Chapter VI - Asunder

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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

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Belliard had left his post, something which Archie noted with a pensive grunt. Glancing at one of the spooks, he raised a few fingers to the brim of his hat. "Apologies, gentlemen, but could either of you tell me where my unfortunate compatriot ran off to?
- One of Whitney's men came by, said he'd been asked to give Belliard a go-around at the cigar lounge, by the lobby," replied the bear. "Seems like they wanted to keep him occupied - or out of earshot. Mrs. Devlin gave him a stern warning, he tried to schmooze her into letting him go on his own..."

Holden smirked. "I assume it didn't work?
- Nope. Fella that took him presented himself as one of the hotel's wine-slash-cigar pairing experts, but he didn't fool me. A lot of these Squids have PMC or Special Forces written all over them. He was that type."

Archie seemed relieved to hear this. "Well, then, I assume dear Jonathan will only require an introduction to decent Cuban Robustos and port; he seems the type to know better than to test our tendril-sporting allies."

The other spook scoffed in agreement. "Shit, I joked about old man Whitney looking like Chtulhu and Colonel Sanders had a baby - then I saw him correct someone's draw in the shooting range, down in the basement. Guy knows what he's doing, for sure. Take care, you too."

A few extra pleasantries later, Crystal and the android were back in the elevator cabin they'd rode to climb up here, and headed back down to the lobby. Spotting Belliard's snout in the corner of one of the two sommelier booths, he very deliberately opted to cross the lobby and head to the one opposite the pig's. The tasting lounge's door was closed, a sign suggested that the lateness of the hour and the current circumstances forced Management to postpone further tastings, but Archie was quick to spot what looked like a coin slot in the door's lock. Fishing out one of the two discs he'd been offered, he thumbed one in. Somewhere in the room beyond, a old-fashioned buzzer alarm rang, then followed by the door's latch coming undone of its own accord. A bit surprised, Holden pulled the door open and allowed Crystal to step inside. Ladies first, after all.

The room beyond looked like a compromise between the hotel's almost Neo-Bavarian aesthetic and concessions to modern retreads on the idea of a tasting cabinet, dark paisley wallpaper in a dark cherry tone serving as accents against the painted white beams. The effect wasn't quite Tudor, not quite German and still quite stylish, the far wall being almost completely covered by a display of bottles in a slanted green velour display. Locked drawers waited below, all of them sporting individual thermometers. What could be seen ripped a few quiet lip-smacking sounds from Archie. A 1787 Château Lafite Rothchild caught his eye, and the sight of a De La Frontera sherry from the same ballpark made the gradient in his eyes shift in a way that convincingly mimicked an eye-bulging gesture.

"As moneyed as I may have been, this is most assuredly well beyond both our pay grades," he noted. "That first one over there commands well over two hundred thousand dollars per bottle!"

A door on the side opened, and in stepped an olive-skinned Void Weaver, wearing a dark apron over an equally black suit. A bit of his white shirt could be seen, a red bowtie cinching his throat. He was a tad on the lanky side at about six feet seven, with six tendrils that he'd apparently also taken to keeping curled away from his chin in a sort of organic handlebar. Something to his affectation immediately put Archie at ease, as if he simply knew this happened to be another finely-bred gentleman from the circles he'd once traveled. There was something to the Squid's golden-brown eyes that'd almost remind Crystal of Archie. He smelled entirely different, of course, but her senses would somehow pick up a similar vibe from what Archie exuded in his best of days. The man was all quiet assurance and gentility - a deadly blade currently sheathed away in a meticulously-crafted scabbard, as it were.

"Then you're in luck, Milord," he said, his tone lower than Archie's, less affected by Old World aristocracy. If Holden was an old-fashioned Steampunk adventurer at heart, this was clearly the Gentlemen's answer to James Bond, or something close to it. "You've come to the rare breed that can reproduce a 1811 Château d'Yquem molecule by molecule. Although, we'd best keep it a secret between allies, for now - best not cause a vintner's market collapse on the eve of our victory.
- So are all these, erm, reproductions, or...?"

The sommelier etched the ghost of a smirk. "Of course not. The first step towards restoration is reproduction, and the first step towards reproduction is respect. The Krieger trusts its cellar to headhunters and market-trawlers, like everyone else. Our funds, however, are where our nature proves to be useful. To our contacts across the South of France and the terraces of Portugal, we are fabulously moneyed and more than certainly steeped in illicit affairs. They're only half-right: our money is never blood money. Wealth comes easy if gold can be conjured from thin air, but we have to move our pieces carefully. Not only to avoid being obvious towards our enemies, but to avoid devaluing your currencies."

Holden nodded. "And what does the currency of a harrowed Theriomorph city official and of a relic-turned-public-servant buy us, in a place like this?"

The Squid smiled. "Considering all you've done so far? Anything you'd care to taste. Compliments of the Krieger - and of what we hope to be newfound friends and allies."

* * *

Zeb and Andrea rode down a few stories, stopping on the library's floor. The bookkeeper looked young; an almost waifish twentysomething feline anthro with big, expressive eyes and an easy, toothy smile. At the keywords, her almond eyes twitched slightly, her smile grew a little more secretive, and she nodded. "Sure," she said, leading the lich and werewolf to a seemingly unrelated section - Arcane Primers for Traveling Students - and pulled on the spine of a book. Two bookcases that made up the row they stood in slid inwards and then off to the side, revealing an impossible space beyond the bookcase's borders. The library was right against one of the mid-range suites, so there shouldn't have been any room for what looked like a plunging agora or public space, all of it starkly modern and drenched in something too comfortable to be common halogen lights, even if it was just as effective at entirely banishing shadows from the space. Three of the agora's four walls were lined with baywindows that impossibly opened onto Walpurgis' cityscape, a few Air Force planes even gunning straight for them as they pursued targets - with nobody looking alarmed in the least. Planes and birds alike simply faded out of view when they collided with the baywindow, fading back into view - and from the opposite angle - in the opposing panes.

A slight cough caused Zeb to more or less re-hinge his jaw and awkwardly hand the girl one of his two coins. "Is this, um, sufficient?" he asked.

The bookkeeper grinned. "Your face makes up for the rest. Now, go on through before someone else sees you!"

The Research division had no obvious dividers, but the central space was surrounded by frosted-glass walls that only reached as far as a standard wall would, leaving much of the noise beyond to reach them. These walls were marked with doors, most of them labeled in accordance with different fields of study, from Applied Xenolinguistics to Memetic Defense. Some areas looked to have been designed to study aggressive applications of the sanitized Black Speech the Gentlemen wielded, others suggested they were exploring more practical fields to better their options, if peacetime ever arose. As for the central space, it was marked with a constant bustle of traffic as Squids, humans and anthros alike hurriedly walked, all carrying books, notepads or laptops. Small islets of conversation had formed, a group of women - one included Weaver among them - seemingly debating how important it was to preserve the Black Speech's apparent disdain for both relative directional cues as well as cardinal points. A few seconds passed, the female Squid then spotting them and choosing to step closer, high heels clicking on hardwood flooring. As she came closer, it'd be obvious that she wasn't so much biologically female as she happened to be trans - or at least, as close to trans as someone like a Void Weaver could hope to be, considering how mutable gender was to them.

"Sorry about all this," she said, her voice husky and still somewhat light, "Mister Whitney's policy usually involves giving us a heads-up and scheduling these things for down-times, but we haven't had a down-time since that deep-space transmission we've had to encrypt for you. We're on the warpath, and we've got to explore all the options we can in as short a time as we can manage. Sorry if that makes it all feel a little hectic."

As if to prove her point, a human and Squid collided with one another, both men grunting as ties flew and coffee cups splashed both their clothes and the floor. Both of them let out variants on Fuck! or Jesus! before the Void Weaver sighed, gestured and wicked both his and his colleague's clothes free of coffee stains with a gesture and an effort of will. The extracted glob became two smaller floating globs, with both steaming "jellies" gently returning to their paper cups. The Void Weaver said something about stopping by the Toronto office for some Tim Hortons - Starbucks apparently tasted like crap.

The female Weaver smiled and extended a hand. "Elizabeth Pope, assistant to Doctor Hader - Conlang Research."

Zeb shook the offered hand, an eyebrow raising as he did. "Conlang?
- Constructed Languages," Pope supplied, her tone energetic and passionate. "Think Klingon, Na'vi, Sindarin or Quenya - or technically, my people's own native idiom as it's being reconstructed. Doctor Hader and I study surface-world languages that line up with the chronological period of our fall to the Usurper, especially those with coastal roots around the planet. We're trying to find out how we influenced certain languages, how these languages affected our speech, and what we might've taken from them to better articulate certain realities unique to Dalarath as it was before the Others claimed it. I'm currently on my sixth month spent parsing through the Kalevala for any signs of linguistic drift we can attribute to some of us having watched over or infiltrated Scandinavian populations."

As she spoke, she pulled out a sheet from a folder she'd been holding, and offered it to Andrea. It looked like a photocopy of a standard IPA pronunciation chart - a surprisingly compact means of showing every single sound a human could possibly make with their vocal apparatus. In those small six columns, the entire basis for human speech was laid bare. Andrea might've seen something similar if she'd taken advanced Spanish classes or had taken an interest in Linguistics in some other form. There was one key difference, however: on a standard chart, some intersections between sound placement areas and origins were grayed out. Normally, some concepts were simply impossible to attempt, even for anthros. A Latin with the base of the tongue pushed back below the glottis, for instance, was impossible. In Pope's chart, however, the grayed-out speech was missing. A new IPA symbol took its spot, suggesting the very sound that no amount of Theriomorph heritage would've allowed her to render.

Zeb looked surprised. "Are you telling me you can manage this kind of velar fricative?" he asked. In response, Pope smiled and vocalized that exact sound. 

"Void Weavers have a looser throat than humans or anthros. We might've earned it from the Architect, but we spent thousands of years mostly putting it to use in Harrogath's service, to the point where even those of us who don't serve Him now have a set of folds in here," she said, lightly feeling the sides of her own throat as she did. "We can push air and give it a tone or a frequency earlier than a human could - bypassing the upper vocal tract that we normally use for conversation. The upper part that stops at the base of my jaw is really close to what you used to have, mister Buck, but our throat and our stronger diaphragm muscles are where the magic happens. Having facial tendrils, I can also modulate a sound as it comes out - in a way that standard human lips couldn't." 

The lich nodded. "So how does one go from this to almost driving an entire Rhode Island colony mad?
- That's Theoretical Research's area of expertise," she said, "and they're the ones trying to address the more active components of the language. My focus is the conversational level, what we think of as being the essential part of the well, um, White Speech. I'd liken their research to entering an infested house with hazmat suits and blow-torches, all the while thinking about how they're going to flip the smoking ruin back into a livable space. They're the biggest risk-takers in our group, seeing as they more or less have to play in the gods' playground to make any changes. Lucian Rothchild's made things easier for us, but it's still an uphill battle."

Buck looked about. "So what did you manage to reclaim?
- Enough to make this space," replied Pope, "and enough for our efforts to grow simpler, as far as travel is concerned. The smaller details are just that - incidental. Chanting an element or a construct into being isn't dangerous in and of itself, what's dangerous is the intent behind it. All I know is that I'd much rather sing CPU traces into being to help our computational arrays become more effective than imagine my notes opening doors in your mind that are better left closed."

He nodded. "And Meris? How do you explain her?"

This made Pope's eyes gleam, as though she'd been a kid who'd just been asked about her favorite Science Fair project. "My working theory is that the Architect supplied her with a set of etheric vocal folds - something that wouldn't show up on an X-ray or that also leaves no trace in her DNA - a bit like the imprint of your own human features and hairline, sir. They're gone, but your intrinsic via field sometimes turns just opaque enough for me to see the ghost of your tuft of hair, up there."

Zeb looked a tad self-conscious at that, making Liz cough uneasily. "In any case, Meris was somehow allowed to vocalize on the same level as us Weavers, all of it without significant alterations or damage to her vocal tract. In simple terms, I think she controls telekinetic air folds in her own throat - purely reflex-based constructs - and that something about her brain's structure allowed her to grasp complex notions normally reserved for my people's high priests. It's fascinating to me - I'd love to ask her if she'd describe herself as a high-functioning autistic individual or as someone with prior learning disabilities. I'm aware that the time-frame for her childhood might've made it difficult for certain things to be as obvious as they would've been to a modern pedagogue, but this would further disprove the Loyalists' Exclusivity Theory."

* * *

Calhoun now deferring to Grimley as far as navigational duties were concerned, the quartet Shadow-Walked to Hope's Celestial enclave. If Hell's chunk of the city bore traces of the vindicated Pitspawn's abuses of power and of Allocer's self-aggrandizement, stepping out of the Void to the cleanest back alley Hope would've ever seen was still a shock all its own. It was different and far more pleasant, of course, but it only served to underline the fact that angels were, by and large, creatures of kind, if emphatic and unwavering Order. There were no dead leaves, no detritus - not even the vague sense of unease that usually followed in the wake of twilit back-store areas. Heaven now ruled over part of Renton, South Little Italy and a sliver of Sandhill - and its influence was unmistakable.

No cordoned-off ruins, no chunks of concrete, no dust - but there was laughter, quiet music coming from a nearby cafe, and the cheerful ringing of a door chime as an anthro stork exited the bookstore they stood next to with one last joke towards the owner. Laughs were exchanged, the bird's steps looking every bit the product of a carefree mind.

"Almost as if nothing had happened," noted Grimley to nobody in particular. Tom sniffed lightly. "No - the entire neighborhood is missing a kind of urban tension. You'd feel it if you were an incubus but... I'm not sensing yearnings in anyone around us. They're feeling the way I feel when I'm alone with you, Aislinn," he said, looking back to the roane.

The police cruisers that slipped past here and there had definite airs of the supernatural, with their nondescript lines and too-quiet engines. The boys in blue all had a glint in their eyes Tom could easily place: angels now slipped endlessly in and out of the mortal hustle and bustle, keeping an eye on things. Somehow, Tom felt it'd be difficult for anyone under Heaven's watch to even want to resort to violence, and even he suddenly felt rather self-conscious with his gnarled staff.

Almost on cue, a cruiser stopped in front of the group, its tinted front windows coming down. A uniform-wearing chunk of fifties' Americana in starched marine blues smiled at them, all in Aryan cheekbones and too-green eyes. His nametag read Lt. Amitiel.

"Afternoon, mister Magnus," he said, smiling reservedly. "Is this your first time here?
- Yes, um," he started, then hefting his staff in a very non-Warlock manner, almost like a pilfered hockey stick. "Is this going to be a problem? We'd like to drop by Gabriel's and, well, I don't want to cause a scene."

Amitiel barely moved, but somehow exuded a mixture of amusement and relief. "No, don't worry. We've got rules about letting Infernal essence through here, but you're one of the obvious exceptions. Still, I'd rather we didn't scare the locals needlessly," he said. "You're just a few blocks away from the chief's, and I think he's just headed home, at this hour. I could always give you a ride, if you'd like."

Hannibal's lip twitched. "Somehow, I'd imagine you'd get us there a lot faster if you dropped the pretenses, Lieutenant."

Amitiel's eyes twinkled. "I could, but that would defeat the purpose, mister Calhoun. I'm a beat cop until Gabriel says otherwise, so I travel at Beat Cop speeds. This plane's denizens are owed certain concessions, let's say.
- Could I offer you something to get us there faster?"

The angel's teeth flashed in a grin, too-perfect and white. "We might be corruptible, mister Calhoun, but some of us are serious about being on your side. I'm one of them. Make of that what you will."

Horatio caught the inference. "And the others?"

Amitiel lightly pouted. "We keep an eye on them. The best way to do that is to keep them at the table.
- So you're not part of Uriel's fan club," deduced Tom, which made Amitiel look down on himself in mocked shock. "I could've sworn I set this physical form to not be that transparent," he joked, then quickly sobering again.

"Just get in, it'll leave mister Calhoun more leisure to try and bribe me for a teleport when we're less than five minutes away."

* * *

Scooter watched her whisper at Aidan with an amused look, arms crossed on his chest. In the meantime, Aidan's heart almost visibly sank. His eyes clouded, and he looked back to Regis with a look of utter apprehension he had a hard time hiding. "Have you ever caught up on Celtic folklore, Commander?" he asked the hunter. "Do you know what happens to people who try to leave Faerie?"

