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Feenai almost didn't hear Shealtiel's question. "It's been..." she paused, cocking her head in thought. "It felt longer but it's only been fifteen minutes. Though I have no idea what we will accomplish here..."

"How can there be a worse fate than being turned into this mess..." Dante's voice trailed off as he finally managed to reload the gun. The whole round was fired almost indiscriminately in the Dybbuks' general direction.

Not bothering to reach for yet another cartridge, he fully turned towards the old man.

"What, are you saying there's worse than being sentenced to a life of pain and hunger?"

"For the innocent by-standers. Call it 'atonement' for crimes I committed before being an artificer," said Michael, his eyes further studied the gun for a few seconds, before he slipped it into his outer coat pocket, safety on. "At first I was thinking a helmet of some sort may due, but that would be too heavy and complicated for your average man or woman, and probably ineffective against anything particularly powerful. Hence, my research." He paused for a second. "Say, you haven't heard any news from Babylon, have you?"
He was thinking of Rue's family. Constantine, her fiance, was declaring war on one of the Seven churches, or so she had told. Considering that they were heading there, it wouldn't hurt to know more, or so he thought.

"Why does it matter if they feel pain or not? Why don't you just kill them?"

It was the most Dara has spoken since leaving the APC, but the situation wasn't likely to improve any time soon and if these undead were like the wanderers she had seen off an on in her travels, then it was more practical to do away with them quickly or leave them be and move away yourself.

Turning on Dante, Shealtiel's eyes take on a haunted, far-gazing aspect, as though he in fact staring through the young man into the depths of Sheol as he speaks.

"Imagine, Lucifer, the act of dying. Stretched as a skein over eternity. Endless dying. An infinite abyss of despair. Pain that cannot be escaped. This..." He draws a deep breath suddenly, eyes regaining focus. "This is the fate awaiting unsaved souls. And we are all... all of us... without salvation."

With a low chuckle, he adds, "Even if gracious Mithaias were a sadist, torturing these creatures for no higher purpose than his own indulgence... his acts here would accomplish nothing. The pain he inflicts is a breath upon the tempest. It is physical, besides, fleeting and finite. Of no meaning to these suffering souls."

He inclines his head toward Dara, acknowledging her earlier question. "I suspect our host is a believer." Were the man not standing nearby, he would use the word "zealot". Shealtiel glares in accusation at the priest. "That's how it is, isn't it? You hate them, not just as enemies, but as abominations to your sanctimony. You don't merely wanted to slay them, you want to wrack them with the price of their sins. It's your destiny, yes? To mete out the retribution of the LORD in His wake. To avenge your murdered God."

Before the man can respond, Shealtiel addresses them all. "I think we've seen all we need to, here. As much as I'd enjoy the ensuing debate of theology should Kasdeja come to collect us, I don't believe we should delay any longer."

***

Aaron regards Michael thoughtfully. "We don't really get visitors out here, if you'd believe it. The only news I hear is what comes over the network, and Jez'ebel keeps that city off the grid. I guess that goes to show how powerful she is, seeing as we haven't been able to breach whatever wards she has over her city." He sighs, nodding as though at some grim tautology he's just remembered.

"For your project, you might want to look into the AA. I'm sure their own Artificers have given some thought to the issue. They keep that stuff classified though. Good luck getting anything useful ought them.

With a nod toward the door, he adds, "I do believe your friends have had enough of wondrous Phillipi. You might want to go see what's up." At Michael's questioning look, he smiles and taps his ear, eliciting a slight plastic *tink* sound. "Psyko-aural enhancement implant. Comes in handy sometimes. Here." He turns for a moment, rummaging through a cluttered drawer. "I have an extra." He tosses the small device to Michael. I'm sure you can figure out how to install it." Eyeing him for a moment longer, he ends, "Take care of yourself out there."

"The act of dying." The old man made it sound so...voluntary. And that was his fate? It'd be easier than struggling to survive.

Right?

But pain. That was something he had had enough of. More than enough of.

