Angels and Demons

[Fallen] OOC Disclaimers/Scene Guidelines!

Glad you guys could come to play and I hope we all have fun! *crosses fingers* Most of the following is all standard, but prerequisite so here it goes:

1. This is (could be?) a pretty large scene, so there’s a 10min time limit on posting. So once the person ahead of you in the Order posts you’ve got ten minutes to get your post up. Factor in waiting for your turn and that’s a good amount of time to work on your posts so hopefully we can all stick to this.
2. Posting order will be established after the first round of posts. So however it ends up after the first round is how we’ll stick to things unless/until we get to Initiatives.
3. I’m hoping to keep this scene more about role-playing than dicing, so for my part I’m going to try and simplify ST rolls wherever I can. Any Effects your PCs care to pull off with be rolled per usual unless I tell you otherwise.
4. If this goes to combat you’ll have 5min to declare, 3min to roll when your turn comes up, unless you’re asking my questions.
5. Ask all the questions you like of me! Just make sure to IM me the questions as I might miss them in the aim chat. Keep an eye on the aim chat as that’s where I’ll make group announcements/roll requests.
6. As per the norm, if ever anything comes up ICly with which you are uncomfortable, let me know.

If everyone is cool with that, then go ahead and start posting! It’s late evening at the Chantry, getting close to midnight. Post where your PC is/what they are doing/arriving/etc. The only caveat is that they not be down in the basement.

[Solomon Ward] It had been weeks since the priest had been actively spotted doing ...anything. Not that he was moping mind you, but after his close personal run in with death and subsequent recovery he just hadn't been seen around much. No answered calls and most people didn't know (or bother with) where he lived. He'd just dropped off the grid for a little while.

He'd come back earlier in the evening with a small load of books under one arm, and immediately headed for the library on the attic level. Which is where he'd spent the rest of his time. If any one else had entered the building after him, or had already been there as he passed through going up stairs, they had effectively been ignored or missed in ignorance.

It's a wonder he hasn't been defrocked given the man's social talents, or lack of them.

[Emily Littleton] It's a warm night, again, muggy and heavily settled around the city. It's the sort of humid heat that reminds the Orphan of far away places, of the scent of sea air hanging in thick-walled alleyways. Of cobblestones and a fat-faced moon hanging over the ruins and progress of centuries.

It is not quite as iconic, the suburban neighborhood that houses Chicago's chantry, but the thickness of the air seems almost familiar. The heavy scent of flowers, of recent rains, all kept close to the earth seemed to shroud the sidewalk, paint it in a sense as real and palpable as the orange-grey haze from the overhead lamps.

She'd made a habit, lately, of stopping by the house. She hadn't any real reason for it, except that she should. Perhaps she was waiting on something to happen, some definitive moment that might cast the last year into sharp relief or sudden clarity.

There are footsteps on the front porch, that wide veranda before the door. A pair of knocks, short and clear, and then the door -- if left unlocked -- eases open. The Orphan is dressed in jeans and peasant blouse. It's a burnt orange color, and the silver of the chain around her neck stands out brightly.

Emily still doesn't toe off her shoes when she enters. Some part of her still sees the house as an abbatoir, in her nightmares, and a place that may require hasty exits, in more recent experience.

"Good evening," she says, quietly, to the empty living room. Soon she will be moving on to the noteboard, to the kitchen, to see who else is around.

[Nathan Spriggs] A strange night in town it felt like, some cloud coverage that only helped make the Moon that extra bit creepier, as the light came through the thinner clouds and was obstructed by others. As the Cultist stepped through the street, dimly lit by moonlight and weak streetlamps, the only sounds he heard around him were the blowing wind and his own shoes hitting the pavement time and time again with every step.

Tonight his destination was a house which housed a Node in it's basement, which he could see quite clearly now, lights on inside from what he could tell from the windows by as his steps took him closer to it. People were present, perfect.

The man had dropped by for a bit of a social visit after having gotten back into the city this very afternoon. Business trips and searches for trails of activity by certain parties elsewhere had kept him away from the past few weeks without prior warning to the others. Now he was back in town and lost on any recent developments, which was where the Chantry came in.