Confusion gave way to understanding - and then to dawning horror. "No - No, please, mister Drake - anything but more of this! You have to find a way - this wouldn't be fair! If you're of Archibald's lot, then I know his type, and he wouldn't simply travel with men who lack a certain tenaciousness!"

Nearly everyone looked nauseated - except for Garvey, obviously, who looked still quite pleased with this whole ordeal.

A few seconds passed, and Aidan opted to exchange a look between Scooter, Meris and Naberius. "Can I talk to the three of you for a sec? I think we have a few options, but I want to see how doable they'd be - and I'd rather not shock Regis any more than he already is."

He stepped aside by a few steps, careful to stay on the path while leaving Regis to project his bewilderment and rising panic towards Aspasia. As for Scooter, his amusement was soon tinged with curiosity.

"No Oaths, no bargains - and ye still wanna palaver, mon? You be one stubbon' sort! It's nice, it is - a welcome change from resignation. Wonder what de Boss Lady's gonna say, though..."

* * *

Abdiel might as well have told him she'd climbed one of Da Vinci's scaffolds, like Gabriel had claimed to do. The demon's eyes were round with amazement, mirth and envy. "You - chin-wagged with Artie Gentileschi?! Man, that woman's talent, that moxie of hers! If I coulda cut her blank cheques back then, I would've without a moment's hesitation! I financed her studies in Florence, for Pete's sake!"

He shook his head. "If I'd known, we coulda crossed paths once or twice!"

Melmoth then stopped walking and looked at her for a second. "You're her Sleeping Venus, right? I mean - take off a few skin tones, tweak the nose..."

Considering her words, he then grew slightly more thoughtful. "Or - wait. Judith Slaying Holofernes. You were Judith, right?"

The Broker pursed his lips. "Can't imagine what the small talk must've been like while posing. I mean, jeeze. Poor whoever had to stand in for Holofernes!"

* * *

Magnus didn't exactly have Herbert's lap-of-luxury-on-wheels, but the appointments weren't entirely Spartan, either. Call it a leftover from the late Black Dragon's tightly-regimented eye for luxury. On his instructions, the driver stopped at Magnus Tower and waited for Leonard to safely lead Miranda back inside. A second stop allowed Nami to pop by the house she shared with Matriel and Hanako to slip into something more soirée-worthy, and a third allowed Kevin and John to stop by the temple, which Allocer had already attempted to "benevolently" invest with a pushy cleanup crew. The monks had patience on their side, but the local Wanderer packed enough clout to hopefully force the John Deere tractors and partially-possessed gardening team to pack their things and leave.

Then came the Witch House. The sun might've been nowhere near setting, you could already sense a darkening of the air from one intersection over. What had been an audio equipment store prior to the incursions had been stripped down and rebuilt in record time, Sibelius Audio turning into a grungy-looking dive that rather energetically flashed black lights to the thumping bassline of Sidewalks and Skeletons' Eternal, the line out in front containing as many Goth kids as it did some of the Goat's former protégés - the Fiends wearing the skins of Ephesian and Associates' defunct juniors. A few vampires could also be seen, more than happy to pose and preen with whatever morsel had happened to be both cute and consenting for the day. A baker's dozen of pairs of eyes watched the limo slide to a stop, Haraldson stepping out first. He immediately stepped aside and cinched his jacket closed, one life-filled and cadaverous hand gallantly reaching down to assist Nami, if she chose to accept it. He took the throng in without looking anyone directly in the eye, quite obviously milking his own rigid countenance for maximum effect. It worked, as the Gothlings pushed further ahead even as the baby vamps took a step back - both groups knowing better than to object if these important personages opted to cut in.
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

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Crystal looked a little uncertain at the varied selection and smiled at the sommelier. "What would you suggest for a werewolf who was recently down on her luck?" she asked.

***

"Besides Meris's interesting vocal cord or learning capabilities, are there other ways that might tear down the Loyalists' Exclusivity Theory?" Andrea wondered aloud.

***

Aislinn slipped into the back of the cop car and lightly sighed. "I don't suppose there's other ways of convincing your more stubborn types that mortals aren't so bad and we're worth allying with? In contrast to some unrealistic ideal?" she inquired, being partially rhetorical.

***

Aspasia faced the increasingly panicking Woodford and did her best to pacify him. "I know things are dire, but panicking never solves anything, Woodford. It also plays right into Morgana's inclinations. There's a relatively recent saying from the other side of the pond, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear.” Focus on that, find a means to persevere," she said, hoping it would give him some clarity.

Meanwhile, Meris approached the human. She wondered over what alternative he might suggest that involved her and Naberius. She mused that it likely had something to do with her status as a Queen. "What options do you have in mind, Aidan?"

***

Abdiel smirked at the demon. "You have a good eye, Mel. I was both Judith and the sleeping Venus," she replied. "Along with a few others."

She chuckled. "As for small talk, it mainly revolved around the model for Holofernes, Giordano, avoiding getting wood splinters in his skin. The sword was a wooden prop, so I did have to be somewhat careful so as not to scrape his neck with the edge. That, and the weather."

***

The Nephilim who stepped out of the armored limo appeared quite differently from the typical shuttle pilot. Given the brevity of time she had at her family's home, she dressed herself in black leather pants, a plunging silk blouse, and black boots. Some dark red lipstick and a dark smokey eye added Gothic appeal, along with some slicked back hair. She took Magnus's hand and got out of the vehicle, taking a cursory look around at the patrons and then smirking cryptically to add to their peculiar group's aura.
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

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The sommelier gave Crystal an encompassing glance, as if he could measure just how weary she was and how that perceived state of exhaustion paired with certain spirits. "A little hair of the dog, as it were - but something a tad more refined. Something that combines both refreshing and vivifying qualities. Hm..."

He turned to the racks, produced a keyring from his apron's pocket, unlocked one of the drawers and pulled it open. A hermetic seal lightly popped as he did so, a slight wave of artificial chill wafting forth, along with the previously-silent hum of what had to be a compressor. Fingers danced over the bottles for a few seconds, and he soon pulled out two of them.

"Might I suggest a globe of Graci Etna Rosato? Rosé pairs wonderfully with breakfast foods or common comfort foodstuffs - prepackaged pastries notwithstanding, obviously. This raisin was grown on the soil of Alberto Graci's Sicilian plantation, and carries much of his Rosso's character, with the added subtlety of his small Bianco selection. You might detect flavors of cooked fruit, tea, and perhaps a pinch of cedar, for added dryness."

Then came the second bottle, a dark blue vessel topped with a simple cork. "For someone with a perhaps sweeter tooth - a classic of the genre. A petite berry varietal, its French parentage in the Piedmont region offers it enough body to wipe away any unpleasant aromas you might still be carrying. We remain in Italy, but move closer to the north. The region of Asti is famous for its moscato bianco, a lively and forgiving blend the Romans called apiana, in their heyday. Sweet, but far from saccharine, with several distinct personalities to be discovered by a trained palate. While it is commonly seen as a dessert wine, this particular blend is dry and full-bodied: a bracing cure for wary minds and flagging spirits."

Something about that made Archie smirk. "Are you aware of Moscato's growing association with urban culture, by chance?"

The Squid managed to look both amused and supremely unconcerned. "I assume you're referring to Sirs Drake and Trey Songz," he said, lacing the names with icy contempt. "Moscato might be cheap, but any songsmith brazen enough to write a ditty titled I invented Sex is more than likely to miss its particularities.
- And here I was, thinking you would dazzle us with finds neither of us could afford."

The sommelier smirked and slipped behind the table. "If money is no object, good sir, then quality can be recognized in all price tiers. Remember; I don't simply offer tastings to well-versed personages - many a novice in the Order needs pointers in order to sell an alias or charm a potential ally. Like it or not, everyone always starts with table wine."

Spotting a Seal Cove bottle in the still-opened drawer, Holden then pointed at it. "What do you make of Thanos' red wine, in your expert opinion?"

The handlebar-sporting Weaver headed back towards the drawer and picked the bottle up. "Ah, yes - a young and insolent composition, with deep tones of berries, chocolate and oak. Quite bold - almost too much, in my opinion - but assuredly the work of someone who sees every bite and every sip as a symphony. I see it as the man bottling his true self as a rather unsubtle signal - one that says I am passionate beyond my words and deeds. A fittingly predictable accord with seafood and braised meats. Very much a sophomore vintner's composition, but to those in the know, every sip echoes Dalarath's very own Shakespearean tragedy."

He smirked as he placed the bottle on the table. "As you might expect, desperate passion has difficulty coming off of white linens. This young and rather heady sport is to be handled with care, I should say. I imagine Xenophon - now Nereus - will mature as a vintner, once he finds peace. That is, if freedom and a reduced checkbook don't simply result in him kicking the hobby."

* * *

Liz took a few steps back, suggesting they follow her. "One of the larger elements to consider is the existence of my department's larger non-Weaver workforce. Typical approaches in other groups involve excluding humans and anthros from Dalarath-related studies, but tentative attempts made it clear we could act as specialized teachers, to those with more standard cerebral structures. We believe all races can grasp the Architect's boons - but on their own timeframe, and in accordance with each individual's stamina."

Zeb quirked an eyebrow. "So, the Black Speech could be harmless?
- Not entirely," Pope nuanced. "The Black Speech is a sort of distributed denial-of-service attack on the brain - thousands of instructions hammering surface-dwelling brains at once, so the psyche's defenses crack and core, malicious instructions can be planted. The average human and anthro brain can compute about forty instructions at once - think processing visual information as text, for instance, then inferring information from that text, then drawing greater significance from the context of that information, all the while maintaining proprioception - while the Augur's brain is the result of ritualized training that pushes the amount of simultaneous threads to several thousand. We haven't had the chance to test Meris, but we already know she can withstand Marinos' statistical average. Considering, all we need is more time and less threads per instruction - less even than what the Loyalists use in attempting to create high-functioning infiltration agents."

The lich glanced about as they passed the door to Pope's department, giving way to the familiar sight of cubicle walls, file cabinets, the distant smell of burned coffee and printer toner. "If Meris is a selkie and roanes tend to develop some sort of gift, then how could a mundane hope to grasp your idiom if they have no edge to start from?" he asked.

Pope smirked and tapped the nape of her neck. "Azardad's Lexicon. While we don't condone his methods, we also have no need to reproduce them. We're trying to develop a non-invasive cybernetic interface for humans and anthros, together with the Engineering department. Of course, if our idiom is already sanitized, the Lexicon's base protective features don't need to be reproduced. Add standard training routines normally reserved for Augurs, and we might be able to act on the human mind the way bonzai tree designers work: we keep it whole and intact, but leave it able to perceive reality as our people do. The goal isn't necessarily to raise an army of Drakes and Jenkinses, but to inoculate surface-dwelling populations against the Black Speech. The process might be time-consuming, so we're trying to see if we couldn't fit the imprinting process in with your average sleep cycle."

She shrugged. "Sorry, I got side-tracked. The point is, we're sure human neuroplasticity could catch up with us if we helped it along slowly. Point in fact, most of us could cheat their way to speaking a hammer into existence, but your people are the only ones on this planet to have taken the slow, unwieldy and impractical way around - going from invention to handcrafting to industrial machining. Evolution is just as capable as we are; it's just more ponderous. Sometimes, honestly, that's for the best. If there's one thing the Gentlemen grasped, it's that some things are meant to be taken in with great care."

Seeing Zeb's slightly confused look, Liz looked to Andrea. "Here's a rhetorical question, Andrea," she asked her. "Did your mother barrel you through Werewolf 101 on the premise of you being faster, stronger or more instinctively aware than your peers, or did she eventually broach the topic once you were old enough to understand, making sure you'd treat your shifts responsibly? And a follow-up question: in your experience, does raising a responsible Theriomorph take time?"

* * *

Amitiel began navigating the streets of the Celestial Enclave. "Convincing someone who's seen the edges of the Construct and felt what we theorize to be simple care as boundless love is..."

He paused and lightly grimaced. "It's a tall order, let's say. Imagine Amaxi's hatred, only completely reversed. You're in Heaven, higher than the highest peaks our own plane can generate, so high that even our own mesophere's cold, rarified air can't reach you - and all you feel is love. It dwarfs every single other kind of love you've ever known, and it's both highly exclusive and all-encompassing. Souls that try Ascending further than Heaven's ground plane are usually caught on the way down, stricken with a kind of... love-induced despair, is the best way I'd put it. It's not the kind of love that uplifts you, unless you're a religious mystic of some persuasion. It's a love that makes you feel small beyond words, and important beyond all interpretations that word could possibly have. God cares, and He cares in a way that even us angels aren't meant to fully grasp. Only the Lightbringers ever made it to the edge of the Construct - and both came back changed, in their own ways."

The angel eyed Aislinn in the rear-view mirror. '"Lucifer's change of rhetoric's always felt a little off to me. Almost rehearsed. He tried to dose things in credible amounts, to go from doubt to casual disdain to outright contempt - but the transitions weren't perfect. He's a good actor, but it only reaffirms the notion that his turning bad was part of some greater scheme. Maybe his mind doesn't need changing - maybe he's been on our side all along."

Amitiel smirked. "Don't - tell Gabriel I said this, it's borderline heretical for anyone to suggest that the Fall wasn't a pure and simple tragedy. Angels can mourn a long time, and some of us are still mourning our Fallen brothers and sisters. Still, with distance and time, a lot of things start to line up interestingly. I'm reminded of the few times I caught Lucifer discussing God's plan with a flock of Opinicuses. He had something on the brain, and corrupting the already corruptible probably came across as a means to clean the slate; push on with something that was already happening, so it would happen on his terms, rather than someone else's."

Calhoun nodded. "That's all fine and dandy, but how does it relate to us?
- There's a theory we keep floating around, away from the higher tiers of the Host: that Lucifer Fell for your sakes. If that's true, then he doesn't need convincing. Some of us stick to the idea of him shouldering Evil so you wouldn't have to, and others think the Fall is more of a systemic issue, some sort of response to a detected flaw in Creation - one which the Thrones haven't detected, in all their cosmic busywork."

The Ringleader nodded. "And Uriel?
- He'd definitely need convincing," confirmed Amitiel. "Gabriel's tried taking him back millions of years ago, so he'd witness the birth of organic life firsthand. Uriel's response was that the mammals were better off as a scurrying rat fleeing from sauropods - he claims you were innocent, back then. Incapable of sin. All you could do was survive. Gabriel took him back to the first death you consciously grasped, the first act of mourning, the first god you named - and all Uriel saw was that you'd eventually shed blood in that deity's name. Gabriel even violated his own rule and brought another angel to his own little sanctum in the time-stream - a quiet Sunday afternoon in Florence, spent wearing the face of one of Leonardo Da Vinci's neighbors. Uriel took in the man's drafts, his anatomical studies, his writings - and said you still insisted in surrounding yourselves with iniquity for every shred of beauty and grace you manifested. I wasn't there myself, but Gabriel told us he slipped into a blank millisecond, turned the world around Uriel and himself into a still image, and asked him whatever it was he expected out of you."

Grimley couldn't quite repress a leer. "Let me guess: Grace? Meekness? Submissiveness?
- More or less," noted the Celestial cop. "He asked Gabriel why you couldn't just be. The immortals were halfway there, after all - their bodies were frozen in time - so why couldn't you just exist and be happy about it? Stop despoiling the land, or killing other lives or display so many venal faults, if not sins?"

Amitiel shrugged. "Gabriel couldn't answer. I couldn't either, and I've been around for all of Creation. God gave you all the freedom to poison yourselves, taint the land, spill your blood or mock Him openly, and none of us have an exact reason as to why. Gabriel and I are part of the larger half of the Host - the one that respects that mystery for every bit of nobility it's allowed you to show, every shred of maturity, every scrap of kindness. All we have are theories, and mine is that God allows for so much horror and injustice to occur - even these incursions - because they give meaning to everything else. He didn't turn the crank, He didn't set this into motion - but He's not stopping it, either. Either He doesn't want to, or can't - or it serves some kind of higher purpose. I'd hate for that last hypothesis to be the good one, because it would be staggeringly unfair for the parties involved. I've been around mortals long enough to know how having a loved one's death justified can feel trite, if not outright insulting."

