NationStates Jolt Archive

Czernograd is a city cursed. The people do not talk about it, try their best not to think about it, but they do not go out at night, and if some friend or neighbor should go missing, they do not cry out. It could be worse; it could be them.

But now some poor soul, for some poor reason, is running along the riverbank in the moonlight. The things chasing him are very strong and very fast and very, very hungry; they do not tire in their pursuit, and his breath is loud in his throat.

Ophariana adh Inoresseri (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=514017) watches him from the rooftops; he must pass her if he continues to run, and when he does she hopes to ask him what it is that has brought his hunters here, to Czernograd, where the Shadow Palace has sensed no taint of Abharaz for twenty years.

She'd expected merely mortal evils, the death squads and corruption which destroyed the Czevajec Republic and cripple the successor Federation, but down below her are things which can only have come from the Ranath Abharaz, what the Anrans call Hell. But her man is slowing, even the strength lent by terror failing in his veins, and the pursuers are catching up. With a curse, Ophariana swings herself over the railing of the roof and leaps off.

Elemental shadow brakes her fall, and she lands in a crouch on rain-slick pavement, already loosing the shadow to entangle the trio of enemies and reaching out for more. In this old city, layered with basements, cellars, sewers, and all the detritus of thousands of years of civilization, there is shadow aplenty. She draws it up in thick, night-black skeins, leaving rooms full of blank greyness from which the darkness has been pulled.

And she attacks, hammering the hunters with coiling bolts of shadow. They are creatures of darkness themselves; Raveners, surely the most wretched of the angels fallen from Heaven. Starveling figures with claw-like nails, wings bearing a few tattered black feathers, and a vast, insatiable hunger. But they have the strength and speed of any angel, unburdened by morality or hesitation. They turn, and growl, and are upon her in an instant, attacking this prey that dares to bite back.

Ophariana spits at them the shadows under her robe and rips the garment away, letting the Will of God rise from its hiding-place within her soul. Shining wings spring from her back, her eyes begin to burn with blue-tinged fire, and the flaming sword hisses from its scabbard and flares to life.

It is almost obscene, how easy it becomes with Sethrannan's Will like fire in her veins. Flesh cleaves before the flaming sword as it would not for ordinary steel or bullets, and the skull of one parts company on the downstroke. The second dies on the backswing, but the third is upon her before she can take the blade to it. Teeth close on the arm she raises to hold it off, and she brings the pommel of the sword down on its temple.

That stuns it for the second she needs to gather its shadow and turn it against it, throwing it away. Something cracks sickeningly as it lands but it rises to its feet, its wings hanging oddly. Again it leaps towards her, but now Ophariana has the sword ready. The Ravener looks down with something like shock at the blade sunk into its chest, and spits blood at her as it dies.

The human - stupid, stupid man! - had not run for safety, and lies a hundred meters away, twitching. Acid has burnt a coil of ruined flesh around his throat - demon sign, she realizes, seeing a black figure disappear over the rooftops. Ophariana swears; if Hell's native denizens are working alongside Heaven's outcasts, this is more than some random incursion. A greater power is at work, and years as an agent of the Shadow Palace have taught her that the greater powers very seldom have the comfort of humanity in mind.

Blood bubbles on the man's lips as he dies, so like the Ravener she spitted. She glares at him, and kneels to turn his shirt into bandages for her arm.

"Fallen Lords, what is wrong with this city?"

---

The Cathedral of the Holy Word is one of the monumental follies built under the Czevajec Republic and never completed following the Republic's collapse. The Czernograd Prelacy talks ineffectually about raising the funds to finish it from private sources, but it has been twenty years since the Republic's fall and the faithful are still crowded into the older, smaller Cathedral of Saul the Companion. The Cathedral of the Holy Word has never been sanctified, never opened to the faithful, and in their absence a faith of a different sort has moved in.

Great braziers fill the nave with smoky light, their soot dimming the glass panes of the great dome high above. Illuminated by that light is a throng of black-robed worshippers, filling the nave from wall to wall and crowding the upper balconies.

Where the transept crosses the nave chains descend from the dome high above. A man hangs from them, naked, bearing arcane sigils painted on his skin. He is middle-aged, middle-weight; nothing special - save that he is of the Chosen, and is therefore very special indeed.

He does not cry out as the red-robed figure behind the lectern begins to chant, echoed by the worshippers thronging the Cathedral. He does not cry out when the glyphs painted upon him begin to glow and burn like heated iron. But when his bones begin to crack and shift, when his skin begins to blacken, then he screams.

His bound hands, tied above him, twist and change as his nails lengthen into claws. Saliva falls from his open mouth, and when it hits the ground there is the hiss of acid. A prehensile tongue lashes whiplike at the air. Feet crack and lengthen to carry him digitigrade, and behind them swings a tail as whiplike as the tongue. Horns erupt from his temples to curve backwards over his skull.

Yellow eyes, slit vertical and gleaming like a cat's, open and regard the throng. There is nothing in that gaze but malice, a hatred of every living thing to occupy the earth.

"Well, Chosen Brother Radousek!" the red-robed figure in the pulpit calls. "Whom do you serve?"

The tongue runs over serrated, shark-like teeth.

"You, Lord Andrej! For the death of the God, and the Kingdom at the End of the World!"

---

Andrej was eight when he first discovered that others would serve him. It came, a two-fold revelation, with the realization that his schoolmates lacked the will or the power to truly hurt each other. They might pull hair or scuffle in the playground, but he had merely to do enough damage to truly incapacitate them and not only would they not cross him again, they would obey his commands, truly fearful that his anger would descend upon them again.

Respect born of fear could not be feigned; Andrej had discovered he liked it. It was a lesson which had served him well in the Republican Army, and, after the Republic ate itself from the inside out and Andrej was discharged, it was the lesson by which he lived his life. Others might refrain from enforcing their will upon others for fear of the police or fear of the God, which they called morality; just as Andrej's classmates had feared their teachers and their parents. Andrej was untouchable, invincible, and, after he found the book, immortal.

The first night he read the book he discovered that there were things greater than himself, things which thought as he did, unfettered by the lie people called morality. They broke him then, remade him in their image, and as his schoolmates had served Andrej, so Andrej served Hell - though his fear was always tinged by the desire for the power his Masters held, forever just beyond his reach. He was their Dark Messenger, Hell's own prophet.

He was surprised, at first, when people began to come to him, seeking to submit themselves to his power. It took him a long time to realize that common humanity, the sheep of the earth, envied the wolves; they wanted to be something special, to know that yes, they had some greater power, some higher knowledge, some superiority to their fellows; that there was a plan to give them worth, that each of them would be a king, come the end of the world.

Then there were those followers who had money, who could indulge every vice they could imagine. Already greater than their fellows, what they sought was justification, an assurance that what they did, however depraved, was right; that even in Hell they could not be punished for it, and that at the end of the world the strong would reign over the weak.

They counted themselves among the strong, of course. Andrej used them, and with them bought an Archprelate's robes, and the silence of the government. Though truth be told, Czevaj is too corrupt and too poor, after the excesses of the Republic, to care who rules Czernograd.

Even Inhatan, it seems, is loath to interfere; His Servants have not entered Czernograd since the Republic's fall, and the Cephastine Order of Templar Knights have ceased to sacrifice their paladins to him. Andrej takes these as omens of his reign, and from his Cathedral he plots the death of God.

OOC: This thread is wide open! Feel free to drop in your vampires, angels, elves, mages, mermaids or what-have-you. I don't even mind if the mermaids are Queen of Atlantis and bear the trident of Poseidon; all that I ask is that you keep in mind the fact that an irresistible force meeting an immovable object is no fun to role-play, and act accordingly. And since Andrej's cultists are supposed to be a credible opponent, they don't fall over when you poke them with a pin.

For the introduction of my character, as well, as some background to the setting, I advise you to read the introduction thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=514017[/url) for her, and ask as many questions as you wish.

Czernograd is essentially an Eastern European post-Soviet city, with a religion similar to Orthodox Christianity - although Inhatan, the Lord of Light, is not exactly Jehovah, and Anra, His Bright Messenger, is not exactly Christ. The government runs openly on bribery and graft, so it can be assumed that you're free to bring in any weapons you like (short of main battle tanks and so forth) so long as you pay the customs inspectors to look the other way and don't parade them openly around policemen (who are likely to want money to "forget" about it).

And most importantly - have fun!

[OOC: *Ponders the conflict between wanting to join and not having the time* I can't say I'm not interested, -Midnight-, and of all people I'm more than a fan of NS forum newbies that demonstrate an ability to write...however I may be a little more tied up that I can handle right now, since I am running 3 RP's, 2 solo-stories, and I'm involved in another RP run by someone else. (Some examples are in my sig if you care to read). Perhaps I'll wait and see how this goes before I make my decision...]

OOC: Well, thanks for the interest and the compliment, and I do understand about the lack of time. Hopefully some other people will come along soon and we can get this thread started. [/hint]

It was another rained-out night. The streets were empty except for the puddles of water that collected on the sidewalks and alleys. Everything was quiet, not a soul to be seen or heard. The hour was late and cloudy. One young man passed through the alleyways, his boots clopping through the puddles of water, splashing the water across the ground. His hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. The young man's hair was dark, a bit shaggy and a rough face. This man lived a hard life in the hard city. A mother who died years ago and a father who was rarely there to begin with. Something always loomed in his mind. Life always dealt him a rough card. A childhood marked by weary stares and taunting by his fellow classmates. The children laughed at him and his differences from themselves. His eyes...his eyes were piercing red and his teeth, were slight longer. They called him a freak and a vampire. They would often run at him with their fingers in the form of a cross, naturally it didn't do anything. He wasn't a vampire but he never felt like one of them. His shoulder blades always felt like they were on fire, hurting, pulsing with pain. Sometimes it was too much. One day, he lashed out at a classmate when he was in high school, the impact from his fist knocked the tourmentor across the hall and into a locker, denting it. Ever since then, no one dared to openly taunt him. They feared and misunderstood him. All he ever wanted was to be accepted for what he was, but it was never good enough. He did many good deeds, trying to live a good life but no matter what he did...they never accepted him. Now, in his mid twenties he lived all alone, drifting from one job to another...too poor to leave the city. For all his misery, he could never forgive or trust anyone. People always betrayed and hated him. So, he hated them. He committed petty crimes to feed his distrust and hatred for...humans. He hated humans. This ability to hate him without regret was due in part to that long standing feeling that he was not one of them. Questions filled his mind, a quest to know who or what he was. The answers always eluded him though; however, all his questions would be answered soon...

"What's a human doing out upon a night like this?"

A figure follows the voice down from the rooftops, landing softly as a cat on the rain-slick alley. Dark robes frame a face not the mere brown of equatorial peoples but truly black, illuminated by gleaming catlike eyes and a flash of startlingly white teeth.

Talons click on the pavement as the figure advances upon the young man before it, long tongue flicking out to taste the air.

"Tired of life, eh, human? Now, you know the night belongs to us. Or are you out looking for a little fun? I can do fun."

The demon pouts, coquettish, and slowly flicks out that long, prehensile tongue to its full length, well over a meter. The tip hangs, inviting, before the young man's face for an instant before the demon swallows, and the tongue disappears back behind sharklike teeth. Saliva hisses on the asphalt.

"And you know, little human, that you can't run. Not from us. So I think that you and I will have a lot of fun together, hmm?"

Avon'le jerks awake as the sound of growls and steel pull her from her slumber, it's been a couple of days and already she learned the rules. The night holds dangers here. In the shadowed recesses of the cellar of the abandoned building that served as her temporary home, she watched as the warrior fought the demon-shaped figures.

"Another fool... glad to know I'm not the only one..." she checked her bandaged arm and side... a token of her first night here. Suddenly, a flash of light draws her attention back to the battle outside.

"Drider shit, that one is bursting with divine power... not bad with a sword tho."

Her attention is diverted to another human, the one the bright woman is protecting, as it struggles as a dark shape encircles it's neck. a moment later, the human male falls, twitching to the floor... as the last of the demon-shape falls to the woman's burning blade. the new foe decides discretion is the better part of valor as it retreats up and away from the battlefield.

Avon'le watches as the bright winged woman nudges the body... then proceeds to bind her wounds.

her eyes shown in the darkness as she stepped away from the opening... letting the darkness envelope her into it's comforting embrace.

As she sat and pondered what she saw, her mind drifted back two... three nights ago. When she was leading a party against some upworlders who dared tresspass into her domain.