His usual attire on, the only difference from the appearance the others were so used to was the large Trombone bag held in his right hand. Social visit as it was, having just gotten back into town, he felt strange and uncomfortable walking around in the dark.

Inside it were certain pieces of equipment he'd obtained before the disappearance act.

It wasn't long before the blond man was going up the steps of the porch and through the front door with a quick twist of the doorknob. A look around to see if anyone was in the living room.

[Solomon Ward] Heavy foot steps resound down the old stairs. It doesn't matter how well kept the house is, it isn't new and its acquired its quirks over the years. One of them is the occasional creak of the stairs. Some people call it 'personality', which just seems stupid to the priest. Human's attempting to inflict anthropomorphic traits on every day objects out of some misguided sense of character. He just called it what it was; A damned nuisance.

He still has some stacks of books carried in two hands in front of him, over laden almost, when he hears some one saying 'hello' to what should have been an empty room. Which may or may not explain his perplexed expression as he steps into it, glances around at every thing but Emily, and then stares at Emily for a long moment as if waiting on some thing.

Then Nathan enters. Well, maybe the priest missed some thing some where. Nah, this isn't awkward at all.

"Good evening"

[Emily Littleton] There is a place, a place she's visited not too long ago, where Emily entered always with a Hello, the house!. It is a cavernous space, and she never knew who might be lurking in the many rooms or corridors. Thist place feels the same -- large and often empty, not resonant of home -- and so it does not seem too odd to her to address the room, especially as she has not called ahead of her visit.

When the priest comes down the stairs, she turns to face him with a small smile. There is deference in that, for the cloth he wears and the life he's chosen. Respect for the station, if not yet for the man.

"How are you this evening, Father?" she asks, according the title the proper weight in her voice. And then, for Nathan, "Oh... hello Nathan."

A little frown, as she studies his new attache. "I didn't know you were also a musician. How long have you played?" Ahh, the innocence of young apprentices.

[Fallen]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 6, 9 (Success x 4 at target 4) [WP]

[Solomon Ward] Perc +Awareness
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 4, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] ((Awareness))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 8, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Nathan Spriggs] A glance at the house's inside for a moment, a sense of nostalgia sweeping in though it'd only been several weeks. Like returning home, to a dangerous and monster-filled city. It was a hateful yet pleasant feeling for him.

His head turned slightly at the sign of life in the room, Solomon noticed first then Emily, it was something about the priest that got his attention when he came into the room. Caution maybe? Danger sense?

Small smile curling on his lips with a nod of acknowledgment and maybe some respect for the priest, as well as a wave to the young Apprentice.

Her question got a wry smile before a response came, "Nah, just storing some luggage in here," a pause there, a thought on previous discussions with the priest about weapons and information disclosure, "Weapons for safety mostly." Honesty, was it the best alternative?

[Nathan Spriggs]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Ashley McGowen] It's a warm night, and the past few weeks haven't been very stressful on the Hermetic. Rather the opposite in fact: instead of rushing around worrying that the world could end any moment, she's been drinking and talking with other mages, reading and lying in the grass. Her last trip to the chantry ended well. She's in a good mood tonight.

If she could structure sound in such a way that she could understand a melody, she might be humming. Instead she's just walking up the front walk, padding up the stairs, in silence. Hoping that some kind soul left food in the chantry kitchen again.

That the lights are on takes Ashley a little by surprise, and she cranes her head around to peer in through the window before opening the front door. It's late to find people here at all, much less several of them. She's soundless on the steps, even though they creak; Ashley walks quietly even when she doesn't mean to. The silence ends when the door opens and her toe catches on the front step, causing a rather heavy stomp just inside when she catches her balance.

She just looks at the others standing inside after the fact, pretending that it didn't just happen. Like a cat. "Hi, everyone," she says, her tone colored a little by her surprise at seeing them all here.

