the wave of flesh in front of him surged forward. Lev held his arms up, grinning in a maniacal manner as the hordes of undead pressed on to him. He was knocked to the ground, once again set upon by another frenzied creature. But this time would be different. As the thing fell on top of him he reached out to sink his finders deep in to its eye sockets. He pierced what had once been eyes, dug in deep, gripped his fingers in against the bone. And with a great heave, he ripped the skull from the body. A sickening series of wet popping noises followed as ligaments and spinal tissue were ripped loose from their anchors. Muscle and bone tore free and protruded uselessly from the stump that had once been a neck. But no matter now. With a kick Lev dislodged the thing from him and raised himself, fighting hand to hand with the rest of the large group now. But he was different now. Stronger, violent, even more crazed. He ignored the bites and the tearings now, the attempts to rip away his flesh from his bones. For now, he was doing the same. With a guttural roar he tore in to a rib cage, literally burrowing through it with his arms before it split apart in a shower of gore. With a pair of broken ribs he whirled in circles, stabbing and gashing at everything around him. Hands found limbs, limbs easily ripped from their sockets. Teeth sunk in to rotted throats that were quickly ripped out, or even devoured while still attached to their bodies. From somewhere the crazed man had found his knife, and really set about going to work. Claws found him, dug in to him, and were promptly crushed. Skulls were crushed or caved in by the force of his blunt assaults with various body parts. He bathed in the chunks of flesh and gore surrounding him. He tired not. He pained not. His blood ran freely, mixed with that around him and was consumed again as he fed and fought. Madness had taken him. Hunger guided him. He was beyond control. Crack! A Dybbuk had been lucky enough to be faster than him, and teeth sank down on to his fingers. It gnawed at him, trying to chomp and chew them apart. It only had the moment. Fingers curling downward, Lev gave a great heave to rip the jaw from the skull. With a hollow "pop" it came loose, trailing several muscles before they as well popped free. Lev raised the jaw high, then brought it back down atop the creature's head. He beat at it severely, smashing the head and squishing the brain like a ripened cantaloupe. And in the shower of brain matter that it created, he bathed in triumph. He swam in a sea of flesh. And where others would drown, he would now consume all. |
The blazing disk-like weapons continues to weave their way, drawing away several corpses with their propane dance. Kadia directed her tools with her mind. She set her “Shuriken-WGLite” prototype wrist weapons. Pressing a button, the devices began roaring to life, accelerating the spin and heating a small store of shurikens. Another button, and an aiming panel rose. Kadia aimed…she fired at the hordes mobbing the heavy gunner. With satisfying splunches multiple targets fell headless or limbless. The shots were as two streaks of pointed light, blinding white, scythes to puncture and burn through their targets at great velocity… Sounds from behind! Kadia, her heart hitting bottom, began to turn. Rurik growled. A corpse-demon was upon them. He reared, metal clanking. He pounced on a Dybuuk about to nab Kadia. They struggled, though really a robotic canine had an advantage or two over a possessed corpse. Though the cyber canine lacked many conventional weapons, his strong jaw was more than enough to sever the rotting head easily. More Dybuuk appeared. Kadia began to fire shuriken wildly at close range…until the device jammed. “Der Hölle!” Kadia’s hand reacher her sides, and whipped out her poi-spikes, swinging them like miniature flails. Rurik prepared to charge… …and the blind man arrived, aura strong and fierce, sawing through the foes. Dante, a shade of war, seemed (to Kadia) to just move to the enemy before they fell in a heap. Meanwhile, she went about crunching bodies with the musket-ball force of whirling spiked balls. Rurik chewed through still moving body parts. In a glorious release of decay, the enemy fell to them. Kadia looked around. The hordes were still vast and other mercs were in trouble. Her wheels were still spinning, but the –mind – controlling the Dybuuk directed them to ignore the items, and they began to return to the main group. This looked very grim, unless… The Staff! It had a faint aura – energy - It may have enough in it to fashion an explosive! “Umm…hey! You! Have any ideas…because I think I may…" |
This will not last.