The battle was hard fought, especially when one carried an artifact from Sheloth, one of their main underground cities. Most of the intruders fell, but so did most of her party... finally, she cornered the wizard and was going to behead him when that idiot blocked her strike with the stolen scepter... the resulting flash was the last thing she remembered before waking in this cursed place.

"Filthy Humans... " Avon'le muttered as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

the sun made her weak, so she stuck to the shadows... the humans here spoke in a thick accented form of common that was hard to understand and for her to be understood. then there was that night...

she wondered why everyone raced off the streets when the daystar set... and her answer was made apparent when she was attacked by 4 of those demon spawn. they were fast, but her blades were faster. she wasn't a premire Ranger Knight for nothing, but even she found herself afraid of these things. That battle took it's toll on her, and her paltry healing skills were taxed in mending her wounds.

Damit, I need answers and for that... I need to make *spits* some friends here... I guess I can start with her... Fortunatly, it appears that no one here has even heard of Drow, so maybe she won't be that inclinded to remove my head...

Shaking her head, she moved again towards the opening, and placing her hands on both her blade hilts, she stepped out of the shadows and faced the woman as she finished tying the last of her bandages.

"Those things, you kiltd them with ease. you know what them are?"

OOC: Description time. Avon'le is a Drow, Dark Elf. human sized, she has blood red eyes and lips. her hair is bone white. her leather armor is shredded in the midsection and if you were to get behind her, it's also rended in the back. Her midsection sports a bandage and so does her left arm She has some remains of a burn on her right cheek. She has a bulgding backpack on and a cloak. two Scimitars hang from her belt as well as a mace and dagger.

He had always liked the rain, admired it for its innate cleansing ability. Even the filth and rot of the largest city always washed downstream. The fact that the streets didn't stay clean was a testament to humanity's inability to start fresh, fearing the unfamiliar. He, on the other hand, was much different. Starting new was by now an old, worn-out part of his existence, drifting from town to town, nation to nation.

Perhaps it was the personal burden he bore that drove him to wander, or maybe the genetic predisposition of his race, he had never been sure, nor had he cared. Like any exile, he didn't really fit in anywhere, among any race, including his own. Instead of trying to understand why it was he roamed, he simply chose to travel light. Besides, a change of scenery was never a bad thing. That had been true until he'd arrived in Czernograd. The taint of evil was strong here, stronger than he'd felt in a great many years.

The individual fancied himself a holy warrior of sorts, though more by choice than anything. Rejecting the established religion of his homeland, he'd meandered through several faiths before staying with the Christian belief system. While he violated a few of the Commandments on a regular basis, he had always reminded himself that he was, like the Greg Allman song, no angel. While he preferred Regge, lyrics were lyrics. Crouching on a bleak rooftop in a heavy downpour had been unpleasant, but nothing lasted forever.

The rain had since stopped, and with it his time of reflection. His cloak was soaked through, but beneath it he had stayed mostly dry, as had his equipment. As mentioned earlier, he travelled light. The forty-caliber under his left arm was manufactured by Browning, a utilitarian piece of parkerized steel loaded with an effective custom round of his own creation. He'd perhaps gone a bit heavy with the white phosphorus, but they had been extremely effective, immolating a target from the inside out.

Against the skyline, his silhouette was strangely shaped. It appeared to the typical eye that he might have wings beneath his cloak. That, however, was a falsehood. He had carried a pair of Argonian Silk-Swords with him since his return to his homeland. The Silk-Sword was an interesting study in design. Resembling a katana, the weapon wasn't quite as curved, and featured an edge along the back half of the blade to make it easier to remove from a torso without sacrificing too much cutting power. These in particular were forged from meteorite steel, glossy black and inlaid with silver around the hilts, the grips wrapped in midnight sharkskin. If it could be said that the weapon reflected the owner, it might have been true in this case.

Clad in the black cloak, tactical-styled cargo pants, and a simple T-shirt of the same color, the swords might have given the impression that he was a Gothic vampire-hunter wanna-be, a human with delusions of grandeur and a lack of style. He was a simple utilitarian, but the occupation remained the same. While vampires might have been his usual targets, they were easy prey, especially the younger ones. They tended to be cocky, convinced of their own invincibility, and easily dispatched with a gunshot to the facial region from one of his special incendiary rounds. The older ones were more cautious, and usually required a stealthy approach, or a drawn-out melee before some sort of wooden implement could be driven through their heart.

Stealth was a preferred method, however, hence the overuse of black in his wardrobe. The exception was the faded silver crucifix dangling from a light steel chain around his neck. The rooftop observer ran a clawed thumb over the ornament as he held it in his hand. It was more of an expression than a practical tool. He'd nearly lost an arm when he'd tried to fend off an early target with the thing.

Voices drew his attention to the streets below, prompting him to lie flat against the wet rooftop, his clawed hands grasping the eaves to maintain stability. Keen golden-colored eyes peered intently at the scene unfolding before him. His canine-like sense of smell had enabled him to evade detection by the demonic hunters that prowled the streets at night, and the same went for the mundane human occupants of the cursed city. This, however, was different. The fool was old enough to know that walking about at night wasn't a good idea, and the demon below had caught him, but something seemed odd about the youth, he radiated hatred like a lantern emits light. In short, his disgust for his fellow man was almost visible, like an aura.

The wanderer's own prehensile tail twitched in anticipation, a black-scaled whip-like appendage that had earned him his name. He'd affixed a small barb to the end, made from sharp steel. It was a useful addition where combat was concerned. His SOG Seal Pup had also proved useful when he hadn't wished to be detected. For now, he would observe, like he always did. There was no sense in revealing himself over such a trivial matter...

OOC: You have no idea the sense of nostalgia this RP of yours brings me. Back before Jolt there used to be quality open RP's all the time, but since the move they've become a dying breed. It's nice to see new blood with the writing expertise you've displayed.

I congratulate you, and hope to see more of your work in the future.

"Those things, you kiltd them with ease. You know what them are?"

Ophariana jerks in surprise, glaring at the strange figure before her. Somehow, in the high-speed chaos of the fight, she'd missed this woman hiding in the shadows - which is embarrassing. Fallen Lords, she is a Lady Umbral, not some Adjutant newly graduated from the Palace!

But the newcomer doesn't appear to be dangerous, and though her echo in the shadow realm is strange, it does not possess the ring of the Servants or the Forsaken. No, this creature is from the world. The world, of course, holds many mysteries even for the Shadowborn. Her hand goes automatically to the hilt of her sword.

"We call them Raveners," she replies, after puzzling through the stranger's odd accent and grammar. "Forsaken angels, cast out of Heaven. But what manner of being are you? Whom do you serve - and what are you doing out of doors? This city is not known for its nightlife."

OOC: Thanks for joining, and thank you Wandering Argonians for the compliment! Unfortunately I've got to go in a bit, but I'll be back as soon as possible, most likely tomorrow.

The young man turned around to see the creature that threatened him. It gnashed and clawed its' way towards him, tauting him...taunting. His heart raced as adrenaline pumped into his veins, giving him tunnel vision as he breathed faster. Something finally snapped in his mind, releasing something. All rational thought disappeared as he clenched his fist. All of sudden the pain in his shoulder blades returned, this time more intense than the sun, it burned and seared his skin. Sweat rolled down his face as he felt weak in the knees. W-What's happening to me?! Finally, his knees gave out and he collapsed to the ground on all fours. A burst of vomit shot from his mouth as he gagged on it, exhausted. The back of his jacket began to tear as his red eyes began to bug out of his head. He grunted and screamed in pain. He gnahsed and clawed at the ground, his fingers bleeding. The pain was so intense that he ripped his own shirt off. His shoulder blades appeared to be extending out, finally the skin broke and a rush of feathers shot forth from his shoulders. Great wings emerged, the feathers bloodied. They extended out far but contracted downward. The young man collapsed onto the wet pavement, exhausted and in pain. After lying there for a few seconds he staggered to his feet, unable to comprehend what just occured, he couldn't even speak.

Now THAT was something you didn't see every evening. Something had been odd about that young man, and now there was no room to argue. The odds had shifted away from his favor. The final piece of his equipment, an R93 Blauser LRS2, was situated in two pieces on his back, strapped to the scabbards of his swords. Carefully, he removed both pieces, screwing the heavy fluted barrel into place. Both ends were threaded, but had been done so in a different fashion to keep him from putting the barrel on backwards.

The barrel tightened into place, the wandering hunter withdrew another item from beneath his cloak, attatched to his belt amidst a collection of magazine pouches and the occasional nylon rope. Knight Armament Corporation manufactured an excellent .308 caliber sound surpressor, the very same model he was currently screwing into place on the end of his distance weapon. The factory scope had been removed in favor of a Meopta Meostar R1 6-14x44mm Tactic model with adjustable objective and mil-dot cross-hair. It was water and fog proof under any circumstances, and had proven to be a useful addition in the past.

There was a faint sound of metal against metal as the silent hunter worked the single-motion straight-pull bolt of the rifle, chambering one of his specialized 7.62x51mm NATO rounds, equivalent to the standard .308 caliber in every way, shape, and form. This was a precautionary measure only, in the event he was detected he would be able to incapacitate or kill one of the demonic servants before hustling to make his escape.

He situated the cross-hair in the center of the dark angel's head, placing a clawed index finger on the trigger. He hadn't added the Harris bipod due to the extra weight involved, and he was beginning to regret his decision as his aim began to wobble slightly as his breathing slowed, followed by his heart rate. Continued observation would be a must in this situation, and continue to observe he would, albiet with a golden eye peering down a rifle-scope...

"We call them Raveners," she replies, after puzzling through the stranger's odd accent and grammar. "Forsaken angels, cast out of Heaven. But what manner of being are you? Whom do you serve - and what are you doing out of doors? This city is not known for its nightlife."

OOC: Thanks for joining, and thank you Wandering Argonians for the compliment! Unfortunately I've got to go in a bit, but I'll be back as soon as possible, most likely tomorrow.OOC No problem, that was a well thought out first post... and since I don't know too much about this world, playing a pan-dimensional exile would be the best way to find out. :)


"For-saken An-gel?" Avon'le rolled the words as she tried to translate them in her mind.

"Me, forgive, I forgetting manners. Me Drow, Hirstu El'tha Avon'le." *gives a quick shake of her head then smiles and points to herself.* "Avon'le. I not know how came here but I fight also those Rav-en-ers... as for who I serve? High Prestess Linn'th... I am... Hunter of invaders back..."

Avon'le turns her head up towards the wind and takes several breaths.

"lots of something coming. perhaps shelter we seek."

She stares at the ... Drow ... Avon'le ... in disbelief.

"Have you been under a rock since the dawn of time, woman? I am an angel" - she jerked a thumb at the shining wings rising from her back - "As are those, though they push it."

"Lots of something coming. Perhaps shelter we seek?"

Ophariana looks onto the shadow realm. The world is grey and darker grey, and wavers like smoke or a reflection on running water. This is the Ranath Morai, Adhrazal's domain, seperated by a shadow's thickness from the realm of flesh. The Drow - whatever a Drow may be - is a denser shape of mist, and Ophariana's own flesh shines like a torch ... but there, still several blocks away, are deeper darknesses.

"Demons," she says. "Yes, we should - whoever sent the Forsaken will be wondering what's happened to them."

Her own supernatural attributes will shine bright as a beacon in the eyes of demons, the hereditary enemies of the angels. She grits her teeth and forces the Will of God back inside her soul, making the wings disappear from her back and the sword return to ordinary steel. The fire dies in her eyes, revealing the cat-slit amber irises of the Shadowborn, and once again she is little more than human.

OOC: Sorry to neglect you, Kulikovia, but before I reply I need to know; what color are your angel's wings? In my mythos the Servant angels have shining white wings, the Fallen angels have plain white wings, and the Forsaken angels have black wings. Which of these it is - or if it's something else entirely, and I leave that entirely up to you - will determine the demon's response.

"Have you been under a rock since the dawn of time, woman? I am an angel" - she jerked a thumb at the shining wings rising from her back - "As are those, though they push it."Avon'le blinks and looks back at the woman.

"my guess would've been harpy, but you look much human... and yes, my people are underground realm.

"Demons," she says. "Yes, we should - whoever sent the Forsaken will be wondering what's happened to them."
"You know place better, know where sanctuary is to be seeked. Lead, I follow."