[Ashley McGowen] [Awareness]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 5, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Fallen] Just another evening in the chantry. Comings and goings; no one really lives here, it seems, at least not since anyone last saw the Societies Dreamspeaker. A night that feels warmer because of the clammy humidity; it gets trapped up and stagnant in a older home like this without central air conditioning. The kind of weather where it feels cooler outside than it does inside which, as it nears Summer, is not to anyone benefit.

All of the Mages currently in the home know one another: Greetings are exchanged in various degrees of familiarity, pleasantry, trust. To be Awakened is to join an elite club; a society more exclusive than it would care to be. But it doesn't mean instant friendships, let alone trust, let alone everyone all getting along. In a Chantry only recently getting back on its feet there are undercurrents. There are remembrances of past horrors; uncertainties of future directions; disagreements over current policies... you name it and it probably exists in some way, shape, or form.

A quiet and impromptu get together. Left to their own devices they would probably pair off, or a trio might linger to speak, or all might continue on to their self appointed activities. What defines closeness? Comradeship? At what point does unified strife cause solidarity? At what point does it cause universal suspicion? Jadedness? Things have been quiet the last few weeks. Things have been relatively quiet in the Chantry itself for months now.

Such things are not meant to last.

It is the Apprentice who first feels an initial tingle down her spine; an involuntary grit of her back molars or maybe something different. Perhaps she is primal enough to feel it in her womb. It is not dread or fear; but it is certainly a sense of something more; something Other and perhaps it brings to mind her would-be Mentor, ho she's felt such things from him before when he manipulated Creations energies. She is attuned enough, though, to pick up on a Resonance, a Resonance shes felt before: Sorrowful. Bittersweat. Ancient, aching agony.
The Hermetic is more closely attuned as well and also more knowledgeable: She can identify at least part of what she senses, surging and roiling beneath them so far as directions go, though it seems to pass the barriers of such sensations. She can feel traces of Ars Mentis; the Ars Vis. She also feels the Resonance, though less strongly than Emily.
Nathan is alert as well; aware. Aware enough to pick up on some slightly lesser degree of what the women feel; enough to be able to identify a familiar Resonance; enough to note the usage of Prime, though he is too knowledgeable of the rest to make a clear definition.
The Priest is, saddly, the least aware of them all though in this case perhaps it doesn't matter: He is more closely intertwined with the Resonance than any here present; in fact his own Resonance echoes in its depths; a whisper, a thin veiling, but there. That in and of itself may night alarm him...

...this is the warning they get.
Perhaps a passing curiosity. One or the other may be opening their mouth to speak, to continue with their greetings or maybe to ask what the Disciple Orphan is up to downstairs, idly curious...

....then comes the scream. High pitched. Not a robust cry; a breathing, screeching thing, like shock or pain. It seems to cut off abruptly. It definitely comes from downstairs, in the basement, in the heart of the Chantry.

[Fallen] Emily, mystical senses sharper than the others at the moment, can sense something after the scream: Like the Resonance she just felt got swallowed. Engulfed. Smothered. Not ended. Not snuffed out. But trumped[/i]. But the new sensation that blossoms does not seem threatening per se, merely... [b]Unwavering... Devoted?
to Emily Littleton

[Solomon Ward] The idea of 'well, I'm not on fire' seemed both a bit catty and lacking in any real humor, even though it was the mans first reaction to the question. He'd almsot stopped looking so wary and answered the young lady "Fairly well, all accounts given. Yourself Ms. Littleton ?"

Another stare, though not at either one of them. If he's surprised to find Nathan toting guns around in a trombone case, it doesn't show. He's a priest that carries a revolver half the time, and Nathan's traded him body armor in the past, so really its one of those little oddities you sort of learn to take in stride in their little bubble of the world.

Some thing caught his attention how ever. Nothing definitive or defined, but enough of some thing that it seems worth while to touch on the Sight and see what there is to See. "Elokim" he says, softly, reverent. Considered part of the Tetragrammaton by some scholars, the Name of the all the Angels in collection by others, and in some theocratic circles merely to represent divinity in and of itself, mortal or other wise, the word rings of subtle power when the sorcerer-priest speaks it. He's changed one of the consonances in Judaic fashion, mutating the word into it's acceptable 'spoken' variant, as opposed to the logos one finds in writing. The change of speech is likely lost on any one in the room who isn't a Jew or theologian.

