Upon seeing the spectacle, Aspasia felt her heart skip a beat out of its usual rhythm, enough that she brought a hand up to her chest. She couldn't sense any spikes in the arcane levels, but something struck her about it all. Her gut clenched at Lucian's screams, but she found the scene strangely beautiful. "He'll be okay, at least. Probably more than okay, I think," she murmured to Coach and Claudia. "I feel that much..."
***
Within the narrow window of those few seconds, Sophia let all that power surge forth like a powerful waterfall through the point of contact of their joined hands. Francis, Naberius, and the others would see her cast off some of her winter gloom, while Sumner warmth glowed in her features, much like it had during the famous summer of '75.
"You are reborn, Lucian Rothchild," she whispered with a smile. "May you finally know the Mother's blessing and use it for the protection of this world."
***
"I'm sorry, but you cannot stay," Meris uttered. Regardless of what Evvie actually was, she wove a lullaby of deep rest and love from from her husband and son, not so much memories as the feelings and sensations associated with such bonds. It might have been cruel to some, but the specter would feel a merciful slumber beckon her. The emotions of familial and romantic love would swaddle and rock her into a dormant state. "Sleep, Evangeline," she sang.
***
"Will do!"Neasa chirped. "At least we'll be arriving in style!" The selkie hurried and untied the moorings, setting the airship free of its bounds.
Chapter V - Brimstone
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
For a few seconds, nothing much seemed to be happening. Then, as Amazo was about to verbalize his doubts, Lucian's back arched and his head bowed back, eyes flying open - and completely white. The Nexus burrowed into the aging Void Weaver, via suffusing each cell and even back-lighting his broken arm bones as they seamlessly reconnected with one another. The same went for his bruised right temple, bone debris reconnecting with the main plate of the right brow, the fissure lines closing before the group's eyes. His wrinkles seemed to grow slightly more muted, his chest and arms' sagging muscles seemingly regaining some vigor.
"Oh my God," breathed Astra, "the Nexus is buffing out the last two centuries of wear and tear! And look - his head!"
The same effect seemed to be taking place inside Rothchild's skull as magic coursed along his synapses and relentlessly pursued the darker tendrils of Amaxi's curse. "I think it's restoring his neurons' myelin sheaths!" the Void Weaver's adoptive descendant whispered.
Soon, the Void Weaver's mouth began to move - but his voice seemed to come from everywhere around Sophia's mound. With his back arched, his hands clawed into the cavern's loose soil and allowed for glowing and oddly geometrical eddies to dance along the floor and walls. It looked like Celtic knotwork reinterpreted through Ionic or Doric patterns, whorls of binary code or forming and unforming cogs and pinwheels.
"I see the Tower!" said Lucian, his voice resonating in the tunnels. "Home of the Architect, Custodian of God's Laws, Creator Before All Creators! The Tower, the Key, the Gate for the Young Maker's Worlds! In all things silent and hidden, He Who Finds Order in Chaos lies - and the blood before my blood was His custodian! We stood before Darkness and wielded our Light! Guardians of the Real, Keepers of What Is - Incontrovertibly and Forevermore! One of Us stands before you, Maker of Worlds, after centuries of madness and depravity! My staff and words, I pledge them to Your Covenant with my Creator! Burn Her disease from me, so that I may be whole!"
The whorls reached back down to the floor and formed a geometric pattern underneath Lucian, glowing blue vines reaching up to cup the back of his head in a sort of organic headrest. As soon as contact was made, you could've sworn Lucian's skull and skin were made of some sort of electrochromic material, as they both turned transparent. His brain became entirely visible, and tiny tubules of via were seen snaking through the braincase's fluid and connecting to the organ. By that point, Sophia would have the distinct impression that the Tree chose to relinquish near-complete control to the Void Weaver. He clenched his teeth, pupils slowly becoming visible again as he focused on a precise point of the cavern's ceiling - almost as though he could see through it.
"You will not have me, Harlot of Dead Worlds!" he seethed. "You will not have my family, you will not have this city! I will not see Your madness compound our tribulations!"
Then, it'd be safe to say he turned the Centennial Tree into a massive broadcast antenna. Pinpricks of blue werelight shot straight up from the tree's naked branches, joining at an angle to form a sort of amplifier dish. What was broadcast seemed to be a form of counter-hex, an arcane denial of this new practitioner's soul and power intended to be received by a dead goddess. As it happened, the created scaffold of vines began to encompass his torso and limbs, pushing and bending so that Rothchild would eventually be able to stand. A few seconds later, hologram-like discs of spell-focusing circles and glyphs bloomed around his arms and tentacles, Rothchild bending his arms and a few fingers in a motion that felt too calculated to be random. It had to be a kind of gesture-based spell, then, one that was amplified by the flexibility of his facial tendrils. His bloodied shirt, stained pants and rumpled tweed jacket seemingly turned liquid and flowed around his form, eventually settling into the brown fur-lined overcoat he'd once worn in Victorian times. The suit underneath, however, looked contemporary - a clump of vines that had gathered atop his head withering away to reveal a sort of tweed-and-leather flatcap.
Focused as he was, he didn't pay much attention to his saviors as he levitated off of his plant-based berth, phased through the ceiling and then emerged through the ground as he floated towards Aspasia and Coach, his tentacles bobbing around his face until he regained a corporeal status. Obviously, the demonic blockade's spokesperson didn't look too pleased. Still, Lucian rested his cane against the ground and lightly brushed dirt specks off of his overcoat.
"Tell me, my friend," he asked of the demon, his voice still a bit hoarse with age, but now bold and strong, fully expressing his character. "What is the popular adage concerning Wizards and Archmages?"
The demon narrowed his eyes. "Why ask this of me, Flesh-Crafter?
- Call it an indulgence," replied the Squid. "I haven't felt this good in close to four centuries - that leaves me feeling a tad magnanimous. You wouldn't like the alternative."
Coach smirked. "Can I answer this one, Lucian?
- Oh, I know you can, mister Robertson. I'd simply like to see if our friend can."
The demon nodded hesitantly. "The popular adage is that Wizards and Archmages are subtle and quick to anger. One of your writers shared this writ.
- Tolkien, yes," breezily replied the Void Weaver, before shifting his grip on his cane. He brandished the cane's pommel in a commanding fashion. "To wit, I am not feeling particularly subtle, at the moment."
More cascading green-blue symbols and disc patterns began to shift and flow along his extended arm. The blockade's oily curved wall was seen rippling - most, if not all of the noncorporeal demons that composed it seemingly flying away or sinking back down into the earth. Still, enough had remained to pose a problem for anyone attempting to enter or leave. That left Rothchild with a disappointed moue and a bit of a grunt.
"Hrmph. A warning shot it is, then."
He gave his cane a slow turning motion, coarse hands or grasping claws fashioned out of soil or rocks reaching out to grip the spokesman's legs, pulling him down into the soil until his ankles were trapped. The demonic spokesman tried to go non-corporeal, but something in Lucian's ministrations kept him firmly anchored.
"Madam Robertson," he then said, nodding slightly and pointing at her firearm, "whenever you're ready."
* * *
Evvie fought to the last of her focus, but soon slumped to the floor. Meris' victory would be short-lived, however, as the half-bleats and half-gurgles of the remaining retinue from a floor below being torn apart sounded. Six Winter Fae climbed up the stairs, looking like the usual mix of human Faerie and anthro variants. They wore dark chainmail that gave Percy pause and they themselves stopped at Meris' sight. That got them to grip the base of their necks with a hand and to pull - their Flesh Masks coming off as they did so.
"You might have succeeded in conjuring the Adversary," one of them said, "but you'll lose the Hand of Oberon. On this, we swear."
Krampus gritted his teeth, looking back briefly as he saw Evangeline fade away from Faerie's plane. "Come and fucking get me, you lamprey-faced pricks!" he groused. "I'll cut your tentacles off and feed 'em to my cat!"
* * *
From atop the Archimedes, Neasa would soon see Archie nimbly sprinting up the hill, one hand almost comically fastened to his top hat's brim. A few key turns had given him enough stamina to make a leap for the last mooring left from the bottom of the docks' stairs, and to grip the line just short of being high enough for Neasa to immediately pull up. A few easy swinging motions later, he landed on the main deck like the more dapper version of a certain spider-themed superhero. In the meantime, Bucky's footfalls had been particularly audible, as a quick succession of hydraulic-powered kuh-chunk sounds. An overhead feint with his odachi gave him enough momentum to convert the single kata component into a forwards and upwards leap - and he landed on the ship with a loud grunt and a massive slam of impact just as Archie was removing the last mooring.
"Mister Wallace, the furnace is yours!" immediately said the spy. "Miss McConmara, the sail controls are next to the helm! Give me full power to the rear thrusters and the Gate generator!"
Oddly enough, Bucky's position seemed to be on the main deck, right in front of the mast. He half-sat and half-slid into place, spreading his legs and pushing down on a lever that caused a kind of copper dome to mate with and seal his protruding abdomen. Judging by the sound that followed, his furnace's seal was broken and the door opened by some mechanical means, his arcane heating element now having full access to the ship's water tanks. Victorian ingenuity and magic combined to amplify the kinetic power of pressurized steam, the flutes of Bucky's helm soon joining in with a rising tone that came from the ship's thrusters. At the main mast's midpoint, a crystalline chamber lit up brightly, eddies of distorting arcane power pulsing outwards from it. Until Bucky would stabilize the flow, Neasa would only manage to see brief glimpses of Evergloam's sky poking through Hope's own dusky purples and oranges. The season being as it was, night was falling quickly even if the day was still fairly young.
"Setting course for Sandhill," said the Clank as he turned the wheel. "Estimated Time Arrival: fashionably late, as always!"
"Oh my God," breathed Astra, "the Nexus is buffing out the last two centuries of wear and tear! And look - his head!"
The same effect seemed to be taking place inside Rothchild's skull as magic coursed along his synapses and relentlessly pursued the darker tendrils of Amaxi's curse. "I think it's restoring his neurons' myelin sheaths!" the Void Weaver's adoptive descendant whispered.
Soon, the Void Weaver's mouth began to move - but his voice seemed to come from everywhere around Sophia's mound. With his back arched, his hands clawed into the cavern's loose soil and allowed for glowing and oddly geometrical eddies to dance along the floor and walls. It looked like Celtic knotwork reinterpreted through Ionic or Doric patterns, whorls of binary code or forming and unforming cogs and pinwheels.
"I see the Tower!" said Lucian, his voice resonating in the tunnels. "Home of the Architect, Custodian of God's Laws, Creator Before All Creators! The Tower, the Key, the Gate for the Young Maker's Worlds! In all things silent and hidden, He Who Finds Order in Chaos lies - and the blood before my blood was His custodian! We stood before Darkness and wielded our Light! Guardians of the Real, Keepers of What Is - Incontrovertibly and Forevermore! One of Us stands before you, Maker of Worlds, after centuries of madness and depravity! My staff and words, I pledge them to Your Covenant with my Creator! Burn Her disease from me, so that I may be whole!"
The whorls reached back down to the floor and formed a geometric pattern underneath Lucian, glowing blue vines reaching up to cup the back of his head in a sort of organic headrest. As soon as contact was made, you could've sworn Lucian's skull and skin were made of some sort of electrochromic material, as they both turned transparent. His brain became entirely visible, and tiny tubules of via were seen snaking through the braincase's fluid and connecting to the organ. By that point, Sophia would have the distinct impression that the Tree chose to relinquish near-complete control to the Void Weaver. He clenched his teeth, pupils slowly becoming visible again as he focused on a precise point of the cavern's ceiling - almost as though he could see through it.