* * *

Woodford's voice was low and thin. Thankfully, his panic wasn't a noisy one, or else predators could've been tempted. "What else have I left?!" he quietly seethed. "It's either an eternity here or, what, immediate death out there?! What kind of choice have I got?!"

In the meantime, Drake kept his own voice low for different reasons. "You have your own authority, Meris. Do you think you could ask Garvey and the other trolls to shelter Regis, instead of pursuing him? I don't know how forest trolls are made, but could he be, I don't know, an honorary one?"

Scooter's cackles weren't muted, but his speaking voice was, at least. "Smart as a whip, boyo, eh? Ye caught me sayin' I's had a foot in Jamaica, so you figured I an' I's people could leave, same as other trolls! Leave - an' most importantly for ya - not die. If somethin' were to come from Solomon's heir, aye, there'd be a chance I's people might consider it. Can't speak for the Boss Lady; though."

That ticked Isaacs off somewhat. "Of all the ridiculous - why does a queen, no less, have to be so evasive?! Why can't you just go and get Morgana for us? We've got a Huldra waiting, we have a Hell-stricken city to get back to in some eventuality, a magic drum to recover from London's under-city and a now-superpowered Rhode Island mayor to triumphantly return to his constituents!" he stated, with no small amount of sarcasm. "By the way, where did Doherty run off to?"

Three felt his stomach sink again. "He's got to have made it out of the bombing alive - he'd just developed superpowers."

Rupert threw his hands up in exasperation and rolled his eyes. "If not, then Hope's lost a bargaining chip! Nice going, Stalwart Heroes of the Land!"

He then shouted as loud as he could, ignoring Siv's earlier words of caution. "MORGANA! I AM UNWORTHY OF YOUR RADIANCE, OF THAT I AM AWARE, BUT I AM ALSO CAFFEINE-DEPRIVED AND RATHER CRABBY, AT PRESENT! MY CYBERNETICS ARE OFFLINE, HALF OF MY BODY FEELS LIKE DEAD WEIGHT, THIS WORLD'S SUPERNATURAL POLITICS HAVE KEPT ME WITH THESE BUFFOONS FOR HOURS NOW, AND FAR TOO MANY NINCOMPOOPS WITH AN AGENDA ARE CONSPIRING AGAINST US! IF YOU WILL CONSIDER DRAKE'S PROPOSAL AND MERIS' AUTHORITY, THEN PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS LEFT OF OUR WORLD - SHOW YOURSELF!"

Scooter looked like he didn't know whether to bend over laughing or wince out of empathy, while Naberius' apparently politely-placed hand on Isaacs' shoulder barely concealed his understandable urge to throttle the scientist. The other trolls sprang out of the trees and underbrush as Isaacs' voice echoed, birds took flight and parted with alarmed cries.

A few tense seconds passed. "I DON'T HAVE ALL GODDAMN DAY!" Isaacs then added.

* * *

Melmoth couldn't repress a snicker. "One of the Thrones, talkin' about the weather! As if you couldn't just Thanos-snap cold chills or pressure drops away with a little bit of help from Mrs. Air or Mister Water!"

He sighed contentedly, clearly happy with the inherent absurdity of the situation. "It's what I love about our gigs," he then said, as they reached the restaurant. "The little things, those rare, few hours where we can pocket our horns or wings and just be people."

Again, he gave Abdiel a sideways glance as he opened the Danube Lounge's door for her. "Don't tell anyone, but I secretly love being crabby about traffic. I could teleport anywhere I want now that I don't need to maintain a body, but those last few months in Hope were only saved because of routine. One routine I had, one little pointless ritual of mine, was driving to work. Sometimes, just to spice things up, I'd hex my own GPS and end up stuck on Sixth Avenue, right below the elevated rail. Then I'd pretend I hadn't just metaphorically shot myself in the foot and just play out the part of a frustrated office worker stuck with a bad cup of cooling coffee and morning radio. Sometimes, I'd dredge up the Italian in me and lean out my car's door, shaking a fist at someone who was already angry over something else or someone else, some other bit of the traffic jam we all shared. Other times, I'd keep my windows up and just blast Jazz for myself, air-trumpeting minutes away behind my tinted windows, all the while knowin' I've got a distinctive enough profile for everyone to know Mel Othstein the local demon had a real particular morning routine..."

He grinned toothily. "It made driving past Allocer's kinda fun - it's earned me a couple odd looks, which I sort of relished."

* * *

Nami's smirk had its intended effect, many of the would-be lounge and dancefloor lizards looking as though having a Nephilim around left them to feel rather self-conscious. Add to this Leonard's glacial gaze sweeping past his former juniors, and you had a The sommelier gave Crystal an encompassing glance, as if he could measure just how weary she was and how that perceived state of exhaustion paired with certain spirits. "A little hair of the dog, as it were - but something a tad more refined. Something that combines both refreshing and vivifying qualities. Hm..."

He turned to the racks, produced a keyring from his apron's pocket, unlocked one of the drawers and pulled it open. A hermetic seal lightly popped as he did so, a slight wave of artificial chill wafting forth, along with the previously-silent hum of what had to be a compressor. Fingers danced over the bottles for a few seconds, and he soon pulled out two of them.

"Might I suggest a globe of Graci Etna Rosato? Rosé pairs wonderfully with breakfast foods or common comfort foodstuffs - prepackaged pastries notwithstanding, obviously. This raisin was grown on the soil of Alberto Graci's Sicilian plantation, and carries much of his Rosso's character, with the added subtlety of his small Bianco selection. You might detect flavors of cooked fruit, tea, and perhaps a pinch of cedar, for added dryness."

Then came the second bottle, a dark blue vessel topped with a simple cork. "For someone with a perhaps sweeter tooth - a classic of the genre. A petite berry varietal, its French parentage in the Piedmont region offers it enough body to wipe away any unpleasant aromas you might still be carrying. We remain in Italy, but move closer to the north. The region of Asti is famous for its moscato bianco, a lively and forgiving blend the Romans called apiana, in their heyday. Sweet, but far from saccharine, with several distinct personalities to be discovered by a trained palate. While it is commonly seen as a dessert wine, this particular blend is dry and full-bodied: a bracing cure for wary minds and flagging spirits."

Something about that made Archie smirk. "Are you aware of Moscato's growing association with urban culture, by chance?"

The Squid managed to look both amused and supremely unconcerned. "I assume you're referring to Sirs Drake and Trey Songz," he said, lacing the names with icy contempt. "Moscato might be cheap, but any songsmith brazen enough to write a ditty titled I invented Sex is more than likely to miss its particularities.
- And here I was, thinking you would dazzle us with finds neither of us could afford."

The sommelier smirked and slipped behind the table. "If money is no object, good sir, then quality can be recognized in all price tiers. Remember; I don't simply offer tastings to well-versed personages - many a novice in the Order needs pointers in order to sell an alias or charm a potential ally. Like it or not, everyone always starts with table wine."

Spotting a Seal Cove bottle in the still-opened drawer, Holden then pointed at it. "What do you make of Thanos' red wine, in your expert opinion?"

The handlebar-sporting Weaver headed back towards the drawer and picked the bottle up. "Ah, yes - a young and insolent composition, with deep tones of berries, chocolate and oak. Quite bold - almost too much, in my opinion - but assuredly the work of someone who sees every bite and every sip as a symphony. I see it as the man bottling his true self as a rather unsubtle signal - one that says I am passionate beyond my words and deeds. A fittingly predictable accord with seafood and braised meats. Very much a sophomore vintner's composition, but to those in the know, every sip echoes Dalarath's very own Shakespearean tragedy."

He smirked as he placed the bottle on the table. "As you might expect, desperate passion has difficulty coming off of white linens. This young and rather heady sport is to be handled with care, I should say. I imagine Xenophon - now Nereus - will mature as a vintner, once he finds peace. That is, if freedom and a reduced checkbook don't simply result in him kicking the hobby."

* * *

Liz took a few steps back, suggesting they follow her. "One of the larger elements to consider is the existence of my department's larger non-Weaver workforce. Typical approaches in other groups involve excluding humans and anthros from Dalarath-related studies, but tentative attempts made it clear we could act as specialized teachers, to those with more standard cerebral structures. We believe all races can grasp the Architect's boons - but on their own timeframe, and in accordance with each individual's stamina."

Zeb quirked an eyebrow. "So, the Black Speech could be harmless?
- Not entirely," Pope nuanced. "The Black Speech is a sort of distributed denial-of-service attack on the brain - thousands of instructions hammering surface-dwelling brains at once, so the psyche's defenses crack and core, malicious instructions can be planted. The average human and anthro brain can compute about forty instructions at once - think processing visual information as text, for instance, then inferring information from that text, then drawing greater significance from the context of that information, all the while maintaining proprioception - while the Augur's brain is the result of ritualized training that pushes the amount of simultaneous threads to several thousand. We haven't had the chance to test Meris, but we already know she can withstand Marinos' statistical average. Considering, all we need is more time and less threads per instruction - less even than what the Loyalists use in attempting to create high-functioning infiltration agents."

The lich glanced about as they passed the door to Pope's department, giving way to the familiar sight of cubicle walls, file cabinets, the distant smell of burned coffee and printer toner. "If Meris is a selkie and roanes tend to develop some sort of gift, then how could a mundane hope to grasp your idiom if they have no edge to start from?" he asked.

Pope smirked and tapped the nape of her neck. "Azardad's Lexicon. While we don't condone his methods, we also have no need to reproduce them. We're trying to develop a non-invasive cybernetic interface for humans and anthros, together with the Engineering department. Of course, if our idiom is already sanitized, the Lexicon's base protective features don't need to be reproduced. Add standard training routines normally reserved for Augurs, and we might be able to act on the human mind the way bonzai tree designers work: we keep it whole and intact, but leave it able to perceive reality as our people do. The goal isn't necessarily to raise an army of Drakes and Jenkinses, but to inoculate surface-dwelling populations against the Black Speech. The process might be time-consuming, so we're trying to see if we couldn't fit the imprinting process in with your average sleep cycle."

She shrugged. "Sorry, I got side-tracked. The point is, we're sure human neuroplasticity could catch up with us if we helped it along slowly. Point in fact, most of us could cheat their way to speaking a hammer into existence, but your people are the only ones on this planet to have taken the slow, unwieldy and impractical way around - going from invention to handcrafting to industrial machining. Evolution is just as capable as we are; it's just more ponderous. Sometimes, honestly, that's for the best. If there's one thing the Gentlemen grasped, it's that some things are meant to be taken in with great care."

Seeing Zeb's slightly confused look, Liz looked to Andrea. "Here's a rhetorical question, Andrea," she asked her. "Did your mother barrel you through Werewolf 101 on the premise of you being faster, stronger or more instinctively aware than your peers, or did she eventually broach the topic once you were old enough to understand, making sure you'd treat your shifts responsibly? And a follow-up question: in your experience, does raising a responsible Theriomorph take time?"

* * *

Amitiel began navigating the streets of the Celestial Enclave. "Convincing someone who's seen the edges of the Construct and felt what we theorize to be simple care as boundless love is..."

He paused and lightly grimaced. "It's a tall order, let's say. Imagine Amaxi's hatred, only completely reversed. You're in Heaven, higher than the highest peaks our own plane can generate, so high that even our own mesophere's cold, rarified air can't reach you - and all you feel is love. It dwarfs every single other kind of love you've ever known, and it's both highly exclusive and all-encompassing. Souls that try Ascending further than Heaven's ground plane are usually caught on the way down, stricken with a kind of... love-induced despair, is the best way I'd put it. It's not the kind of love that uplifts you, unless you're a religious mystic of some persuasion. It's a love that makes you feel small beyond words, and important beyond all interpretations that word could possibly have. God cares, and He cares in a way that even us angels aren't meant to fully grasp. Only the Lightbringers ever made it to the edge of the Construct - and both came back changed, in their own ways."

The angel eyed Aislinn in the rear-view mirror. '"Lucifer's change of rhetoric's always felt a little off to me. Almost rehearsed. He tried to dose things in credible amounts, to go from doubt to casual disdain to outright contempt - but the transitions weren't perfect. He's a good actor, but it only reaffirms the notion that his turning bad was part of some greater scheme. Maybe his mind doesn't need changing - maybe he's been on our side all along."

Amitiel smirked. "Don't - tell Gabriel I said this, it's borderline heretical for anyone to suggest that the Fall wasn't a pure and simple tragedy. Angels can mourn a long time, and some of us are still mourning our Fallen brothers and sisters. Still, with distance and time, a lot of things start to line up interestingly. I'm reminded of the few times I caught Lucifer discussing God's plan with a flock of Opinicuses. He had something on the brain, and corrupting the already corruptible probably came across as a means to clean the slate; push on with something that was already happening, so it would happen on his terms, rather than someone else's."

Calhoun nodded. "That's all fine and dandy, but how does it relate to us?
- There's a theory we keep floating around, away from the higher tiers of the Host: that Lucifer Fell for your sakes. If that's true, then he doesn't need convincing. Some of us stick to the idea of him shouldering Evil so you wouldn't have to, and others think the Fall is more of a systemic issue, some sort of response to a detected flaw in Creation - one which the Thrones haven't detected, in all their cosmic busywork."

The Ringleader nodded. "And Uriel?
- He'd definitely need convincing," confirmed Amitiel. "Gabriel's tried taking him back millions of years ago, so he'd witness the birth of organic life firsthand. Uriel's response was that the mammals were better off as a scurrying rat fleeing from sauropods - he claims you were innocent, back then. Incapable of sin. All you could do was survive. Gabriel took him back to the first death you consciously grasped, the first act of mourning, the first god you named - and all Uriel saw was that you'd eventually shed blood in that deity's name. Gabriel even violated his own rule and brought another angel to his own little sanctum in the time-stream - a quiet Sunday afternoon in Florence, spent wearing the face of one of Leonardo Da Vinci's neighbors. Uriel took in the man's drafts, his anatomical studies, his writings - and said you still insisted in surrounding yourselves with iniquity for every shred of beauty and grace you manifested. I wasn't there myself, but Gabriel told us he slipped into a blank millisecond, turned the world around Uriel and himself into a still image, and asked him whatever it was he expected out of you."

Grimley couldn't quite repress a leer. "Let me guess: Grace? Meekness? Submissiveness?
- More or less," noted the Celestial cop. "He asked Gabriel why you couldn't just be. The immortals were halfway there, after all - their bodies were frozen in time - so why couldn't you just exist and be happy about it? Stop despoiling the land, or killing other lives or display so many venal faults, if not sins?"

Amitiel shrugged. "Gabriel couldn't answer. I couldn't either, and I've been around for all of Creation. God gave you all the freedom to poison yourselves, taint the land, spill your blood or mock Him openly, and none of us have an exact reason as to why. Gabriel and I are part of the larger half of the Host - the one that respects that mystery for every bit of nobility it's allowed you to show, every shred of maturity, every scrap of kindness. All we have are theories, and mine is that God allows for so much horror and injustice to occur - even these incursions - because they give meaning to everything else. He didn't turn the crank, He didn't set this into motion - but He's not stopping it, either. Either He doesn't want to, or can't - or it serves some kind of higher purpose. I'd hate for that last hypothesis to be the good one, because it would be staggeringly unfair for the parties involved. I've been around mortals long enough to know how having a loved one's death justified can feel trite, if not outright insulting."

* * *

Woodford's voice was low and thin. Thankfully, his panic wasn't a noisy one, or else predators could've been tempted. "What else have I left?!" he quietly seethed. "It's either an eternity here or, what, immediate death out there?! What kind of choice have I got?!"

In the meantime, Drake kept his own voice low for different reasons. "You have your own authority, Meris. Do you think you could ask Garvey and the other trolls to shelter Regis, instead of pursuing him? I don't know how forest trolls are made, but could he be, I don't know, an honorary one?"

Scooter's cackles weren't muted, but his speaking voice was, at least. "Smart as a whip, boyo, eh? Ye caught me sayin' I's had a foot in Jamaica, so you figured I an' I's people could leave, same as other trolls! Leave - an' most importantly for ya - not die. If somethin' were to come from Solomon's heir, aye, there'd be a chance I's people might consider it. Can't speak for the Boss Lady; though."