Avon'le drew one of the scimitars and glanced back to where the wind brought the scent to her. They were getting closer and she knew she was not up to fighting demons...

Demons... if there is one thing I hate more than Humans... scratch that, there are alot of things I hate more than Humans... Humans after all, make wonderful slaves...

That is a confusing statement; what is a harpy, and how do these people live underground? It's a question for later, however; the demons are closing on them.

Ophariana considers the layout of Czernograd. Here in the heart of the city it is wound through with twisting medieval streets, punctured by a few more modern highways. The Shadowborn ghetto here was disestablished eighty years ago, but if the buildings themselves have not been destroyed there may be hidden places still remaining ...

"This way," she tells Avon'le, and begins to run. Without the Drow she could simply step through shadows to a suitable hiding place, but she isn't about to abandon the woman, whatever she is, to the mercies of the denizens of Hell. Rain-slick streets flash by underfoot, and the buildings to either side grow smaller, older, closer together. Ophariana keeps her eyes open for the traditional signs.

"Left!" she gasps, seeing the glyph carved into crumbling masonry ... and stops, finding the second glyph cut above what would be a basement window - if it had not been bricked in sometime in the past. No time for subtlety; she grasps the shadows of the room beyond and pulls them outwards, scattering bricks before a gout of elemental shadow.

"And down -"

Into the basement, tossing aside decades-old junk to find the secret door, and down again into a room bearing the glyphs of the Shadow Palace. Like many ancient cities, Czernograd is built above centuries of prior buildings, a warren the Shadowborn ghettos across the continent have always exploited. This Shadow Palace is barely three meters by four, orders of magnitude smaller than the great Palace in Asphelian, but it should suffice.

"We should be safe here, for a while at least. If they're not looking too hard for us."

Avon'le easily follows the woman, with most of her heavy armor packed away, she could easily keep up with her as well as keeping her movement quiet.

she's looking for som...

Avon'le noticed the glyph when the stranger barked for her to move. then they stopped by a bricked up window. Sheathing her Scimitar, Avon'le grabbed her mace to part the stone barrier when it shattered outward. cursing silently, Avon'le ducked under the debris.

Glad I decided to hook up with this... one.

as she moved into the shadowed recesses, Avon'le looked back at the debris littering the alleyway and the now open window.

This won't do. I'll hurt later, but at least there will be a later.

Tapping into the last of her magical energies, she pulls the stone up from the ground and shapes it back into the stone like fixture that once blocked the entrance way, extinguishing any light from outside. with the opening sealed once more, it's doubtful that anyone would explore this place.

hearing movement behind her, she turned and watched as her new friend stood in a hidden doorway
"We should be safe here, for a while at least. If they're not looking too hard for us."
maneuvering in the dark, Avon'le made her way to the room.

"Nice... sorry, I not be with upworlders for long time. Do you need light?"

Rumaging through her backpack, she dug out two mushrooms and offered one to the woman as she popped the other in her mouth. the Rejuvinating effects of the mushroom was immediately felt but Avon'le knew she needed rest to regain her energies.

"Forgive, but I not remember you name."

OOC: Hmm...I'll say black wings

The man was a blurred shape in the dark, a vague thing, with coat-tails. It wasn't his speed -- he wasn't moving at more than a stroll, so much as it was the way the eye rather disliked the idea of settling upon him. Perhaps it was some instinctive fear, encoded genetically over all those generations...a survival trait, if you will...certain knowledge that there was a type of person, this type of person, who you did not want to mess with. Ever.

But that was unlikely to the extreme.

Were one capable of studying the man, which was presumably possible, somehow...he was a few inches over six feet in height, muscular, but not excessively so -- his was a body built for speed -- with silver hair and silver eyes.

He wore a black longcoat of sorts -- the previously mentioned coat-tails -- over loose pants and a tight shirt, which was worn over a contoured skinsuit -- the proper term was thinsuit, but it was unlikely that people about these parts would know that...

He had a sword in a scabbard upon his back -- a bit over three feet of blade with a good six inches of grip. The cross-guard featured a finger-ring, and one quillion swept back to form a knuckle guard. Were it to be drawn, the blade would be pitch black with veins of a purplish hue...and like most of its type, it had a groove about the edge for slice-wire, and a slice-field, which took the form of crackling red-white energy.

Exactly what he was doing was uncertain, but, then, Blackmarlin Rache had never seen much reason to reveal his motivations or actions to others, unless he felt like it...and he'd stayed alive so-far, though the majority of his species believed him dead...which suited him just fine, to be frank.

His long-coat bore a subdued Ascended Star on the back, very dark red, eight points, the Guardian Temple design. That meant something to certain people, but it was unlikely to mean anything to anybody about these parts...unless they were quite familiar with five hundred thousand years dead galactic super-powers...and should they happen to know what that star meant, it was quite likely that they would become very, very afraid.

Because Blackmarlin Rache was everything that that star represented, and worse, he was Rache. The last of Rache, to be certain, the last of the fallen Fourth Great House of the Ascended...but that really just meant that he was really, really hard to kill. It hadn't been a fluke that he'd survived -- it had been sheer meanness. He was too tough to die, and trying merely pissed him off...and then things got nasty.

There were dangerous things in this land at night, to be certain, and it was likely that even now some of those things hunted Blackmarlin Rache...whether they would like what they found when they tracked him down, now, that was another matter entirely...

And Blackmarlin Rache smiled...he would have laughed, but that would have been cheating, now wouldn't it?

The hunter growled softly in distaste. The cross-hair shifted over one person, now centered within the facial area of the winged youth. A thin stream of vomit still dripped occasionally from his chin, the remains of a meal that didn't want to stay put. The thought of ending the misery of the poor boy crossed his mind more than once, but it was always driven back again by his desire not to meddle in the affairs of others. Besides, the demon-angel-thing standing not ten feet from the kid might accomplish that feat for him, and save the hunter the bullet.

Ammunition, especially of the type he used, was expensive, and drifters didn't typically have much in the way of monetary assets. The hunter became aware of the fact that he was beginning to slide slightly forward, and moved to brace himself, leaving his weapon unsupported for a brief moment. He shifted to a more comfortable kneeling position, keeping a booted foot wedged against the rain-gutter for traction against the slick roof-top. He was now much more visible, but might be mistaken for an ornament to the unwary eye. The good news was that his aim had stabilized, leaving a slight bit of wobble in his sight picture, but not to the degree that it would matter from this range...

Golden eyes flare wider in something approximating shock. The demon drops first to its knees, then to its belly, prostrating itself on the rain-slick pavement as the Anrans do before their angels and their God. As the demons do before their Forsaken lords.

"Forgive, Master, forgive!" it wails. "I did not know, mighty one - I did not know! I swear upon the Mother's loins! I didn't harm you, Master, I didn't harm - no harm done and none received, yes? Master?"

And then, in a self-pitying whine purely to itself;

"The Lord didn't tell us such as you would walk the dark tonight, Master, he didn't tell! Yes, Master - it's no fault of mine ..."

---

Ophariana waves away the proffered fungus - eating strange mushrooms can be foolhardy or downright dangerous, and here in Czernograd it is unwise to trust anyone ...

"I don't think I gave it. Ophariana adh Inoresseri, Lady Umbral ... formerly a Lady Umbral of the Shadowed Path. I'm a Servant of the Murdered God, now. And my thanks, but I am also Shadowborn - I can see very well in the dark."

OOC: Congrats, Kulikovia. The demon now thinks you're one of Hell's ruling class. Thanks for joining, Revenia.

Ophariana waves away the proffered fungus - eating strange mushrooms can be foolhardy or downright dangerous, and here in Czernograd it is unwise to trust anyone ...

"I don't think I gave it. Ophariana adh Inoresseri, Lady Umbral ... formerly a Lady Umbral of the Shadowed Path. I'm a Servant of the Murdered God, now. And my thanks, but I am also Shadowborn - I can see very well in the dark."

OOC: Congrats, Kulikovia. The demon now thinks you're one of Hell's ruling class. Thanks for joining, Revenia.
With a shrug, Avon'le returns the mushroom to her backpack, taking a swallow of water, She settles down in one corner of the room. placing her scimitars on the floor next to her.

"My thanks O-pha-ri-ana. I am stranger here... as you have guessed. do these sha... demon-things run rampant with no one to hold them back?"

Pulling out a large tome from her backpack, Avon'le begins flipping through the pages, occasionally reading some of the spidery scripts enscribed therein.

This wasn't good...

A quick mental note was made that black wings meant something along the lines of, well, pretty high up the food chain. There was no way he could manage to squeeze off two shots in quick succession with a bolt-action, and hope to kill both of them. Perhaps with a semi-automatic with an optic with much less precise magnification, but not with his current equipment. Semi-autos had a habit of jamming at critical moments. His Browning had already done that once, and while a freak accident, it had nearly gotten him killed. He'd be switching to a nice revolver as soon as he was able. For now, he needed to vacate the area, it wasn't safe any longer.

The bolt-action weapon tilted upwards slighty, allowing the hunter to unscrew the surpressor and replace it back on his belt before removing the barrel and setting it aside, holding it tightly under his left arm while he worked to remove the round from the chamber. With the chamber empty, both pieces of the rifle were again secured in place behind his back.

It was time to move again, and move he did. Kicking off with the foot he had braced against the gutter, the motion propelled him upwards over the edge of the roof and down the other side where he grabbed the opposing gutter to slow his descent. His claws latched into the thin metal, penetrating in a few places. The hunter released his grasp, falling a few short feet to the wet asphalt, and from there he broke into a run.

He didn't have an exact destination, but he had an idea of where he should go. The shadows had a tendency to move in this alien land, and while he himself had something of a command over the shadows, it was more of an understanding born from many years of assassin work. They kept him hidden, and he didn't stay in one place for very long. It was an agreement that had worked for a few centuries, and longer for his old order.

As far as he figured, the hunter's best bet was to circle around. He'd over-reacted a bit retreating from the high-ground, but he'd been a bit too visible, a bit too unprotected. He slowed his sprint to a light jog, flattening himself against the side of another residence and peeking around the corner. The brick and mortar would give him a bit more protection from whatever got thrown at him than his t-shirt would have when he was kneeling on the rooftop. Item two on his aquisition list was going to have to be some sort of ballistic vest, or something along those lines.

The pistol came free of its shoulder holster, held firmly in a clawed grip. The Browning Hi-Power Mark II was a classic design updated with a more modern, effective caliber, namely the .40 Smith and Wesson round. It fit his hand exactly, like it had been custom-shaped for his grasp. The hunter took a second to mentally marvel at John Browning's genius before returning to his observation of the fallen and the newly-revealed black-winged young man.

This night was beginning to get interesting...

The young man was still dizzy and felt unbalanced from his new ''wings''. They looked like that of a Raven's wings, black feathers as the wings stretched out as if waking from a long slumber. The horror of what just occured finally subsided in the man's heart. It seems that he was different after all. Upon seeing the demon fall to its' knees, pleading he stood there, mind drifting through a sea of questions.
"W-What are you speaking of?" he asked in a tired and bewildered tone. Nothing was making sense. Perhaps the demon could answer his questions. "Take me to your lord" he demanded.

So he didn't know what was going on after all...

It just kept getting more and more interesting. Now he had the choice of following along to learn more, or simply staying put. His odds of survival at this point were higher with the second option. Besides, this was not his affair. If he ever returned to his homeland, he might report his findings, but then again he might not. The Order of the Silver Claw were the direct opposites of his old order, that of the Shadowscale. The Silver Claw meddled compulsively in the affairs of others, and some sort of scouting team would most likely dispatched to the area to poke around, most likely get slaughtered, and most likely give cause for a hunting party to come looking for their brethren and cause one Hell of an international incident...

After several hours of studying, Avon'lea set her book back into the backback. Looking at Ophariana as she stood by the door, Avon'le whispers a small chant then reaches out and touches her on her shoulder. the flow of the energies from her body tells her that the transfer was successful.

"Tauld... er... sorry, pay for assistance and information." Avon'le held her hands open and away from her weapons as she leaned back as Ophariana started and nearly drew her weapons on her.

carefully, she unwrapped the banages around her waist, showing a rent caused by a claw or claw-like weapon. Again she whispers a small chant and lays her hand on the half closed wound and slowly it sealed and the scabs fell away, leaving whole dark skin beneith. Another laying of hands and the rest of the burn mark on her face faded away.

removing the remnants of her leather armor, Avon'le pulls out a set of chain mail from her backpack and dons it. then she pulls her dark traveling cloak out and over the whole setup.

resheathing her weapons, she looks at Ophariana with a wicked grin.
"So, what's two dangerous individuals like we can do here?"