"You will not have me, Harlot of Dead Worlds!" he seethed. "You will not have my family, you will not have this city! I will not see Your madness compound our tribulations!"
Then, it'd be safe to say he turned the Centennial Tree into a massive broadcast antenna. Pinpricks of blue werelight shot straight up from the tree's naked branches, joining at an angle to form a sort of amplifier dish. What was broadcast seemed to be a form of counter-hex, an arcane denial of this new practitioner's soul and power intended to be received by a dead goddess. As it happened, the created scaffold of vines began to encompass his torso and limbs, pushing and bending so that Rothchild would eventually be able to stand. A few seconds later, hologram-like discs of spell-focusing circles and glyphs bloomed around his arms and tentacles, Rothchild bending his arms and a few fingers in a motion that felt too calculated to be random. It had to be a kind of gesture-based spell, then, one that was amplified by the flexibility of his facial tendrils. His bloodied shirt, stained pants and rumpled tweed jacket seemingly turned liquid and flowed around his form, eventually settling into the brown fur-lined overcoat he'd once worn in Victorian times. The suit underneath, however, looked contemporary - a clump of vines that had gathered atop his head withering away to reveal a sort of tweed-and-leather flatcap.
Focused as he was, he didn't pay much attention to his saviors as he levitated off of his plant-based berth, phased through the ceiling and then emerged through the ground as he floated towards Aspasia and Coach, his tentacles bobbing around his face until he regained a corporeal status. Obviously, the demonic blockade's spokesperson didn't look too pleased. Still, Lucian rested his cane against the ground and lightly brushed dirt specks off of his overcoat.
"Tell me, my friend," he asked of the demon, his voice still a bit hoarse with age, but now bold and strong, fully expressing his character. "What is the popular adage concerning Wizards and Archmages?"
The demon narrowed his eyes. "Why ask this of me, Flesh-Crafter?
- Call it an indulgence," replied the Squid. "I haven't felt this good in close to four centuries - that leaves me feeling a tad magnanimous. You wouldn't like the alternative."
Coach smirked. "Can I answer this one, Lucian?
- Oh, I know you can, mister Robertson. I'd simply like to see if our friend can."
The demon nodded hesitantly. "The popular adage is that Wizards and Archmages are subtle and quick to anger. One of your writers shared this writ.
- Tolkien, yes," breezily replied the Void Weaver, before shifting his grip on his cane. He brandished the cane's pommel in a commanding fashion. "To wit, I am not feeling particularly subtle, at the moment."
More cascading green-blue symbols and disc patterns began to shift and flow along his extended arm. The blockade's oily curved wall was seen rippling - most, if not all of the noncorporeal demons that composed it seemingly flying away or sinking back down into the earth. Still, enough had remained to pose a problem for anyone attempting to enter or leave. That left Rothchild with a disappointed moue and a bit of a grunt.
"Hrmph. A warning shot it is, then."
He gave his cane a slow turning motion, coarse hands or grasping claws fashioned out of soil or rocks reaching out to grip the spokesman's legs, pulling him down into the soil until his ankles were trapped. The demonic spokesman tried to go non-corporeal, but something in Lucian's ministrations kept him firmly anchored.
"Madam Robertson," he then said, nodding slightly and pointing at her firearm, "whenever you're ready."
* * *
Evvie fought to the last of her focus, but soon slumped to the floor. Meris' victory would be short-lived, however, as the half-bleats and half-gurgles of the remaining retinue from a floor below being torn apart sounded. Six Winter Fae climbed up the stairs, looking like the usual mix of human Faerie and anthro variants. They wore dark chainmail that gave Percy pause and they themselves stopped at Meris' sight. That got them to grip the base of their necks with a hand and to pull - their Flesh Masks coming off as they did so.
"You might have succeeded in conjuring the Adversary," one of them said, "but you'll lose the Hand of Oberon. On this, we swear."
Krampus gritted his teeth, looking back briefly as he saw Evangeline fade away from Faerie's plane. "Come and fucking get me, you lamprey-faced pricks!" he groused. "I'll cut your tentacles off and feed 'em to my cat!"
* * *
From atop the Archimedes, Neasa would soon see Archie nimbly sprinting up the hill, one hand almost comically fastened to his top hat's brim. A few key turns had given him enough stamina to make a leap for the last mooring left from the bottom of the docks' stairs, and to grip the line just short of being high enough for Neasa to immediately pull up. A few easy swinging motions later, he landed on the main deck like the more dapper version of a certain spider-themed superhero. In the meantime, Bucky's footfalls had been particularly audible, as a quick succession of hydraulic-powered kuh-chunk sounds. An overhead feint with his odachi gave him enough momentum to convert the single kata component into a forwards and upwards leap - and he landed on the ship with a loud grunt and a massive slam of impact just as Archie was removing the last mooring.
"Mister Wallace, the furnace is yours!" immediately said the spy. "Miss McConmara, the sail controls are next to the helm! Give me full power to the rear thrusters and the Gate generator!"
Oddly enough, Bucky's position seemed to be on the main deck, right in front of the mast. He half-sat and half-slid into place, spreading his legs and pushing down on a lever that caused a kind of copper dome to mate with and seal his protruding abdomen. Judging by the sound that followed, his furnace's seal was broken and the door opened by some mechanical means, his arcane heating element now having full access to the ship's water tanks. Victorian ingenuity and magic combined to amplify the kinetic power of pressurized steam, the flutes of Bucky's helm soon joining in with a rising tone that came from the ship's thrusters. At the main mast's midpoint, a crystalline chamber lit up brightly, eddies of distorting arcane power pulsing outwards from it. Until Bucky would stabilize the flow, Neasa would only manage to see brief glimpses of Evergloam's sky poking through Hope's own dusky purples and oranges. The season being as it was, night was falling quickly even if the day was still fairly young.
"Setting course for Sandhill," said the Clank as he turned the wheel. "Estimated Time Arrival: fashionably late, as always!"
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
"You bet," Aspasia responded casually, whipping the Elysium rifle from off her back. A quick flipping of the safety switch and easy aiming at the prone target, the fauness pulled the trigger and shot a ball of glowing plasma straight at the emissary. Knowing that the shot would make short work of the demon, she smiled at the Void Weaver. "Glad to have you back, Lucian."
The next person to come running out from the galleries was Ciaran, determined to join the fight. With the remaining devils, he lobbed a few balls of energy that looked like blue fire and and electricity combined. However, they didn't burn the targets so much as disintegrate the corporeal spirits to less than ash once they came into contact with the foes.
Aspasia blinked at the male roane and quirked a brow. "Upgrade?" she asked.
He smiled wryly. "You could say that," he answered, throwing another at whatever might've been left.
***
The mention of the Adversary puzzled the Archmage as to who they were referring to, but now was not the time for that. She wasn't about to get into a conversations with the infiltrators, and she warned her comrades telepathically, Careful; they'll likely try to use the Black Speech on you to take you out! If you can, take a bit of cloth and stuff it in your ears!
Next, Meris proceeded to launch arcs of lightning and fireballs at the half-dozen Squids and hoped to make contact with some of them, at least.
***
Neasa scuttled toward the helm and easily found the sail and Gate generator controls. She pushed the levers upward to their max, causing the sails to billow out and the generator to start up.
The next person to come running out from the galleries was Ciaran, determined to join the fight. With the remaining devils, he lobbed a few balls of energy that looked like blue fire and and electricity combined. However, they didn't burn the targets so much as disintegrate the corporeal spirits to less than ash once they came into contact with the foes.
Aspasia blinked at the male roane and quirked a brow. "Upgrade?" she asked.
He smiled wryly. "You could say that," he answered, throwing another at whatever might've been left.
***
The mention of the Adversary puzzled the Archmage as to who they were referring to, but now was not the time for that. She wasn't about to get into a conversations with the infiltrators, and she warned her comrades telepathically, Careful; they'll likely try to use the Black Speech on you to take you out! If you can, take a bit of cloth and stuff it in your ears!
Next, Meris proceeded to launch arcs of lightning and fireballs at the half-dozen Squids and hoped to make contact with some of them, at least.
***
Neasa scuttled toward the helm and easily found the sail and Gate generator controls. She pushed the levers upward to their max, causing the sails to billow out and the generator to start up.
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
By now, the arcane obstruction was starting to fray off considerably, massive gaps in the swirling structure corresponding with some of Arthur's smuggled short-wave radio equipment flaring to life in the galleries below.
"Glad to be back," concurred the Void Weaver, who smirked at Claudia's baffled expression. "Great," she joked out of nervousness, "they'll need to add some extra pages to the Vienna Accords; they're running out of space for signatures!"
Rothchild parted with an easy chuckle and shook his head. "We'll have to get there first, my dear. Very pleased to meet you.
- Claudia Cameron," replied the girl, "currently feeling a little freaked out."
Lucian eyed Ciaran and Aspasia and drew in a breath. "So do I," he admitted, "the last time I felt like burning off some steam, telegrams were seen as a tacky trend."
He then placed a hand on his stomach. "Not to mention, I haven't felt this famished in ages!
- Welcome to magehood," quipped Coach. "Story goes Meris needed one or two steaks after she more or less came back from the dead, and even hedge mages tend to pack trail mix while in class. I'm sure Meris is going to initiate you to the thousand and one different uses for peanut butter."
The Void Weaver chuckled. "If we were back in Renton, I would have placed an order for one of your smoked meat sandwiches already, mister Robertson. As it stands, I assume I'll have to head back down and see what this decade's instant noodles are worth."
He then focused on the selkie. "These powers do you credit, Ciaran - I remember Aidan mentioning you had briefly studied under Nigel Griffin's tutelage... I hope you haven't cultivated something akin to the man's taste in psychological warfare."
Claudia arched a brow. "You're familiar with Griffin?"
Rothchild lightly fiddled with his cane, spinning it in place with a hand on the pommel. It made him look a tad bashful. "He'd been back in the old country for a few weeks, in '79. As brash and bold as he usually is while working, I mistook him for a particularly addled spirit. My Etheric goggles rendered his soul visible so I assumed I was dealing with a spirit, but it was a man that gave me a black eye. He didn't attempt to kill me, which I don't know whether I should peg it on his state of undress at the time or his having taken the time to observe me..."
Something made him pause, and then look back to Ciaran in mild shock. "My God," he said, "I don't hear Them! I've been reminiscing and dwelling on my hunger, and all this time, I haven't felt Them at all!"
He scoffed weakly, a hand going up to where his mouth rested, behind his tendrils. "Is this- Is this what it feels like?" he asked. "To have one's head to oneself?"
* * *
Meris wouldn't have finished verbalizing her warning that she'd feel her ears pop. Everything sounded a tad more muffled, and the rest of the group was clearly taken aback. It was Loren who rolled his eyes at them, suggesting that they press on. If they couldn't make out the Black Speech, then they'd be temporarily protected from its effects. It did mean the Void Weaver infiltrators would need to press in closer, however. Still, the Archmage would quickly realize that while her sense of hearing had been diminished, the Squids' had been seemingly nullified. Black Speech be damned, their sense of pitch and tone was wildly off-mark all of a sudden, in ways that would've prompted beatings out of the more lenient of Dalarath's Arbiters. If they couldn't hear themselves, then only muscle memory prevented them from sliding into outright gibberish.