Then there's the slight jump in the priest's shoulders as Ashley completes her entrance with the stomp-step. Yeah, he's a little jumpy lately. Maybe no one saw that one too ? He won't say any thing if she doesn't say anything.

A scream. Her scream. The bonds of consecration between thrum back and forth between one another. Emotions, pains, joys, fears. To know when another hurts, loves, fears, rejoices. Her sorrow is often a shadow of his own emanations. His righteousness so often touches her own.

He drops the books. Runs so fast it may as well be flight. He doesn't bother say any thing to any one, waiting to see if they follow, telling them to stay. Nothing. He just runs for the basement.

[Prime sight - Coincidental 3 + Prime 1 = 4 - Practiced rote = 3. Requires 1 sux, additional to duration]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 6, 9 (Success x 3 at target 3)

[Emily Littleton] The apprentice is unusually sensitive. It's not that she's been trained or has any innate gift, just that Fate usually grants her more of an awareness than she could have wanted in moments when it matters. The priest drops his books and takes off running; the girl is not far behind.

Before she heads after Solomon, though, Emily finds the Hermetic's eyes. Holds them. "It's Israel!" is all she says, wide-eyed and obviously worried. She hasn't had the time to blanch, to worry at what might have been powerful to consume the resonance she feels below. She also doesn't think on the rules, the regulations that might keep her out of the Chantry's basement.

The scream and the sensation tugging at her senses are one in the same in that moment. Clarity of purpose overtakes clarity of thought. Later, perhaps, she'll separate them out. Now is a time for moving quickly, though her progress is hampered slightly by how she faintly favors one foot over the other. Perhaps that, like Ashley's stomp and the priest's flinch, will go unnoticed as well. It is a night of missed details, after all.

[Nathan Spriggs] Pleasantries exchanged, the Cultist turned quickly at a sudden stomp, jumping back centimeters in reaction. No weapons drawn however, he was just that less twitchy from his trip away from the city. Moments after he recognized Ashley however, something else got his attention.

Out of touch from his time away, maybe. Maybe just insensitive to such matters after so much exposure. It was late, but he felt it, felt magic. Felt a familiar sensation instantly connected to a name, a face and voice.

Before he could comment, a scream followed. Any thoughts of conversation or ease he felt that night disappeared in an instant. Draining out at the sudden tension as he almost jumped in the direction and broke into a run after the priest.

Zipper on the bag ripped open on the run as best as he could, empty right hand digging in and searching for something, a black cylinder, not quite thick but long. Any one with gun experience or even movie experience would recognize it no doubt. A silencer. Screwed to Nathan's Glock as he drew it moments later from the coat.

Already ready for the worse it seemed.

[Ashley McGowen] Emily isn't the only one who is rather innocent about the contents of Nathan's trombone case. She looks toward it with a guarded expression, something that might at first be taken for suspicion, but it turns out to be rather difficult to place that particular emotion.

Israel's resonance she can feel from somewhere within, as well as that of the gathered. It doesn't strike her as unusual; Solomon is here, after all, and she rarely sees one without the other. She opens her mouth after she's looked away from Nathan's trombone case, over toward the priest, perhaps intending to ask after his health.

Then, the scream. Solomon dashes for the basement, brown eyes meet Ashley's blue ones, pupils already beginning to dilate from the sudden flush of dopamine and adrenaline, and the Hermetic just gives a terse nod toward the apprentice.

She doesn't run. People are already running, and Ashley's more likely to hurt herself or someone else if she tries to dash headlong after them. She does move quickly, though, thoughts of bread in the kitchen utterly abandoned. Her hand finds the chain of metal links beneath the collar of her shirt, hooks through the iron one, and she begins to probe for other Wills within, to get an idea of what they might be dealing with in the basement.