That ticked Isaacs off somewhat. "Of all the ridiculous - why does a queen, no less, have to be so evasive?! Why can't you just go and get Morgana for us? We've got a Huldra waiting, we have a Hell-stricken city to get back to in some eventuality, a magic drum to recover from London's under-city and a now-superpowered Rhode Island mayor to triumphantly return to his constituents!" he stated, with no small amount of sarcasm. "By the way, where did Doherty run off to?"

Three felt his stomach sink again. "He's got to have made it out of the bombing alive - he'd just developed superpowers."

Rupert threw his hands up in exasperation and rolled his eyes. "If not, then Hope's lost a bargaining chip! Nice going, Stalwart Heroes of the Land!"

He then shouted as loud as he could, ignoring Siv's earlier words of caution. "MORGANA! I AM UNWORTHY OF YOUR RADIANCE, OF THAT I AM AWARE, BUT I AM ALSO CAFFEINE-DEPRIVED AND RATHER CRABBY, AT PRESENT! MY CYBERNETICS ARE OFFLINE, HALF OF MY BODY FEELS LIKE DEAD WEIGHT, THIS WORLD'S SUPERNATURAL POLITICS HAVE KEPT ME WITH THESE BUFFOONS FOR HOURS NOW, AND FAR TOO MANY NINCOMPOOPS WITH AN AGENDA ARE CONSPIRING AGAINST US! IF YOU WILL CONSIDER DRAKE'S PROPOSAL AND MERIS' AUTHORITY, THEN PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS LEFT OF OUR WORLD - SHOW YOURSELF!"

Scooter looked like he didn't know whether to bend over laughing or wince out of empathy, while Naberius' apparently politely-placed hand on Isaacs' shoulder barely concealed his understandable urge to throttle the scientist. The other trolls sprang out of the trees and underbrush as Isaacs' voice echoed, birds took flight and parted with alarmed cries.

A few tense seconds passed. "I DON'T HAVE ALL GODDAMN DAY!" Isaacs then added.

* * *

Melmoth couldn't repress a snicker. "One of the Thrones, talkin' about the weather! As if you couldn't just Thanos-snap cold chills or pressure drops away with a little bit of help from Mrs. Air or Mister Water!"

He sighed contentedly, clearly happy with the inherent absurdity of the situation. "It's what I love about our gigs," he then said, as they reached the restaurant. "The little things, those rare, few hours where we can pocket our horns or wings and just be people."

Again, he gave Abdiel a sideways glance as he opened the Danube Lounge's door for her. "Don't tell anyone, but I secretly love being crabby about traffic. I could teleport anywhere I want now that I don't need to maintain a body, but those last few months in Hope were only saved because of routine. One routine I had, one little pointless ritual of mine, was driving to work. Sometimes, just to spice things up, I'd hex my own GPS and end up stuck on Sixth Avenue, right below the elevated rail. Then I'd pretend I hadn't just metaphorically shot myself in the foot and just play out the part of a frustrated office worker stuck with a bad cup of cooling coffee and morning radio. Sometimes, I'd dredge up the Italian in me and lean out my car's door, shaking a fist at someone who was already angry over something else or someone else, some other bit of the traffic jam we all shared. Other times, I'd keep my windows up and just blast Jazz for myself, air-trumpeting minutes away behind my tinted windows, all the while knowin' I've got a distinctive enough profile for everyone to know Mel Othstein the local demon had a real particular morning routine..."

He grinned toothily. "It made driving past Allocer's kinda fun - it's earned me a couple odd looks, which I sort of relished."

* * *

Nami's smirk had its intended effect, many of the would-be lounge and dance floor lizards looking as though having a Nephilim around left them to feel rather self-conscious. Add to this Leonard's glacial gaze sweeping past his former juniors, and you had a decidedly cooled atmosphere - one in which Haraldson felt justified to raise his chin at the bouncer, lift a hand and etch a circling motion with his forearm. Clearly intimidated, the bouncers asked the group in front to clear the way, ignored the weakly-rising protests, and ushered Nami's group in. cooled atmosphere - one in which Haraldson felt justified to raise his chin at the bouncer, lift a hand and etch a circling motion with his forearm. Clearly intimidated, the bouncers asked the group in front to clear the way, ignored the weakly-rising protests, and ushered Nami's group in.

Inside, the club was perpetually twilit, dark wood parquets paired with abstract wallpapers in tones of purple, teal and red, the whole of it rendered with intentionally confusing practical visual effects: the walls looked askew from a distance, and straightened themselves the closer you came to them. Angles looked sharper or more pronounced than they truly were, with Expressionistic false windows adorning the walls here and there, seemingly ripped out of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari. Even Nami might briefly think Infernal magic was at play, but this clearly was the work of someone with an eye for perspective and talent with mundane materials. Interestingly, the far wall was devoted to a projector screen, which was currently playing randomized snippets of everything from The Devil's Ball to Swing, You Sinners, The Peanut Vendor or Bimbo's Initiation, with a few choice cuts from Murnau and Fritz Lang sprinkled in, artfully spliced together to follow the song's beat.

The interior crowd was as gloomy and self-affected as the outer one, the crowd spacing itself across the dance floor and clustering back together along the booths that lined the outer perimeter, ordering drinks or adding to the constant, low din of carefree chatter. One booth stood out from the others, elevated above the dance floor as it was, and standing just below the projector screen. In its Roman chaise longue waited the new Deputy Chief, clad in a red sheath dress festooned with false roses, in what looked like an attempt to streamline a Flamenco gown into something you'd wear at a cocktail party. The body she'd taken for herself was of what had probably been the precinct's secretive bombshell, an officer who'd had the misfortune of being both capable and beautiful - and who'd served as a prime target for the enabled Blood Countess. To everyone in the room, she slid what had to be a feline, if not almost bored look across the entrance's greater area, quite likely trying to find either young things to amuse herself with or a prospective sire to immortalize this stolen flesh. To Nami and Ephesian, however, it'd be fairly clear that the body's native soul was still inside, helplessly looking outwards. There was something to that slithering gaze, something that suggested a hint of unconscious despair...

Being what he was, Leonard bypassed the club's noise and telepathically addressed Nami. "At least, the Goat made it a point to expel me from my own coil. I've read her file - Bathory revels in her subjects' suffering, so she would've kept that poor girl trapped somewhere down there... We'll have to see if we can convince Harker to merely knock her out."

His own gloom icily resonated across the link. "Then, we'll be free to tear this bitch out of her."

He cast his eyes upwards, catching sight of an anthro raven that was casually leaning on the banister, drink in hand, and who seemed to be observing the throng. There was light in the deejay's booth, but the angle made it impossible for him to see who or what was manning it, if it wasn't simply currently playing out a premade mix. As he did, however, the space's unused main lights flicked on for a second, the speakers blaring a few seconds of Daft Punk's Robot Rock. The crowd's reaction was immediate, as rows and protests were heard and the anthro whipped back towards the booth, beak flashing as he shouted at the performer. Like all anthros, Leonard could just make out what the harrowed artist's defense was:

"I don't know, mister Corven! Daft Punk's not even part of my set list for this place! It's not queued up, it's not even on my hard drive! Here, I'll just - okay! Alright, alright - jeeze!"

The main lights were turned off with a loud snap, Rammstein's Tier started mid-chorus, the multimedia display looking out of sync for a few moments. Onscreen, the Devil from Disney's Hell's Bells was stuck in the two frames of its single winking animation, right before it would choose to pursue Mickey.
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

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Crystal chuckled. "Or he simply switches to a simpler means of making alcohol. I wonder how he'd take to mead making. I mean, that'd probably be closer to what his love imbibed in her earlier days," she mused.

***

Despite it being a rhetorical question, Andrea shook her head and then smiled. "I learned in phases, as I grew. Got to learn to crawl before you learn to walk and all. Sometimes, young lupine theriomorphs can randomly trigger the change. Juvenile adrenaline, I suppose. However, I think my brain's elasticity probably adjusted as I learned when and why to shift. Learn to control the urges so they don't control you, know how to transform quickly, and so on," she replied. "Advancing a human mind can only adapt so fast without breaking. You need time and patience to let it grow and become just malleable enough to accept that type of new information."

***

Aislinn raised a hand and smiled wryly. "As a newbie immortal, I think I still have some understanding of the mortal condition. One, mortal time works on a much shorter scale, especially if you're a mundane. We aren't born with an immediate grasp of how the universe works. We're winging it, even with angels helping us start the earliest civilizations. I think you guy are learning in a siimilar manner, just on a much slower scale. Of course, you have your control freaks who want to fuss and get a stick up their proverbial ass, so that causes friction in Hell, Heaven, and the mortal plane. Others are just innately curious, so it unfortunately causes us to make the wrong decisions. It's a thoroughly messy process, but it's preferable to stagnation, I'd say. Entropy's the way of permanent death, the cessation of everything."

***

Aspasia was about to respond to Woodford's venting when Issacs let forth his aggravations toward Morgana, causing her spine to tense. She shot a murderous glare at her maker and oddly looked at their surroundings for any shift in the wind to see if the Queen would grace them with her presence.

Meris sent Issacs a death glare of her own, but maintained her composure as she looked over at Garvey. "From one Queen to another, it'd be preferable if she did show up. Letting Woodford die through the Gate would be a loss from a strategic standpoint. If he could stay and travel with you all, you have another added to your numbers. If the Queen's concerned about survival, strength in numbers has always been a key tool in surviving. I mean, that's why we even came through your territory in the first place. We're trying to prevent the world from becoming smouldering rubble. Regardless of how skilled she is in moving her territory away from the mortal plane, this jungle is still vulnerable to the incursions from different threats, as is the rest of her domain. One more life is another that tips the odds a bit more in your favor. That seems more like a boon than merely having sport or not caring at all. We need a direct answer from Morgana."

***

Abdiel smiled as she entered the lounge. "Bucking convention usually is fun. That's why I have occasionally mingled with mortals like Artemisia. It breaks the perceived mold that we were made from; it counters stagnation. Control freaks, like Uriel and the Goat, can't stand that, so they stew and throw their respective temper tantrums. Though, I will concede I think God preferred that we Thrones are flexible in that fashion. If Creation is too rigid, it's vulnerable to the Others' entropy and destruction, too flexible and it won't hold together."

***

Nami quirked a brow at the malfunctioning music and display. She glanced at Leonard and Magnus and sent to them, Someone's tweaking things here like they're dipping a toe in the water to make sure it's okay to step in. That or they're planning on making an entrance. We need to get on with finding Harker and getting her help to stop Bathory before our guest shows up. Given what Aric said earlier, it might be Lucifer."
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

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"Mead was a little before Nereus' time, as much as I've been able to ascertain," noted the green-skinned Weaver. "The more genteel, Celtic-by-way-of-Waterhouse interpretation of the drink might be more to his liking than filtered and fermented honey, I believe."

Archie had since served himself a drink. "Speaking of the old boy, how are his plans unfolding? Have you any news?" he asked, which seemingly made the sommelier's eyes widen slightly. 

"I see - the latest events would have kept you away from it all, obviously. Depending on who you are, you might be overjoyed or distraught," he said, raising a hand to receive a reconstructed copy of the Los Angeles Times which he handed to Holden. The front page's title was predictably big and bold:

RENEWAL'S END? ADMINISTRATION INSISTS RAIDS ON BUNKER WERE NOT AUTHORIZED. Dozens dead, many more injured. "We will keep the faith," ensures Chris Chambers, "we will rebuild." Thanos, meanwhile, remains at large.

Archie did his best to marshal his emotions and instincts as he read, trying to see through things as a spy would have. He had a hard time seeing the listed casualties as being Nereus' doing, and had no doubt that Chambers could have concocted something with the City of Angels' new Infernal administration in order to have access to overwhelming force at the drop of a hat. He couldn't see the bunker, couldn't quite understand if the bodies were largely found indoors or outdoors, and considering, he didn't know if those lost lives had already been lost to Hell or to Chambers. Thanos being interpreted as being at large didn't necessarily mean he'd escaped, seeing as the LAPD probably only knew him by his Flesh Mask's assumed human DNA. All the same, something within told him not to assume the worst: going on the lam at a time like this had probably been smart, the authorities would be too preoccupied with serving Hell's interests to worry about America's portly New Age darling.

"How momentous," he noted, choosing not to glorify or bemoan the situation outright. "The last time I needed to dramatically kill off one of my aliases, I made sure to leave enough mayhem behind to ensure nobody would so much as think to check that I wouldn't simply have modified an already-ruined armature and set it ablaze. The deaths don't quite read as his doing, but they certainly would have added to the confusion."

He handed the paper to Crystal. "How would you interpret this, dear?" he asked her. "I surmise he's earned himself something just shy of two weeks on the road - time enough for Chambers to clear the PR circus, organize a sham funeral and then send indoctrinated goons on a cross-country hunt. I suppose he knows enough not to beeline straight for dear Meris' doorstep, and the upcoming showdown against the Goat is bound to result in similar engagements elsewhere across the country. He'll have opportunities enough to hide and recollect, put other disguises together... I wouldn't be surprised if he'd planned ahead and had managed to stash fake driver's licenses or credit cards aside in dead drops."

He pouted slightly and tapped his glass with a finger. "Two weeks by way of hitchhiking, with a fork down south through the Carolinas or maybe up north, through Canada... I don't think he'll manage to completely evade search parties. If our plates weren't quite so full, I might have fancied renting a car and seeing about meeting him halfway."

* * *

Pope nodded, looking at Zeb in a way that suggested a point had been proven. The lich, in the meantime, still looked concerned. "So, what about my lineage? Our patriarch was exposed to the Black Speech, and I bought my own fair share of heretical texts, in attempting to bring my wife and son back. Am I insane?"

The female Weaver quirked a brow at that question, and stopped at a photocopier to retrieve a few other documents. "What color is endless night?" she asked, the question somehow making Buck reel by a few steps. He steadied himself with a hand on the file cabinet he was next to. "What was - What in blazes was this?!"

His blurted question earned him a few looks, but Pope reassured her coworkers with a placating gesture. "That was an old synaptic trigger, something the Loyalists still sometimes use to activate embedded agents. Andrea's mind didn't process the embedded payload because she's never been exposed to the Black Speech. Yours was, so you felt the call. The White Brotherhood uses it as a litmus test to check for signs of indoctrination. You didn't respond verbally, you didn't go through a personality shift, so we can safely assume you never were the object of a concerted attempt at conversion. You bought translations of our Stanzas for Bleeding Stars or our Chant of the Ninth House, so you never took in the embedded commands - only the basics of these rituals."

Still, this left her sighing. "You're safe now, but you're at risk, mister Buck. A few months ago, Loyalists came close to claiming you during that meetup you took part in. If they had, you probably would've grown as attuned to via as Helena Nasir made you with her arcane prosthesis, but you would've been remade as they would've seen fit, probably as a suddenly very capable operative. You've been made stable, but it takes time to armor a psyche like yours against Their attacks."

The lich nodded uneasily. "With my despair and my unresolved issues, I perhaps would've seen carrying out Their orders as an elaborate city-wide murder-suicide; a means to finally rejoin my loved ones..."

Liz smiled, the gesture sweet and brimming with empathy. She laid a hand on the lich's shoulder. "What matters is that you didn't go through with this, Zebediah. You slipped and did end up reading things no practitioner should ever read unless their name happens to be Lucian Rothchild - but you're here with us, now. We'll let someone else pick up the dubious honor of going batshit in Amaxi's name - your friends still need to free you from that etheric parasite's grasp. You'll have to speak to mister Rothchild once the dust settles, he can probably help you more than we could."

The skeleton's eyelights winked out and back in a few times. "So I'm sane, then? No odd eyelight tremors, no spouting nonsense I can't remember, no delving through dark texts without knowing what I'm doing?"

Andrea might be able to offer a few points of contention to this: her mother had a baker's dozen's worth of yearly anecdotes involving the local boozy undead who cared enough to look eccentric, but not enough to understand that dressing gowns and monogrammed slippers weren't workable year-long wardrobe choices. It used to be that catching one of her mother's officer's in the public library, dragging a half-asleep Zebediah to the pokey after he'd been caught confusing the Arcane Studies section for a barfly's lounging spot for the -nth time, was a regular occurrence. Things had apparently changed, now, but Nasir's provided assistance was too recent to figure out if Buck might relapse or if this truly was the beginning of some sort of serious effort on his part.