In any case, it made for a tense and awkward confrontation, with every other party screaming at the other for attention, the Christmas Devil wearing himself hoarse as he managed to incapacitate three of the assailants using his whips. Meris would understand that Krampus was screaming at the top of his lungs, but what reached her was barely audible.
"I'MMA HAVE OVERGROWN CALAMARI FOR LUNCH, THEN I'M SENDIN' YER GIZZARDS TO GORDON RAMSAY TO LEARN HOW TO COOK 'EM! TEAR YER EYES OUT AN' FEED 'EM TO FISH! YOUSE ALL GONNA WISH YOU'D BEEN BORN AS SERVITORS TO THE FINMEN! I-"
Finally, one of the Squids gritted its teeth and pulled out a seemingly mundane gun, pulling the trigger with a grunt. What had to be a crude iron payload was propelled out of the barrel, falling apart as it flew towards its target. The Void Weaver recoiled in pain as the weapon, unsuited for Fae ordnance, backfired in its hand - but Krampus was seemingly stopped dead in his tracks, having just enough energy to paw at his chest. All he could manage was a shocked "Whoa!", before falling to the ground.
The remaining three infiltrators realized they'd be better off shaping blades or projectiles for their own use than to try and expose their opponents to the Black Speech, and fell back to the old Dalarath chestnut of conjuring shards of stone or glass out of thin air, only to hurl them at their opponents. Mentalor did what he could for most of the projectiles, but he couldn't stop Percy from attempting to shield some of McKinley's former allies with his own body. A pained bleat and a splatter of blood suggested one of the shards had gouged out one of his eyes, but the Viscount was undeterred. He pressed on with Vigilance, cutting down one of the Squids and gritting his teeth through the pain.
"AVAUNT, SCOUNDRELS!" he finally said. "THOU ART VANQUISHED! I, THE VISCOUNT EVERGLOAM, PLACE 'PON THEE AN OATH OF SILEN-"
They screeched before he could finish, their own noise drowned out by the sudden massive pop of a Fae Gate opening in midair, the Archimedes' thrusters reversing their push with a roar until the airship stood at a standstill above the stockade. Bucky hopped down with a wordless kiai, Archie tumbling down behind him and landing with the same arachnid grace as before.
With Atticus' former associates, Meris, Neasa, Mentalor, Percy, Bagley and a smattering of Gruffs, the group now outnumbered the Void Weavers almost two-to-one.
"Please, gentlemen," snidely added the Clank, "do flare your tendrils at us, hm? We'll see which ones amongst you shall so much as still be capable of articulate speech, by the time this ends."
One of the Weavers swore in Gaelic and spoke with a marked Irish lilt. "You took from us, curs - it's our right to take from you!"
Bucky pointed his odachi at the trio. "I don't recall takin' somethin' from anybody," he said. "Yet. 'Course, if you'd like to contribute heads or limbs..."
Another one chuckled bitterly. "That's right - they can't sense the Nexus from here; the pain our Dark Mother endured! One of you rebels wounded the Many-Armed today, and we think we know who it might be... You clearly don't. We'd best make sure you have as little reasons to celebrate before your confrontation against one of the Lightbringer's former toadies. If we can't take it, we'll have to settle with you - or your friends."
Archie had his sword lightly pulled out of his cane's haft, ready to expand on the gesture in a classic iai strike. "Strong talk, coming from three expatriate agents... You might as well keep mum, let the Viscount place you under Oath and be taken to another stockade. The alternative won't please you. Also, I'd swear you just admitted to our having earned another trump card, or I'll eat my hat."
The third Weaver glared at the second. "It doesn't matter," he then said. "You'll lose two of your own before the day ends."
* * *
Being back in Holden Hall felt a bit surreal to Tom, after all that had occurred. There he was in the mansion's kitchen, as he'd done in the first few days, nursing a cup of coffee. They'd tackled so many dire things of late that it hadn't taken much for him, a connoisseur in the virtues of casual Hedonism, to recognize the value in prying Aidan and Gubbin from their respective self-imposed tasks and to have the lot of them sit down with himself and Aislinn, over cups of coffee and an assortment of semi-seasonal cookies. An acoustic, slow and jazzy rendition of Merry Little Christmas was quietly piping through the mansion, thanks to his smartphone and a spare Bluetooth connection.
"I swear," he said, smiling one of his Machiavellian grins, "if we pull out of this in some semblance of life, I'm putting together a makeshift Christmas bash in whatever ruins we'll have left. If Magnus Tower still holds, then there's going to be a public shindig in the main atrium, and a private one in the club. I'll walk out on the mezzanine wearing that gloriously awful sweater I told you about, and you'll all find out just how much I keep my friends close."
Aidan took it in stride. "Honestly, I could take a fugly Death Star big-knit sweater as a consolation prize for surviving an attempted Infernal putsch. I think Gubbin might murder anyone who doesn't bring him an -nth pair of spats, comparatively."
Gubbin didn't reply, but his quiet sip from his own mug had about the same effect as a contemplative feline swish of the tail. If he intended to surprise the soldier, Drake wouldn't find out until it'd be too late. That somehow unnerved the human. "So, um - what're your respective plans for the season? I mean, assuming we survive.
- I'd settle with a wild and raucous party with my best friends," summarized Tom, "and then I'd be up for a few hours' worth of TLC. Chestnuts roasting, the whole shebang. Besides, I think Ais and I are going to run our respective batteries dry, by the end. You'll be stuck with either food-shoveling machines or two overdressed sloths looking to go comatose for fifteen hours straight. Either that, or just a cranky selkie and warthog with killer headaches."
Three smiled. "I'll just head up to see Mom, Dad and Sarah, honestly. I'd knock on Nigel's door, too - it's been a while. Food, board games, the same old three or four Christmas movies, including the two Home Alone flicks... The problem I've got is our family more or less got bigger, lately. I've got you guys, and I understood that people like Bertram or a few of George's people don't feel like they have the right to celebrate the Holidays. They don't feel included enough, somehow."
He shrugged. "I'm kind of torn. Either I got for the usual Swiss Family Drake schtick, or I toss everything out the window, phone Arthur and use some of the Hall's money to rent out one of the local YMCAs for an evening - turn it into a soup kitchen for the Promethean Order... Or I could ask Haskill and McHale. I'm still ironing things out, but I don't know what the logistics would be in the immediate post part of post-apocalyptic. All I know is I want to be sure everyone unwinds, once we can afford it. There's that and, well..."
He hesitated slightly. "I think we owe Leonard something. He'll have fundamentally changed by the end, and he hasn't really phoned home about it all. I'd like us to sort of have a dinner and round-table with him, Thomas, his wife and their daughters. They deserve to understand what their father, grandfather or father-in-law went through. Release from their worries is the best gift we could give them."
Tom nodded slowly, a bit of a smirk playing underneath his snout. "Always so considerate, Aidan," he said, without an ounce of sarcasm. "No joke, I think you should've been a guidance counselor."
"Glad to be back," concurred the Void Weaver, who smirked at Claudia's baffled expression. "Great," she joked out of nervousness, "they'll need to add some extra pages to the Vienna Accords; they're running out of space for signatures!"
Rothchild parted with an easy chuckle and shook his head. "We'll have to get there first, my dear. Very pleased to meet you.
- Claudia Cameron," replied the girl, "currently feeling a little freaked out."
Lucian eyed Ciaran and Aspasia and drew in a breath. "So do I," he admitted, "the last time I felt like burning off some steam, telegrams were seen as a tacky trend."
He then placed a hand on his stomach. "Not to mention, I haven't felt this famished in ages!
- Welcome to magehood," quipped Coach. "Story goes Meris needed one or two steaks after she more or less came back from the dead, and even hedge mages tend to pack trail mix while in class. I'm sure Meris is going to initiate you to the thousand and one different uses for peanut butter."
The Void Weaver chuckled. "If we were back in Renton, I would have placed an order for one of your smoked meat sandwiches already, mister Robertson. As it stands, I assume I'll have to head back down and see what this decade's instant noodles are worth."
He then focused on the selkie. "These powers do you credit, Ciaran - I remember Aidan mentioning you had briefly studied under Nigel Griffin's tutelage... I hope you haven't cultivated something akin to the man's taste in psychological warfare."
Claudia arched a brow. "You're familiar with Griffin?"
Rothchild lightly fiddled with his cane, spinning it in place with a hand on the pommel. It made him look a tad bashful. "He'd been back in the old country for a few weeks, in '79. As brash and bold as he usually is while working, I mistook him for a particularly addled spirit. My Etheric goggles rendered his soul visible so I assumed I was dealing with a spirit, but it was a man that gave me a black eye. He didn't attempt to kill me, which I don't know whether I should peg it on his state of undress at the time or his having taken the time to observe me..."
Something made him pause, and then look back to Ciaran in mild shock. "My God," he said, "I don't hear Them! I've been reminiscing and dwelling on my hunger, and all this time, I haven't felt Them at all!"
He scoffed weakly, a hand going up to where his mouth rested, behind his tendrils. "Is this- Is this what it feels like?" he asked. "To have one's head to oneself?"
* * *
Meris wouldn't have finished verbalizing her warning that she'd feel her ears pop. Everything sounded a tad more muffled, and the rest of the group was clearly taken aback. It was Loren who rolled his eyes at them, suggesting that they press on. If they couldn't make out the Black Speech, then they'd be temporarily protected from its effects. It did mean the Void Weaver infiltrators would need to press in closer, however. Still, the Archmage would quickly realize that while her sense of hearing had been diminished, the Squids' had been seemingly nullified. Black Speech be damned, their sense of pitch and tone was wildly off-mark all of a sudden, in ways that would've prompted beatings out of the more lenient of Dalarath's Arbiters. If they couldn't hear themselves, then only muscle memory prevented them from sliding into outright gibberish.
In any case, it made for a tense and awkward confrontation, with every other party screaming at the other for attention, the Christmas Devil wearing himself hoarse as he managed to incapacitate three of the assailants using his whips. Meris would understand that Krampus was screaming at the top of his lungs, but what reached her was barely audible.
"I'MMA HAVE OVERGROWN CALAMARI FOR LUNCH, THEN I'M SENDIN' YER GIZZARDS TO GORDON RAMSAY TO LEARN HOW TO COOK 'EM! TEAR YER EYES OUT AN' FEED 'EM TO FISH! YOUSE ALL GONNA WISH YOU'D BEEN BORN AS SERVITORS TO THE FINMEN! I-"
Finally, one of the Squids gritted its teeth and pulled out a seemingly mundane gun, pulling the trigger with a grunt. What had to be a crude iron payload was propelled out of the barrel, falling apart as it flew towards its target. The Void Weaver recoiled in pain as the weapon, unsuited for Fae ordnance, backfired in its hand - but Krampus was seemingly stopped dead in his tracks, having just enough energy to paw at his chest. All he could manage was a shocked "Whoa!", before falling to the ground.