I am coming. How long? Soon enough. Death spirals, snaking through the endless thousands, bodies annihilated in nearly incomprehensible slaughter, thousands upon tens of thousands, empty vessels laid to waste. Meaningless murder. And endless. Even now, after ten shrieking minutes of hellish battle, there are more of the foe than there were to begin with. And just as they mass once more, just as uncountable swords are raised for yet another charge, it comes.... CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. ...and silence. The moment seems frozen. The horde impending. Impossibly vast, climbing a mountain of carcasses to reach the party. They have no morale to break. No reserve to exhaust. Manifest hunger, and infinite gnashing jaws. In the first stunned breath, Thomas is swift to act. Hurling his fist heavenward, he launches his power outward. There is a flash like intimate lightning. Blinding. Paralyzing. And two thousand bodies fall to ash. A hundred thousand more slaver in their wake. But the priest is not finished. So very far from finished. "Clear a path!" he screams to his men, who as one begin hauling bodies away from the staircase leading below. Striding out into the carnage, Thomas hurls off his cloak, revealing... inhumanity. Cybernetic evolution. A dozen tendrils of gunmetal steel, each articulate with a thousand interlocking joints like knuckles, writhe as prehensile limbs out from his back. A nest of whipping metallic vipers, and along their length course sparks of violet electricity. Each is tipped with an 8" diamond-edge drill bit. With practiced ease, his mind manipulates the synthetic appendages as he walks into the heart of the enemy, a writhing crackling cloud surrounding him. He rolls his wrists, and twin dagger-blades, nearly two feet long and so thin as to be invisible, erupt across the span of his hands. As the monsters surround him, he systematically destroys them, boring through eye-sockets and mouths, exploding nerves, choking, tearing, dismembering. The tendrils move with such snapping alacrity that the lightning they conduct weaves a blinding, searing net around the priest. He makes it, perhaps, thee-hundred feet from the central grave. NOW! he roars into Diogenes' mind. Well out of range still, dripping head-to-toe in gore and melted bone, his khukri snapped in the middle from the sheer forces to which he has subjected it, the assassin advances. He can feel his last reserves burning away, every burst of strength to hurl back his attackers draining something essential. Every breath is one he could not take unaided, and still he advances. Into the minds of all the party, he screams, FLEE! BELOW! NOW, OR WE ALL DIE! He catches sight of Thomas across the field, sees the priest's vicious nod, and reaches to his belt. Pulling forth his bandoleer of Ectoplasmic Dispersion Grenades. Readying them all. And throwing. There is no sound. Rather, an implosion of silence. A concussion of nothingness. A denial, spreading two-hundred-fifty feet around the stair. Driving away the controlling spirit from these creatures. For fleeting seconds. Innumerable bodies slump lifeless. And with a final gasp, both priest and assassin fight their way back to the descent, stumbling over each other and falling, both unconscious, into the darkness below. |
Corpses and broken stone now made a ring around the psychic. All but blind, she stumbled around the few headstones she hadn't yet torn from the ground, guided by the glow from enumerable bronze swords that lay smoldering in the earth.
FLEE! BELOW! NOW, OR WE ALL DIE! Tarja cringed, grit her teeth and sent a flash of annoyance back at the assassin, which had all the effect of a whisper in a strong breeze when she felt his mental presence suddenly slip away. “Fine, you’re forgiven this time.” Tarja let out a heavy, relieving sigh and broken stone and grave markers hit the ground around her, no longer suspended in the air. She blinked away the white blindness from her eye and drew her axe from its holster across her back. Her vision began to clear, but black spots still danced about and the ground arced towards here in a nauseating pattern. She was blessedly close to the stairway, and with each step the ground started to settle beneath her feet, though the black spots still dotted her vision. A few crude swings with her axe disabled the few undead that had started to push back into the clearing, and when she reached the stairway she grabbed one of the bronze swords that lay scattered about the cemetery like glorified firewood. The flames that still lapped at the blade lit the stairwell, and the still bodies of Thomas and Diogenes at the bottom. She descended as fast as she dared. |
"Forget about ideas!" |
Tarja pushed herself off the wall she was pushed into when Dante came hurtling down the stairs. Idiot!
“You want to impale yourself after all of that?” She hissed, holding the bronze sword upright in front of her, the light falling over the bleached deer skull rather than on her own face. Realizing the blind man possibly bad no clue what she was talking about, she just shook her head and grabbed Diogenes by his robes, lifting him off the ground with ease. “I’ve got a splitting headache so if you would kindly tote the other one along we can get moving.” Exercising enough telekinetic power to lift the two men off the ground, Tarja pulls Diogenes along and pushes Thomas in Dante’s direction with her knee, her other hand still holding the flaming sword. |
Clanking metal sounded behind as a somewhat damaged cyberdog walked in. Whining, Rurik went over to Dante and put a cold, robotic, nose in his face...but where was Kadia?