However...to not be able to feel physical trauma. Interesting. As if each painful jolt of things slicing through flesh wouldn't cause that feeling of going under. No more worries about dying, no more desperately seeking out and end to what seems to drag on and on...

Wouldn't the pain of dying become a sort of background?

Shaking his head a bit, Dante shrugged, still somewhat lost in his thoughts. "Why do something with no purpose? I...oh, nevermind." He couldn't be bothered to care about the know-it-all's knowledge.

"I see." It was still the small as Michael expected it to be. He always heard of such enormous strength, but he never expected it to work so well after so long. The last time he tried the wards, he had just left Babylon, and he got a whiplash on his mind that kept disabled for hours.

Catching Aaron's spare, Michael eyed the implant and found it in pretty good shape. He was kind and generous for giving something so valuable, almost too much so, but who knew. He'd probably take it apart and put it back together a few times before wearing it, but he took care to keep that from Aaron. "That's very nice of you. Thanks."

He then looked at him in the eye, and lost his doubts of him. He looked trustworthy to him.
"Here," Michael said, reaching into his coat. "Keep in touch. Alright?" he said handing him it. "It's my principle pay back acts in good faith. Good luck with your work," Michael concluded as he walked out the door. The air seemed fresher, kinder than it was before as he made his way back to the APV.

"Let him come. We are a flock, not cattle. The words are similar but not congruent."

He eyed the crucifixes that surrounded them, wondering exactly how an aging man was able to affix Dybbuk to a cross, especially if they had been free before. This ability eluded him, and for once made Na'lsa worry about what he had just ingested.

"I thank you for the gift of flesh. I however hope that they will not be like the Four Seeds of Persephone. Surely there is a power here that aids you that is either not visible or not present."

"Power?" The aged man scoffs in what seems more affront than is deserved. "My power is manifest before your very eyes, ever-present here on earth, even now. It is the sovereign legacy of the LORD you feel within the ether, making this ground holy even as these repellent creatures despoil it. What you feel is..."

His voice loses its maniacal tenor, tapering into empty air as his gaze is drawn behind the group, eyes widening.

As they turn, they see the cause of his dismay, approaching from beyond the pillared garden where they stand. The spotless white of its raiment against the blasted, brown backdrop seems somehow profane -- likely because it is. Kasdeja's steps are powerful, purposeful, his unhuman glare weathering the stirring dust without a single blink.

"There is something..." he mutters through gritted teeth as he draws up along side the group, "here, after all, it seems." And he continues strutting past, not sparing them a glance, stalking off into the field of crosses, seemingly staring at a single one.

With a gasp of alarm, Mithaias starts after him....

Feenai felt Kasdeja's presence before she saw him, and mad a conscious effort to not look at him. She was feeling something else. Unhooking one of her grenades, she wandered into the field of crosses following the odd feeling she got from somewhere within.

Coming up to one of the crosses, she came across a man with dark, narrow features. His skin looked like a dead man, and there were burns and scars all over his face and body. He looked, visually, as if he was dead. But he's not. Or at least, he's not a Dybbuk... She reached her mind forward to try to find out what kind of person he was, taking care not to probe deeply as she did not wish to intrude.

The still expressionless face of the man on the cross burst into life, "AH! What is this?! Who the hell is that?!" His eyes were caked shut with soot, ash, and tears. His head jerked in an odd fashion. His mouth tore open and his lifeless body writhed in agony against his torturous condition. Pain raged through his consciousness, tearing open the psychic connection between him and the young woman before him. For a split second, all of his thoughts and memories passed from him to her. His psyche accidentally torn open, the young psychic was flooded with the memories and emotions of the old wanderer. A torrent of confusion took hold of him, but just as suddenly as his mind was opened, it was wrenched shut, his conscious mind taking back control.

Ignoring his physical plight, his eyes popped open. He looked down at the young psychic, wondering as to her condition, "Oh dear, are you alright, young lady?"

Na'lsa's eyebrows perked up as the group began to congregate around a particular crucifix. They rose even higher as what appeared to be a corpse began to move, and even speak. He strode towards the gathering, speaking in a tone of nostalgia.