The remaining three infiltrators realized they'd be better off shaping blades or projectiles for their own use than to try and expose their opponents to the Black Speech, and fell back to the old Dalarath chestnut of conjuring shards of stone or glass out of thin air, only to hurl them at their opponents. Mentalor did what he could for most of the projectiles, but he couldn't stop Percy from attempting to shield some of McKinley's former allies with his own body. A pained bleat and a splatter of blood suggested one of the shards had gouged out one of his eyes, but the Viscount was undeterred. He pressed on with Vigilance, cutting down one of the Squids and gritting his teeth through the pain.
"AVAUNT, SCOUNDRELS!" he finally said. "THOU ART VANQUISHED! I, THE VISCOUNT EVERGLOAM, PLACE 'PON THEE AN OATH OF SILEN-"
They screeched before he could finish, their own noise drowned out by the sudden massive pop of a Fae Gate opening in midair, the Archimedes' thrusters reversing their push with a roar until the airship stood at a standstill above the stockade. Bucky hopped down with a wordless kiai, Archie tumbling down behind him and landing with the same arachnid grace as before.
With Atticus' former associates, Meris, Neasa, Mentalor, Percy, Bagley and a smattering of Gruffs, the group now outnumbered the Void Weavers almost two-to-one.
"Please, gentlemen," snidely added the Clank, "do flare your tendrils at us, hm? We'll see which ones amongst you shall so much as still be capable of articulate speech, by the time this ends."
One of the Weavers swore in Gaelic and spoke with a marked Irish lilt. "You took from us, curs - it's our right to take from you!"
Bucky pointed his odachi at the trio. "I don't recall takin' somethin' from anybody," he said. "Yet. 'Course, if you'd like to contribute heads or limbs..."
Another one chuckled bitterly. "That's right - they can't sense the Nexus from here; the pain our Dark Mother endured! One of you rebels wounded the Many-Armed today, and we think we know who it might be... You clearly don't. We'd best make sure you have as little reasons to celebrate before your confrontation against one of the Lightbringer's former toadies. If we can't take it, we'll have to settle with you - or your friends."
Archie had his sword lightly pulled out of his cane's haft, ready to expand on the gesture in a classic iai strike. "Strong talk, coming from three expatriate agents... You might as well keep mum, let the Viscount place you under Oath and be taken to another stockade. The alternative won't please you. Also, I'd swear you just admitted to our having earned another trump card, or I'll eat my hat."
The third Weaver glared at the second. "It doesn't matter," he then said. "You'll lose two of your own before the day ends."
* * *
Being back in Holden Hall felt a bit surreal to Tom, after all that had occurred. There he was in the mansion's kitchen, as he'd done in the first few days, nursing a cup of coffee. They'd tackled so many dire things of late that it hadn't taken much for him, a connoisseur in the virtues of casual Hedonism, to recognize the value in prying Aidan and Gubbin from their respective self-imposed tasks and to have the lot of them sit down with himself and Aislinn, over cups of coffee and an assortment of semi-seasonal cookies. An acoustic, slow and jazzy rendition of Merry Little Christmas was quietly piping through the mansion, thanks to his smartphone and a spare Bluetooth connection.
"I swear," he said, smiling one of his Machiavellian grins, "if we pull out of this in some semblance of life, I'm putting together a makeshift Christmas bash in whatever ruins we'll have left. If Magnus Tower still holds, then there's going to be a public shindig in the main atrium, and a private one in the club. I'll walk out on the mezzanine wearing that gloriously awful sweater I told you about, and you'll all find out just how much I keep my friends close."
Aidan took it in stride. "Honestly, I could take a fugly Death Star big-knit sweater as a consolation prize for surviving an attempted Infernal putsch. I think Gubbin might murder anyone who doesn't bring him an -nth pair of spats, comparatively."
Gubbin didn't reply, but his quiet sip from his own mug had about the same effect as a contemplative feline swish of the tail. If he intended to surprise the soldier, Drake wouldn't find out until it'd be too late. That somehow unnerved the human. "So, um - what're your respective plans for the season? I mean, assuming we survive.
- I'd settle with a wild and raucous party with my best friends," summarized Tom, "and then I'd be up for a few hours' worth of TLC. Chestnuts roasting, the whole shebang. Besides, I think Ais and I are going to run our respective batteries dry, by the end. You'll be stuck with either food-shoveling machines or two overdressed sloths looking to go comatose for fifteen hours straight. Either that, or just a cranky selkie and warthog with killer headaches."
Three smiled. "I'll just head up to see Mom, Dad and Sarah, honestly. I'd knock on Nigel's door, too - it's been a while. Food, board games, the same old three or four Christmas movies, including the two Home Alone flicks... The problem I've got is our family more or less got bigger, lately. I've got you guys, and I understood that people like Bertram or a few of George's people don't feel like they have the right to celebrate the Holidays. They don't feel included enough, somehow."
He shrugged. "I'm kind of torn. Either I got for the usual Swiss Family Drake schtick, or I toss everything out the window, phone Arthur and use some of the Hall's money to rent out one of the local YMCAs for an evening - turn it into a soup kitchen for the Promethean Order... Or I could ask Haskill and McHale. I'm still ironing things out, but I don't know what the logistics would be in the immediate post part of post-apocalyptic. All I know is I want to be sure everyone unwinds, once we can afford it. There's that and, well..."
He hesitated slightly. "I think we owe Leonard something. He'll have fundamentally changed by the end, and he hasn't really phoned home about it all. I'd like us to sort of have a dinner and round-table with him, Thomas, his wife and their daughters. They deserve to understand what their father, grandfather or father-in-law went through. Release from their worries is the best gift we could give them."
Tom nodded slowly, a bit of a smirk playing underneath his snout. "Always so considerate, Aidan," he said, without an ounce of sarcasm. "No joke, I think you should've been a guidance counselor."
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
Ciaran canted his head thoughtfully. "In your case, it seems so. I had to learn to rein in my telepathy when it started developing. However, having silence in your mind is quite the gift, especially after a long work day," he replied.
"I can only relate with my past days serving under Rendell, but knowing your mind is free of outside influences is quite a relief," Aspasia answered knowingly.
***
"Och, please!" Meris retorted in the Void Weavers' direction, having an inkling of who the rebel might be after the one Squid blabbed. "Since when did Void Weavers get so bloody dramatic? Amaxi's been writhing in agony for eons because of our existence; one rebel won't affect Her for long, unfortunately."
She then side-eyed the Gaelic-speaking one. "Also, attachment to your fallen peers? It seems the surface world is affecting you more than you thought! That goes against what's in your books; I know that for certain! The Chamberlain would gut you in public view and make an example out of you, lad. Either him or the head Oracle."
The Archmage then ventured over to the Christmas Devil and started inspecting his wounds, humming a melody that would stabilize him until he could receive more in-depth treatment.
Frowning at the sight of Percival's gouged eye, Neasa rather boldly walked up to the third Void Weaver who had finished talking, grabbed a handful of his face tentacles, and twisted them while pressing the tips of her claws into the sensitive flesh. "As a matter of fact, maybe you ought to start talking before Sir Percival just foregoes any wait time or stockade and ends you right here. I figure that's better than your corpses toddling off to the nearest body of water and whatever else happens to them."
The selkie matriarch scoffed as she looked up from her work, lightly shrugging. "I always figured Amaxi just turns what might be left of them into fodder to make Abominations. If She even does that."
***
The youngest Archmage smiled. "That sounds like a great idea. After all he's been through, he deserves a reprieve like that," she agreed, then sighing as she cuddled next to Tom and drank her coffee. "I know our assignments and side work have to be kept hush-hush for security reasons, but there's a lot that we have to keep hidden from our families, certainly with Tom and the other demons until they're added to the Vienna Accords. However, that's going to take a bit still; if we make it through this, they should at least have some idea of what's going on."
Aislinn then frowned lopsidedly as she looked at the warthog. "My parents at least have some understanding that Ciaran's dating Sophia, but they're completely in the dark about you. I mean, Dad doesn't know Meris is here, and she's just as much his great-grandmother as she is to us. They don't know I've gone Archmage. I mean, it doesn't feel right to hide stuff of this magnitude from them," she admitted. "We can say it's for their protection and all, but it gets old, you know?"
"I can only relate with my past days serving under Rendell, but knowing your mind is free of outside influences is quite a relief," Aspasia answered knowingly.
***
"Och, please!" Meris retorted in the Void Weavers' direction, having an inkling of who the rebel might be after the one Squid blabbed. "Since when did Void Weavers get so bloody dramatic? Amaxi's been writhing in agony for eons because of our existence; one rebel won't affect Her for long, unfortunately."
She then side-eyed the Gaelic-speaking one. "Also, attachment to your fallen peers? It seems the surface world is affecting you more than you thought! That goes against what's in your books; I know that for certain! The Chamberlain would gut you in public view and make an example out of you, lad. Either him or the head Oracle."
The Archmage then ventured over to the Christmas Devil and started inspecting his wounds, humming a melody that would stabilize him until he could receive more in-depth treatment.
Frowning at the sight of Percival's gouged eye, Neasa rather boldly walked up to the third Void Weaver who had finished talking, grabbed a handful of his face tentacles, and twisted them while pressing the tips of her claws into the sensitive flesh. "As a matter of fact, maybe you ought to start talking before Sir Percival just foregoes any wait time or stockade and ends you right here. I figure that's better than your corpses toddling off to the nearest body of water and whatever else happens to them."
The selkie matriarch scoffed as she looked up from her work, lightly shrugging. "I always figured Amaxi just turns what might be left of them into fodder to make Abominations. If She even does that."
***
The youngest Archmage smiled. "That sounds like a great idea. After all he's been through, he deserves a reprieve like that," she agreed, then sighing as she cuddled next to Tom and drank her coffee. "I know our assignments and side work have to be kept hush-hush for security reasons, but there's a lot that we have to keep hidden from our families, certainly with Tom and the other demons until they're added to the Vienna Accords. However, that's going to take a bit still; if we make it through this, they should at least have some idea of what's going on."
Aislinn then frowned lopsidedly as she looked at the warthog. "My parents at least have some understanding that Ciaran's dating Sophia, but they're completely in the dark about you. I mean, Dad doesn't know Meris is here, and she's just as much his great-grandmother as she is to us. They don't know I've gone Archmage. I mean, it doesn't feel right to hide stuff of this magnitude from them," she admitted. "We can say it's for their protection and all, but it gets old, you know?"
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IamLEAM1983
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- Location: Quebec, Canada
Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
Lucian felt the need to close his eyes out of the sheer force of the emotions that overcame him, and he drew in a long, deep and shuddering breath. He hadn't breathed in this easily in just as long, as well, and realized he wasn't slouching anymore. For once, his feet were firmly planted on the ground, his cane currently acting as more of an old form of reassurance than any severe mobility aid.
"You have no idea," he whispered, likely in response to Aspasia's claims, as he gazed at the dusky sky with clearer eyes than he'd possessed in centuries.
Still, he felt the urge to turn around at the sound of more stones being upturned. Up came Arthur, holding two opened Ramen cups. "Alana reminded me that baby Archmages tend to work an appetite, and I remember Archie telling me you types have a yen for high salt contents," he told Lucian. "I had one of our cooks toss in a boiled egg in each for good measure - it's not Tokyo's finest, but it's the best in saturated fats we've got on hand."
Rothchild almost ran back to the vampire. "My kingdom for some cholesterol," he groused, gripping the paper cup with both hands and then using the provided spork to shovel noodles and broth behind his tendrils with the kind of speed and abandon that would've done seasoned Udon conoisseurs from Sotenbori rather proud.