-5 minutes ago- "Forget about ideas!" Dante said and grabbed her. Sudden memories - images of a man with a raggled beard...and burning. Kadia started screaming. Dante let her go. She came back in a few seconds...to everyone far away, and the bombs about to blow. "Schießen! Those idiots!" Crying, she went into overdrive, lifting the ground itself with her mind, creating a wall of earth between her and the explosion. Electricity crackled around her. Glad she carried little cyber-tech, she hid her face until the explosion passed. Kadia couldn't sense Rurik - she couldn't tell if he was destroyed, or if the blast had disrupted the connection between the two. Tears fell from her eyes as she felt alone for the first time in a long while. Dybuuk still remained. By the Balance, they did, but they were without a leader, a mind, or a will. She needed to carve her own way to the abyssal hole...fast! Lifting a large whip of earth, she started to plow through half-dazed corpses towards the portal... -Back in the hole- Rurik shivered, metal sounding, as he could no longer sense his master. 'if (target) == protect mistress, then target == *trust.' So, Rurik followed Dante... -10 minutes later- Kadia fell, exhausted. She spent most of her strength to get past the entryway. Horned snakes slithered around in her in the cavern...was this another portal? Scared and worn, Kadia felt a connection to Rurik reestablish, and she called him for help. Reassured that he heard her, she passed out. |
Raising an eyebrow at...what was her name?...Dante sighed in exasperation, then grudgingly held onto a floating Thomas to steer him out of the way of whoever else might come toppling down the stairs. |
“It is dark enough.”
If she had been about to say anything else, it was cut off when she noticed the metal wolf that had come down the stairs. “Where did you get him?” Tarja waved the sword, eerily still flaming, around to get a better look at the place. It was a building, the walls obviously made of modern stone; not at all the hole or dark cavern that its entrance would seem to imply. The light of the flames revealed little beyond that the stairs did have an end, and that said end led to a larger opening, presumably a room of some kind, and something was sitting at the light’s very edge. Stopping before she had gone more than a couple of steps, Tarja looked about her. “We’re one short.” After the chaos of the battle they left behind, the underground felt incredibly quiet, save for Rurik’s metallic clanking and the occasional, heavy gasp coming from the room beyond. |
There was a sound in her darkness, a scraping of carapace on calcified marble. Kadia woke, startled to find herself laying askew – a marionette – on a tiled floor, a black moss growing over it. Kadia touched her back head, hair clotted and sticky. However, there was no bleeding. Cackling in her leather-metal Kadia worked into a sitting position, and from there a standing one. A sharp pain in her knee told her there was swelling. Hobbling, she lifted her leg and grabbed a bottle of anti-inflammatory (and other stuff) medicine, drank a bit, and waited for it to take hold... “Rurik, I need you right now.” She muttered. Kadia went on to check her pink eye, and it “read” without issue. Looking, before her was a hellish ruin. It was a pile of pillared marble, cracked and worn by water and…more black moss mixed fighting a glowing fungus… The structure mixed serpentine and red marbles, with the gritty ash on top of the orange wine-stain. The tile floor she stood on, in contrast, was a green shade. Kadia looked in amazement at the sculpted figures – like the griffin statues of Persia. Carvings of desolation lined the wall – here a tornado of flame, there an army of fleshless armor looking ready to charge. Most impressive, though also most difficult to observe, was a figure bearing a great crown… Kadia now looked…unconcerned. Indeed, after the fight, the danger, and the momentary solitude…after the medicine started working on the exhaustion…she seemed different. A curious, feral grin split her face. She was a hurt cub, but she was a huntress. Sighting shining metal – her flame wheels – she lifted the debris over them, grabbed the two bent weapons, and reformed them as she had many times before. Kadia wondered at her location. She felt the tug of Rurik, with a strange man…a blind fellow…scary savior…what was his name? She spotted an opening – a rock broken though the wall – and walked through. --- Rurik insistently pawed his semi-loose leg at Dante, creating a clanking that simultaneously was endearing and annoying. ‘If Kadia in potential danger, then beg non-threats. Dante = non-threat.’ The wolf smelled like grease and oil, along with a tinge of rusting metal. Though furless, he looked…almost alive. It was a pity he had such a small aura… Rurik, having Dante’s attention, tried to “flare up” and direct Dante towards a passageway he was digging… --- Kadia found the passageway dim – there was no light within. However, in her focus, she feared little. Despite being in Hell, she felt…balanced. However, to see better she grabbed one of her hooked swords, and mentally fired it up. The glow of the metal - surprisingly not weakened at such temperature – lit the passageway. She continued, past what looked like goblets in the alcoves, her leather-silk boots dampening her footsteps. Sometimes, an odd creature would slither by. Here, it was a small brown snake with a stag’s horns crowning its head. There, a large scorpion flying on batwings. All this was amazing to Kadia in her euphoria, and she felt she owned them all. Suddenly, Kadia heard clanking, like a bounding of a knight in armor. Was it… She checked her link…it was… “Rurik!” she squealed with glee, and began to jog towards him. Down the hall, two bodies met. A metal nose shoved in Kadia’s face, the greasy thing like being licked by a puppy. Laughing Kadia hugged the metal fellow, her life companion… |