Besides, Delving Through Dark Texts Without Knowing What I'm Doing might as well have been Zebediah's middle name.

* * *

They entered what had been the Western part of Old Hope. "You said it yourself," noted Amitiel, "you're a newbie immortal. Most of those who live here have the advantage of having worked with or at least amidst mortals, but there's quite a few angels and demons for whom the incursions marked their first time here. Not all of us have your perspective - hence figures like Allocer or Uriel. I like to follow Gabriel's advice, myself: I spend half of my time in Heaven, and half of it here. It ensured I wasn't caught off-guard when the incursions occurred. While some of my peers were using Angel Time to thoroughly panic in impunity, I'd already reported to the General and been assigned a position with the ground troops. It makes going against the entropy of one's eternal posting in Heaven a lot easier."

They stopped in what had been Cody Tanner's neighborhood, where the police presence had notably increased. A few stealthy police cruisers could be spotted on street corners, officers that all had something to Robert Patrick's inhuman gait in Terminator 2 escorting a few locals with eyes that apparently could see more than the mortal plane could display - and less than a human or anthro should have.

"These angels look different, somehow," noted Calhoun, which made Amitiel nod. "Guardian angels get all the press coverage; these are specializing in retribution. They only come down here when they're on a mission, which they've been since the Goat's first big push. A few months against all of Creation's existence isn't much, so they're still learning the ropes. Even then, Ruth and her troops are the type to selectively pick up what they need and ignore the rest.
- Celestial assassins, then," noted Hannibal.

Amitiel nodded. "It took everything Gabriel had to convince her to lend him some troops for the enclave, most of these guys would rather be out there slaying demons. Unfortunately, with Allocer hijacking the local democratic exercise, killing him in cold blood could only worsen things."

They stopped in front of an old New England-style cottage, with its forest-green gabled roof and dark brown brickwork. The car that was parked looked fairly nondescript: the typical no-brand, minimal-features vehicle supernaturals tended to conjure into existence when only the concept of a car or sedan mattered. It could've been a Honda, an Acura, an Audi or a Lexus that it would've fit right in with the rest of each constructor's production, and yet it didn't quite look like any of them. Horatio's door was opened by a flat-top-sporting fellow whose eyes looked eerily empty, and whose Ken doll-worthy smile carried no empathy.

"Welcome to Gabriel's," he said. "I'll need you to relinquish any weapons you might be carrying; I'll return them to you once you'll be done.
- Can I at least keep my cane?" questioned Horatio, to which the angel's plastic smile left no doubts. He couldn't.

The group was escorted to the front door, the second angel acting as though Tom, Aislinn or Hannibal were within one errant look or spoken word of slinging spells or baring their fangs. He went as far as to ring the doorbell for them, and stepped aside only once the sound of the latch clicking was heard.

You didn't see Gabriel out of his camo pants or uniform greens often, but the tall and slightly lanky older gentleman who opened the door was wearing jeans and sneakers, with a hastily tossed-on white shirt and a terry shower cloth left to hang around his neck, a corner of which he used to keep drying out his thinning golden-grey hair. If Amitiel looked like a human with occasionally Eldritch looks and Ruth's envoy like a machine pretending to be human, one of the strongest members of the Host looked surprisingly normal - and exhausted. Bags had deepened under his eyes, with a few fine veins showing in his sclera. He looked like someone who hadn't slept much and who'd compensated for it with far too much coffee.

"What's dragged the two of you out here?" he asked, etching a smile at the warthog and selkie, his smile faltering slightly as he took in Horatio and Hannibal. "Is everything alright?"

Ruth's envoy piped up at that. "Everything isn't alright, sir. The Moon-touched's hearts are beating, which marks elevated stress in their strains of undeath. Allocer still occupies the financial district and our troops were barred from reaching the local Buddhist temple. The Goat is-"

Gabriel glared at the man. "You're dismissed, officer. I've got half a mind to send most of your people to Magnus Tower, so you'll finally sprout some sense of tact.
- Shall I tell Ruth that you were displeased, General?"

The Archangel sighed. "Look, just - get out of here, alright?"

In the back, Amitiel mouthed Sorry, which led to an eye-roll from his superior. He stepped aside. "Alright, get in here, you three; it looks like I'll have to postpone that nap I was pining for."

Horatio gave the aging man a once-over. "I thought you'd have more, erm, gravitas, I guess you could say...
- Try and manage a war front for four months straight, Grimley, and then ask yourself if you'll have enough energy left to wow crowds with blazing wings or a booming voice. I'm an Archangel in the ranks of Heaven, and all I want to do in the immediate is stop existing for a good eight hours straight."

Calhoun stepped in. "Is this what happens when an angel becomes utterly subsumed in his love and respect for Humanity?
- If I could lead this war while sitting pretty in the Host, I would, but this would be strategically unsound," groused Gabriel, "Generals who don't get their hands dirty can't inspire their troops, and I've never been known to sit by on some distant hill. I'm also responsible for Aidan Drake, so not being here would be a dereliction of duty."

To say the cottage's interior looked mundane would've been an understatement. You'd expect someone so often festooned in the appearance of a general or other high-ranking military official to take to a certain kind of spartan opulence, but this was, for all intents and purposes, a standard middle-class cottage as afforded by your average lucky Army grunt. The place looked cozy and marked with a kind of comfortably lived-in haphazard quality, with books strewn about and relics of a few former meals adorning the living room's coffee table. The small LCD panel currently was muted, and showed the now multi-planar rendition of your average CSPAN Congressional broadcast. Red skin, scales and horns were now frequent features of the channel, with the off-screen commentators reduced to atonal commentary scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

"I'm not sure that obsessing over the slow agony of democracy while eating junk food and running on power naps and coffee is a good idea," noted Horatio, "but I'm also no angel. Going by Ruth's potential assessment, I'm guessing she'd add in that neither are you, Gabriel."

The Archangel snickered sarcastically as he sat down. "Right, let's let God's unfiltered radiance chew through everything! Let's allow for raw Creation to undo everything that is, but hey, we'll get a demon-free wasteland in the process! I'll tell you what I told Uriel and what I told her - I'm not giving up on you. I'm not willing to throw in the towel and pretend Creation was a mistake. We've naturalized collaborating Pit natives, we're closer to Pandemonium than ever before - this isn't a waste. We're still building something. If Ruth can't see that, then she's missed a good few thousand years down here and doesn't understand that all change comes with some degree of pain."

He looked back at the others. "Anyway, was there anything you wanted to discuss?"

* * *

Garvey stopped snickering and gathered his wits. "I'd say you have a point, Queenie, but it ain't like I's got a say, here. Seein' how you've scared everythin' in a five-mile radius, I'd say an answer is upcomin'...
- She didn't scare anything, I did," added Isaacs, being at least willing to take responsibility for his outburst.

It took a few moments, but an unusually hot breeze began to blow, almost like a sea-borne zephyr that carried hot air from some unseen coastline. The atmospheric pressure dropped like a stone and soon, cotton-like wisps appeared in the slit of visible blue sky, twirling together far faster than any vortex could've expected to form in the mortal plane. The twister, oddly enough, didn't look especially wide and seemed fixed on the exact spot in front of the gate Siv had walked through, blowing leaves and dirt away until there was nothing left but packed soil and a few exposed rocks. The wind and adjoining thunder were strong enough to force most in the group to squint, but even this wouldn't be sufficient to entirely shield their eyes from the sudden flash that followed, or the smell of burnt ozone. Having heard mortar drops before, being so close to the point of impact of a lightning bolt didn't push Three out of his wits, but Regis seemed more than happy to clutch Aspasia's arm. He probably tried to make it look genteel, but his own naked fear was hard to miss.

When their eyesight returned, the group would find themselves standing before a blond-haired and green-eyed woman clad in the most elaborate gown imaginable, as if an entire grove of trees had donated its leaves to switch it together. It closely followed her curves and generously underlined her features in every possible way, Three noting that Mab hadn't yet graced him or his friends with her own direct presence, before. Maybe this was more Morgana's style, after all. Still, keeping track of his own thoughts soon proved quite difficult, as the Summer Queen smelled absolutely divine. She looked equal parts like a supermodel or a self-effaced coquettish type, her posture neither suggesting wrath or even obvious interest.

Considering how his groin seemed perilously close to hijacking his brain, Three opted to let his mouth run to deliberately catch Morgana off-guard. "Christ," he said, "no wonder Ron Howard's dominated the Academy for so long, his daughter's the Summer Queen!"

The deliberately opaque joke (for one of the High Sidhe) worked as intended, the Queen's gaze turning quizzical. "I had no idea Summer Ladies tolerated childish doggerel from their Knights," she replied. Three felt shivers of alien pleasure racing down his spine at the sound of her voice, but fought off the urge to kneel down.

"What can I say," he replied, swallowing hard. "Lady Eirean's a keeper. You could ask Lord Haskill if you wanted - Your Radiance. Rupert here didn't rouse you from your Cosmic Spectating Bleachers or whatever just for chitchat, I'm afraid."

She lifted her head straighter. "So the winds and animals tell me. You are in need of passage, and my rites bar the way."

Rupert looked crushingly self-conscious, as though it took everything he had to fight off a case of absurd infatuation. "Er - yes. I, well, we believe you could spare a single man, Your Highness. Regis Woodford has suffered much, crossing your Gate would end him, and only your little subjects are seemingly immune to this pocket dimension's boundaries, apart from those you grant passage to."

She nodded. "Passage is already yours," she said. "Brave is the one who walks past me and through this Gate, for passage is mine to rescind."

Naberius stepped forward, his position as a Steward informing his almost mincing forward steps and his contrite looks. "Far be it from us to question your authority, O Summer's Radiance, but Commander Woodford has suffered much for very little gain. The trolls have already killed him once before, and I surmise this jungle is teeming with those less fortunate, as it stands. We humbly request the right to save his life, in my own liege's name," he said, gesturing to Meris as he curtsied.

Morgana stepped towards Aspasia, sizing both her and the Colonial soldier as though they were price-carrying goods to be assessed. "Brazen," she said, "and selfless, as well. I often forget how some of those who come through my forest never lose their heart..."

She stopped in front of Meris. "...until a panther rips it out of their chest. With your being mere steps away from your goal, however, I doubt this would be an issue in the immediate. You have one with power, as well as her hanger-ons from the nethers - let's see what kind of solution you would bring to this table."

Three repeated the base of his thesis. "We'd like to turn Regis into a Forest Troll, either literally or honorarily, depending on what you'll allow."

The smile that followed made Drake uneasy. He wasn't sure if Morgana merely thought this was ingenious, or if she was silently mocking the prospect of Meris working a complex spell into being - and in her name...

The usually-quiet Delmar's voice rang in both Aidan and Meris' minds. "The Queen of Brightest Summers always has a plan. She won't have enough to trump Titania if she merely trusts her instincts with everything. I remember that look of hers on other Void Weavers - we're playing right into something she's attempted to set up many times before." 

* * *

Melmoth smiled, at that. "Welp, that reputation you Thrones have of being distant is pretty much bull, from where I'm sitting. Score one for flexibility."

The lounge's maître d' looked like he was more used to Guildmates looking for a quiet space to sip at a globe of diluted blood while going over their research notes, or to the Carmilla and allied Scions of the Wyrm who'd come in to grab a bite while hobnobbing to keep inter-species politics going. He looked a bit thin and aged, baby fangs coming in amidst a lifetime of phlegmatic wrinkles and eyes that looked like he'd spent decades deciphering handing out bills and deciphering the patrons' sometimes too-florid signatures. A young vampire in an old man's body, then - a probable boon offered to him by one of the regulars whom he would've befriended over his career. Still, he didn't look entirely used to the idea of friendly demons walking out in the open, so his stance by the reservation desk slightly faltered, as the Broker and Abdiel approached.

"Wilkommen, Frau, mein Heirr - I heard you were speaking English; shall I defer to it?
- Um, yeah, sure," noted Mel, "my German's kind of old and rusty...
- Noted, sir. Table for two?"

Smiling a bit awkwardly, he gestured at Abdiel. "Yeah. How does this, um, work?
- The Danube Lounge serves many patrons with differing palates and specific needs, as you may know. Might I enquire as to your lineage, sir?"

Mel shrugged. "I'm a demon; no specific dietary requirements. Used to be a minor aspect of Greed, but that's never been an issue.
- You've never possessed a lactose-intolerant shell or found yourself imprinting upon other dietary requirements from other hosts?"

The Broker tsked. "I've always hated spiritually wrestling with natives; I just swiped fresh, dead bodies whenever I could.
- Gruesome, if wise," noted the old man.

He then turned to Abdiel. "And for yourself, Fraülein?"

* * *

Magnus didn't reply with a broadcast thought, but settled with nodding. The constant shifting of the projectors allowed his eyes' almost lambent qualities to become visible, which didn't fail to create an empty space around him. While the kids were doing their best to dance or mosey along, Haraldson kept a hand on his chest and the other behind his back, prowling about the throng for someone that would match the photograph he'd shown them.

A short while later, Nami would feel his slightly clammy presence slide in place next to her. "Front lobby," he told her. "Second girl on the left. Sheath dress, ten thousand-dollar pumps, black hair. Clutch purse. I smell oil and blued steel - likely a gun."

Leonard had snagged a glass of Club Soda for himself, so as to blend in. "You'd think she'd know better than to stick to Film Noir clichés...
- Bathory is the dark twin to the archetypal coquettish ingénue, here," noted Magnus. "She hasn't seen any Noir yet - she only took in what Allocer needed her to, to adapt to her post as quickly as possible. Modern English, firearms handling, police procedure, modern dress codes. Her Hungarian accent is still thick."

Ephesian shrugged lightly. "So the Femme Fatale routine might work, but possessed tend to have heightened senses.
- So do half-breeds," noted Haraldson. "They'll cancel each other out - we can approach them as if they were mundanes courting, if we let Quinn make the first move. We can also intercept her, try and join her efforts."
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

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Crystal contemplated the details of the newspaper and looked over to her beau and his own observations. "That'd be the path he'd most likely take, and he probably will need someone to pick him up in short time. However, given the amount of time they've spent apart physically, I'd say it'd be smart to have Meris among the welcoming party. She knows Chambers like the back of her hand. Not to mention, I remember there being talk of some concoction she had garnered that would weaken Chambers' physical dispoosition. If that's at all taken effect, that might slow our mutual enemy down somewhat. Also, this is Meris's husband we're talking about. He likely would have picked up some standard survival tricks from her. If nothing else, he'll probably send for a signal to indicate his location and need for backup."

***


"Zeb, you're still sane, but you're at a crossroads as well. You have potential, especially with the boon Nasir gave you, but you can't squander it. My mom's provided her share of accounts of how you'd enter some bar while thinking you were delving into whatever eldritch text you had in mind. You've got a talent for research, but the bottle keeps you from making any headway. I think whoever tainted your ancestor and set things in motion with the curse prefers to have you remain that way. It makes you more malleable to their whims. A distracted mind is also a vulnerable one," Andrea mused.

***

Aislinn glanced over at the other members of her party and offered the angel a slightly wry smile. "Well, we just got done rescuing Horatio here from a Wrath demon, and we're looking to retrieve his friends from Heaven in order to potentially thwart Valefor in his warehouse lair. In return, he's got some juicy gossip on some of your well-intended, but still idiotic counterparts upstairs," she offered.

***

Aspasia had managed a somewhat detached demeanor for the Summer Queen, after lowering her hand from her eyes. She easily picked up the particular notes of Woodford's fear and the rise of lustful rise of pheromones from Drake and Issacs. She felt the Fae's appraising gaze, as though she might be part of a bargain. Given Lady's Eireann's mantle over her, she has already been claimed to some degree by Titania's side. Her Wyldfae side might have seemed ephemerally or sporadically there, for all she knew, but it wasn't something she wasn't hinging her bets on. In some ways, Morgana reminded the Fauness of the various Drifters who had their own alien beauty and alluring scents. These factors reminded her of the jungle's offered sights and smells, all there to hypnotize and strangle you once in its grasp. Aspasia didn't offer her a challenging eye contact, but she remained a cautious observer. As for Woodford, she didn't know if he had somehow picked up on her protective nature, but she let him hang onto her as though she were some horned and fuzzy teddy bear.