The vampire rolled his eyes. "Young immortals, I swear… One minute, three consecutive strokes turn you into the healthiest health nut in the country, and the next one sees you Hoover three Big Macs in ten minutes because you burned half the neighbourhood down and need the extra calories."
Lucian munched on his boiled egg as though it was the single best piece of food he'd ever ingested. "The last time food was this tasty, I'd been a ravenous five-month-old! Three strokes be damned, if I might be honest!"
Coach smirked. "And the fact that you and my wife made a whirling storm of arcane darkness look like grease stains in one of my non-stick pans doesn't make a lick of a difference, I'd assume?"
Rothchild chuckled in relish and then made slurping noises as he pulled in another clump of noodles. "Cannot talk at present," he managed. "Rapt in culinary bliss.
- Heaven forbid we manage to find the city's last operating churro shop at this time of year," added Arthur, "he'd probably lose his mind."
Lucian slurped in his last bite for the moment, cleared his mouth and looked back to Arthur. "I've never had churros, mister Holden," he noted. "Heavens above," he lightly swore, "I could eat a horse!"
Holden proffered the second Ramen cup. "Start with this, something tells me horse flesh is going to be hard to come by while we're being roasted alive by Pitspawn.
- Gladly," replied the new Archmage, attacking the second cup with even more relish, cane wedged between his side and inner left arm.
* * *
The Irish Squid grinned behind his tendrils. "What's the saying, again? Do what thou must, isn't it? We do what we must, Archmage. The Chamberlain would still be wearing his robes if it wasn't for-"
He couldn't finish, as Neasa grabbed his tentacles. His neighbor moved in to try and dislodge Neasa, but miscalculated the amount of kinetic force to deliver his his shout. He didn't have any idea of just how resilient or strong Neasa was, so a commanding grunt that would've sent someone else someone else spinning sideways would only briefly destabilize the strongwoman. Still, the second one pushed past the pain. "To be raised... and taken... to the waves... is an honor!" he grunted.
Archie moved in, his first sweeping strike potentially striking Neasa as an obvious fakeout - but it wouldn't be too obvious to the Squids. Sacrificing one hand in an admittedly decent Krav Maga block on the Weaver's part allowed Holden to eject the other wrist's blade, turning his thrusting motion into what almost looked like a single-sided Jiu Jitsu reversal. In an instant, the third Weaver was blinking as its knees cracked against the floor, Archie's ball joints painlessly taking his locked arm's torque. The shirt and jacket arms might not have agreed and could be heard ripping open, but no visible discomfort marked the Clank as his right arm bent unnaturally. The left one's wrist pressed in, dark blood immediately welling forth. The last one had time enough to shout "No!" and to gather gravitational eddies together that his head seemingly exploded inside the confines of an invisible cube. Jellied brain goop retained its cuboid form as Mentalor lowered his curled fingers partially, and then thrust his hand and arm backwards and away from him. The shredded brain matter and impossibly contained mess of gore and chunks of bone and skin was seemingly jerked away and far upwards, Mentalor having seemingly sent the corpse off into a trailing arc that would see it land far outside of Evergloam's confines, and well into the nearest and most desolate of Mab's territory.
The only one left was the one Neasa was immobilizing. "Try and stabilize him," the Karthian said to Meris, as he looked down to the Krampus. "I'd like to see what our friend Atticus' mind has to offer."
He bent down and picked up McKinley's still woozy form, a bit of telekinetic control allowing his admittedly scrawny self to keep a grown Fae with a bit of parliamentary fat and a full three-piece on his feet with a single hand. The other one went to McKinley's forehead. "Sleep," he commanded, "let me access you. Keep the way clear and I'll ensure you heal a tad faster."
McKinley's now-drowsy form replied with a limp moan that trailed into a snore, Loren ignoring the drool that fell off of McKinley's lips as he lowered his eyelids.
"He's not insane," he then said, briefly angling his closed eyes in the others' direction, "but he's been tampered with. I see the Weaver collaborators of Sharpe's insurgency like to take to things more subtly: I'm seeing a careful patch job and no signs of classical indoctrination. Peel back enough blocks, and I think he'd have enough sense to oppose what just happened - and maybe his approach with Haskill and McHale, as well. I can't risk lifting the blocks without causing further damage, but I can make his mind flag them like they should have. He can be made aware of his selective amnesia. Once he remembers what caused it, he'll talk."
Bucky grunted as he moved in to assist Neasa, so she'd be able to put a little less active pressure on her own. "What's McKinley's last coherent memory?" he asked.
Mentalor bowed his head, furrowed his brow and focused. McKinley snorted and weakly struggled, but couldn't stop the Karthian's own presence from rooting around.
"A man," he began, "talking to him in a dark room. They're both seated - no, wait. Atticus' arms are bound. His fingers are dipped in ice - or am I sensing blood?"
The alien hesitated. "Sharp pain along the fingertips, carefully calculated so the bruising would fade before his trip to Hope... Pins inserted underneath the fingernails. They're electrified."
Mentalor pushed past McKinley's remembered pain and ignored the Fae's low moans. "The man in front of him is dressed in reds and pinks... His cologne is sweet - saccharine, even. I smell... sea brine and arousal. He relishes Atticus' pain. I'm seeing fine fingers, like a drowned infant's purplish flesh - another Weaver, but one with a peculiar kind of madness in his eyes. He's not doing this for any gods or any overarching agenda - it simply sates a need. He speaks to him..."
Loren's words turned to a recitation. "My brethren, if you can call them that, lack imagination. They wish to destroy what should be ours to play with. I've kept lovers and playthings, mister McKinley - and mister Sharpe's offered me a great many toys over the years. Some, I've greatly pleased. Others, I've killed. All I'm asking for is patience: carry out what has been asked of you, and I'll show you deep wells of pleasure."
Mentalor shuddered in disgust. "He presses himself against Atticus - brazenly erect the whole while. McKinley feels filth and there's generations of repressed homophobia suddenly beating at the doors, right at the edge of his throat. He can't respect this kind of presence, and he can't recall more sobering LGBT presences in the moment's terror. Atticus is terrified, but he can't move a muscle as some sort of ball gag is partially lifted. He gasps for air, tentacles slip through, the Weaver moans in release..."
He paused and squinted his eyes shut. "Wait - there's another light source in the room, a side table with ashtrays, recording gear and a cigarette pack. They're all labelled."
A pause. "M. Swinburne. A name pops up: Max. Max Swinburne. Atticus remembers him differently: flamboyant, rich, cultured - and a degenerate. Human, bald and indeterminately old, but able to crush him at squash or snooker. A quiet and subtle sore loser and a very showy winner. I see a pair of tickets, too. One for him, one for Atticus. Both for Hope."
* * *
"I understand," replied Tom, "but-"
He stopped as the kitchen's fireplace produced a low banging sound. A fine sheet of dust and creosote fell down from the chimney's shaft, Tom's ears needing a few extra seconds to swivel away. The afternoons, evenings and nights were getting colder, so it stood to reason that the Hall would creak and pop every now and then. Rolling his eyes at himself, he continued.
"I'd rather they stayed ignorant until we can all gather them here, safe and sound, and foster a situation that allows us to discuss it all like mature adults. Your folks are likely to see me now that Pride's advance positions are being taken, but I can't explain everything about my people's ambitions and goals while dodging fireballs and making sure Herbert survives long enough for Rhadamantus to build his case and send him to serve the Goat his Night Court notice. There's too much at risk in the immediate."
He raised a placating hand. "As soon as we can breathe, though - or as soon as Leonard's closing statement raises the question, I'm one hundred percent behind the idea of revealing myself to the world. Otherwise, I can't just save Cole or Sedna, tip my fedora, twirl my staff and say By the way, your daughter's an unbelievable kisser."
Tom paused and scoffed out of amusement. "I mean, I want to, but it'd be the best way to ensure I spend the rest of this crisis trying to negotiate my release with Crystal's occasionally tightwad subordinates."
"You have no idea," he whispered, likely in response to Aspasia's claims, as he gazed at the dusky sky with clearer eyes than he'd possessed in centuries.
Still, he felt the urge to turn around at the sound of more stones being upturned. Up came Arthur, holding two opened Ramen cups. "Alana reminded me that baby Archmages tend to work an appetite, and I remember Archie telling me you types have a yen for high salt contents," he told Lucian. "I had one of our cooks toss in a boiled egg in each for good measure - it's not Tokyo's finest, but it's the best in saturated fats we've got on hand."
Rothchild almost ran back to the vampire. "My kingdom for some cholesterol," he groused, gripping the paper cup with both hands and then using the provided spork to shovel noodles and broth behind his tendrils with the kind of speed and abandon that would've done seasoned Udon conoisseurs from Sotenbori rather proud.
The vampire rolled his eyes. "Young immortals, I swear… One minute, three consecutive strokes turn you into the healthiest health nut in the country, and the next one sees you Hoover three Big Macs in ten minutes because you burned half the neighbourhood down and need the extra calories."
Lucian munched on his boiled egg as though it was the single best piece of food he'd ever ingested. "The last time food was this tasty, I'd been a ravenous five-month-old! Three strokes be damned, if I might be honest!"
Coach smirked. "And the fact that you and my wife made a whirling storm of arcane darkness look like grease stains in one of my non-stick pans doesn't make a lick of a difference, I'd assume?"
Rothchild chuckled in relish and then made slurping noises as he pulled in another clump of noodles. "Cannot talk at present," he managed. "Rapt in culinary bliss.
- Heaven forbid we manage to find the city's last operating churro shop at this time of year," added Arthur, "he'd probably lose his mind."
Lucian slurped in his last bite for the moment, cleared his mouth and looked back to Arthur. "I've never had churros, mister Holden," he noted. "Heavens above," he lightly swore, "I could eat a horse!"
Holden proffered the second Ramen cup. "Start with this, something tells me horse flesh is going to be hard to come by while we're being roasted alive by Pitspawn.
- Gladly," replied the new Archmage, attacking the second cup with even more relish, cane wedged between his side and inner left arm.
* * *
The Irish Squid grinned behind his tendrils. "What's the saying, again? Do what thou must, isn't it? We do what we must, Archmage. The Chamberlain would still be wearing his robes if it wasn't for-"
He couldn't finish, as Neasa grabbed his tentacles. His neighbor moved in to try and dislodge Neasa, but miscalculated the amount of kinetic force to deliver his his shout. He didn't have any idea of just how resilient or strong Neasa was, so a commanding grunt that would've sent someone else someone else spinning sideways would only briefly destabilize the strongwoman. Still, the second one pushed past the pain. "To be raised... and taken... to the waves... is an honor!" he grunted.
Archie moved in, his first sweeping strike potentially striking Neasa as an obvious fakeout - but it wouldn't be too obvious to the Squids. Sacrificing one hand in an admittedly decent Krav Maga block on the Weaver's part allowed Holden to eject the other wrist's blade, turning his thrusting motion into what almost looked like a single-sided Jiu Jitsu reversal. In an instant, the third Weaver was blinking as its knees cracked against the floor, Archie's ball joints painlessly taking his locked arm's torque. The shirt and jacket arms might not have agreed and could be heard ripping open, but no visible discomfort marked the Clank as his right arm bent unnaturally. The left one's wrist pressed in, dark blood immediately welling forth. The last one had time enough to shout "No!" and to gather gravitational eddies together that his head seemingly exploded inside the confines of an invisible cube. Jellied brain goop retained its cuboid form as Mentalor lowered his curled fingers partially, and then thrust his hand and arm backwards and away from him. The shredded brain matter and impossibly contained mess of gore and chunks of bone and skin was seemingly jerked away and far upwards, Mentalor having seemingly sent the corpse off into a trailing arc that would see it land far outside of Evergloam's confines, and well into the nearest and most desolate of Mab's territory.