"I didn't..get...him. And what is that sound?" Dante asked, referring to the strange gasps coming from deeper withing the cavern. A question, mostly to calm his nerves. Not that the dog's constant creaking was helping any. |
As they settle in the semi-darkness, safe for the moment, two of the Celestrine's soldiers shoulder their way back from the point to attend Thomas, taking his floating body from the blind man.
One of them pulls out some kinds of scanner and passes it over the priest's body. There is an erratic beeping, incessant but irregular, and he puts it away. "His hearts have been desynchronized," the first one says, voice muffled through the respirator of his helmet. "They must be restarted." He nods to his companion, who opens a medical kit and produces a scalpel and a small diodic device. Wasting no time, he disrobes the priest and makes three deep incisions, down the center of his chest and into each thigh. Priming the device, he peels back synthetic skin and nanitic muscular tissue to get at the electronic organs, attaching it to one after the other, first sending a negative charge to all three to stop them dead before calibrating the current and restarting them in proper synchronization. Thomas' eyes flash open, not in pain, nor surprise -- placid and unbothered as the soldier seals the incisions with epoxy. Saying nothing, he redresses and re-arms himself, nodding to dismiss his men before coming to kneel over Diogenes. "Never did know your own limits," he mutters as he passes his hands over the assassin's body. There is no response, the man comatose and his organs failing. "You earned this one way or another." From the tip of each finger, a pin-prick of fire sparks into existence before Thomas, and with supernatural ease, he plunges them into Diogenes' flesh, burning away necrotic tissue and annealing the heart, lungs, kidneys, liver... thankfully the brain is yet undamaged -- neural surgery on psychics can be precarious. Diogenes awakens with a roar, surging to his feet with explosive reflexive strength before staggering into the nearest wall. He is silent for a long moment. "How... close?" he eventually gasps to the priest. "Another moment and I would have had to resurrect you. And if you think my HEALING is uncomfortable..." "...well enough." Taking another moment to collect himself, testing his synapses and muscles, the assassin studies the broken blade of his khukri before throwing to the ground. He'll have a new one made when they return to Thyati'ra. Striding out into the room beyond, he pauses to examine their surroundings. The smell of sterilization battling, and losing, with rot. A keen chill in the air trailing down from above -- a gaping, man-shaped hole in the roof of the building... and no rubble below. Something ascended through the roof, and recently. Extending his sight through the hole, he sees nothing but yawning night above, and stars... stars too bright and looking to dance or whirl against each other in deadly contest, moving far too quickly. Irrelevant. The nature of the structure is immediately apparent, an asylum. All around, the walls are painted in waving script, smeared in blood and excrement, the same two words repeated endlessly, covering every spare space... I AM. I AM. I AM. I AM. I AM. I AM. Hell's ceaseless mockery. Diogenes then turns his attention to the sole occupant of the lobby, bound with rusted iron chains to a decrepit wheelchair, wings plucked naked and quivering: an angel, it's gray, scar-mottled skin naked and bent emaciated over inhuman bones, joints where there should be none, and... It's skull has been sawed open, and an emptiness leaks squalid fluid where its frontal cortex should have sat. The wound continues downward, the entire front of its skull removed leaving its eyes and optical nerves uncovered in staring anguish. When the angel notices Diogenes, it gasps, the effort arching its back and straining its chains. Its feet flap uselessly just above the floor, its wings gyrate and snap open, yet it is helpless. And it cannot look away. |
Tarja followed Diogenes into the room, mildly concerned that the assassin was unconscious mere moments ago, but waving it off as he appeared no more concerned with his sudden restoration than he had about anything else so far. Her attention is immediately drawn to the angel, chained, gasping, and…leaking… from its horrific wounds. She frowned. Why bother to leave it alive at all?