Meris picked up on Delmar's warning message and hoped Aidan had heard him as well. Her own keen senses picked up on the effect Morgana had on Aidan and Rupert, she remained as composed as a Queen should. "Your knight seems at least agreeable to our suggestion, and I've noted the strategic benefits of his joining of their company. I'd ask that Her Radiance frankly express her views on our offered solution. Intrigue and schemes have their place, but I'd prefer to hear how the scales weigh in Commander Woodford's favor, Your Radiance."

***

Abdiel nodded graciously. "I'm an angel, the Throne of Fire specifically. I'm not particularly picky, and I don't have any allergies and deficiencies to account for. I've tried many different cuisines over the centuries, so I'm open to any of them," she responded.

***

Nami opted for a Rum and coke while listening to Leonard and Magnus's commentary. She still opted for telepathy, so nobody would hear her even in the crowded bar. "It might be worth letting her know we're here, at least so she's not taken off guard while approaching Bathory. She may think someone is laying a trap for her when we just want to be allies. Would that be a good course of action?" she asked them.
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

Post by IamLEAM1983 »

The sommelier smiled cryptically once again, and reached inside a small drawer in the counter, pulling out a tiny steel pill box.

"Mrs. Lowell's assumptions are correct," he told Archie, "our Toxicology department confirms that Chambers has contracted some hitherto unknown pathogen - a particularly voracious one that Mother Nature alone could not have concocted. We've managed to synthesize it based on samples of the Chamberlain's food over the past several weeks, and it is a most fascinating find - especially for assassins such as ourselves."

Archie gave the small container an uneasy look. "Don't tell me you-
- Indeed, sir. We synthesized a duplicate of the delivery agent, with an inert clone of the virus, trapped within. Hell has granted us a proper biological kill switch, one which we had better study, should it ever fall into enemy hands."

The green-skinned fellow opened the pillbox and removed what looked like a generic acetaminophen tablet, with no visible markers whatsoever. "Most of this pill's contents are harmless, as is expected. Glucose and starch, food coloring - plus a hint of magic and a virtuoso's work at genetic recombination. You see, this virus needs its' host's own genetic information in order to activate itself and begin the process of replication. It is a lock of sorts, and the Chamberlain's own flesh and blood served as the key. Anyone else could have swallowed this and would have remained completely asymptomatic - but in his case, the effects are both devastating and ongoing."

Archie's eyes narrowed as he lifted the pill between two fingers. "A designer virus... Are you sure this isn't Rendell's doing? This seems to me like it would be more his speed."

The Void Weaver looked pleased by Archie's inference. "We thought so too, at first, but the coding involved goes beyond anything Paradise's gene farms have produced for dictators and agitators over the past several decades. We've grown familiar with several chromosomal markers - signature capstones that almost serve as a trademark notice for Paradise's competing labs - but this lacks any such obvious distinctive feature. It feels utterly natural to anyone who knows their way around a spectrometer, and that very perfection is precisely what makes this so eerie."

His tentacles produced a clicking noise, as if to suggest an incoming clarification. "I am a weaponsmith and information handler by trade, biological warfare is far from being my specialty. I only know what Mister Whitney's hired geneticists have been able to tell us. By that measure, I know the virus targets the exact expression of the MSTN gene featured in Chambers' DNA, leaving his muscles vulnerable to rapid deterioration. You could say he has developed a case of rapid-onset Muscular Dystrophy, accompanied by a slew of other targeted attacks. Cellular replication, protein synthesis and homeostasis management are all under fire at once, which explains his catastrophic weight loss and his seemingly rapid aging. Amaxi has not abandoned him, She simply has not found out how to outfox that which is plaguing him."

Holden drew in a breath. "What does he look like, now?"

As Delmar had done before, the sommelier's tentacles rippled silently and followed with a hand-waving gesture. Air and dust gathered over a nearby chair, soon coalescing in the shape of a tracksuit-wearing Christopher Chambers, who had seemingly stuffed the jacket on top of a few layered shirts. He shivered violently and pressed his limbs close to himself, a hand occasionally going down to massage his right thigh. He winced as he did, eyes flashing beneath a sweat-dappled brow, as if he needed to ensure nobody would see him like this. The coughs that escaped him began as quiet rasping sounds, only to rise as he failed to repress them. Lines had quickly formed in his features, suggested dogged determination over a patina of growing exhaustion and increasing mental strain. Little by little, he was actually starting to look older. Another handwave, and the mirage was returned to so much dust, the clumps themselves disappearing as the room returned to its clean and pristine state.

"There's a catch, however," noted the agent. "Amaxi hasn't brought about this deterioration, but inexorable decay would please Her, eventually. He could eventually spin this as his submitting his body to their enemies' wiles in a show of his devotion, at which point She might choose to reverse the dynamic - or at least, attempt to do so. According to our operative, he still is very much in denial. We have some time, considering."

Archie nodded. "And Nereus? Where is he, now?
- We've tracked him in Cedar City, Utah, four days ago. He is experiencing difficulties in traveling, as I've explained, thanks to the incursions. He also makes it difficult for us to follow him, which is encouraging. If we are straining to keep up, then so are the Loyalists. We recovered Xenophon Thanos' old clothes, but not his wallet. He likely opted to deconstruct both it and its contents, in order to leave no trace. We found the clothes in a house belonging to a certain Buford McCutcheon - the house had sat unoccupied for decades, prior to this. We believe he set it up as the first of his dead drops, somewhere around 1984. We're still trying to determine which markers of identity he'd had assembled, as well as how much cash he might have stashed aside. The garage looked more recently used, however. I believe he'd been paying one of the locals to keep a car in working order. Judging from the time frame, this might be a boxcar from the same era - a usefully dumb vehicle in an era of connected devices."

* * *

Zeb's jaw worked uneasily. "Samoset's a spiteful bugger - it'll take far more than my seemingly growing proficient for the family curse to be lifted. Some doubt it even can be entirely dispelled. Tom Magnus managed a few artful rhetorical dodges for my brother, but he still is not the same type of werewolf as both your mother and yourself, Andrea."

Pope set her folder aside and gestured for Zeb to sit down in one of the nearby couches, next to someone else's abandoned cigarette ashtray. "We know this isn't easy for you, Zebediah, but we have to be methodical in our efforts. Hell comes first, then reconstruction - and it's at that point that we'll have leeway enough to help mundane investigators and practitioners with the Wendigo's mysteries. For what it's worth, you should know we've been keeping an eye on you, and on a few connected figures. Wampanoag lore says that the shaman who cursed Buck and the colonists died an old man, but we're not entirely sure. Curses don't last this long without an anchor, something that carries their fueling spite or anger. Vessels or totems can be imbued for a short while, but a dynasty cursed over generations is the stuff of Gothic Horror novels, not the real world."

Zeb lifted his head slightly. "You're saying Samoset could still be alive.
- It's not my area of expertise and I'm quoting from our own Arcane Research division's reports, but yes," she said. "The Wendigo's a bit like Belial; he's a wild card in cross-cultural demonology, one of the last Fiends born out of a damned soul and fed hatred and malice in enough measure for it to seed tales and legends across a dozen Native American cultures. We think he predates Humanity's exodus from Asia and into North America, back when the Bering Strait was still a landmass you could cross on foot. Bound to a motivated Warlock, he could carry that person through centuries on end without any genetic senescence - as well as any Archmage.
- If he's bound to an immortal shaman, how did Magnus manage to alter Eliphas' curse?"

Pope looked apologetic. "We're not sure. Our best bet is that something as complex as the Buck curse requires upkeep, and that it's now in a sufficiently frayed state - weakened just enough for someone like Magnus to push through and confront it. By the same metric, Samoset returning to Hope would make thing harder for the both of you. You'd feel more pressure, maybe as much pressure as Nikolaas did when he was first cursed."

Zeb looked back up, now looking anguished. "I don't know that Hope could endure much more, Mrs. Pope... She's a tough old girl, but we've suffered much, lately. I also don't..."

He paused, choking, and looked at Andrea. "I'm just so tired of being the neighborhood nuisance, of the locals wondering when my brother or I would end up as a half-sunken headstone in the cemetery behind the manor, of kids your age treating me like some passing Halloween-time fancy. I'm tired of my mind racing to find a cure for something I barely understand, of feeling responsible for two twisted shades of my loved ones, I'm tired of still feeling like I need to apologize for what happened to Silas, even if he's forgiven me since then..."

Then came a self-deprecating chuckle. "And here I was thinking that immortal practitioners came with a mantle of respect! Hope's teenagers and young adults get more done for this plane of existence than I ever could - and I'm the one who has to keep from leaching the local ley lines with his bare hands!"

Elisabeth laid a hand on his knee. "About Robertson - I know this isn't my place to say, but Miranda Robertson wouldn't be here today, if it weren't for you. Silas would've never met Aspasia if you hadn't accidentally created another immortal. He would've died somewhere in the twenties or thirties, an old man - probably with a different life story."

* * *

Aislinn's summation might as well have involved Gabriel taking part in a 10K run, judging by the exhaustion that radiated forth. "Such as?" he asked, obviously dreading the answer.

"Someone's attempted to cure my peers against their will," dropped Horatio. "I understand that Heaven is a place of healing and rest, but some of us vampires happen to enjoy our condition - a fact which someone in your people seems to willingly disregard."

That removed some of the exhaustion from Gabriel's features, alertness returning to his eyes. "These are serious allegations. Do you have proof?
- I'm currently holding my would-be possessor hostage, and I'm using his sin's greater focus to subsume my usually overriding amusement. It's a temporary measure - I'll let him go as soon as we'll have obtained revenge on my troupe's murderers."

Gabriel's eyebrow twitched. "I'd noticed your lack of makeup and your improved composure; I just assumed it was part of some sort of act.
- Oh it is, dear Archangel - it most certainly is. This act isn't for your sake, however: I need Valefor to think his ambitious up-and-comer succeeded - up to a point. Past it, I need my troupe."

Sighing, Gabriel stood up, gathered his wits and briefly closed his eyes. His form's details shifted as he did so, exhaustion turning to mere suggestion behind a barrier of affected steely focus, slackwear turning into his typical military regalia, even as his hair was slicked back.

"I think we all know who the culprit might be," he said. "Despite that, I can't release souls from Heaven if they themselves haven't requested it. I'll need to see your proof, first. May I?"

Grimley looked a little incredulous. "Having a demon screeching around in the back isn't enough, now I need an Archangel rooting around in my noggin?!
- We tend not to possess our hosts," he nuanced, "we angels only take ganders within when we're charged with someone's guardianship. It helps with the job: it lets us know what we can bolster, where we can apply inspiration and where something more overt, such as a state of grace, might be needed."

Horatio grimaced lightly. "You're the last member of a highly exclusive list, Gabriel. Nearly everyone else on it is in this living room with us," he said. "Consider yourself lucky."

Gabriel nodded, his wings appearing as vague, almost wisp-like suggestions along his back. "Point taken. I'll be gentle, I promise."

He then laid a hand on Horatio's shoulder, stepped in slightly closer, and rested his forehead against the addled Weaver's. In response, Horatio seemed to grow slightly more relaxed, his tentacles' autonomic twitching ceasing entirely and the tension he'd borrowed from the Wrath demon leaving his face. "Oh, peace," he murmured, "I haven't felt like this since my first nights at Lilith's side..."

Strangely, he shifted to what Tom recognized as ancient Greek. "How beautiful the stars were, and the moon's pale visage; the Night Mother as one of the Fates, asking that we forget ourselves so that we might remember what matters most... I'd almost forgotten the scents - incense and olives on the wind..."

"Horatio couldn't have met Lilith; we know he was turned by someone in his troupe, to replace the previous Grimley," noted Calhoun, to which the warthog replied with a slightly arch look, not unlike a bookkeeper's asking someone to quiet down. "Lilith burdened the first of the Moon-Mad with endless wanderlust, canonically," he noted, his voice low. "Dispatch the first of her theater performers, the first of the Ringleaders, and his crown falls on another head. Fate had it that a Void Weaver would end up in the Moon-Mad's clutches - and there we are."

* * *

Morgana was in no apparent hurry to answer Meris, a few bare toes peeking out from under her sylvan gown as she stepped just outside the path to inspect a flower clinging to a vine, as if she'd placed it there herself. A few seconds passed, and she looked back at the group over a shoulder.

"An inspired choice," she said, looking at Drake. "I may concede that my adhering to my own game's rules may have allowed aspirants to go by unnoticed. I hadn't planned for someone quite like him, to be honest - civility is a barrier set on survival's path."

Needing an excuse to keep warding Morgana's sheer magnetism, Three opted to use her presence as a means to an end.

"One of your vassals' been encroaching on my hometown with what I think you'd agree as being inconvenient timing," he said. "Is there anything you can tell us about Phineas Sharpe?"

The Queen lowered a hand, and a chubby and multi-colored caterpillar climbed onto it. She observed its brightly-colored growths and spots for a few moments and then returned it to the nearby tree's bark. The half-smile she gave Drake might have been a marker of amusement - or one of mockery.

"Americans - so eager, so consumed with a desire for control... I've enabled Phineas for long centuries as he served as a counterpoint to Oberon and Titania's stultifying devotion to mortal rule; but he has eyes set on his own crown. He besmirches the Wild in his own way even as he claims to serve it. I've taken notice of his other, darker patrons, as well. I don't believe I need to state how little I approve of them.
- Then help us," asked Aidan. "Delay the Dixie Fae however you can - the world needs time to recover, after all this."

Morgana's smirk widened slightly. "I might consider it. Be that as it may, this makes what is waiting beyond this Gate all the more ironic.
- Is Siv in danger?" asked Naberius.

The Queen rolled her eyes and returned to the wall of vegetation. "Nothing so crass, but someone else who has petitioned me certainly is. Someone at Thorn's is in mortal fear of all of you. I might have treated her differently, if I had known you also have eyes set on the old vulture."

She then faced them again, and approached Regis. "Have no fear, little man," she crooned, "I sense the honor bond of the one beside you, Titania's Summer stirring in her bosom..."

One hand on Regis's shoulder, she stopped and addressed Aspasia. "My intent is not to dishonor you by injuring him - far from it. My Raptors have long since respected her Fauns, and that respect holds still to this day. The good Commander is as safe with me as with his mother."

Whatever lust still clung to Three and Isaacs was seemingly abated as Morgana refocused entirely on Regis, her eyes gleaming with power. "Will it hurt?" he weakly asked, Morgana looking surprisingly vulnerable, in the moment. It felt as though she were genuinely fond of Woodford. "My dear Regis," she said, "all births come through pain, but yours will be short - and I will be here. So will your saviors."

He swallowed hard. "Then, madam - I am yours."

She cradled Regis in her arms, the both of them lowering themselves to the floor. She spent a few seconds sweeping hair from his brow, having set the pith helmet aside, and then looked back to the group.

"He is under your geas," she said, glancing from Aspasia to Drake and Meris. "Your concern weighs heavy - will you release him unto me? I cannot free him, otherwise."

Drawing in a breath, Three opted to answer before he'd decide otherwise. "You've got my vote," he said. "Troll him up - Archie might need him, later on."

Honest mirth seemed to mark the Queen's features at that, but she smoothed her brow a millisecond later, waiting for Aspasia and Meris's answers.

* * *

"Very well," noted the maître d'. "Smoking or non-smoking?
- I thought indoors smoking policies were pretty tight across the EU," noted the Broker. "I mean, if you've got a cigar lounge set up, or...
- Smoker's section it is, then," replied the old man. "With demons and dragons about, our definition of a Smoker's section is somewhat different from other restaurants. With all due respect, I've noted your, erm..."

The old man gestured at the corner of his own lips, Melmoth putting a few fingers to his own lips, coming back with a few wisps of the constant smoke he'd all but forgotten he produced. "Oh. Yeah, that'd do it, I guess. It's not like I go about blowing smoke rings in other people's faces, but - hey. Common courtesy and whatnot.
- Precisely, sir. Right this way."