The only one left was the one Neasa was immobilizing. "Try and stabilize him," the Karthian said to Meris, as he looked down to the Krampus. "I'd like to see what our friend Atticus' mind has to offer."
He bent down and picked up McKinley's still woozy form, a bit of telekinetic control allowing his admittedly scrawny self to keep a grown Fae with a bit of parliamentary fat and a full three-piece on his feet with a single hand. The other one went to McKinley's forehead. "Sleep," he commanded, "let me access you. Keep the way clear and I'll ensure you heal a tad faster."
McKinley's now-drowsy form replied with a limp moan that trailed into a snore, Loren ignoring the drool that fell off of McKinley's lips as he lowered his eyelids.
"He's not insane," he then said, briefly angling his closed eyes in the others' direction, "but he's been tampered with. I see the Weaver collaborators of Sharpe's insurgency like to take to things more subtly: I'm seeing a careful patch job and no signs of classical indoctrination. Peel back enough blocks, and I think he'd have enough sense to oppose what just happened - and maybe his approach with Haskill and McHale, as well. I can't risk lifting the blocks without causing further damage, but I can make his mind flag them like they should have. He can be made aware of his selective amnesia. Once he remembers what caused it, he'll talk."
Bucky grunted as he moved in to assist Neasa, so she'd be able to put a little less active pressure on her own. "What's McKinley's last coherent memory?" he asked.
Mentalor bowed his head, furrowed his brow and focused. McKinley snorted and weakly struggled, but couldn't stop the Karthian's own presence from rooting around.
"A man," he began, "talking to him in a dark room. They're both seated - no, wait. Atticus' arms are bound. His fingers are dipped in ice - or am I sensing blood?"
The alien hesitated. "Sharp pain along the fingertips, carefully calculated so the bruising would fade before his trip to Hope... Pins inserted underneath the fingernails. They're electrified."
Mentalor pushed past McKinley's remembered pain and ignored the Fae's low moans. "The man in front of him is dressed in reds and pinks... His cologne is sweet - saccharine, even. I smell... sea brine and arousal. He relishes Atticus' pain. I'm seeing fine fingers, like a drowned infant's purplish flesh - another Weaver, but one with a peculiar kind of madness in his eyes. He's not doing this for any gods or any overarching agenda - it simply sates a need. He speaks to him..."
Loren's words turned to a recitation. "My brethren, if you can call them that, lack imagination. They wish to destroy what should be ours to play with. I've kept lovers and playthings, mister McKinley - and mister Sharpe's offered me a great many toys over the years. Some, I've greatly pleased. Others, I've killed. All I'm asking for is patience: carry out what has been asked of you, and I'll show you deep wells of pleasure."
Mentalor shuddered in disgust. "He presses himself against Atticus - brazenly erect the whole while. McKinley feels filth and there's generations of repressed homophobia suddenly beating at the doors, right at the edge of his throat. He can't respect this kind of presence, and he can't recall more sobering LGBT presences in the moment's terror. Atticus is terrified, but he can't move a muscle as some sort of ball gag is partially lifted. He gasps for air, tentacles slip through, the Weaver moans in release..."
He paused and squinted his eyes shut. "Wait - there's another light source in the room, a side table with ashtrays, recording gear and a cigarette pack. They're all labelled."
A pause. "M. Swinburne. A name pops up: Max. Max Swinburne. Atticus remembers him differently: flamboyant, rich, cultured - and a degenerate. Human, bald and indeterminately old, but able to crush him at squash or snooker. A quiet and subtle sore loser and a very showy winner. I see a pair of tickets, too. One for him, one for Atticus. Both for Hope."
* * *
"I understand," replied Tom, "but-"
He stopped as the kitchen's fireplace produced a low banging sound. A fine sheet of dust and creosote fell down from the chimney's shaft, Tom's ears needing a few extra seconds to swivel away. The afternoons, evenings and nights were getting colder, so it stood to reason that the Hall would creak and pop every now and then. Rolling his eyes at himself, he continued.
"I'd rather they stayed ignorant until we can all gather them here, safe and sound, and foster a situation that allows us to discuss it all like mature adults. Your folks are likely to see me now that Pride's advance positions are being taken, but I can't explain everything about my people's ambitions and goals while dodging fireballs and making sure Herbert survives long enough for Rhadamantus to build his case and send him to serve the Goat his Night Court notice. There's too much at risk in the immediate."
He raised a placating hand. "As soon as we can breathe, though - or as soon as Leonard's closing statement raises the question, I'm one hundred percent behind the idea of revealing myself to the world. Otherwise, I can't just save Cole or Sedna, tip my fedora, twirl my staff and say By the way, your daughter's an unbelievable kisser."
Tom paused and scoffed out of amusement. "I mean, I want to, but it'd be the best way to ensure I spend the rest of this crisis trying to negotiate my release with Crystal's occasionally tightwad subordinates."
-
TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
Meris kept her eyes on Krampus while she worked to stabilize him, singing low bars to stop bleeding and cut down on infection. She listened to Loren's description of McKinley's memories and frowned thoughtfully. "Chances are he's here in Hope, and it sounds like he might've offed the human Max Swinburne and took his place. That's not surprising, as it's what they've always done. And given the Squids' presence within Morgana's court, Deirdre Owen's off behavior makes a lot more sense now. She had this feverish look when I left her teahouse, as though she had imbibed too much absinthe," she noted, grimacing as she recalled the encounter. "Sharpe's involved with trying to get his own version of the Wisps going, what with the White King roaming the Earth once more."
Neasa huffed out a breath as she retained her vice-like grip on the Void Weaver's tentacles, allowing Bucky to help immobilize him as well. "Extremists of a feather flock together," she groused, glaring at the captive.
***
Aspasia smiled amusedly at the new archmage's stoked appetite and recalled her earlier attempt at contacting his old friend. "Lucian, I hate to interrupt your first meal after Ascending, but Meris might want to know about what's happened. I tried calling her, but it didn't go through due to her being in Faerie. Is there some sort of scrying spell you could configure, or?..." she asked.
***
Aislinn let out a sigh. "I understand, but it's just hard to deal with," she admitted with a shrug. She then gained a more determined gaze. "All the more reason to see this through and make sure we have some semblance of victory to see that we get to open up with our families. It might be kind of saccharine, but that's going to be one of my motivators for going into this fight."
Neasa huffed out a breath as she retained her vice-like grip on the Void Weaver's tentacles, allowing Bucky to help immobilize him as well. "Extremists of a feather flock together," she groused, glaring at the captive.
***
Aspasia smiled amusedly at the new archmage's stoked appetite and recalled her earlier attempt at contacting his old friend. "Lucian, I hate to interrupt your first meal after Ascending, but Meris might want to know about what's happened. I tried calling her, but it didn't go through due to her being in Faerie. Is there some sort of scrying spell you could configure, or?..." she asked.
***
Aislinn let out a sigh. "I understand, but it's just hard to deal with," she admitted with a shrug. She then gained a more determined gaze. "All the more reason to see this through and make sure we have some semblance of victory to see that we get to open up with our families. It might be kind of saccharine, but that's going to be one of my motivators for going into this fight."
-
IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
Percival grunted, a few big fingers lightly dabbing at the edges of his slashed eye socket. He hadn't lost much blood, considering, and his kind's stamina probably allowed him to push through the kind of injury that would've resulted in most of everyone else being nearly crippled by the pain.
"Morgana's kin were always touched," he groused. "Sweltering heat is theirs; one which saps the mind. They are as mercurial as those of Mab's wastes, but more given to emotional transports. These villains would have found an easy purchase, rich ground for their madness to take root. McKinley is but a pawn of their design."
Mentalor carefully set McKinley down, leaving the man to snore a bit more loudly once he was set on his back. That done, he approached the Gruff, levitated until he stood at a proper level for a cursory inspection of his wound, and then tsked satisfactorily.
"No damage to the nerves," he said. "I'll have you stop by my office," he said, "I know a few manufacturers who specialize in hypoallergenic prosthetics for Fae and other supernaturals.
- I will not be Augmented," growled the Viscount. "Gruffs Serve as they were Made.
- As if you'd miss the chance to terrify the next round of weaponized Dixies, Your Eminence," snarked the alien. "Don't worry, I can forego any software-based additions and simply find a sufficiently striking external design. You'll maybe end up with a grain of rice's worth of silicon at the nerve's branching-off point, but I wouldn't dream of despoiling your countenance with pesky Posthuman fittings. Until then, we'll have to prescribe you some painkillers.
- A flagon of mead will suffice."
Loren rolled his eyes. "I just love a cop that admits to drinking on the job... Let's see our seasonal annoyance, then."
He then moved to Krampus, and bent down to turn him over. Meris had stabilized him, but it didn't stop dark blood from slowly welling forth from three points of impact along the changed demon's chest. As banged-up as he was, Krampus tried for a grin, which Loren ignored.
"Hrm," he said, "potential Pneumo-Thorax. His right lung could collapse at any moment and his left one doesn't look like it fared much better. I've seen Fae recover from worse."
Krampus wheezed. "There was... iron... in that shit. Feels like I'd cry for weeks if I didn't... force myself to laugh."
That left Loren sniffing. "Regrettably, my expertise stops at Etheric injuries. We could put you on life support and yank your soul out of your body, place it into a phylactery or have you go Clank until your Etheric corpus is fully reconstituted, but that'd be a useless expense. You'll have to tough through it like most other Fae."
The Christmas Demon cackled, coughed and wheezed. "Looks like I'm outta the fight 'til Yule... Even then, the local Yule King's got other shit to deal with. I kinda doubt Haskill's gonna take five to heal me..."
The alien looked back to Meris. "We need to leave quickly. He's likely to be depressed in every sense of the term by the time we reach Hope - especially on the immune level. He needs his wounds cleaned and sutured, and his lungs need to be re-sealed."
Bagley approached McKinley and unceremoniously slung him over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Atticus' snores only turned louder for a few breaths, before steadying again. "He is our only link to the Fae's plans in regards to Hell's own progress," he reminded. "He ought to come with us back to the mansion.
- You've all been Knighted," shrugged Loren, "you'll be able to override my Delta-wave cycle with a basic Oath. I figured someone would want to question him, so I didn't make his Dominion too solid."
Then followed Bucky, who looked back to Archie. "What about Calamari breath, over here? We need to account for the Squids' plans, too.
- Let me Silence him," replied Percy. "If his native idiom is barred from use, he will have no choice but to answer you." he said, then approaching the Weaver Neasa and Bucky were immobilizing. "Keep him steady - let me have his neck, but keep him from speaking."