In the light of the flaming sword the angel looked little more than a miserable beast compared to whatever celestial being it once was, and she was never one to leave a beast to suffer… Taking the sword in both hands, she leveled at the angel’s bloodied neck and swung. |
There was much to be said for the spirit of these minnow-somethings. Fighting when there was no point in fighting. Sticking to one another even while standing on their own. He'd watched their battle, fully expecting to see meat go to waste in the bellies of those things. Yet none had fallen. He was prepared for them to give in to fear as any other beasts would in the face of the black. Yet they had fled for safety within it.
And, as the things had gathered themselves once more, he had followed them down. Given all that he had seen from his minnows, he wasn't prepared for the way they floundered once they had set foot in the cavern. Some, though he hardly blamed them, couldn't be bothered to help their leaders. Still useless, even if not quite as predictable as he might have thought. The strongest among them were the ones to watch, and watch he did. One that was no longer a being of flesh in the least, that would call for his death without knowing. A Mimic of those worth more than itself. And the other, fragile though it seemed, that would destroy with as much ease as the Mimic, yet did not. A Lion among its minnows. It was the Lion's lead he followed, along with the somethings, into the den of filth. Among it all, one of the butchers, itself now carved as it would have carved others. "And I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit." Foolish, that a minnow would dare feel pity for a butcher such as this. Death without knowing. |
As Tarja rears to behead the angel, its thrashings suddenly cease and it turns its agonized gaze to her, its eyes visibly swiveling. Its mouth struggles with the memory of articulation.
Looking up to her, mewling and pathetic, it tells her, "I love you." Trying to smile, it goes on, "I love you, as God loved me, so very much." It manages the smile, but as soon as it does, it twists into a hideous snarl and the angel surges once more against its binding, snapping several of the chains. An unearthly presence alight int he depths of its mutilated gaze. "I WANT TO TEAR YOU OPEN AND RIP OUT YOUR LUNGS! I WANT TO GNAW UPON YOUR SPINE AND SIP YOUR MARROW UNTIL YOU DIE, AND DIE, AND DIE!!!!!" Then, once more calm, helpless and pitiful, "They pr-promised I would be healed, they promised... AND THEY'RE LIARS! GOD-DAMNED LIARS AND I WANT TO BURN THEM ALIVE AND SWALLOW THEIR ASHES!" Looking away, "I miss being someone's son..." |
Dante turned and hurtled back through the tunnel towards the screams, skinning his arms as he ran and tripping his way into chamber. Regaining his composure as quickly as he could, he attempted to wrest the sword from Tarja's grasp, then let go when he realized she had stopped mid-swing. Gagging at the putrid odor of rot and waste, perhaps more so than any of the rest of the group, he cringed, and stare at the angel in front of him.
At least...I think it's an angel? Holding his scarf over his nose, he reached down with a gloved hand and gently touched the tip of feather-less skeleton of what used to be wings, hoping that the creaking, rusted chains would hold. I'd be in favor of helping it. He threw a pointed glance at Diogenes, then turned towards the angel. I suppose it can probably also hear me? |
A cold, lime-grease nose rubbed against her face. Her arms were wrapped around the cold, but smooth, companion. The metal-chain tail wagged frantically, creating a cacophony of noise, but not enough. Kadia’s senses detected another figure, hidden in the shadow. Letting Rurik go, she stared, squinting, activating the software in her albino eye…focusing…a man.