"Yes, Master!"

The demon whirls and leaps, landing neatly on the nearby roof, and leaps again to a higher point. Golden eyes turn to regard the black-winged angel, gleaming bright in the darkness.

"Come then, Master! I will lead you."

---

"And just what was that you just did, witch? I will not have the balance of my soul tilted by any thumb upon the scales!"

Ophariana glares at the drow and examines her soul in the shadow realm, trying to figure out what Avon'le has just done.

OOC: Sorry guys, right now my brain is a bit flat ... hopefully I'll have more to add later on.

"And just what was that you just did, witch? I will not have the balance of my soul tilted by any thumb upon the scales!"

OOC: Sorry guys, right now my brain is a bit flat ... hopefully I'll have more to add later on."Peace friend. Your wounds, no more." Avon'le indicated the bandages that Ophariana had wrapped on herself hours earlier.

"magic heal body, not touch soul, different magic for that. Magic I no have."

OOC: no prob.

The wings felt awkward but the man quickly regained his balance, like the feeling was natural. He didn't fear what just happened. It felt more along the lines of a long awaited release, like a part of him felt right again. It was a familiar feeling, one that made him feel safe. He saw the demon leap up to the tallest part of a close building, egging him on. He bent his knees and the wings swept out as he leaped upwards the wings catching the wind and lifting him up swiflty to the roof right next to the demon.
"Let's go then" at last, all his questions would be answered.

The shadowed hunter let the two hellspawn leave his sight. Now would not be a good time to wander into a nest of demonic offspring. He didn't have the firepower for that sort of thing, and guerilla tactics could only last so long before his limited supply of ammunition ran dry.

Holstering the Hi-Power, he set off once again in his quest to navigate through this darkening maze of dreary houses and dampened streets. That tail of his seemed to hover above the surface of the asphalt, refusing to touch the dirty road. It was about four and a half feet in length, about a foot and a half longer than was normal for his race. Then again, most of his kind had a mottled green hue to their scales. His were somehow the color of charcoal, but that had turned out to be a great advantage in his line of work.

There was no magic in his elusiveness. In Argonian lore, there are many birthsigns, one of which is called 'The Shadow'. Reguardless of gender, those children born under that particular constellation were taken by the government and sent off to train with a foreign assassin's guild for many years, then returned to serve the government as scalpels in the delicate operation known as espionage. That had been the case, back when he was still a member. Shadowscales that survived their tenure for the government usually returned to their parent organization to ply their trade for money instead of service. Whatever they chose to do after their term of servitude ended, their birthsign seemed to allow them to not wish to be seen, and all but disappear from observation. Of course, one had to be hidden in the first place and not standing out like an idiot in the middle of broad daylight.

Currently, the Argonian Intelligence Service called their agents Shadowscales, and they weren't sent off to some foreign agency to be trained from birth, either. Most came from the Argonian National Army, a few from the National Police Force, the Domestic Defense Force, or from some po-dunk village out in the Marsh that hadn't yet been touched by modern civilization. Their role was now much less controversial, assassin wasn't exactly a nice word when you were dealing with the international community.

He had left that life behind a long time ago, maybe a couple of hundred years or so. Now he spent his days roaming across the planet, going where he pleased. He'd been taught a long time ago that national borders were little more than lines on a map, lines to be crossed with impunity. There had been instances where he'd been identified, but those were few and far between.

An odd burning sensation on his right shoulder put him into a complete 180-degree turn. It had happened again. He'd gone into that damned reflection mode of his and totally forgotten to watch his own back...

"Dammit..."

The hunter hissed in disgust. A low-grade acid was eating through his cloak, and slowly through the scales beneath it. One of those damned demon-things had licked him, disgusting as it sounded it hurt a lot worse. The Browning came out again, spitting five rounds of highly-concentrated incindiary at the tongue-waggling beast. He had no idea of how this might effect his target, but it would at least buy him enough time to get running. Combat was only an option when there were no other options, and he almost always had the option of pulling back and preparing an ambush...

The demon leads him across the rooftops, through the hidden world of chimneys and gables between the sleeping city and the midnight sky. One building of many does not sleep, is not dark; light reflects from within the great glass dome of the Cathedral of the Holy Word.

One of the four cardinal towers finishes in concrete and steel and tarpaulin, perpetually incomplete. Up from window to window the demon climbs, and down the winding stairs within. They emerge unseen somewhere behind the pulpit and the altar, looking out upon the nave ...

Great braziers tower high with flame and soot, casting a furnace-like heat through the Cathedral despite its height, but the packed worshippers are clad in enveloping black robes. Behind that anonymity they are young and old, rich and poor; some are taller or bulkier or oddly formed beneath their robes, the recipients of Hell's largesse.

In the clear space behind the altar stand a handful of figures, the tallest clad in an Archprelate's red, bearing an Archprelate's crozier. This lord now turns to regard the new arrivals, golden eyes gleaming in the darkness of his hood.

"Kneel!" the demon hisses, falling flat upon its face.

"Lord Andrej!" it cries. "This unworthy one your servant seeks audience!"

Andrej looks from demon to angel, and the crozier flicks out to lever the young man's jaw upwards. Up close its curve proves to bear not the sun-rays of the Saulic Church but iron spikes. Those golden eyes look down on him ...

"You are not my servant, I think." The voice is deep, gravelly and yet somehow liquid; like water over stones. "I did not raise you from Abhoraz ... tell me this; whom do you serve? Which of Hell's domains would strive against me, Urhaziel's own Dark Messenger?"

---

"He thinks perhaps he has no spark of mercy in him."

"He thinks he possesses not an iota of fear."

"He thinks, my siblings, that he is strong."

Demonic laughter is followed by demonic forms, down from the rooftops; three of them, black-skinned and black-clad. Golden eyes do not blink or widen at the sight of the Ascended Star; perhaps they do not recognise it, perhaps they do. Perhaps they do not care; empires great and small may arise or crumble, but the throne of Hell is unshaken.

"All things come to Hell in the end, O Wanderer," one tells Rache, treating him to a shark-like grin.

"Hell swallows them, and does not give them back," echoes the second.

"And we are the very teeth of Hell," smiles the third.

They close in upon him.

---

They blaze with power, their sinews are knit with infernal force, but in the end a demon, on Earth, is merely matter; merely flesh. Flesh sears and burns under the hail of incendiary bullets; the demon hisses and spits and screams curses in a high, unnatural voice.

And yet it comes on, its body cratered and slick with acidic blood; though it stumbles at every step, it comes. Its eyes burn with hatred, and the tongue is loosed again to coil around the arm holding the Argonian's gun. It leaps.

---

"Oh. Forgive me - I am a little on edge. I hold the Will of a God inside my soul ... it is not a natural state of things."

Ophariana shakes her head, as if to clear it of such thoughts, and unwraps the bandages around her arm. As the drow said, the wound is healed, no more than a faint scar, fading even as she watches ...

"You were asking about the angels, I think? Usually they are constrained by the will of their superiors ... it is unusual for Hell to operate so directly. That they are is troubling ... especially considering what will happen to the world shortly."

She leaves that cryptic addendum unexplained, but her thoughts are occupied by it; somewhere in Heaven Inhatan's Avatar is growing towards birth, and the Accursed God is laying his plans for the world. Those plans do not include the Shadowborn.

OOC: A rather less excretable post. Wandering Argonians, the demon is mostly dead - filling it with lead would not work very well, but explosive rounds are much more effective. Decapitation is most effective, of course. Everyone else, have fun, and remember; don't open portals to Hell at home!

"Oh. Forgive me - I am a little on edge. I hold the Will of a God inside my soul ... it is not a natural state of things."

Ophariana shakes her head, as if to clear it of such thoughts, and unwraps the bandages around her arm. As the drow said, the wound is healed, no more than a faint scar, fading even as she watches ...

"You were asking about the angels, I think? Usually they are constrained by the will of their superiors ... it is unusual for Hell to operate so directly. That they are is troubling ... especially considering what will happen to the world shortly."

"Great... I come here for Chaos time."

"Could be fun... but inconvient for me find home."

Closing her eyes, Avon'le takes a deep breath and reaches into the energies surrounding this world.

"Strange flavor of magic, but usable. I think, chaos not good now. Sound like you want to stop... Hell? from Operate directly? Need help?"

Morgan vos Malabreten stares moodily out the window of her train car as the landscape whips past. It looked normal enough on the surface, but to the saint's eyes there was a shadow across the land, a taint that grew worse as the vehicle drew ever closer to Czernograd. The city was blighted in some way, and it disturbed her. This entire region disturbs her, with its twisted versions of familiar gods. She wishes she could get some answers for why she was here, but there were none forthcoming, simply a feeling inside, nagging her onwards, onwards. Not for the first time, she considers heading home. She's been gone for so long, and it would be so easy to call in a ship to pick her up...

“Mistress? We're about to arrive,” comes a voice at her feet, where her loyal companion lays, and she starts. None of the others in the car notice, for there are few of them, and are spread apart as though doing their best to avoid each other. Few people, it seems, wish to go to Czernograd.

“What? Oh, yes, thank you, Ilyn,” she replies. The train is slowing, and now winding its way to the station at the outskirts of the city. They stop, and she reaches up to take down her backpack. It contains only some clothing and other essentials. She puts on the cloak draped over her seat and then pulls the pack over it, and secures another small bag to the harness Ilyan wears. They make an odd pair as they walk down the platform, one a plain woman with her graying hair pulled into a bun, the other a dog that comes almost to her waist, clearly of some mongrel breed. None remark on them, though, rather averting their eyes from the sight.

They secure a room at small hotel and pay a week's advance, with a bribe for Ilyan to be allowed, and Morgan's talent allowing her to be sure of the proprietor's honesty. She sets her things within, and after setting up a simple security system, they go out to wander the city for a time.

The prior blurriness is gone -- Blackmarlin Rache is in perfect focus, now. His eyes, silver, rise up to meet the oncoming demons, their eyes, gold, look down at him. He greets them with a smile, a feral grin...but he does not move to draw his blade.

He does not quiet his motions, allowing his footfalls to ring loud and clear. He laughs, then. One must wonder if he is entirely sane..

Then he speaks. His voice is melodic, vibrant, seductive in its way, so full of life.

"Aye, then? Ye seek t' swallow me? 'tis, of course, not mine to comment upon your taste in cuisine...but it seems awful strange t' me. I do nae think that I would taste very good...but having never tried t' consume myself, I cannae give final judgement on the matter."

His smile is in full effect, a gleaming sliver of white in his faintly tanned face.

"O' course, I think that I might well have a small problem with being eaten, so you'll have t' forgive me, but needs must I think I will take exception to your dinner plans, as I do not think that I would enjoy being eaten."

His voice drops, and the odd sort of litling accent he had spoken in before was utterly absent. His right hand has risen, now, to slide firmly around the grip of his warblade, though he does not draw...not yet.

"Before combat is joined, oh Hounds of Hell, I will give you the chance, now, to yield. It would be quite wise to take that option...but I, of course, cannot make you do so."

A strange light seems to fall upon him, playing upon his face and body in a rather odd manner. Perhaps it is the wind that ruffles his silver-white hair, or perhaps it is something more. He smiles, but it is not the feral grin of prior. It is a small thing, a confident smile.

Then his thumb moves slightly to push against his blade's scabbard, and he draws his blade. The blade is the black of true void, veined with a deep purple. As it clears the scabbard and is moved to full extension, perpendicular to the line of his body, red-white energy begins to dance the length of the blade.

His index finger has slipped through the finger ring, and his grip is quite firm upon the hilt. The sword and the swordsman seem to fit together, meshing, blurring the lines between the two.

The blade moves into a low-guard position, the motion causes the mark on the back of his right hand to come into view -- a crescent moon, forest green. Rache.

Unblurred, one might notice the odd starburst tattoo about his left eye. It meant something, yes, but nothing that was relevant here, or had been relevant for a long, long time.

Perhaps, though, it would soon be relevant again.

The man stood before this forboding figure, srapped in dark red. He got a sick and dark feeling from this robed figure. It spoke to him, demanding answers all the while he wanted answers as well.
"My name is Gabriel" he began searching for the right words "What do you speak of? I serve no one, I only seek answers...what am I?" Gabriel asked. The figure before him was dark but yet Gabriel did not fear him.