They were led to a secluded, if well-lit section of the restaurant, the lounge's dark Navy blues agreeing well with Melmoth's dark pinstripes and Abdiel's dress. The time zone being different, darkness had well and truly swallowed Vienna that the restaurant smelled like a mixture of breakfast, lunch and dinner foods. A server poured two glasses of water, letting them absorb the vertiginous view of the tower's view of Vienna's central torus of modernized Medieval urban layouts. After a few gulps of water, the Infernal Broker seemingly let go of an fair bit of tension he'd been holding in.

"Sweet Lucifer, what a day," he said. "I've been canoodling with fleshies long enough to pick up their pace, but this is one of those instances where I wouldn't have minded having the Goat around, you know? Hey, asshat, I woulda asked him, can't you, you know, use the fact that we've got billions more years to go before heat death to pace things out a little?! I'm starting to be envious of the Accords-dodgers, those who still act like candlelight's a keen invention!"

* * *

Nami didn't receive a verbal response, but she'd hear Haraldson passing something to Leonard from behind her, the crinkling of paper money following. Ephesian nodded and stalked off. They'd see him address the bouncer and one of the barmen, cold hostility washed over with terror after a few moments, the barman hurriedly pocketing what looked to have been five hundred-dollar bills.

"We should go pick a booth," the Draugr then told the Nephilim, "we won't have to wait too long."

The vampire and half-breed soon picked a high-backed booth that did well to isolate their little group, Magnus making sure he wouldn't be within immediate eyesight. Leonard then returned, sitting at their table in such a way as to briefly obscure Nami. They watched as Quinn reacted with surprise at the overpriced and already-paid-for drink the barman had handed her, and followed the bouncer's glance as he pointed at them. As she could only see Leonard, they'd see her features briefly ice over. The poor girl probably assumed she'd have to briefly entertain an aging creep before reaching her target... In any case, boredom was replaced with a manufactured smile as she followed the goat's glinting eyes and smirk. Once the slayer was close enough, Leonard settled back into the booth's cushions, letting her see Nami. False coquettishness was replaced with annoyance - and a smidgen of curiosity...

She slid into the booth, sitting herself across from Nami and Leonard, turning on its soundproofing wards. The club's noise was reduced to a muffled din, allowing them to speak freely.

"Alright, what is this?" she asked. "I'm here for someone else, so we'll have to do this quick...
- We know," added Magnus, opening his eyes and leaning forward, seemingly bleeding out of the curved booth's most shadowed corner. The girl tensed, her hands went out of sight, but she soon exhaled a calming breath.

"You're lucky most Draugr aren't on my shit list, Haraldson," she said. "If you know me, you know how quickly that can change."

The corpse-like undead nodded. "I'll defer to your warnings, fröken Harker," he said, sarcasm hiding behind apparent civility. "I'd rather you saw me as a client, instead of a target.
- You couldn't afford me," she replied, which made Magnus smirk. 

"Please, don't insult Wyvern's Corporate Accounts management team, miss. I could afford you ten times over.
- You don't need me for your targets," she countered, "you've got Wyvern's Ops team.
- I'm the CEO," he replied, "I decide who I need. Besides, I'm not the one who needs you - Hope is."

She pursed her lips together. "I don't do hero shit, Haraldson. Even if I did, you'd snap handcuffs on me as soon as the Big Bad would be locked down," she said, apparently sitting back up. "This was a mistake - thanks for fucking up a lucrative hit for me. Enjoy the party-"

Before she could leave, Magnus gripped one of her wrists. The girl's features changed as he did, her pupils turning to pinpricks and her upper lips growing slightly more prominent, fangs poking from underneath them. "Let go, or I'll break it off," she growled. Magnus didn't comply, Quinn placing her other hand on his forearm and beginning to apply pressure.

"A full pardon," the Draugr intoned. "Let us join you - I've tipped off Security as well as the bar - they'll keep Bathory distracted until we can finish negotiating. She has thralls and flunkies; her general youth as a corporeal immortal doesn't preclude her being dangerous. Let us help you see this through, and I'll have your slate cleaned with all letter agencies and Interpol.
- What's the catch?" she asked, increasing pressure. One of Magnus' forearm bones audibly snapped, but the undead only lightly twitched in response. "Room and board here, for ten years. A salary and benefits. A presentable resume, Quinn - more than a hundred and fifty years too late.
- Can't work if I'm tied down," she countered.

Magnus smirked, as though the sound of his remaining arm bone grinding against the snapped-off one wasn't exactly gruesome. With his jacket being dark, it was currently impossible to see if he had an opened or closed fracture to nurse. Being what he was, having both forearm bones snapped off would only result in minimal blood loss, and would also be repaired with a small amount of the stuff.

"All. Abroad. Expenses. Paid." he intoned, as though the four words had some arcane value. Doubt crept in the slayer's features, and she finally relented, looking back to the other two.

"Shit," she swore, her voice low, "you're actually serious, aren't you?"
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

Post by TennyoCeres84 »

Crystal pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I know I mentioned that Nereus would likely be the one to signal for us to help him, but is there any way to aid him before then?" she asked the sommelier.

***

"Ms. Pope is correct, Zeb. Even those three people's lives were bettered because of your involvement. If Silas was before you now, I think he'd tell you that your actions were the event that enabled him to be a husband and a father. Not many people can say that, honestly. It's rather remarkable, to be honest," Andrea commented.

"As for changing people's perception of you, be the opposite of that. See yourself as having some worth to offer the world, even if you don't necessarily believe it yourself. Fake it until you make it, if you have to. It's a better option that returning to who you were and letting the situation get out of control," she mused.

***

Aislinn shrugged. "He might not have been physically there, but there's memories of it passed down along that bloodline. Selkies have something similar with racial memories, We can retrieve knowledge that might prove useful for this or that," she explained. "Why not the Moon-Mad? Lilith's one of the co-administrators of vampires, so she can gift these types of things as she likes, after all."

***

The mention of the female at Thorn's made both women raise an eyebrow. The identity of the perpetrator would have to wait, as the Summer Queen needed their permissions to proceed. The Fauness was still partially leery of allowing Regis to fall under Morgana's sway, but his choices were otherwise limited. What else could they do?

The Archmage shared Aspasia's partial reluctance and recalled Delmar's warning. However, his options were indeed few. "Yes, I relinquish him over to you," she said before reassuringly resting her hand on Woodford's shoulder.

Aspasia let out a faint sigh and nodded. "Yeah, I release him from myself so that he might be reborn," she said.

***

Abdiel sipped at her own water and let her own tension drain from her form, letting a heavy sigh leave her lips. At his quip, the angel chuckled. "I doubt it. The Goat's never been a patient one. It's his way or the highway, so to speak. However, I don't see you being like the Accords-dodgers. You've run a tight ship with the methods that have worked best for you. From what I heard, you had copiers in your offices before they even existed in the mortal plane, due to Angel Time. You are who you are, Mel," she answered with an easygoing smile. "I suppose that's why it's not uncommon for folks from both sides to carve out niches in time where they can simply walk away from it for a little while."

***

"Damn right he is," Nami responded with a little too perky smile, losing some of the mysterious allure she had put on before. "Bathory's holding the original owner's soul captive. We still want you to stop her, but incapacitate her long enough to wrench Bathory out of there. If you just kill her, then the original soul dies, and we can't have that. That way, the HPD gets to keep one of their officers while also leaving room for the actual deputy chief to return at some point."

"It's a punch in the face to the Goat, and it destabilizes things just a bit more in the city's favor. That, and you get to have everything Mr. Haraldson just offered. I'd say that's a pretty good deal, eh?" she asked, pearly whites on display.

By now, it'd be obvious Harker was speaking with a different type of half breed, one that somehow blended angelic optimism with some feline traits effortlessly.
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

Post by IamLEAM1983 »

"We believe we've isolated a few dead drops of his, closer to the East Coast," said the spymaster. "If you've resources, such as funds, clothing or forged credentials to supply him with, we can have them planted in time for his reaching them. I understand you've also been attuned to the Darkhallow; which would make it possible for anyone in your group to virtually track him. Your support might only be verbal or psychological in this specific instance, but it would matter just as well."

Holden tapped his glass. "I understand I was never part of your brotherhood, dear sir, but is there a means through which I might keep a more accurate eye on these proceedings?"

The Squid smirked. "We could always use more handlers, Lord Holden. You already have your team, but do you believe you could manage answering coded phone calls and text messages?
- I've had to write my fair share of coded missives in the past," noted the android, "how hard could this be? The question is, however, whether or not your field operatives will accept my input."

The spymaster's smirk turned to a smile. "Milord, you are a legend and an inspiration in this business. Were you to ask of my six hundred embedded operatives to rip their Flesh Masks off and belt out Italian opera classics in full view of the public, most would scarcely hesitate if they knew this order came from you."

Holden chuckled in response. "You needn't worry - I won't subject fellow tradesmen to anything too demeaning. If steering a few guttersnipes amidst the chaos to follow should give us some sort of edge, you'll find me a very watchful handler. That said, if we're to work together, might I have your name?"

The sommelier smiled. "Eustace Coombs, Lord Holden - at your service. I was born and raised in London's undercity, where the Gaslight Era's pickpockets and small-time criminals used to congregate. My fathers were of House Hamasir - one of the first to fall to the Chamberlain and Speaker's purge of Dalarath. We followed in Lulroth's footsteps with less immediate success, but more breeding than your average Southwark filch. Before long, the White Brotherhood found us, as well as concrete use for Void Weavers with slightly Byronic penchants. The rest unfolded as you might expect: the pauper kings went from expensive rags to morning coats and pie-tails, our expensive tastes making us useful double agents hiding among the Loyalist cells."

Archie then glanced about. "Speaking of - mister Whitney told us you were the man to see if we sought out something more robust, shall we say."

Coombs raised a finger at that, mirthful lines marking his eyes. He pressed a button on his side of the table, the previously flush-looking panels in the walls clicking and slowly hinging outwards with barely a few hydraulic whispers. If Charles Jenkins had been present, the displayed arsenal would certainly have ripped an impressed whistle out of him. The crème de la crème of German, Swiss and American engineering was in full display, all neatly arranged by type. Crystal would undoubtedly recognize the sort of ordnance that was more to be expected of PMCs or of excessively over-funded Saudi police precincts than anything you would've hoped to find even in the HPD's lockers. Still, a few home-grown classics were on offer, as Coombs carefully lowered a Barrett M82A1 rifle from its stand, passing it to Archie.

"This is understandably less impressive than your own holdout single-shot, Milord," he said, pointing at his cane, "but it has defined the American forces' efforts in Afghanistan and Iraq. Resilient and adaptable, the Barrett is still my personal favorite when strikes need to be landed quickly and decisively. I would recommend the Italian stock for mid to short-range - the Benelli M4 is sleek, generally lightweight and utterly devastating when placed in capable hands - and equally capable of surgical strikes or cover demolition, if paired with the proper choke."

Archie grimaced lightly. "Rifles were only ever a concession to the expectations placed upon the men of my family - a nod to those hunting parties I used to abhor. Shotguns are effective, true, but I've only found use for them as a form of target suppression... Crystal could chew your ear off about their excessive representation, I believe. This is without mentioning how neither of us are killers per se, but rather individuals skilled in disabling others."

Coombs' hairless eyebrows went up. "Ah," he said, more in assent than out of surprise. "You did use to carry holdout blades and a sword cane, after all; I should've known you would've been the type to carry responsibility for your dispatched targets. The same goes without saying for you as well, Madame," he said, nodding to Lowell. "This calls for a personal touch."

He headed back to the table, pressing on another hidden latch to make its seemingly wooden top reveal itself as glass concealed by a sliding faux wood panel. Within waited everything from standard combat knives to multi-use Bowie blades, to balanced throwing knives, modern kunai molded out of sharpened composite material - all the way through to, strangely enough, sharpened metallic chopsticks.

Archie picked one up, producing a quiet and pensive hum. "Spotted something familiar?" asked the spymaster, to which Archie replied with a flash of hesitation - then followed with a satisfied smile. Some rabbit holes weren't worth falling through... He set the chopstick back in its place.

"You could say I've been reminded of old friends," he said, Eustace smirking at that. "I'd have imagined, yes," opined the Void Weaver. "By the by, Katsumoto-san says hello."

The android couldn't repress a slightly more obvious peal of laughter. "Of course, he would. You may return my salutations, should you work with him in future."

* * *

Zeb looked about, at the busy anthros, humans and Void Weavers that were trying their best not to pay too much attention as they passed by. "I know," he said, "I'd simply hoped things would be more convenient."

Liz smiled. "Nothing is ever convenient, Zebediah. Neither of us want to address the threat your past poses to Hope, but it'll still need to be faced. I wasn't born female; I had to trust my body to people who hadn't ever seen Squid anatomy before for my sex reassignment procedure, and I'm trusting the Architect to heal me and take care of the rest. It was hard and painful, I had to go through nearly two hundred years as a man I loathed before I could start living as the woman I want to be."

Zeb blinked a few times. "Wait - you look even further along your transition than Helena Rivas, back in Hope! How can you-
- Surgeries offered a starting point, then came carefully dosed meditative chanting routines, seeing as our understanding of the Architect's syntax is still fragmentary. I widened my hips, filled in my breasts, reabsorbed my Adam's apple into the surrounding throat tissue. Slowly, with sometimes daily medical examinations, I altered myself with more directed purpose than most Prelates could ever hope to display. I'm structurally identical to a woman as of the last few months - now I'm down to recombining my own DNA to eventually activate the womb I gave myself," she explained, sighing.

"That's going to be the longest and hardest part. Genetic recombination is dangerous, especially if it's done the way we Weavers do, as opposed to CRISPR gene therapy. We don't use retro-viral agents to introduce changes in minute amounts; we directly rewrite our code. One wrong switch, and I could turn my brand-new ovaries into cancerous tumors waiting to happen. That means I have to study my own DNA, record changes in test strains and cell cultures, and only commit to myself what I'm sure is risk-free. It's a terrifying procedure, but it's also one of the more assertive projects I've ever had the honor to work on."

She focused back on Zeb's concerns. "Anything worthwhile comes with some amount of uncertainty, just as they need to be approached piecemeal. You've managed to make it here, so we'd like to give you the first piece."

Pope then looked back to Andrea. "We have something for both yourself and you mother, Andrea - and hopefully the rest of Hope's Theriomorphs. We hope it'll give you an edge during the rest of the conflict against Hell."

She shrugged lightly as Zeb stood up. "The Architect and his Curators all seem fairly convinced, at least. It's this way - we have to cut through here to reach the Arcane Studies division from the side."

* * *

A few seconds passed, and Gabriel lifted his head, seemingly placing a new gaze on Horatio. "I confess I used to have my doubts about some of Lilith and Lucifer's children," he said. "I might look disturbed, but you've actually assuaged my fears, mister Grimley. Your kind deserves better than to be addressed as Freaks."

Horatio looked about ready to cackle for about half a second, before his focus reasserted itself. "Your concern is appreciated, Gabriel. Now, about my family..."

In lieu of response, the Archangel directed his gaze at the living room, the leftover meals and utensils disappearing and the space's clutter transitioning into a neat and orderly disposition. In the kitchen, the now-displaced garbage bag in the bin was faintly heard rustling and settling into place as added mass seemingly was conjured within it.

"Considering the circumstances," he said, "and seeing as two of you are growing intimate with Hell's topography, it seems fair that I extend the same courtesy.
- What if Uriel's fan club complains?" asked Tom, to which the Archangel replied with a soft, if stern gaze. "They'll answer to me if they object; we know Heaven's construct can stomach corporeal matter. We just don't know if this is an added feature of the Creator's or something that was always present. As you can imagine, this has become a bit of a hot topic of late, nevermind the direct corporeal forms of souls manifesting through our new Gates to the mortal plane."

Tom tsked at that. "Theology and politics - a dangerous combination if there ever was one... How do we get there, considering?"

Smirking, Gabriel paused as he set his hand on the front door's knob. "You forget what I am, mister Magnus. If I want you to reach Heaven, you've already reached it."

He opened the door.