[Mind 1, No Mind. -1 for focus, -1 for practiced rote.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 7, 7 (Success x 3 at target 3)

[Fallen] The Priest is the first to arrive, thumping down the steps with no thought of stealth or precaution or his own safety at the moment beyond the extension of his Will; Seeing the vibrant ephemeral wonders of a magic far stronger than his own; far older, with an Unwavering force behind it that rivals his own unyielding qualities. Close on his heels is the Apprentice Orphan and the Initiate Cultist, one blatantly unarmed, the other maneuvering an instrument out of his bag that makes music of a decidedly deadly sort. The Hermetic follows, not running, she, but brisk and purposeful all the same.

The basement lights are on, so at the very least no one is lightly to break their necks on the way down.

The sight that greats them is... bizarre. Uncanny. Eerie in its own fashion. Like something straight out of the movies [one might wonder just what it is the folks in Hollywood know], the incredibly petite woman is suspended in mid air - at about chest level to Solomon if one compares the height - beside the Well. She does not seem to be in pain, though she is arching her spine; arching the bare toes of one foot where one heeled shoe has fallen to the floor; she shudders. Moans. This is not agony; it is ecstasy; something sensual, something that might seem rather obscene of them to witness. Too private. Too intruding. Thankfully it does not last long: She breathes a sigh, like completion, like release. Like Acceptance. Calm washes over her features, her hair hanging down down down, long and unbound... slowly she is tilting, moved upright to face those filling into the basement; her face flushed, her breathing slowly resuming a normal measure. Her hazel eyes are bright; they are unfocused which is not unusual for her... then they snap to, focusing in on those who enter in a manner not at all normal tot he blind woman. It seems like real eye contact. Her expression aslo.. it is her but it isn't. It seems older. She almost seems taller; more fully built. She hasn't changed, not really, but her whole presence is alien. Alien but not... threatening. A somber determination marks her countenance, but a vigorous joy - a devotion - does as well. It is Love. An all encompassing kind of love, like a mother would look upon her children. It measures and sees but loves all the same. It is not a frivolous affection; this is the regard of the woman about to see her sons off to battle. There is honour here. Wisdom. Knowledge. Older; far, far older and more visceral than the woman who is now - for all intents and purposes - a vessel.

"I needed your attention. They are coming. Two. One to help. One to harm. Each to warn. Restless souls; torn and shattered. It hurts us so; the Shattering. They take advantage. They are coming. One to trick you. One to save you. They are coming."

[Fallen] The voice is Israel's but.. not. It is as if two women speak at once. One with the mezzo-soprano airiness; the other with a rich contralto, almost sultry, almost gruff. That which is Israel is present - used - but sublimated.

[Solomon Ward] The priest skidded to a stop as he breached the basement, seeing Israel suspended like that. The emotional human being in him churns, (fear of what happens, shock of the unknown, excitement of the sounds she makes, shame for the thought crossing his mind, even in passing). The deeply practiced and long disciplined student of the occult in him buries it all down, deeply, some place where it will be glossed over and analyzed later.

The Well is lit up like a sun in his vision, a light-not-light with which he measures and interprets such things. It roils and spins and churns and generally does things it usually does not do. It's active. Very active, and he can literally see its ephemeral threads entwining and piercing Israel's body.

"No body touch her" he grunts as others arrive behind him. He moves slowly, away from the door and along the walls and shelves in order to walk around the basement, the well, and the woman possessed as he speaks.

"Who is coming ? What can you tell us?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily has never been into the depths of the Chantry. These stairs are unfamiliar, but the push of adrenaline and anxiety is clear. She has felt both of these feelings, in or near this house, before. Those memories are seared into her mind, beside the echoes of the blinding pain that had brought them here. Still, until this very moment, she has not stood in the presence of the Well, has not known, truely, what it is they have fought to defend here.

She comes up short of Solomon, moves herself to a space along the wall. If she can't actively help, she can get the hell out of the way. The Unwavering press called up something Unrelenting within her, stirred its awareness, pricked at its thumbs. It was hard to quiet the flurry within, this close to whatever this space was supposed to be. (Someone had called it a Node, once.)