It took a little coordination, but the surviving Squid was soon reduced to impotent moans. His tentacles were immobilized and his jaw pinned down, while he was forced to focus on the Gruff. "I, Percival of Evergloam," he said, his voice eerily calm, "do hereby swear 'pon thee utmost Silence in thine makers' tongue. From henceforth, the Black Speech is lost to you. Its symbols are lost to you. Its madness is lost to you. Thou art to see it as we do: as the scribblings of madmen in the offal of centuries, as death and decay embellished. Impotent, thou art."
The Squid shook with rage and angrily moaned, while tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes, his eyes filled with absolute loathing. As the Oath tool hold, crushing despair added back-wracking shivers to the mix. He tried to work English words through his immobilized status, but didn't exactly need an interpreter to make it clear he wanted everyone present to pay for what he'd just endured. Percy's single-eyed stare was contemptuous to a fault.
"Take him with you," he then asked of Neasa and Bucky. "My men will not suffer the caterwaulings of a man unable to accept defeat."
* * *
Lucian's immediate response was a surprised "Mmph!", followed by a few hurried motions as he worked to swallow his last bite quickly and briefly looked a bit at a loss as to what he could do with both Ramen cups. Coach offered a hand, Rothchild gratefully leaving his nearly-finished second cup in the lich's hands. The new Archmage then coughed and cleared his mind.
"Right," he said, "apologies; I'll have to find a means to share of this experience with Meris, at a later date... I've never been skilled at opening Gates the Fae themselves would not have set into place, but with my newfound potency, there might be some means for me to possibly..."
He raised his cane, the tip of the nautilus-shaped handle being fine enough to serve as a kind of tracing point for finer spells. Quietly, he worked on a simple arcane rhyme that fell in with the Fae's traditions of laying out new Gates with a bit of lyrical flourish.
"A ring of light to bear my call
A beacon in sight as the Tree stands tall
Let Meris of the Orcades see her friend
As Lucian of Dalarath witnessed his end."
Coach frowned. "A bit grim, ain't it?
- I've just been reborn," shrugged the Squid, "I'm allowed a few horrible rhymes."
In any case, the intent seemed to have gone through, as Meris would soon see a pinprick of bluish light wink to life atop Krampus' form and slowly expand to a small disc that was about the size of a pocket mirror.
* * *
"I doubt you're the only one, hon," replied Tom, adding a reassuring squeeze of her hand as he spoke. "I know I give off airs of being able to shrug off the Goat leveling the city, but your happiness matters to me," he said, looking at the others. "Even yours, Gubbin," he said, smirking at the Malk. For once, that ripped a small smile out of the Scrooge-like Fae.
"I may rarely enter the fray," he said, "but Lord Holden has loved ones, and both he and the Lady Lowell are frequently absent. I feel it is my responsibility to serve as your last line of defense, to pledge my seldom-seen knives to the likes of Anjali and Andrea."
He inspected one of his gloved hands in a bit of a self-satisfied manner. "It helps that even the most keen of our enemies tend not to suspect the butler of being a worthy opponent. Anjali asked why I did not make my human seeming affect more youthful traits - and part of it is this fact."
Three nodded. "I've noticed you shorten your gait whenever we have someone over, like you're trying to act your age - or at least the age your appearance suggests. Speaking of, I'd like another spar, once this blows over.
Gubbin's reserved smile turned a bit toothy. "It would be my pleasure to defeat you again, mister Drake," he said.
The smile didn't last, however, as he sharply turned his head away and upwards, eyes narrowing.
"It's probably raccoons or squirrels in some of the old ventilation pipes," shrugged Tom.
Gubbin parted with a quiet grunt, the hand he hadn't lifted earlier going up to his jacket's lapel not out of rising pride, but rather out of the need to keep a few holdout weapons close by. The hook-nosed Wyldfae's nostrils worked, his bushy eyebrows furrowed and he stood up, heading out of the kitchen in the fairly single-minded way cats sometimes had of leaving rooms without acknowledging anyone else. Three gave the group a placating look and headed after Gubbin, watching as the Malk made the concept of standing in the lobby's single blind spot feel staggeringly casual. He had a hand close to his chest, however - fingers twirling a nonexistent knife.
In short order, Gubbin's wariness paid off. A man's voice sounded off in the street ahead, its scream turning syncopated as his feet beat the snowy and sleet-covered pavement. "FIRE!" he screamed. "HELP, FIRE!"
Common knowledge suggested that yelling for help alone wasn't guaranteed to suffice in bringing attention to someone's desperation. Yelling for fire, however, was generally considered to be more effective. The Malk opened the door as a ragged-looking man wearing what looked like a torn suit furiously pumped his legs past the mansion's entrance, three other figures sporting various rags and cast-offs sprinting after him. A single gunshot sounded, the man screamed, and Three saw one of the assailants toss away what had to be an empty gun.
Drake didn't waste time. "LEAD THEM BACK AROUND!" he shouted, even as Gubbin took off, legs pumping with the precision of a machine. "I'LL CLOSE IN FROM THE OTHER SIDE! AIS, TOM! I WANT A SHIELD ON GUBBIN AND A HEX ON THEM! GO THROUGH THE BACKYARD, YOU'LL CATCH UP WITH THEM!"
Weather be damned, Aidan headed out into the cold with nothing but his jeans, sneakers and tee-shirt, trusting the sapient Lexicon with the task of ensuring he wouldn't sprain an ankle or break a leg. Tom huffed a few times as he bolted for the rear door, cursing Quint's love of bacon for delaying his ability to level out the body's use of stamina.
"Morgana's kin were always touched," he groused. "Sweltering heat is theirs; one which saps the mind. They are as mercurial as those of Mab's wastes, but more given to emotional transports. These villains would have found an easy purchase, rich ground for their madness to take root. McKinley is but a pawn of their design."
Mentalor carefully set McKinley down, leaving the man to snore a bit more loudly once he was set on his back. That done, he approached the Gruff, levitated until he stood at a proper level for a cursory inspection of his wound, and then tsked satisfactorily.
"No damage to the nerves," he said. "I'll have you stop by my office," he said, "I know a few manufacturers who specialize in hypoallergenic prosthetics for Fae and other supernaturals.
- I will not be Augmented," growled the Viscount. "Gruffs Serve as they were Made.
- As if you'd miss the chance to terrify the next round of weaponized Dixies, Your Eminence," snarked the alien. "Don't worry, I can forego any software-based additions and simply find a sufficiently striking external design. You'll maybe end up with a grain of rice's worth of silicon at the nerve's branching-off point, but I wouldn't dream of despoiling your countenance with pesky Posthuman fittings. Until then, we'll have to prescribe you some painkillers.
- A flagon of mead will suffice."
Loren rolled his eyes. "I just love a cop that admits to drinking on the job... Let's see our seasonal annoyance, then."
He then moved to Krampus, and bent down to turn him over. Meris had stabilized him, but it didn't stop dark blood from slowly welling forth from three points of impact along the changed demon's chest. As banged-up as he was, Krampus tried for a grin, which Loren ignored.
"Hrm," he said, "potential Pneumo-Thorax. His right lung could collapse at any moment and his left one doesn't look like it fared much better. I've seen Fae recover from worse."
Krampus wheezed. "There was... iron... in that shit. Feels like I'd cry for weeks if I didn't... force myself to laugh."
That left Loren sniffing. "Regrettably, my expertise stops at Etheric injuries. We could put you on life support and yank your soul out of your body, place it into a phylactery or have you go Clank until your Etheric corpus is fully reconstituted, but that'd be a useless expense. You'll have to tough through it like most other Fae."
The Christmas Demon cackled, coughed and wheezed. "Looks like I'm outta the fight 'til Yule... Even then, the local Yule King's got other shit to deal with. I kinda doubt Haskill's gonna take five to heal me..."
The alien looked back to Meris. "We need to leave quickly. He's likely to be depressed in every sense of the term by the time we reach Hope - especially on the immune level. He needs his wounds cleaned and sutured, and his lungs need to be re-sealed."
Bagley approached McKinley and unceremoniously slung him over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Atticus' snores only turned louder for a few breaths, before steadying again. "He is our only link to the Fae's plans in regards to Hell's own progress," he reminded. "He ought to come with us back to the mansion.
- You've all been Knighted," shrugged Loren, "you'll be able to override my Delta-wave cycle with a basic Oath. I figured someone would want to question him, so I didn't make his Dominion too solid."
Then followed Bucky, who looked back to Archie. "What about Calamari breath, over here? We need to account for the Squids' plans, too.
- Let me Silence him," replied Percy. "If his native idiom is barred from use, he will have no choice but to answer you." he said, then approaching the Weaver Neasa and Bucky were immobilizing. "Keep him steady - let me have his neck, but keep him from speaking."
It took a little coordination, but the surviving Squid was soon reduced to impotent moans. His tentacles were immobilized and his jaw pinned down, while he was forced to focus on the Gruff. "I, Percival of Evergloam," he said, his voice eerily calm, "do hereby swear 'pon thee utmost Silence in thine makers' tongue. From henceforth, the Black Speech is lost to you. Its symbols are lost to you. Its madness is lost to you. Thou art to see it as we do: as the scribblings of madmen in the offal of centuries, as death and decay embellished. Impotent, thou art."
The Squid shook with rage and angrily moaned, while tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes, his eyes filled with absolute loathing. As the Oath tool hold, crushing despair added back-wracking shivers to the mix. He tried to work English words through his immobilized status, but didn't exactly need an interpreter to make it clear he wanted everyone present to pay for what he'd just endured. Percy's single-eyed stare was contemptuous to a fault.
"Take him with you," he then asked of Neasa and Bucky. "My men will not suffer the caterwaulings of a man unable to accept defeat."
* * *
Lucian's immediate response was a surprised "Mmph!", followed by a few hurried motions as he worked to swallow his last bite quickly and briefly looked a bit at a loss as to what he could do with both Ramen cups. Coach offered a hand, Rothchild gratefully leaving his nearly-finished second cup in the lich's hands. The new Archmage then coughed and cleared his mind.
"Right," he said, "apologies; I'll have to find a means to share of this experience with Meris, at a later date... I've never been skilled at opening Gates the Fae themselves would not have set into place, but with my newfound potency, there might be some means for me to possibly..."
He raised his cane, the tip of the nautilus-shaped handle being fine enough to serve as a kind of tracing point for finer spells. Quietly, he worked on a simple arcane rhyme that fell in with the Fae's traditions of laying out new Gates with a bit of lyrical flourish.
"A ring of light to bear my call
A beacon in sight as the Tree stands tall
Let Meris of the Orcades see her friend
As Lucian of Dalarath witnessed his end."
Coach frowned. "A bit grim, ain't it?
- I've just been reborn," shrugged the Squid, "I'm allowed a few horrible rhymes."
In any case, the intent seemed to have gone through, as Meris would soon see a pinprick of bluish light wink to life atop Krampus' form and slowly expand to a small disc that was about the size of a pocket mirror.
* * *
"I doubt you're the only one, hon," replied Tom, adding a reassuring squeeze of her hand as he spoke. "I know I give off airs of being able to shrug off the Goat leveling the city, but your happiness matters to me," he said, looking at the others. "Even yours, Gubbin," he said, smirking at the Malk. For once, that ripped a small smile out of the Scrooge-like Fae.
"I may rarely enter the fray," he said, "but Lord Holden has loved ones, and both he and the Lady Lowell are frequently absent. I feel it is my responsibility to serve as your last line of defense, to pledge my seldom-seen knives to the likes of Anjali and Andrea."