Crimson eyes peered out at the dark city from the shadows of their voluminous hooded long coats that offered glimpses as to what lay beneath the soft material as it shifted and billowed around their legs. They threaded their way through the shadowed streets, most often hand in hand, speaking softly now and then to one another. Each looked to be a near inverse image of the other, at least at first glance.

One seemed to be wrapped in black leathers, what could be seen of her clothing and dusky skin showing in brief flashes of movement, the other looking as if she were made of dappled moonlight, so pale was her flesh and the snowy leathers and silks that covered it. Tall boots on each mirrored the style of their matching ensembles, being all buckles and straps and small death’s head accoutrements for the darker of the two, and soft suede pull-ons with a broad fold-over cuff, intricate needlework picking out the never-ending patterns of celtic knotwork along their surfaces for the pale one.

“The barriers to the weave are thin here, my sister—”

“—as if Elysium and Hades touch in this place, rubbing together, spinning off motes—”

“—which spark and fret, mixing with and tormenting the rabble.”

A pause, delicate fingers subtly testing the air around them, dark, unnatural eyes flicking this way and that.

“We must—”

“—take care.”

Hands clasped and squeezed reassuringly as they spoke, voices blending and shifting seamlessly in an unbroken line of thought between the two, the tones soft, expressionless. Free hands busied themselves with feeling along belts and small pouches, in pockets and on ties or bangles to check the many fetishes and foci, charms and talismans, banes or blades that were secreted there, or openly displayed when no cloak or coat were covering them.

Finding all to their satisfaction, they continued on, one hand never far from a weapon. This place was not safe, and they would need to find sanctuary, if any were to be found. Hopefully before any of the less pleasant denizens stumbled across them.




ooc: I hope these two will be acceptable. I didn't want to go too far without checking, and can tg additional info on the concept I have for them in case it's needed. What can I say, your concept interested me, and it looks like fun.

Andrej pauses, and considers, and begins, suddenly, to laugh.

"Oh," he says, delighted, "This is a rich gift indeed - the Lord of Light's own Herald, forsaking his vows to the Bright God's service! Answers I'll give you, for by your name I know you!

"Inhatan's Servant you were, before some ire of the God made you outcast from Heaven. And all Heaven's forsaken, all the God's outcasts, must come at last to Hell ... to me, Hell's Messenger. You are one of us, to rule Earth and Heaven both - once the Bright God has been cast down.

"You may rise far in Urhaziel's service, Gabriel, if you serve me faithfully. In the coming war the chaff shall be sorted from the grain - the weak shall perish and the strong shall rule. We are tempered in the fires of God's hatred and betrayal, Gabriel - we are strongest!"

---

"Hell cannot be stopped."

"Cannot be slain."

"Cannot yield."

And the demons strike, swift and terrible as flames. Tongues lash out and claws extend, ducking the blade's swing with the supernatural speed that is their birthright. They seek the flesh of Rache's scion, and seek to immobilize his sword arm with their dextrous tails, burning tongues, and claw-tipped hands.

---

Ophariana laughs. "Yes, most everyone wants to stop Hell getting its claws further into the world than they're already sunk ... it seems they've sunk deep into Czernograd already. I think the Murdered God would want to stop Hell too ... which is why I'm here. Any help would be appreciated - we both know how difficult Hell's agents can be to kill."

OOC: Welcome to Cetaganda and Schadow! Thank you for joining! Cetaganda, I have to ask whether Morgan is out wandering the same night all this is going on, or whether it is another night, or the daytime.

OOC: Welcome to Cetaganda and Schadow! Thank you for joining! Cetaganda, I have to ask whether Morgan is out wandering the same night all this is going on, or whether it is another night, or the daytime.

(OOC: Same night works fine, unless you think there's too much already going on. Probably be easiest to keep everyone roughly parallel, I would think.)

A man, almost any man, would be dead...in this situation. But Blackmarlin Rache was Ascended, more, he was Warseeker Alpha, more yet, he had been Warseeker Alpha Prime, Gunslinger Prime, and beyond that...he was Blackmarlin Rache.

The demons would strike...only to resolve their attacks upon empty air.

Blackmarlin chuckled idly from a location a few meters distant -- it shouldn't have been possible, considering how fast the demons were...but it had happened...

He was obviously amused by the demons -- telegraphing their attacks to an embarassing extent, flinching away from sabre-rattling...

"You have refuted my offer, and I must, now, respect that...but I simply must call attention to the fallacy of your claims."

His eyes flared with a silver light, though his voice did not change from its mocking, playful tone.

"All things betray thee, who betrayeth Me."

He could have killed them all with the sword alone, had he been of the mind to...but that was so messy and unsatisfying. So it was that his left hand moved to his belt and produced a cylindrical object.

Then he smiled and moved. He seemed to vanish, though in truth he was simply moving far, far faster than should have been possible...even for a Gunslinger. Call it 'rising to the challenge,' if you will.

He moved through the demons, leaving behind the cylinder as record of his passing, thrust into the maw of one of the demons. He was clear of the three by quite some distance when the bunker-busting thermobaric charge detonated...

He was thrown by the massive overpressure wave generated by the TB charge's detonation, though he landed on his feet, in a sort of crouch. Somehow, he had drawn a slim but large-framed pistol while he was in the air, holding the weapon easily in his left hand.

He rose to his feet, the tip of his blade falling to rest upon the surface upon which he stood, while the pistol rose up to point unnerringly in the direction of the demons. He had had his fun, and was through playing games.

The pistol he held so easily in his left hand was a Guardian Temple Blast Pistol, of the type issued to Warseekers Alpha for carry when not in full armor. He sincerely hoped that he wouldn't have to fire the weapon -- the brilliant red bolts that it fired were painfully obvious...albeit lethally effective. The bolts tended to...the 'technical' term was 'gib' things. Take that as you will...but Blackmarlin had no particular desire to leave the area surrounded in demon giblets. The grenade would have...well...cleaned up after itself, or it should have. The pistol would not be so pretty.

The pain was nothing short of exquisite. The arm of the cloak immidiately vanished under the deconstructive properties of the acid, the pistol following suit. His hand released the weapon, little more than a sizzling chunk of useless metal now that the tongue had done its effective work.

There would be little time for him to react as the demon rocketed towards him, pulling with its tongue to maximize impact. The pair met with a thunderous crash, sending both spiraling off in opposite directions, yet still attatched by the searing lanyard of the demon's acidic tongue. The rounds from his sidearm had done their work, albiet not nearly well enough. While the white phosporus he'd carefully packed into the hollow noses of the Remington Golden Saber bonded hollow-points and sealed in place with resin had burned deeply into the flesh of the creature, the acid that pulsed through its veins had quickly conter-acted the burning compound. Usually copper sulfate would have been needed.

The demon was up before he was, not surprisingly. Their kind was unusually quick-footed. It reminded the hunter of a movie he'd once seen, an old western where two men squared off for a knife fight with a sash between their teeth to keep themselves from getting too far from one another. In is case, however, it was more like being tied to one of the creatures from the 'Aliens' movies.

It pulled at his arm again, sending another wave of searing agony through his body. He would have to get it detatched from him, or perish. There was no third option. In an act of definace, he tugged back, catching his foe off guard and pulling the hellspawn in closer and pulling the SOG SEAL Pup from his belt. The small knife had quite the edge, but it was forged of common steel, and he knew this would be the last time he used this particular knife. Pulling back once again, the half-serrated edge slashed across the tongue in an attempt to get himself loose.

Surprisingly, it worked. The tongue came loose, leaking acid as it went. The knife, as he suspected, was ruined. The blade had become little more than a bubbling sliver of phosphate-coated steel, which he flung at the creature. As badly as his arm burned, he knew he had to continue or his wanderings would end here on the dark streets of a land forsaken by god and cursed to damnation. The barely-audible scrape of metal against metal hearlded the presentation of one of his swords, the only objects he still carried from his homeland. His left arm was in much better shape, and as such would serve as his sword-arm for now. While not truly ambidexterous, he did have a high degree of skill with his left hand.

Angry that its favorite weapon had been damaged, the hellspawn coiled to strike once more, this time with its nasty-looking claws. The lunge came sooner than expected, but ended much more different than the first. His weakened right arm latched onto the outstretched left of his attacker, digging in with his own claws before swinging the demon outward to allow for a downward cut from his blade, severing the arm before returing with a back-stroke from two hands that bisected the torso, again coming back downwards in a two-handed grip, through the neck of the creature.

The hunter had no grasp of how this might damage his opponent, but it would certainly have killed an lesser creature outright. His meteorite blades should resist the acid's effects, as inert as the metal was. He waited in the middle of the street, breath coming in rough gasps as his adrenaline faded and the pain began to set in. His blade held low in his left hand, his own golden eyes reguarded the latest victim of his fury, hoping it decided that now was a good time to die, or at least return home for a spell to visit the relations and the Dark Lord himself. The body of the demon lay not five feet from his boots, carving a crater in the asphalt with its vengeful blood.

While the gun was effective in most cases, it made one lazy, dependent on its general usefulness. The sword, while much more labor-intensive, had never failed him in all his years. Now that he knew how to deal death to this unusual breed of demonic servant, he would be more than happy to set up shop and deal to all comers, an equal opportunity eliminator.

Then the explosion hit, a thuderous crash that nearly deafened him and sent him flying backwards through the large front window of a closed diner. The hunter came to rest against the service counter, still grasping his sword. Disorientation had already set in as he tried to rise to his feet, instead toppling backwards to his previous position. Bits of shrapnel from blasted buildings had lodged themselves in his person, mostly along his legs and chest. The glass would be the biggest problem, it tended to not show up on X-rays. The splinters and fragments of building materials would be easier to detect, but he hadn't caught that many of them, he must have been on the very edge of the effective range of the explosive device. His only thought as he slipped into unconciousness was that such a thing was a bit excessive...

Fire and air and death, like the wrath of the Lord of Light, and in an instant the situation changes; the triad of demons nothing more than smoke upon the wind.

Similar things can be said for the surrounding buildings, reduced to burning rubble. The stink of burning meat is on the air - people have died for Rache's amusement. Not that it's likely he cares.

In the Cathedral of the Holy Word Andrej pauses, and turns as if to catch a scent upon the air. The Dark Messenger growls under his breath ... and shrugs, and turns back to Gabriel. There are plenty more lesser demons in Hell.

---

Truth be told the demon was more than halfway dead before the Argonian drew his sword, and under the strikes of his blade the creature rapidly approaches its end. It looks downward, eyes widening in shock, as the long wound in its torso opens to vomit forth its guts.

Its shock is stilled as the sword returns a moment later, severing its spine, and the demon falls forward. Its animating will is spent; insofar as it could ever be called alive, now it is dead.

At the sound of a nearby explosion, Morgan's head turns and Ilyn's ears perk. Without hesitation, the saint sets off in the direction of the sound, quite unlike the few others daring the streets who are rushing the other way.

“Mistress! Where are you going?” calls out the animal. “It isn't safe!”

“Someone might be injured,” replies Morgan, not breaking her stride down the street. The dog sits and whines for a moment, then races to catch up, myomer muscles rippling beneath skin and fur. He runs ahead, quickly seeking out a clear path to the source of the blast. Ilyn discovers the scene of the battle, and takes in the bits of demon, the scorched area, and the numerous scars in the surroundings left by shrapnel and bullets, then notices that a survivor laying inside a nearby building, having clearly been blown through a window. He forcefully knocks the down open and goes inside, and Morgan rushes up behind him.

“Is he alive?” she asks, crouching down and reaching into a pouch on Ilyn's harness for a medical kit.

“Yes,” the dog says, now pacing near the entrance for signs of any more attackers. “He has sustained multiple blunt-force injuries, numerous shrapnel wounds, and acid burns. Be careful, there may still be active chemicals on him and his clothings.”

“Thank you, Ilyn.” She pulls on gloves, and examines him with her second sight. It is clear that the man has been in contact with some sort of demon, and there is more residue throughout the area. Not for the first time, she wishes that her god was one inclined to give advanced healing abilities. She does what she can, forcing out any trace of demonic magics. She also begins carefully pulling out the shrapnel, clearly visible to her as foreign material, from his wounds before applying drops of anti-infection micrite solutions and bandages, and a general-purpose local anesthetic and sealing salve to his burns.