Kadia mentally prepared to knock out the person, when a shattering scream split the air. A yell promising insanity and death…and it was gone. So was the man. Kadia got up, set her wrist-guns, and began bolting towards the sound. Rurik followed behind, leaving an echo of gear-on-gear… Into a chamber they went. There was more light than just the infrared here…and it was coming from a chained…bird? Man? …Angel? Kadia gasped at the pitiful figure, and immediately activated a switch, opening a compartment in Rurik. She reached for medicines she carried. The figure, emitting a dim light from – sockets? – began cackling again. Kadia stopped. She had read of some form of *punishment* similar to this before, and tried to recall it. Also, she couldn’t tell its aura…it was shapeless, or in disguise… -------- [Object.Actions.Unidentifiable == 0 if Actions.Unidentifiable == 0 then Object == Potential_Threat] Rurik growled at the thing. It wasn’t *right* - something was off about its aura, that much the mutt could tell from their mutual link… |
Not bothering to look at Dante, Diogenes conveys to him,
It hears no one. Its sensory association has been eradicated. The eyes see, the ears hear, but the mind remains deaf and blind. A solitary existence. It cannot even feel the pain of its isolation. Growing disinterested with the angel -- it can tell them nothing, and is hardly any threat, he projects back to Thomas, We waste time here. What is our next move? I will determine that in a moment, comes the priest's response. There is a more pressing matter at hand. Diogenes looks behind to see the priest approach the young woman and her pet, and without even trying can sense radiating hostility. "What... is that?" he asks without inflection. "This beast of iron. It cleaves to you as a living hound. I can conceive of but two possibilities: a vital soul is bound to this... insulting frame, which though repellent, is neither crime nor sin. Or... it is possessed of a synthetic digital intelligence, the penalty for the creation, ownership, and tolerance of is summary execution, and immediate destruction of the abomination." All at once, his rifle is in his hand, the tip of the barrel mere inches from Rurik's head. "Do tell me." Diogenes looks away from the spectacle and back to the protestations of the angel. Is this truly the time, priest? You said it yourself, we are in Hell. What sway hold the laws of men, here? I am an instrument of the Law. In my sight, it cannot but hold sway. Do not test me, I have not forgotten your insubordination earlier accepting the presence of that vagabond among us. And what if I did test you, priest? There is a brain nestled somewhere in that titanium skull, a mind that can be crushed. Could you call forth your fires before I struck? Has some infernal madness taken you? What is this talk? We are immersed in Hell and you speak sedition? I suggest you master yourself, and remember whom you serve. Looking up to glare into Kadia's eyes, he slowly pivots the rifle until it is fixed on her head, her death mere microsecond away should she fail to answer to his satisfaction. Judge not, that ye be not judged... Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you... ...thou hypocrite. |
Tarja barely felt the hands wrapped around her arm, though she resisted on instinct, and would have snapped at the blind man with no small amount of venom if her mind was turned in that direction. Instead, she just stared at the angel as though mesmerized by its lilting voice, before it breaks in erratic curses.
The sword held in her quivering grasp, Tarja gaped, stuttering with indecision. “I…It still speaks.” Slowly, she lowered the sword, its tip pointing towards the ground, and she looked to Diogenes, though she spoke to no one in particular. “What do we do with it?” She wrung her hands around the grip of the sword, having not quite abandoned her intentions, and completely unaware -for the time being- of the drama unfolding near a hole in the wall. |
CONSUME
It was the only thought. The only thought there could be. Slay the flesh. Unhinge the flesh. Consume the flesh. Gorge on the rotted skin. Slay it. Skin it. Slough it. Peel it. Pick it. But above all, consume. Until the grenades happened. The force ripped through Lev, his body, through the...thing. Its claws were wrenched from his mind. It was not an easy withdrawal. Like a hook sunk deep in to the gill of a fish, it was a process that would normally take time and care to make the transition painless and smooth. This was not painless, nor smooth. Lev screamed, collapsing to the ground and raking his fingers across his head. His very mind was on fire. Hooked claws ripped at his very brain, his heart, what felt like his very soul were being split and ripped. Suddenly his body was the one that was ripped asunder as the hooks came unwillingly free. The pulses battered against him like a typhoon, harsh winds ripping out strand by strand of that which possessed him. He felt parts of his mind being ripped away, loosened by the tethered holds now forced from him There was no understanding. No reasoning. There was only pain. He crumpled further, body going limp upon the fetid soil below