"Now this...this looks familiar! I found this host body of mine perched upon a cross as well. You share a common fate with this vessel!"

He clapped his hands together, finding the similarity to be like the two having the same type of pet when they were children. His eyes roved over the skin, taking in the delicious meal that he had missed. Living skin still possessed its secrets, and it had been awhile since he had had something truly alive. He had decided in an effort to save his Father's flock, that his diet had become severely limited.

Shealtiel is shocked, horrified even, at the disregard the others have shown what seems an immanent catastrophe. Hobbling across the dead ground, the old necromancer makes his way toward where Kasdeja and Mithaias stand even now confronting each other.

"And men like you..." he can hear the Nephilim's words as he draws near. "Would call me the monster."

"Monster?" The priest's voice is thick with condescending scorn. "You deserve nothing so grand. A witless child playing in his father's mantle." Shealtiel watches him take a step closer. "But not to worry... we shall find a use for you... Despite the curse of Semyaza's loins, you can yet serve the holy purpose of LORD...."

He seems to be considering his next words, glaring into the Nephilim... but something... is... wrong.

There. In Kasdeja's hand... is that...?

Forcing his gaze away from the site, over to Mithaias once again, Shealtiel sees it, a gaping, savage wound in the man's chest.

A bloody hollow where there should be a heart.

I saw nothing. He never moved... an yet...

With a sort of ponderous grace, the priest's body collapses, falling, ironically, to its knees before the Nephilim. Seemingly indifferent, Kasdeja stalks away from the corpse, still clutching the heart, over toward where the others stand encircled around one of the crosses.

With a shuddering breath, Shealtiel moves to follow him.

Feenai's eyes widened at the momentary flood of memories. She quickly pulled back, and noticed the man had awoken and was speaking to her. It took her a moment to comprehend his question.

"Err, yes..." she answered, shaking her head to clear it some. "As much as I want to know how you got here, I think we may have a problem." She glanced around to see the others gathering, and felt Mithaias' pain. She then saw Kasdeja moving towards them. "He said an hour and he meant it. I don't think it's been that long but time feels very strange to me around here..."

"Time is strange," the man on the cross agreed, "But, circumstantially, given my, ummm..." he examined himself once more, wincing at what he saw, "uhhh, condition and recent plight; I would say that my concerns lie elsewhere."

He looked at the girl, waiting for a reply, and he continued "It would be nice to get... errr... down. Please?"

Watching her, half defeated to himself and half to her he quickly adds, "I mean, it's quite alright if you don't want to, but... uhhh..." he paused.

He looked above the girl to see what was happening in the distance, "What on earth is that strange man doing with what appears to be a... oh. Oh dear."

He frowned, "Please get me down."

"Remove thyself, child of...of..."

He trailed off. All at once, a scent flooded his nostrils. Sweet, succulent. An aroma not unlike mixed spices. His eyes rolled back in to his head as his more savage side surged to the forefront of his mind.

"Shall not. Waste not! Flesh! SWEET flesh!"

Na'lsa turned suddenly, leaping the small distance between him and the gory spectacle. In the swift motion his mouth had become a horrifying maw of jagged teeth, jaw unhinging and breaking apart to accept a larger quantity of meat as he dug in to the still warm body. His jaws latched on to the face of the aged priest, breaking and crushing both bone and tissue as he devoured him face first. His teeth became a whirlwind of jagged edges; a grinder of flesh in living form that let him quickly eat in to the old man. All semblance of his civility disappeared as blood poured forth, staining his body as he reveled in the gore. Gone was concern for the crucified. Gone was the worry of the previous meal. Gone was the threat of Kasdeja. All that existed was the body that he was compelled to consume.

Every pound of flesh brought forth a surge of power, a replenishment of that which he had expended. The rapidly forming pools of blood began to pulse with Na'lsa's heartbeat. The remaining skin began to ripple, almost as if it was anticipating its consummation. In mere minutes, the body would be gone. And until then, the Lion was drowned in the ecstasy of his unholy feast.