At first, Aislinn might think nothing had changed: there was the house's front lawn, followed by the sidewalk and a realistically cracked and weathered stretch of residential asphalt. What had changed was the light, outside, and the sense of scale. Firstly, the summer-like haze outdoors didn't carry the terrestrial sun's seasonal oppression, instead going for a sense of comfortable warmth. Colors seemed a tiny bit more vibrant, smells a smidge more bold, and the distant din of the city almost had a musical quality to it, as if the sounds of cars speeding on distant overpasses or the occasional car horn were all part of some meticulously-crafted symphony. What made it clear that this wasn't Hope, however, was in how the distant haze past the cerulean-blue skies and dappled clouds revealed rooftops and streets as seen from above, light catching into and weakly reflected into the curved plane of a distant, faintly-visible lake. Heaven more or less appeared to defy basic concepts like geometry and physics, seeing as the inwards curve of the sphere it seemed to present as looked prospectively infinite.

Then, there'd be the faint and rather odd impression to follow, as they'd glance at the sun while taking the plane of Bliss' infinity in: that of the sun's apparent kindness. Amitiel had just told them of God's ineffable love seeping forth from the Aperture, and their apparent proximity to the absolute ground-plane and distance from the celestial object muted that Eldritch, mind-rending love into something merely mundane and easily graspable: from down where they stood, God's sun merely looked like a benevolent observer, amused and attentive - as if they were in a luxurious ant farm being looked over by a diligent entomologist that monitored their every need.

Horatio made a noise. "That's strange, I'd have thought Heaven would be less easy on the eyes," he observed. "Less shaded, let's say.
- You call that shaded?" noted Calhoun, "This looks more like a misty Irish summer morning, to me. I haven't seen that kind of golden glow in the air in long years..."

Gabriel smirked. "You're both right, actually. Heaven's visual parameters tend to adjust themselves depending on who's experiencing it. You could say every soul gets its own private graphics shader, to borrow from visual computing theory."

Tom nodded as he looked about. "I can see that: the sky's exact shade, that shade of beige on the car, across the street - these are some of the colors I've always associated with Iram. Would that suggest I could end up rolling my sleeves and that Ais could buy a sweater somewhere, in comparison?"

Gabriel nodded. "If your idea of paradise is on the chilly side, there you go. If you'd rather ditch your jacket and roll up your sleeves - or even go for shorts and sandals - then it'll work just as well. We like to entertain mild paradoxes like these, here, to emphasize the importance we attach to the residing souls' comfort. We keep to a certain bedrock of realism, so we won't allow certain absurd combinations, like building snowmen while wearing a dash of sunscreen and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. Within those limitations, everything is possible. Some districts are snowed-in all year round, others are always on Summer Solstice. Nights stretch on forever in other parts, to accommodate fearful Guildmates or photo-sensitive Void Weavers fresh out of Dalarath or Respite Point, and every conceivable non-destructive weather pattern can be easily summoned into being on a personalized basis."

Horatio looked about, not looking entirely focused. "Yes, that's grand - and my troupe?
- ...and therein lie the benefits of Angel Time," replied Gabriel. "I left for longer than you could perceive, when I changed my clothes, and stopped here to put something together. We won't have to go too far - just across the street, to the park ahead. Uriel will have hopefully received my polite suggestion to stay away; your friends needed time to recover from what ironically was an attempt to offer them decent care."

Grimley half-tromped and half-ran in the indicated direction. "My cane stuffed down his throat won't be quite so ironic, if I see him! Come on, you laggards, we've got an assault force to mount!" His exhilaration was probably too much for the captive demon's channeled influence to drown out, this time, and what started as a satisfied and slightly haughty scoffing noise turned into slowly billowing laughter. His resolute steps turned cartoonishly bullish and then bled into a few gratuitous acrobatics, along with prancing leaps that were much too energetic for even the local Blissful to not give him odd looks.

One of them, an old man, looked back to Gabriel with a puzzled look. "Everything alright with him, chief?
- No," replied the Archangel. "Suffice it so say, everything's not alright with him, and this is exactly how it should be.
- Ah," nodded the old man. "That explains the circus tent, then, right past the bike path."

As if on cue, what started as a blood-curdling yelp and ended up being a supernaturally-powered whoop of mad glee shook the neighborhood, a few locals screaming as they were startled, some neighborhood dogs barking around some nearby corner.

"I think he found the tent," noted Tom, smiling as he did. "We should take this in while we can, things are about to turn fairly serious soon."

Hannibal looked mildly annoyed, in comparison. "I never understood the circus motif, honestly - his whole angle feels ridiculously emphasized to me.
- That's because you're a good dozen generations removed from your bloodline's source, Calhoun," noted Tom. "Not only that, but you're part of the point where the bloodline probably starts to fray, with sane Freaks counseling trigger-happy pint-sized sociopaths. As far as Horatio's concerned, madness is a creative impulse. Come on, you'll probably see something close to what Ais and I saw, in his mind. It'll make more sense, then."

* * *

"Thank you," replied Morgana, her smile looking disarmingly honest for a heartbeat, before her lowering her head towards Woodford's gave it a more calculating appearance. Woodford looked understandably self-conscious in what looked like an odd twist on Pieta imagery, his concern seemingly ebbing away as soon as the Queen of Baleful Dawns lowered her lips against his scalp. His eyelids fluttered and a hand moved to the side. He could only loosely articulate something that might've been the word rifle that something audibly popped in his spine. It seemed as though Morgana had applied some kind of geas-based anesthetic, but it clearly didn't entirely blunt the procedure's effects. Regis' breath grew shallow and his eyes flew open, adrenaline elevating him back to apparent sobriety even if his reactions didn't quite match the excruciating nature of what his body was undergoing. Strangely enough, even his clothes followed along, remaining proportional the whole way through.

It started as his spine being compressed by some unknown force, snapping bones and shifting sinews sounding audibly as the lanky Englishman seemingly had spinal discs removed through arcane means, his limbs tensing and similarly contorting and shortening only much later than his chest. Judging by the way he gasped for air, his lungs and other internal organs hadn't followed suit in the immediate, and were only compressed down to troll size several agonizing seconds later. When his heart stopped, both hands - still misshapen as they were - flew to his chest and clutched it desperately, only relaxing once the organ had seemingly reached the appropriate size and resumed operations. Then came changes to his dermis and face, patches of moldy green bursting on his chest and spreading like cancerous moles, even as the bones of his face snapped and popped. His ears grew longer, their unused muscles gained more definition, and his previously hawkish nose turned into a drooping caricature of what it had been, his jaw growing disproportionately thin even as his chin became even more defined than it had been. He opened his mouth to scream, only croaking noises coming out as his vocal tract was seemingly torn apart and reformed. The same instants saw his teeth fall in a rapid timelapse, jagged dagger-points of bone bursting forth from new tooth buds that hadn't been part of his jaw's makeup only seconds before. His eyes turned yellow as fat deposits formed in his irises.

Scooter chuckled meanly as he crept in closer. "Ye think dat's painful, eh? Wait 'till your guts start churnin', mon..."

Regis only managed a croaked and half-conscious What? before pain made him curl up in a fetal position while still in Morgana's lap, a rather recognizable stench rising from him. His bowels were being voided, Morgana's ministrations ensuring that the resulting offal didn't so much as make it out of Regis and into the open air. Gas had escaped, but the rest had seemingly been removed through more magic. Painful aftershocks shook Woodford's body, one hand half-convulsively reaching out for his now pint-sized pith helmet. "No," he finally managed to croak, "no! Don't let her... finish!"

Ignoring his distress, the True Fae shifted his position until he stood in her arms again. "The Wilds have taken you, Commander Woodford," she said, her tone eerily gentle. "You must now take them in return."

The other trolls were now excitedly chattering at one another, while Garvey looked to the air with the looks of someone who took some mean relish out of what was about to happen. A low buzzing sound filled the air, a swarm of black insects then emerging from the canopy and blotting out the slit of blue jungle sky. They looked like hornets dipped in black ink and festooned with viridian markers, with wings stolen from much larger dragonflies making the air shimmer about them. The massive swarm banked down as a single mass, stopped above Morgana and Regis, and seemingly waited as the Queen attempted to force the newborn troll's jaw open. It made for a gruesome tableau; her face and head tilt suggesting nurturing kindness, even as her hands ruthlessly quested for his lips. Unable to keep her off him, Regis had to resort to bites. They seemingly had no effect, his now-uneven teeth sliding against the supernaturally hard fingers of the self-made jungle goddess, the only blood that welled forth being his own, whenever he nicked his own gums.

Three's bound pistols and sword itched at him, every fiber of his being screamed for him to act. Delmar, on the other hand, addressed him and Meris again.

"No, Aidan - don't do it. If you intervene, she'll have every reason to assist Sharpe further and you'll doom Hope to another crisis! We won't be able to rebuild in peace, the Void Weaver rebels are going to suffer for this if you make another enemy! It's not Woodford she'd been planning for, she'd been hoping for someone like us to step in! She'll bar the way - we'll never find our way back to Siv and Hope again!"

For once, Three ignored the old Squid. He didn't speak to Meris, but the glance he sent her was obvious. They had to act. Fae Oaths be damned, this man was in danger!

* * *

"Well, thanks," replied the Broker, hiding a spot of bashfulness behind another sip. "Doesn't change the fact that I feel guilty about it. Mortals are stuck in the thick of it, lately, and we can just-"

He lifted a hand and a finger, as if dismissing a waiter that would've stopped by too early. Time seemingly froze around the Throne and Broker, raindrops holding their position against the glass, forkfuls suspended halfway across to the guests' mouths, the light Classical music that had been piping in the air reduced to ethereal tones, a single stretched-out piano note airily filling the space, conversations suspended in a single low-note, as if the patrons had all taken to a lighter, more harmonious take on Tibetan throat singing.

"We can make seconds last for days, if we need to. Battlefields can turn peaceful, we can put our shit back together for ages in the space between two bullets being fired. Back when I used to be credited by the Goat, I sometimes used that to turn a hectic office day into a neat and orderly checklist. It sometimes made me lose track of how things were for some of my workers, especially those who didn't have access to that. Now that you're my elemental Girl Friday, I'm realizing how unfair that was - how unfair it is for everyone else, down there," he said, looking outside. 

He sighed. "I like the idea of trapping the Goat in a second: an eternity to spend plotting, no way to feasibly affect anyone outside of his cell."

Another gesture and time was resumed. "It's unfair for us collaborating supernaturals, too. We had our own habits, our own way of doing things... Most of us are going to adapt without a hitch, I know that much, but even the law-abiding stretches have a few types who can't quite walk or talk Mortal Plane, if you catch my drift. Like Magnus' Paimon fella, for instance. Guy means well, sure, but all he's done is take Pride and stick carry handles onto it, for ease of use," he said, scoffing in amusement.

* * *

Quinn looked as though she were taking Nami's arguments into account, while also considering her background. She gave the club's surroundings a wary look, as if afraid that Bathory would waltz off in the interim, and finally relented. "Fine," she said. "I don't play Third Wheel, though. If I'm paid to slay someone and go through issues with the hit, I have to leave them disabled, at least. I'll spare the body as much as I can - which won't be much if she puts up a fight - and then waive the right to at least maim the demon.
- If you consent to our deal," noted Haraldson, arm still pinned, "then you forsake your code, fröken. Bathory gets a fair trial. Maiming her is off the table. Do what you have to in order to disable her, without taking a single step further."

She looked back at the club and chewed on her lower lip. "I don't like this," she groused.

"Neither do I," replied Ephesian, "but it's the only sound thing to do. The only moral and lawful thing to do, as grating as that notion might be for all those I carry who, even now, would like nothing more than to see her head on a pike. I'm an attorney, miss Harker - not a vigilante."

Finally, the young woman sat up and removed some pressure from Magnus' arm, in the process. "Alright," she said, "how do we play this?"

The Draugr politely coughed, his good hand curled in a fist against his mouth. "I'd like my arm and hand back, first. Some sustenance, as well. I don't do discothèques too well with broken arms."

Quinn smirked at Haraldson's archaic term, and she began rummaging in her purse. "I didn't picture you as a Disco fan, Haraldson.
- I wasn't much for free love or elephant pants," replied the cadaverous vampire, "but I wasn't legal yet and Disco beer was cheap.
- You're not biologically alive," she noted, as she handed him a small vial of dark, viscous liquid. "How did you metabolize booze?
- I found someone with objectionable qualities every Saturday night, and fed from them. The truly objectionable ones, I left half-drained by Tönsberg's hospital."

He uncorked the small vial and used his good hand to take a few sips of blood. A few seconds later, the equally gut-wrenching sounds of his arm bones realigning and of freeze-fried flesh mending played out for a few seconds. Again, he barely flinched. Then came a few test flexes, with his dried finger bones popping as he made a fist and rolled his wrist.

He smiled. "Yes - Saturday Night Fever has been quite profitable for me..."
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Re: Chapter VI - Asunder

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Crystal couldn't help but smile at the android. "Small world," she said as she looked at the chopsticks without touching them. She glanced over the other weapons and tilted her head curiously. "Any of them suit your tastes?"

***

At the mention of having something beneficial for Theriomorphs, Andrea quirked an eyebrow and followed after Pope. "What do you have, then?" she asked.


***

Seeing the big top, Aislinn offered Tom and Calhoun a mirthful smile and made a beeline for the large tent, curious as to what they would find and how they might help Horatio's troupe.

***

The scent of Garvey and the other trolls' sadism clenched Aspasia's stomach. She recalled how Spearhead would take satisfaction out of a downed opponent's defeat, but something in her told that he wouldn't agree with Woodford's treatment. Morgana's forceful attempt at killing his humanity and turning it into something wilder, fearless, yet completely lacking in compassion grated against that honor bond Morgana had sensed. If she didn't do something, she had the sense of Spearhead's disappointment weighing down on her mind. It reminded her of others' attempts to bring her Fae side out by force, rather than letting it occur naturally. Using the hornets to replace his identity rankled against her Wyldfae core. Woodford had had very limited choices as it was, but this was his Choosing; what Morgana was doing was completely stealing what little choice he had away.

The Fauness felt an increase in the blood pumping to the extremities of her limbs and face, the heart beating unlike it had since her emergence from the incubation tube. The false memories of fire raining down from the sky was nothing like this, as something instinctive and deeply buried came to the forefront. Along with this surge, ethereal sensations of light, grace, and life powered through her. Her outer appearance didn't necessarily change, save for the reddening of her ears. She was all at once wild and gifted with an insight she had felt only one other time in Japan.

Meanwhile, Meris's empathy, for once, rejected Delmar's instructions of not intervening. There was no guarantee that the Summer Queen would aid them against the Dixie Fae. It was probably a vague promise to lure them into trusting her somewhat. The Heiress had been been about to act when she sensed the sudden shift in arcane energy from the satyress.

While Morgana held Regis's mouth open, an inspired and a deep melody reached past his lips and down into his being, beating out the horde of Fae insects. It carried a sense of aid, a lifeline, but also an enormous wealth of empathy and courage. It filled him up and and seeped into those vulnerable places that had been left behind during his transformation, providing a sense of shielding against the callousness of the Fae Monarch. Getting close to Morgana herself had seemed risky, but hopefully her song would shield him against the brunt of the eerie bugs' sting. Aspasia inwardly hoped that it would create a buffer for them to get through the Gate.

Given that they were still vulnerable, Meris took the time that the Queen and the other Wyldfae might've been distracted by Aspasia's change to let her own fount of power swell forth. Her eyes glowed powerfully and her hair gently undulated with the sway of her rank as Solomon's Heiress, in preparation of what Morgana might say or do.

***

"Well, to paraphrase quite liberally, humanity wasn't built in a few months," Abdiel partially joked, then sighing. "Paimon has only rebelled fairly recently, while we've both been immersed in mortal society for a considerably longer time. He needs time and experience to poke holes in the Pride bubble. So far, he's remained in the complex or in battle, locations still in his comfort zone. Vulnerability is required to show another side of things."

She leaned back and pursed her lips. "To be honest, I've sometimes wondered if it would have been better if we should have simply attempted to live among the mortal, rather than lay out the basics of civilization. They've always been intelligent; they likely could've found a means to survive and then adapt on their own, which could have potentially resulted in less grief and resentment on all sides," she expressed, obviously sharing a candid moment of regret.

***

Nami scoffed and shook her head. "You two are reinforcing how much of a youngster I am, in comparison" she noted with amusement. She then returned to Quinn's question and suggested, "Wouldn't luring her in be the simplest means of getting close to her and disabling her? Or is she the type to catch wind of an ambush quickly?"
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