him. His eyes rolled back in to his head, blood filling his eyes at the claw marks he has put across his head. Wind rushing, pulling even more from him bit by bit. The pain threatened to end him. And then... Silence. Dark. So very dark. So...cold? There was no light. Nothing to betray what the dark hid, but under his writhing form he could feel metal. A steel table below him, cracking leather straps above. And...cotton. A large swathe of cotton filled his mouth, robbing him of his ability to speak. All that escaped was muffled sounds which were quickly eaten up by the blackness. Echoing footsteps. The closing of a metal door. Hard shoes against a concrete floor echoed closer. Still black. All black. Still the footsteps came closer. They stopped mere feet away, and were quickly followed by the clatter of small bits of metal upon metal. There was rustling. The flick of something. And then the loud whirring of a saw shattered the silence. It deafened all. Obliterated all. The shock of noise jolted Lev, ripping the thread away from his eyelids. It wasn't dark. It had never been dark. His eyes had been shut for him. Someone had taken his sight away. But what? Light blinded him, blood from the thread ripping through his soft tissue obscured his vision. And still the saw came. He could not wipe the blood away, could barely see what was above him. The only thing he could make out was the horrifically fast blade spinning away between both eyes, pausing for the moment before it came down. Memories ripped themselves away. Everything he had ever known became slush, became gore and kibble as it mixed with fragmented bone matter. The hot nights on the African plains splattered across the lab coat of the saw's owner. Lev's burned body crawling through a mass of tangled limbs from a mass grave spun across linoleum floor before coming to a halt. His entire life flashed before his eyes, replacing the saw, and then found itself upon the wall. And then it went black. NO. NO. PUT IT BACK TOGETHER. Gargantuan skyscrapers of polished steel tickled the sky. Angry swirls of red and grey and yellow and brown swirled among the towers, whipping around one and then curling off to the next. The wind followed close on their heels, screaming hell and fire as it followed. This place was strange, foreign. At the base of each tower ran a pillar connecting them all to a central disc. The disc was everything. The disc was all. Everything rotated around the disc. The steel towers, in all their height and might, were forced to turn by these pillars between them. Structures incomprehensible in size bent as slaves to this center object, swirled among the colors, cut swathes in to them. The roiled, angrily separating then coming together again. First as strands, wisps, then cords and finally a large cloud before being churned again. The funnel whirled faster and faster, and everything became as one blur, one motion, one movement of speed and matter. YOU ARE NOT DONE. Darkness again. Pressure. Choking. Water, countless amounts of water pressing down on top of him. Eyes attempted to adjust to the burning saltiness invading them. Still, he could see. He could see them all. The darkness now was no barrier to his eyes. An eternal graveyard of battered ships, all broken upon the floor of this unknown ocean lay before him. Battleships, junks, skiffs, everything that had ever carried man across the unknowable depths that now housed them. There were too many to count. And though they numbered infinite, the corpses reaching upwards for salvation numbered more. NOT THE RIGHT ONE. Bones. Vast piles of bones. They stretched as far as the eye could see, and further still in to the yellow haze. A trio of suns beat down, baking and bleaching the remains. The air rippled and was disturbed further still by the sentinels that guarded this unholy place. They made long strides upon impossibly long skeletal legs, bones upon joints upon bones upon joints that disappeared somewhere to the unseen ground below. The legs then bunched and connected to small cages of ribs and clavicles that once again bent upon themselves and attached to larger portions still. As each cluster of legs finally connected to each other via a central grouping of bones, these further still connected to a spine that could only be described as colossal. The spine dominated the entire structure. Smaller ribs hung downward, not quite connecting, but the spines themselves dominated. As the spine grew larger to the front, it was ended by a large hand of bone. But the hands were wrong. Too many fingers dangled down at odd angles. They moved like pedipalps on a spider, making clicking sounds and odd scrapes as they rubbed together. The 'creatures' moved with a shambling grace, as the sheer scale of their movement made them seem both slow and swift at the same time. NOT THIS PLANE. Wet. Clammy. Blood. Lev removed his knife from the back of his head. His blood spouted freely from the wound. And then...it stopped. He eyed the knife as if it might come alive and bite him. Was this real? Was this like the others? Was...was this real? His surroundings were barren. Concrete walls, battered with age and breaking from