He inspected one of his gloved hands in a bit of a self-satisfied manner. "It helps that even the most keen of our enemies tend not to suspect the butler of being a worthy opponent. Anjali asked why I did not make my human seeming affect more youthful traits - and part of it is this fact."
Three nodded. "I've noticed you shorten your gait whenever we have someone over, like you're trying to act your age - or at least the age your appearance suggests. Speaking of, I'd like another spar, once this blows over.
Gubbin's reserved smile turned a bit toothy. "It would be my pleasure to defeat you again, mister Drake," he said.
The smile didn't last, however, as he sharply turned his head away and upwards, eyes narrowing.
"It's probably raccoons or squirrels in some of the old ventilation pipes," shrugged Tom.
Gubbin parted with a quiet grunt, the hand he hadn't lifted earlier going up to his jacket's lapel not out of rising pride, but rather out of the need to keep a few holdout weapons close by. The hook-nosed Wyldfae's nostrils worked, his bushy eyebrows furrowed and he stood up, heading out of the kitchen in the fairly single-minded way cats sometimes had of leaving rooms without acknowledging anyone else. Three gave the group a placating look and headed after Gubbin, watching as the Malk made the concept of standing in the lobby's single blind spot feel staggeringly casual. He had a hand close to his chest, however - fingers twirling a nonexistent knife.
In short order, Gubbin's wariness paid off. A man's voice sounded off in the street ahead, its scream turning syncopated as his feet beat the snowy and sleet-covered pavement. "FIRE!" he screamed. "HELP, FIRE!"
Common knowledge suggested that yelling for help alone wasn't guaranteed to suffice in bringing attention to someone's desperation. Yelling for fire, however, was generally considered to be more effective. The Malk opened the door as a ragged-looking man wearing what looked like a torn suit furiously pumped his legs past the mansion's entrance, three other figures sporting various rags and cast-offs sprinting after him. A single gunshot sounded, the man screamed, and Three saw one of the assailants toss away what had to be an empty gun.
Drake didn't waste time. "LEAD THEM BACK AROUND!" he shouted, even as Gubbin took off, legs pumping with the precision of a machine. "I'LL CLOSE IN FROM THE OTHER SIDE! AIS, TOM! I WANT A SHIELD ON GUBBIN AND A HEX ON THEM! GO THROUGH THE BACKYARD, YOU'LL CATCH UP WITH THEM!"
Weather be damned, Aidan headed out into the cold with nothing but his jeans, sneakers and tee-shirt, trusting the sapient Lexicon with the task of ensuring he wouldn't sprain an ankle or break a leg. Tom huffed a few times as he bolted for the rear door, cursing Quint's love of bacon for delaying his ability to level out the body's use of stamina.
-
TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
"We'll make do," Neasa responded, sending a glare at their new "guest". "When we're not questioning him, I think a muzzle of some sort might be a good look for him," she muttered, using her hand on his tentacles like a lead. "Make sure he keeps up, Buck. I don't feel like listening to his ka-sobbing if there's any leeway in how much he can talk."
"I should be able to fix him up better once I have actual tools to sew his wounds shut and get the bullets out of him. We can take the airship back and get him to the medical area," Meris responded to Loren.
Upon seeing the pinprick of light appear and widen, the Archmage frowned suspiciously at it until the realization dawned on her as to whom might've been contacting her. "Hello, is this Lucian?" she chanced warily.
***
Swearing in frustration at the interrupted down time, Aislinn hurried after Tom for the rear door and readied her focus to call arcane energies, in case the warthog needed help with the hex or even just some fireballs.
As she ran, she shouted to Tom, "I know the city's probably on edge, but isn't this a bit suspect?!"
"I should be able to fix him up better once I have actual tools to sew his wounds shut and get the bullets out of him. We can take the airship back and get him to the medical area," Meris responded to Loren.
Upon seeing the pinprick of light appear and widen, the Archmage frowned suspiciously at it until the realization dawned on her as to whom might've been contacting her. "Hello, is this Lucian?" she chanced warily.
***
Swearing in frustration at the interrupted down time, Aislinn hurried after Tom for the rear door and readied her focus to call arcane energies, in case the warthog needed help with the hex or even just some fireballs.
As she ran, she shouted to Tom, "I know the city's probably on edge, but isn't this a bit suspect?!"
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Re: Chapter V - Brimstone
"Shouldn't be too hard, Ness," replied the samurai, one big hand resting on the Squid's shoulder. Meris' odd visitation caused the two Clanks and the injured Fae to wait until they'd understand what the Archmage was being presented with.
Considering the fact that the barrier had been nearly negated, the connection wasn't entirely perfect. Lucian's voice sounded a bit compressed and distant and no visuals followed along; but he didn't exactly need visual feedback for his elation to be obvious.
"Yes! Yes, Meris!" he could be heard replying. He sounded elated, the mediocre sound quality leaving it clear that something had happened to his voice. What, however, wouldn't be clear until she'd see him in person. Crackles and pops of arcane energy swallowed part of what had to be a gladdened peal of laughter. "It's wonderful! I've... never felt... so much-! Come and-! It's the Tree! Sophia- She saved-! Come and see! Mansion! Meet at... mansion!"
The sound of a tinny cordless phone being lugged around with its connection open followed, the speaker's voice changing. "Meris? It's Silas! We'll meet- Greenvale! It's closer! Do you read?"
* * *
"About as suspect as a warthog in a purple suit, I'd say!" chanced the Warlock. Being wary's smart - let's just not make it obvious, in case we're right!"
He pushed himself a bit more, closing the distance with Aislinn and bringing up a hand towards the rear fence. A rotation of his wrist caused a roughly Tom-sized patch of iron girders to glow red-hot, fall apart and tumble away, and he just barely managed the hop needed to clear the brick-hewn base and emerge onto the street. He looked back, waiting for Aislinn to hop through or leave the mansion's perimeter of her own accord, and then sealed the way again, the chunks of wrought iron fusing back together.
He then turned left, nostrils pulsating and teeth lightly bared, and sprinted forward. As expected, Drake and Gubbin led the pursuers and their victims into a pincer move. Magnus yelled "Clear!" for the Malk's benefit and then pointed his staff at the men who chased after the suit-wearing man. A lancet of red-tinged darkness began to quickly snake its way forward, darting every which way like a questing moray eel, until it zeroed in on the trio. A flash of purple ended with Gubbin assuming his feline form in mid-air, sailing over the projectile. The seemingly explosive hex touched the three men and exploded in a fairly comic-worthy mass of black spheres - almost real-life Kirby Dots - that seemed to impinge on their movement. The Malk had barely landed that he'd shifted back into human form, cutlery flashing between his gloved fingers. A practiced swipe ended with a handful of steak knives digging deep into the black spheres, the imprisoned men screaming in response. Two of them still looked fairly determined and seemed to be pushing against the spell. Something set off Aidan in that instant, prompting him to make a dash for the roane. He patted her on the shoulder as he slipped past, Aislinn's sensory perceptions dulling for half a second, then sharpening again.
"You're shielded!" he yelled. "Buff the vic's defenses!"
As he shouted, one of the men managed to rip himself free, large chunks of clothing and exposed skin having been ripped off in his efforts. The exposed layers of muscle and fat looked oddly grayish and seemed to be locked in some form of suspended decomposition. "Possible ghoul on twelve!" snapped Three, now fully in his old squad-based habits. His pistols now conjured into being, he began the seemingly arduous process of unloading rounds into the man. He looked neither athletic or particularly out of shape, but every other dash came with grisly little popping noises that made Drake think of snapping tendons and torn ligaments. In any case, he wasn't a Void Weaver and certainly wasn't a run-of-the-mill human, either.
The victim, as it stood, was now a ways away from Aislinn and behind her, possibly a bit safer in the immediate than if he stood right next to her. He looked to be in his sixties, bald and largely hairless, average in height and with a slightly blooming waistline that left room for a few remaining markers of athleticism. He at least had good cardio, as his desperate run had suggested.
Considering the fact that the barrier had been nearly negated, the connection wasn't entirely perfect. Lucian's voice sounded a bit compressed and distant and no visuals followed along; but he didn't exactly need visual feedback for his elation to be obvious.
"Yes! Yes, Meris!" he could be heard replying. He sounded elated, the mediocre sound quality leaving it clear that something had happened to his voice. What, however, wouldn't be clear until she'd see him in person. Crackles and pops of arcane energy swallowed part of what had to be a gladdened peal of laughter. "It's wonderful! I've... never felt... so much-! Come and-! It's the Tree! Sophia- She saved-! Come and see! Mansion! Meet at... mansion!"
The sound of a tinny cordless phone being lugged around with its connection open followed, the speaker's voice changing. "Meris? It's Silas! We'll meet- Greenvale! It's closer! Do you read?"
* * *
"About as suspect as a warthog in a purple suit, I'd say!" chanced the Warlock. Being wary's smart - let's just not make it obvious, in case we're right!"
He pushed himself a bit more, closing the distance with Aislinn and bringing up a hand towards the rear fence. A rotation of his wrist caused a roughly Tom-sized patch of iron girders to glow red-hot, fall apart and tumble away, and he just barely managed the hop needed to clear the brick-hewn base and emerge onto the street. He looked back, waiting for Aislinn to hop through or leave the mansion's perimeter of her own accord, and then sealed the way again, the chunks of wrought iron fusing back together.
He then turned left, nostrils pulsating and teeth lightly bared, and sprinted forward. As expected, Drake and Gubbin led the pursuers and their victims into a pincer move. Magnus yelled "Clear!" for the Malk's benefit and then pointed his staff at the men who chased after the suit-wearing man. A lancet of red-tinged darkness began to quickly snake its way forward, darting every which way like a questing moray eel, until it zeroed in on the trio. A flash of purple ended with Gubbin assuming his feline form in mid-air, sailing over the projectile. The seemingly explosive hex touched the three men and exploded in a fairly comic-worthy mass of black spheres - almost real-life Kirby Dots - that seemed to impinge on their movement. The Malk had barely landed that he'd shifted back into human form, cutlery flashing between his gloved fingers. A practiced swipe ended with a handful of steak knives digging deep into the black spheres, the imprisoned men screaming in response. Two of them still looked fairly determined and seemed to be pushing against the spell. Something set off Aidan in that instant, prompting him to make a dash for the roane. He patted her on the shoulder as he slipped past, Aislinn's sensory perceptions dulling for half a second, then sharpening again.
"You're shielded!" he yelled. "Buff the vic's defenses!"
As he shouted, one of the men managed to rip himself free, large chunks of clothing and exposed skin having been ripped off in his efforts. The exposed layers of muscle and fat looked oddly grayish and seemed to be locked in some form of suspended decomposition. "Possible ghoul on twelve!" snapped Three, now fully in his old squad-based habits. His pistols now conjured into being, he began the seemingly arduous process of unloading rounds into the man. He looked neither athletic or particularly out of shape, but every other dash came with grisly little popping noises that made Drake think of snapping tendons and torn ligaments. In any case, he wasn't a Void Weaver and certainly wasn't a run-of-the-mill human, either.
The victim, as it stood, was now a ways away from Aislinn and behind her, possibly a bit safer in the immediate than if he stood right next to her. He looked to be in his sixties, bald and largely hairless, average in height and with a slightly blooming waistline that left room for a few remaining markers of athleticism. He at least had good cardio, as his desperate run had suggested.