“Mistress,” Ilyn says softly, “we should not remain here long. There may be other creatures about.”

Morgan nods, and concentrates on the victim's mind, trying restore 'order' sufficiently for him to awake. She'd rather not try this, for she is no expert and could easily force him deeper into sleep, but it is a risk she must take. “Sir, are you awake?” she asks gently. “Wake up, we must move.”

Ophariana laughs. "Yes, most everyone wants to stop Hell getting its claws further into the world than they're already sunk ... it seems they've sunk deep into Czernograd already. I think the Murdered God would want to stop Hell too ... which is why I'm here. Any help would be appreciated - we both know how difficult Hell's agents can be to kill."
Avon'le laughes.

"Good, no fun otherwise. not challange. I help you with demons, you help me fit in this place?"

The richly decorated carpet of the ship’s control room was decorated in crimson and mauve and gold, on which sat a number of plush golden chairs (gold was easy to get if one went on a quick day trip to Voga) with ornate golden stitching on their white fabric. A freshly stirred cup of tea (Blended in the ship, some of the leaves picked up from Shen Nung’s court, the ship’s occupant had a good line going there, ever since giving a conveniently placed tree a good shake) sitting on a dark table shook slightly, and the occupant, lounging in one of the chairs, looked at it.

Putting down the book he’d been reading – the control deck resembled in no small part, a vast library – he leaned up, taking a sip of the tea and putting the cup and saucer atop a giant jar of the kind often seen filled with pennies in bars, here filled with multicoloured sweets. He walked across the carpet, narrow black shoes sinking the best part of an inch into the deep shag as he did so, stepping up between wrought iron girders (surplus to requirements on the Clifton Bridge and courtesy of IK Brunel) that held the central column of the chamber, a glass cylinder that contained a number of crystals that glowed and crackled with a soft blue light.

Pulling a chain (purloined from Stalin’s Lavatory) he caused an archaic looking monochrome monitor to swing down.

Anomalous Reading C21
Investigation Protocol Engaged
Awaiting Landing Sequence

He raised a dark eyebrow beneath curling hair, “Cee twenty one?”

He had a strong feeling he ought to know what that meant, and he mentally debated looking it up, but he had the ship’s manuals spread about, variously propping up tables and acting as bookends for more important volumes in the vast library…

The Doctor, as he was known, shrugged his white shirted shoulders and grasped the dull red, almost comical knob of a large brass lever, and pushed it forwards.

Destination
Earth
Local Dateline
2011.3
Manussian Era

The slowly moving crystals, arranged in arrays of eight, began to slow, and indigo incandescence formed between them briefly.

Catching a black frock coat that dangled from a hangar on one of the beams, and pulling it down and then onto himself he struggled briefly with the sleeves, he adjusted his cravat, and toyed momentarily with a silver pocket watch.

“Kay-Nine, do you know what Error Cee Twenty One is?”

“Negative Master,” replied the robot dog in a squeaky voice. Unlike Morgan’s this one makes absolutely no effort to look convincing. Or for that matter, advanced, cool, or threatening.

If anything, he looks… ‘disco.’

The Doctor punched a button on the hexagonal control console, set inside an eight-pointed starburst. High above, the vaulted ceiling shifted and twisted to show a view of darkened streets and empty skies. A curtain of hologram descended all around, and the Doctor shrugged.

The environment looked much as an Eastern European (style) city of the era the display claimed them to be in should. Nothing was obviously amiss - no black holes devouring the planet, no orang-utans in suits and bowlers.

“Guess we should go outside and see what’s so dreadfully important…” he said, going back to finish his tea…

---

Strange things seem to happen on the streets of Czernograd all the time. The materialisation with a discordant, grinding sound, of a blue box nine feet high and four feet two inches along each side of its square base, labelled ‘Police Public Call Box’ was doubtless not the strangest thing happening, even on that block of the city.

Its windowed doors folded inwards to a wood-panelled atrium, and the fluffy brown hair of the man who peered out of it, looking cautiously one way and then another.

The small robot dog hovered out on a cushion of pink light, and settled down on the pavement. “Sensors reveal unusual activity in close proximity, Master…”

Closing and locking the door, the Doctor nodded, “Yes K9, I can hear it.”

He rushed off, followed at a fair clip by the canine-automata, and turned a corner, to watch a man in another long coat, this one bore an Ascended star – which the Doctor recognised immediately, of course – under a scabbard.

The Doctor’s hair and clothes fluttered in the backwash of the grenade detonating, and he managed to avoid diving for cover, for now at least, he wasn’t being shot at. Instead, he just stood, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his grey waistcoat.

The appearances of the demons were… intriguing.

“Recognise them?” he asked his mechanical dog.

“Negative… Suggestions Master?”

“I think it might be fitting,” he said, “to ask what on Earth does that musclebrain think he's doing?” the last was shouted, of course, as the Doctor began running over towards one of the ruined houses, intent on searching for survivors of this example of catastrophic overkill.

Life sparks darkened, blood and fire, ripples in the weave. Somewhere in this there is a need, and so they answer the call.

It takes some time to find their way through the maze of streets and alleyways, following their senses, relying on other information, not seen until they find themselves picking their way carefully through smoking rubble and broken glass, hearing only the last few words spoken by the graying woman.

They take in the scene silently, there being no need to speak their thoughts aloud at first. For others, it is too late, their souls having already fled. There are however three beings in the midst of things that seem … make that two. The third on further inspection looks to be a construct of sorts masquerading under the outer illusion of life, lacking the usual spark. A golem, perhaps? Which would make the woman trying to assist the wounded man a sorceress, perhaps. Yet they could not detect the familiar draw on the weave that would denote the use of arcane, divine, or profane energies. A simple woman then, with a strong life spark – the rest being unknown.

“An enigma, my sister—” the pale one says softly, considering.

“Intriguing,” answers the darker of the two before the first continues, this time addressing the unknown woman as they both take a tentative step forward, hands lifting slightly away from their bodies, palms open to illustrate their intent.

“We mean no—”

“—harm. He is hurt, yes? May we—”

“—approach and assist?”

Ilyn growls in warning at the approaching pair, but Morgan glances over and sharply says, "Quiet, Ilyn!" She studies the newcomers for a few moments, before nodding, and saying in a more normal tone, "Yes, thank you."

She gestures them over, and then waves her hand at the Argonian. "I've done first aid on his surface wounds, but he's still unconcious. I believe he was fighting with some beast, a demon I think, then an explosion knocked him in here. I've no idea what it was the blew up, though, and it seemed rather large. He was the first person I came upon after hearing it and haven't looked further yet."

The two wait for acceptance before continuing forward, gingerly joining the woman in kneeling next to the injured stranger.

“Taint. It is strong on him. I think—” murmurs the darker woman.

“—you are correct in your estimations. His life spark still holds,” the other says, gently laying her pale hands on him, head bowing for a moment as she carefully delves further, reaching out to the weave for assistance.

“She does nice work, my sister. Will you—”

“—assist? Of course, my sister.” The dark-clad woman bows her head in turn, her right hand reaching to grasp her sister’s, fingers twining as they each rest their left hands on the body of the man.

Murmuring words that sound as if they are related to many languages, but being a true part of none, they reach out, each in their own way, to tap the weave – the force they sense all around them, neither good, nor evil, nor living or dead, but flowing through all of it all the same.

Damage is assessed, the information gathered by both flowing wordlessly between them. Each using her talents, their own life forces are carefully tapped, their energies measured and borrowed, leant to the more needing of those gathered here – the injured man.

How much benefit is gained depends on him and the willingness of his body to accept. Should his body prove to be resistant, the energies will fade, what measure they can manage redistributed between them. Except in matters of self defense, their creed would not allow for the invasive or forcible use of their arts. Time would tell if they were successful.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a people who referred to themselves as the Ascended, for reasons that even they had generally forgotten. These people were warriors, fighters, killers...but they were also scientists, of a sort.

The universe was not a friendly place, in the time of the Ascended, and in order to defend against that unfriendliness, the Guardian Temple was created.

The Guardian Temple originally responsible for the development of superior methods of training for Ascended soldiers, soon became the established military force of the Ascended. However, the Guardian Temple did not forget its original mission.

At any rate, the end result was the creation of the Guardian Temple Warseekers Alpha. Gunslingers. The ultimate individual warriors, trained to do the impossible, augmented beyond the already immensely capable Ascended baseline, equipped with specially-built armor, weapons, spacecraft.

They were also given incredible power within the Ascended military complex, but that is not pertinent to this tale. What is pertinent is that a Gunslinger is trained to fight against impossible odds, that a Gunslinger always fights as if outnumbered, and that a Gunslinger was the Ascended Supremacy's equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction.

A Gunslinger, and Blackmarlin Rache was a Gunslinger, would, in the absence of contradicting directives, make use of as much force as was necessary, without regard to collateral damage.

Of course, he couldn't -see- anything, really, as he was in still in fight-time. The mantras he repeated in his head served their purpose, activating a conditioned response and bringing him gently down from the high of fight-time.

Returning his sword and pistol to scabbard and holster, he slowly turned about in place, surveying the extent of the devastation he'd caused. He blinked a few times, quite surprised.

"Woops."

His eyes lidded, gently, and he reached out with his mind. Like certain other Gunslingers Prime, Blackmarlin Rache was a Lifehand, and one of the many, many aspects of that descriptor was a sort of 'life sense.' The results were, ah, not great.

He'd been called a sociopath before...but that wasn't exactly true. He felt remorse for certain actions...but he didn't let that affect him. Sure, he didn't sleep terribly well, but he never had. That was part of being Rache, even more than it was part of being a Gunslinger.

He hadn't been expecting a fight, and maybe that startled him a bit. He wasn't even entirely certain why he was here...he hadn't been entirely certain of much of anything for a very, very long time.

With a shake of his head, he found a protruding piece of I-beam to perch upon, elevating him maybe a meter or two off the ground. He needed to think, and balancing on something always calmed him down enough to think.

The gray coated man hadn't registered beyond the most basic level -- enough to, given reason, draw and fire his pistol and achieve a killshot without having to visually acquire the target. His kinesthetic sense was that good.

He was far too gone for anything beyond that level of recognition...

It was almost trite; it certainly wasn’t useful, or productive. But it was true.

The man before him had no real chance of survival, not with the medicine likely to be available in this era, at least, and while the TARDIS had some useful stuff packed away for such eventualities, he’d not survive being moved there. Everything below the waist, below the ribcage was gone.

Disintegrated.

Blood and pureed meat was everywhere, along with even less savoury smells and things. The Doctor reached down, pressing his hand to the man’s head, he was still conscious, amazingly, awfully.

The Doctor screamed, he couldn’t help it, pain was conducted from the dying man to him, though in so doing it relieved the other’s discomfort for a moment. Controlling himself, the effect was somewhat reduced now, the Doctor managed to say it.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

It was true, though one might say that he had no reason to be, not being the moron that had caused this, but he was still sorry. He’d not been here earlier, not been quicker. Not been smarter. Hadn’t just rushed out of the TARDIS and stopped… this.

Not been what he should have.

Fishing a small tablet shaped in a concave form like a tremendously oversized blood cell made of the same compressed white chalky material that made up aspirin the like out of his waistcoat pocket, the Doctor pressed it to the man’s blood-filled mouth, “Put this under your tongue…”

It didn’t help. He couldn’t help. But it did have the too-little, too-late quality of removing all pain.

“K9…”

“First floor,” the robot said, and the Doctor ran over smouldering rubble, up the stairs.


The phone was out. He had K9 connect to the local telecommunications network, easily cutting through security protocols and creating a false account but it was of no use. Ambulances might be on their way, but the seriously injured – those who couldn’t scurry off from this new night terror – died quickly.


The Doctor’s clothes bore the tell-tale trace of blood, as did the hands he fervently rubbed against a dry handkerchief, he seemed oblivious to the fact that this wasn’t actually getting the blood out, merely spreading it.

“You!

“Yes, you! The man sitting on the post like some kind of big bad “ascended” vulture, you have any idea what you just did? That man in there had lived quietly and well for sixty years, he had two cats and an adopted granddaughter – the only evil he ever did was fudging a tax return three years ago. And lately he’s had to endure some oppressive nameless dread every night. The daughter was much the same, paranoid about being too overweight – you’ve certainly cured her of that! – she fancied a lad down the road but was too timid to ever do anything about it.