time. Spattered blood marred the floor. A large, olive green metal door hung from a single hinge in front of him. Beyond it was a dim hall in even worse shape than the room he occupied. Shaking steps brought him forward. Whispers followed, licking at his heels and sniggering at his quickened footsteps. They became louder, catcalling and jeering as he pressed on. He finally gave in, fear overwhelming and consuming as he began to run. Blind panic set in as he became lost. Twists and turns, hallways doubling back in on each other. Whispers became open calls that became intelligible screams and calls for violence. The shouting grew louder, overtaking his mind as he stumbled forward, shoving a door open so hard it fell from the hinges. THIS ONE. And before him they all stood. Looking every bit the worse for wear. Dante. Thomas. Diogenes. Everyone else. And one more. The angel. |
Rurik gazed curiously at the gun – a curious device. He turned his head. He raised his head, and two eyes, flashing red and white with artificial light, glared at the gun pointed at Kadia. He lowers his rear legs, preparing to pounce… [List(Hand.Item) == Gun If Gun == 1, and Gun.target == Mistress, then Hand == Enemy …Gun == 1 …Gun.target == Mistress Verifying Program Kill_Enemy…] -------- Kadia freezes momentarily, uncertain what to do. She could try to run – her clothing was made to be night-camouflage – but she doubted it would work, and she could not let them destroy Rurik… A noise in her head, deep and gutteral: -Mistress, attack the enemy?- Kadia sighs…protocol would dictate yes to the loyal ‘bot, but she knew it would not work. Her mind adopting a commanding, yet feminine, tone responds -Stand down…protocol 4222-9 Charlie Delta- -------- Rurik, with a heave that sends an echoing metal clank, let his crouching legs collapse, The black boom-toy was still trained on him and Kadia. Rurik was less than worried - within the tail, an electric wiremesh/barbed net – a nasty tool – was primed to fire… *Donk* The net hit a damaged portion of the tail, some dirt or perhaps a piece of metal jammed the otherwise silent device. Rurik tried to force the part to work… ---------- Kadia brought forth her carefully concealed paranoia and fear, She shivered and drooped slightly… ...a burly bearded man reeking of alcohol stood behind her…pain in her body…a fiery blast in the distance…charred bodies…shadows peeling flesh from bone… Kadia raised her head, and the barrel looked more frightening – a snake ready to bite…the large dark fellow…no, he was the same as the man, as all men…but she can control him, and control this situation. She was Kadia the Huntress, and these, who would attack her, would feel the lioness’s wrath. The group before her were strong – they had shields and arms…but they used most of the firearms in the battle. Meanwhile, she was mostly fresh in supplies. She was also clever. First, she had to get the gun out of her face. Kadia pulled the metal/plaster from the foundation, pouring it around the gun and arm. Continuing, the floor itself seemed to pour around Thomas's legs. "Why yes, Rurik is a part of my soul, priest." She spat in his face as she layered plaster and metal thickly around his limbs. "Ironic I am a priestess, is it not?" She gave a haunting grin, "And it is so sad one such as you must consider my familiar as an abomination." She cooled a little, partially due to Rurik's mental urging. "Now, I know you can break out of this. Even though I want to see your innards bleed for threatening my Rurik, I know better. Bye!" Kadia kissed Thomas on the cheek. She and Rurik then began to run (Kadia having to withhold her rage and instinct to try to kill the superior foe for threatening her pup), knowing that would only hold the priest for a minute or two. However, she pulled from the area ahead of her, and weakened a support above the angel. With a creak and a crack, a series of tiles poured down the hole, bombarding the faceless light-being... |
Eventually, and perhaps thankfully, the commotion behind her grabbed Tarja’s attention. She hadn't seen the other psychic before, but she had sensed her presence. Even so, with the flare of Thomas’ power interfering and with innumerable foes previously occupying her attention, she had all but forgotten about the other girl.
Tarja came to a quick decision: Thomas was being stupid. She turned abruptly, and held the sword out to the side. “Get over it, Priest! You think anyone cares about that right now? Confront her later, the machine is useful.” Things changed rather abruptly when the floor started to cave upwards… Tarja hissed and smacked the first tile to her in her direction out of the way with her sword, using it more like a club in her less than skilled hands. She was far more capable with her mind. Tarja ceased the barrage of building materials that had headed for her, and consequently Dante as well, halting them midair and leaving them hovering as though at the edge of an unseen globe around her, before letting them fall uselessly to the ruined floor. She snapped as she saw Kadia run by, “stupid girl! Do you want to cave the place in on us?!” |
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