“Happy now? Are you feeling awesome enough now? You feel well endowed? They’re not the only ones you’ve char-grilled today, or smashed up with high-speed debris. They’re the only ones I could get to. There’ll be more, every one of them unique and different and deserving and brilliant,” he snarled, “Look at you. Toting a temple hand cannon. What, did you decide to blow up half the town with your lung-inverting explosives rather than get your hands dirty? Why not just nuke the bloody place?

“For that matter, forget it, I’m sure you don’t have an answer that won’t be more infuriating than your actions; do something useful instead. Tell me what you’re doing here, and what’s going on around here.”

The scent of death filtered through Gabriel's nostrils, it was a sickening smell but one which didn't bother him as much as it lingered. Now, he stood there, his great black wings flapping slightly, a smile went over his face as his red eyes gleamed in the carnage. Now, he knew what he was and had to power to do what he wanted. Those who wronged him would suffer.
"What will you have me do?" he asked, eager for destruction.

The long tail attached to the cloaked stranger twitched, as if exposed to electric shock. Someone, or possibly something, was attempting to do something within his mind, an invisible presence suggesting recovery. That seemed a complicated request, his head felt like it was filled with angry gremlins, trying to smash their way out of his skull.

Part of him wished that they'd succeed, at the cost of his own life, but then again the terrible pounding would cease. Another twitch rocked his limp body, and his head began to nod. The ringing would hopefully subside, but until it did he would have a hard time hearing anything. Few injuries he'd suffered in his lengthy span of hard living compared to this most recent one. He'd been shot numerous times, suffered stabs and cuts of all sorts. Most of his knuckles had been broken, and were now calcified heavily. Come to think of it, most of his 'striking' surfaces, such as the elbows and knees, exhibited the same symptoms. It would seem he'd seen more than his share of close combat in his many days, but he'd only been blown up two or three times, and then it was mostly the standard stuff, like fragmentary grenades and some of his own home-brewed devices.

Without warning, one of those golden eyes of his snapped open, taking in the area around him. A short flash of panic shot through his brain, he was surrounded, wounded, and without the quick knockdown power of his sidearm, he was easy prey for another one of those... things. Whatever they were, and they didn't like to play fair. The acid was the biggest problem, it made close-combat nearly impossible, and the things soaked up gunfire like composite trauma plates...

No more reflection, that was why he was in his current predicament. He still had one of his swords in his left hand, which was nothing short of a miracle. Strangely, his arm wasn't burning as bad, and the shrapnel he'd likely taken was gone for the most part. There were three of them, and what smelled like a dog. His normally acute olfactory sense was muddled by airborne dust and the arcid scent of burned air, or the trauma he'd received from flying through a window and colliding with a lunch counter. His back ached, and he would be surprised if the scope on his rifle was still intact, if his back hadn't cracked it the counter would have. Either way, his back was going to protest tomorrow. No, scratch that, it was going on strike complete with picket signs and crappy slogans.

Again, he tried to stand, bringing the blade upward. They didn't look hostile, but then again, he'd been told that he didn't either. His legs were still quite wobbly, and he sagged backwards, barely supporting himself via the counter that had so graciously stopped his forward progression. Wait, now there were six of them, now three, and then six again. Either he'd taken a heavier knock to the head than he thought, or they were shape-shifters. He didn't care at this point...

"Who... Are you people?"

If they were allies, they would be more than welcome. If they were enemies, then someone upstairs didn't like him at all. He had a few guesses as to which deity, but he'd save that for later...

Blackmarlin Rache stared off into the distance, his eyes unfocused. He wasn't looking at anything, so much as he was not looking at everything. He'd seen, done, much, much more horrible things in his time...but the instant he stopped feeling remorse was the instant he jumped out of an airlock, sans vacuum suit. Hopefully.

There was nothing to explain the results of his actions, save for the rather weak line of 'this wasn't supposed to happen, this shouldn't have been possible.' Sure, he'd used a powerful weapon...but not using a powerful weapon was quite impossible, because, even stripped naked and unarmed, Blackmarlin Rache was, himself, a powerful weapon.

The good Doctor's words served to shake him from his trance, which was probably a good thing, but maybe not. His head seemed track towards the Doctor like a turret, an automated thing. He blinked twice, replaying the words that he'd heard, stored, but not understood, the first time around. Not really.

"i don't know. I don't Know. I DON'T KNOW! All I know is that yesterday I was making admirable progress at drinking myself to death, no easy task, considering, and then next thing I know, I'm staring down three creatures who appeared to walk off of the set of a particularly bad science fiction movie."

He was mad, sad, and generally pissed at the world. The grenade he'd used wasn't of Ascended manufacture -- he couldn't even remember where he'd gotten it...apparently it was a bit more powerful than he'd thought it was. Nothing his thinsuit, much less the suit of war armor standing like a statue of Death itself onboard the Fair Maggie, wherever she was, couldn't have protected him from...thermobarics did most of their damage through overpressure, after all, but...

That was a truly poor scale to judge things by.

Blackmarlin's eyes had gone unfocused, again.

“You’re not helping anyone sitting there. I know it’s tempting to sit around and drown in angst, and trust me, I am tempted, but nevertheless it is helping no one. You’re like something from a sci-fi film yourself compared to the people around here. Come on. You were not made to be useless; if you ever want to be more than a lethargic liver-disease accumulator, help me.

“Tell me more about what it was like to fight those beings, what they wanted. Information is the first principle of any successful campaign! Who are the enemy: What do they want? Whom do they serve? Who do they trust? Where are they going? Where do they come from? What are they doing? What do they fear?

“And if you don’t have any answers, you can help me find some.

“Look around. Listen. There’s barely anything. This should be a bustling city. Whatever those things were, they’re not alone, and they didn’t get here tonight. This entire city’s been terrified into silence – people wounded in explosions don’t normally run off and hide! You will have heard something, if you’ve been hanging around in pubs or under bars – or you’ll know something, even wherever the pubs are empty, anything like that! People know more than they think. They brush it off as fear and paranoia and rumour, but there’s always societal fringe awareness. Everyone knows where the vandals are, everyone knows when there’s something wrong. And there’s something very wrong around here, and it’s not just you.

“It’s time to ask some questions,” he said, twirling on his heel and striding off to the end of the road where the TARDIS was. He had no desire to try and coax answers out of anyone who’d just had their fillings jarred loose by the explosion. The disco robot dog trundled along behind him, and he clearly expected Blackmarlin to follow – if he didn’t, the Doctor imagined it had been a wasted sermon, and that the man would never be any use to anyone and would probably end up drowning in his own vomit or something equally wretched.

Something...something. Blackmarlin blinked, then hopped smoothly down from his perch upon the I-beam. Soon, the soft, precise fall of his somewhat-scuffed black size eleven jump boots caught him up to the doctor, the other man had that manner about him, and the title would serve for the moment. He hadn't been running, per-se, just controlling his motions less, which turned his normal stride into a sort of leap, travelling more ground per step...but it looked wierd.

He wasn't at all sure why he was following the doctor, but there was something about him, and about what he'd said, that touched something inside the man who'd once been the foremost soldier of his age.

Whatever the reason, the other man had a point. There was something wrong going on -- Blackmarlin could feel it, though he could have better explained the origin of life than he could the source of that feeling.

He sighed as he fell into step beside the doctor, matching the other man's pace with relative ease. Then, Blackmarlin would turn his mind, sharp, now, due to the purging effect of coming down from the fight-high, to the questions that the doctor had asked.

"They said...said...that they were servants of Hell. Presumably the Judeo-Christian concept thereof. Certainly looked the part. For myself, I have always found that Hell was a thing that one made for oneself..."

His eyes were distant, but not in the way they had been earlier. He was remembering things, but that activity did not impair his function, obvious in the way he deftly avoided any obstacles in his path.

"Like I said, I don't know how I got here, not really. My last clear memory...I know where I was, then, and it wasn't here. The type of architecture that this city has...this isn't somewhere that I'd choose to spend any time."

He shrugged, "Guess I'm here now, though, so...like you said. By the actions of the citizens, my, ah, mistake, was just one in a very long list of bad things happening at the present. I screwed up, sure, I could have handled the...call them demons, I suppose, without resorting to the grenade I used, probably, but...well, I've got my reasons, you don't need my life story."

Blackmarlin looked about him, taking in the ruin he'd caused, and the city beyond. Then he frowned.

"This city...these people...aren't being served by whoever is in charge, right now. Otherwise, I don't think that there'd be demons fluttering about attacking people, especially people like me, at random. That isn't right -- in a place like this, something will always rise to fill a power vacuum...maybe that means that whoever is currently in power -wants- demons flying about attacking people at random. People, any people, deserve better than rulers who think nothing of killing them off because the mood strikes them..."

They deserved better than to be blown up in their sleep because Blackmarlin Rache hadn't been in the mood for finesse, too, but that was neither here nor there.

"So...maybe we should start with that. Who's got the power, and why are they letting demons roam their city."

“He resists …” The pale woman frowned slightly, shaking her head, both seeming to slump slightly as they lifted their hands from the man’s now shifting form.

“Unfortunate,” continued the dark one, though given the similarity in tone and inflection, and their penchant for shifting back and forth in their speech, it was sometimes difficult to tell. “Our apologies, kind Lady, but—”

“—we are uncertain our efforts have been—”

“—helpful to any real degree.”

“A pity.”

Both women withdrew as he tried to stand, wary of his blade, watching him, and the woman, her dog, and their surroundings with unblinking eyes from the shadows of their hoods. Each rested a hand on a weapon of sorts under the cover of their coats, careful, but unthreatening.

In another unspoken exchange, questions were asked, concerns that the source of the explosion was still near, agreement was reached that someone or something at least was out there in the relative near vicinity, certain that each had heard voices, or something like them.

“You may call us Lilith—” the darker of the two replied by way of introduction, as requested, though neither offered a hand in greeting.

“—and Selene,” said the other. “The kind Lady who bound your wounds is—”

“—correct. Can you walk? We should leave this place.”

He wasn't sure which was talking, but the way they were finishing each other's sentences was getting annoying, especially with the pounding in his head...

"I am known as Whiptail, of the Longtail clan... And yes, I might be able to walk, but I know not how far. Do you have a place of safety to flee to?"

The sword, with some difficulty, joined its sister in the scabbard on his back. On the way back down, his hand paused over the empty shoulder holster, and the hunter muttered a muffled string of curses in a few different languages. It was good that these new acquaintances were friendly and weren't trying to kill him. People like that are few and far between. His head swam again, a wave of nausea sweeping over him and Whiptail sagged lower, still clutching the bar for support as he eased himself to the floor once again...

"And what exactly were you doing inside my head?"

As his condition stabilized, Whiptail's anti-psionic training was kicking back in. While not telepathic, he was able to mask his thoughts via hiding behind a series of random ones, concerning everything from calibers of various weapons, to the number of threads in Egyptian cloth, anything to distract those who would probe his mind for answers from finding his true intent. At this moment, however, it was all he could do to remain conscious, and not vomit up what little food he had in his stomach...

It was certain Whiptail, as he named himself, would have been capable of walking as far as needed had he accepted the healing, nor would he be falling over himself or making himself more a burden than necessary. Such was life, and such were choices made, along with their consequences.

Neither offered further assistance, his feelings on the matter having been made clear in their eyes. They simply shook their heads in answer to his first question, crimson orbs still shifting between him, the woman and her dog, and keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings, weighing and measuring. Anywhere was better than here, a focal point for attention given the explosion, death, and destruction.

They were strangers to this city as well, and had only paused in their travels through the city to uphold their personal creed. What happened from here was anyone’s guess. After all, harnessing the abilities of the Seers was not one of their Talents.

The second question they considered, then left unanswered, as it was not his head they had been probing perse, so perhaps he was referring to the woman. Their Talent for silent speaking was limited to themselves, and while they could sense physical imbalances, status, and damage, as well as read limited information from manifested spiritual auras, they could not read minds, nor intent, nor influence the actions or thoughts of others.

“That’s certainly the case, but that’s not to distinguish from physical hells. Inner hells, deeper hells, outer hells, manmade hells, nano-hells, the hell of the Void, the Rift hells, abyssal hells, cyber-hells, demi-hells, planar hells – All real and all equally fake. Manifestations only of the hells people would make. As far as they’re concerned, they’re no doubt the real deal, authentic as wool.

“And you’re right. They’re not. But I wouldn’t ascribe to malice or incompetence what can be put down to simple inability. What’re they going to do? Fire nine millimetre rounds at them? Call in the army to fight something they might not even be able to prove exists? Evacuate the city and nuke it? With things like these, that may well be counterproductive; it might even be part of their plans. Sad though it may sound, we are probably their best hope at the minute.

“But we’ll soon find out,” he said, reaching into an endless pocket crowded with bags of items, an ornate silver spoon, a computerised music and hologram player the size of a thimble capable of holding enough material to last a – Time Lord – lifetime, an ornamented pen and a chewed biro, the thick hilt of his sonic screwdriver, a super-rope dispenser with a grapple and motor, about the size and appearance of a yo-yo mated with a wristwatch. His hand clasped around the strong spine of his latest acquisition, psychic paper, a device that scanned the user’s mind and created; by scanning the minds of the viewers and creating an appropriate illusion in those minds – it worked on some electronic devices too, establishing the correct format and triggering it – to convincingly portray the desired object.

He had a brief idea of what he’d claim to be; Government Inspector, Department of Health and Sanitation. He’d ask if anyone was hurt here – for what it was worth, K9 had already put in a legit call (the dog could do a convincing human voice when it wanted) to the local authorities – he guessed there wouldn’t be anyone, and then ask, off the record, for information about what’d happened lately (“I’m new here” he’d say).

He knocked on a door, and gestured for Rache to stay back a bit… and the robot dog. In his Edwardian costume, he looked freakish enough.

“My apologies, sir. It was simply my crude attempt to wake you. I fear that unlike these kind persons, I am no healer, but rather a priest by trade,” says Morgan. Behind her, the dog sits tensed, eyes oddly focused on the Argonian, tail and ears twitching. She turns to him, saying, “Check outside to see if it's clear, Ilyn. I think I'm safe enough.” He whines, but pads out the door. She looks around at her unlikely companions. “I rented a room, but it's a distance from here, and I've no idea if the building still stands or how safe it is. Better than nothing, I suppose, unless one of you know of something closer.”

An exchange of glances, one set of brows arch, and a decision is made.

“We find your offer of sanctuary—“

“—acceptable.”

A priest, then, and one with Talents. And an interesting pet … Most excellent, and given her actions, mannerisms, and seeming intent, along with the fact they were not detecting any profane auras. Of course, such things were a terribly inexact science, given abilities to mask and the like - another reason why one should never rely on one set of criteria when attempting to judge a situation, or person.

"That's a fair deal, Avon'le." Ophariana extends her hand to shake the drow's. "As for what we can do about it, I'm not sure - there are only two of us ... there are people I could contact, but I don't know if they'd come."

---

Andrej laughs. "Patience, Gabriel! Hell's plans cannot be hastened. The day we work towards is not today. Sofia will instruct you in what needs to be done."

One of the Dark Messenger's inner circle steps forward. Putting back the hood of her robe she is revealed as a petite, elfin girl of perhaps seventeen. An odd candidate for Urhaziel's Chosen, but her eyes are wells of midnight darkness - and raven wings spread from her back.

"Follow me," she says, laconic, and leads Gabriel into the tangled warren of chambers beneath the nave. The darkness is noisome with screams, growls, animalic noises that seem to issue from human throats.

"The catacombs," Sofia explains. "We keep the Raveners down here. They're noisy enough that we won't be overheard ..."

She leans towards him, and her voice becomes an urgent hiss.

"He says we should wait, but he's not playing Hell's game in that, is he? Hell says kill them all! You felt those demons die, I know you did! Someone out there's killing our people, and some of us think we should do something about it.

"I think you want to help."

---

If there is anyone on the far side of the door they show no sign of it; nothing good comes in the night. Many of Czernograd's citizens are old enough to remember Republic death squads, and those too young have lived every night with the horror in the darkness hanging over their heads. Nobody is willing to open the door for a stranger in the dark.

OOC: Sorry I took my time replying - stuff came up and took me away from the computer for a time. I hope you're all still having fun!

"That's a fair deal, Avon'le." Ophariana extends her hand to shake the drow's. "As for what we can do about it, I'm not sure - there are only two of us ... there are people I could contact, but I don't know if they'd come."

OOC: Sorry I took my time replying - stuff came up and took me away from the computer for a time. I hope you're all still having fun!Avon'le clasps her hand.

"Not think that way. I protect my city, but I not alone. We do what we can, we do try our best, no one can ask more."

"Time to hunt... yes?"

Avon'le repacks her backpack, carefully re-wrapping her book and putting it into the bag. she then takes out a small, hand held crossbow, (pistol sized) and straps a small quiver of bolts to her leg. The crossbow, she folds and puts into a holster. Looking at Ophariana, she opens the door and makes her way to the stone sealed window.

Gabriel was led away by the mysterious woman who lead him to the wretched catacombs where the beasts wailed and snarled. This was all new but yet the young man welcomed it all, breathing it all in. He felt no remorse for people, they were only ever cruel and cold to him, they don't deserve his mercy. She spoke words of killing and revenge, it was all he needed to hear.
"I want them to suffer my wrath" he coldly replied, face stoic.

“That’s quite annoying,” the Doctor said, after some time wasted in shouting through the letterbox of the doorway. “Right. City centre? Tell you what, stay here; I don’t fancy walking, so… I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the blue box standing on the corner, leaving his boxy robot dog outside.

“Humm. Garage… Where was that?” he muttered to himself, walking into the library-like console room, “Ah,” he said, and sprinted up a spiral staircase of wrought iron steps, looking about for one of several doors that opened onto the upper level of the bookshelves, before finding it, twisting the brass knob, and pushing it inwards. It revealed a corridor that reached its own vanishing point. Here and there, other doors dotted it, and dodgy looking boxes, one of them an empty tea chest from Boston, were piled up in various places along the corridor. Plumes of dust that came off the ornate gas lights illuminating the corridor as he passed suggested quite rightly that the Doctor didn’t frequent this corridor much any more.

The garage stretched off into the distance, a room with more oil on its floors than there ever was in Alaska. There were hundreds or thousands of vehicles of every shape and type in there. The Doctor passed a few of the first ones by without comment, and stopped at an open topped, bright yellow kit car, considering for a moment. The number plate read ‘Who 1’ – he’d gotten that on a whim. He’d had some fun times; well, some memorable ones at least, in this car. But she wasn’t quite right for the grim environment outside. She was too cheerful.

He looked at the next one along. Big, black, menacing and sleek, with a prow. A twenty ninth century re-build of a 1938 Phantom Corsair (http://www.autoweteran.gower.pl/concept/1938_Phantom_Corsair.jpg ), it was powered by a fusion engine – although its land speed wasn’t that great, it was more of a glorified toy than anything else.

“Yes, about time I took you out,” he said, taking the sonic screwdriver, a bulky piece of metal cylinder about a foot long from his pocket, pointing it at the side of the car and activating for a second, resulting in the lights behind the tinted glass coming on and the driver’s door (on the right, of course) swinging open.

Inside, the vehicle was somewhat larger than it should possibly be, a modification of his own, though he didn’t ever anticipate it being necessary. This wasn’t as pronounced as it was with the TARDIS, instead, it ‘merely’ had the dimensions of a stretched limousine inside, with deep plush couches to seat about a dozen people running each side, and a thick leather swivel chair, (with armrests, alarmingly) firmly attached to the floor for the driver.

He got in, tossing the screwdriver behind the wheel, and examined the dashboard, half of which consisted of a dizzying array of instruments set into the wooden panel that monitored things a car had no business monitoring, such as radiation, communications and the local space-time metric. Sitting down, and swivelling to the side of the wheel, he depressed a button that changed the primacy of control rooms from the main one to this auxiliary room he’d turned into a garage (said signal had taken him weeks to get working correctly). There was no gear stick or handbrake, or anything like that, he simply put his shoe down on the pedal and drove off to one side, towards a large doorway that yawned open.

Outside, the doorway of the box flickered for a moment as the garage opened, and the black shape shot out, narrowly avoiding a lamppost, burning rubber and swerving on the road. Another press of the same button reset the doors to normal, and they swung shut.

He opened the passenger door, and tossed Rache a remote for the same door from the glove compartment as the robot dog jumped inside. “Hop in. Let’s see what this town’s nightlife is like,” he said, nodding in the direction of what he thought was the town centre.

“Knew I should have gotten GPS,” he muttered.

Blackmarlin caught the remote -- not reflexively, reflex was to sidestep the thing completely...generally, people did not throw things at Gunslingers that Gunslingers wanted to catch. But, he'd deduced what the object was while it was still in the air, and his alien alacricity was far in excess of the minimum speed necessary to interpose his hand and catch the object.

Then he smoothed his longcoat and got into the car, making sure that the coat didn't bunch up around his buttocks when he sat down on one of the benches. The interior of the car was far too plush for his tastes, and an absolute hindrance when it came to that penultimate requirement -- fightability.

Blackmarlin, for all of his quirks, was a Gunslinger, and he would never be able to step into a room without first doing a threat inventory, identifying methods of escape, and planning what he'd do if it became necessary to kill every individual within that room.

It was...a hindrance, but one that he'd learned to deal with.

Thus, his answer was simply "I think I already know what this town's nightlife is like, and I don't think I like it very much..."

If I die, there will be no hope of redemption, Ophariana thinks, and knows as she thinks it that it is true - as true as the dream which sent her here, to Czernograd. Sethrannan will not return.

That thought is sobering, enough to make her doubt the wisdom of fighting alongside Avon'le - against what stalks these streets they may not survive, and if she fails her Master she will be naught but the enemy she has always fought against.

But if I am craven, that too would be a failing in His eyes. Could He see it. I must earn His salvation, now that His Service has been thrust upon me.

"Yes," she replies to Avon'le. "Let's go."

---

Sofia gives him a grin nigh as predatory as any demon's.

"We both have our reasons, then," she says. "Follow me!"

Up and out of the catacombs, and up further yet - one of the towers of the Cathedral opens an unglazed window like a gaping mouth onto the dark, and the young angel leaps up to the wide sill. She tosses aside her cloak - revealing an arsenal of blades enough to equip a platoon - flexes her raven-dark wings - and leaps.

She turns, hovering in the dark night, and extends a hand to him.

OOC: Gallifrey, Revenia, Wandering Argonians et al, are you still OK as you are, or would you like me to chuck the Forces of Evil your way?

My son, pay attention to my wisdom;
Lend your ear to my understanding,
That you may preserve discretion,
And your lips may keep knowledge.
For the lips of an immoral woman drip honey,
And her mouth is smoother than oil;
But in the end she is bitter as wormwood,
Sharp as a two-edged sword.
Her feet go down to death,
Her steps take hold on hell.

“Not a very warm reception, no,” the Doctor said, shaggy hair bobbing as he nodded, “Let’s see what we can find,” he said, turning the wheel like a capstan and flooring it, letting the car tear down the empty streets – he wasn’t worried about getting a ticket or at any rate, only an infernal ticket. He swerved around corners with the manner of a man preternaturally aware. In actuality, he was so confident because the car was rigged to detect life signs, and movement, and so forth – he had a fair degree of information on anyone for two blocks.

Anyone even vaguely human at least.

Besides, it had superb brakes.

The wheels tore up the road as he careened down it, towards the city’s centre.

OOCness: I’m thinking an encounter with the very very dark forces of evil gothic darkness may be in order at this point.

Lilith looks around thoughtfully, as her sister gives the wounded man a curious glance.

“We should leave, now,” the former says, idly toying with one of the fetishes at her belt.

“There are foul things about,” her sister adds in the same calm, soft-spoken tone.

“Honored Lady if you would—“

“—lead the way? Or shall we account this a –“

“—parting of the ways?” the two asked, looking to the woman for confirmation.



ooc: I think we’ve waited long enough for Wandering Argonians. If he’s still playing, perhaps he can just catch up later while we get on with things? As for throwing things our way – whatever works will be fine, so far as I’m concerned. Story above all?

"So, we are the same" Gabriel said with a smile upon seeing her wings. THis was going to be something interesting indeed. Vengence was almost his to force upon the innocent. His wings swept downwards, the force of which vaulted him into the air and up towards her. He out stretches his hand to hers, his rough hand connecting with her hand. They were in the air.
"Where shall we go, Sofia?" he asked

Morgan nods in agreement. "Yes, leaving would be a good idea. Come, this way." She leads the others off down the street at a quick pace. Ilyn trails behind with ears pricked, occasionally dodging from side to side or ahead and behind the rest, constantly watching for any threat.