Emily's dark eyes fixed on the smaller Orphan, who hung suspended before them. They shifted away, when she recognized the Ecstacy there. Emily's hand rose toward her own forehead, but the Orphan stopped herself from the reflexive drive to cross herself. That hand, instead, traveled to the thin chain she wore around her throat. Her fingers settled against her chest, there, as if in a gesture of surprise or shock. Her mouth forms the shape of silent, foreign words (memorized but not learned [prayer]).

When the intimacy Israel is experiencing fades, then Emily can look between her and the others in the room with a measure more ease. A little less embarrassment.

[Nathan Spriggs] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Nathan Spriggs] Down the stairs in a rush, Nathan nearly stumbled down the stairs with a misplaced step though he luckily turned it into a maneuver closer to the door instead. Crashing against a wall, he ignored pain on his side and back from the impact and headed inside without missing a beat.

What waited inside was a room he'd been to all of once and yet felt familiar with it. He knew the layout by memory from what he'd seen. The only thing that stood out was the levitated woman, absorbed in what seemed to be pleasure.

Nathan didn't look away, his eyes narrowed on the woman as it slowly faded away. Something else stood in his place, a shudder suppressed at the sensation, at this situation. Spirits or something of the like. Against better or worse impulses, he didn't act.

Gun's muzzle pointed downward, he wouldn't shoot the woman. Even if something was inside her. Couldn't risk it. Instead, all of the caution and sudden tension was redirected into the only thing he could do. Scrutinizing the thing's words, searching for the truth or some form of lie.

After it spoke and the priest spoke, he voiced a question of his own, "Will we be able to recognize which is which?" A small tremble hidden in his voice, obviously uncomfortable with all this.

[Ashley McGowen] The last time Ashley was in the chantry's basement, it was with Gregor. They sat in the two wooden chairs, just over there, and talked about the other Awakened in the city and their plans. They talked about a strange ethereal jaunt she'd had. He thanked her for the present she gave him, the coat. They talked a little about Wharil. This place smacks so strongly of memories of the Dreamspeaker to her that she feels a slight pang, for while they weren't close, he was still a companion. A brother in arms. Gone now, probably can't recover him, probably won't return.

She arrives in the basement after the others, in time to see the Orphan suspended in air, shuddering, and the Hermetic averts her eyes for a few seconds in discomfort. Averts them until she finds Israel looking at them, not-Israel, that other Mind now present. "You're Catherine," she says, after the two-voices speak, after the priest makes his approach.

There is nothing approaching reverence in her eyes as she meets those of not-Israel. There is, however, curiosity, some half-stoppered desire to explore the other Mind here with them, inhuman as it is. It will have to wait.

Ashley remains by the stairs, tensed, chain glinting in the dim light from overhead and over her shirt now rather than against her skin. "I'm going to wait upstairs for whatever's coming," she tells Solomon. "In case it's hostile. I have wards." And back up the steps she goes.

[Atlas Mason] Atlas had arrived only moments before the scream, and as he opened the front door to the chantry he was greeted with the sight of several bodies rushing down the stairs. He blinked curiously at the retreating bodies, and then, just to make sure, looked behind himself, and above himself, ensuring that was nothing following him, nothing to cause them to head for cover in the buildings basement.

That question satisfied, as their was indeed nothing there, a curious look crossed Atlas' face, he knew when something was afoot, not that he would say it in so short and unprecise terms. He thought for a moment and then went after the others, descending into the basement, rules be damned, there was something interesting going on down there, and no one was leaving the Etherite out of any new and starting aberrant phenomena.

He descended the stairs carefully, not wanting to fall or cause any undue damage, as he reached the midway point he too was assaulted by that new and unusual resonance, and at that point...ran into Ashley.

[Fallen] "Padre." There is... no, not a familiarity, but an acknowledgment. A knowledge. "She is safe. I would not harm her, though I must use her. I saved both of your lives before; we saved each other. Is your Faith so fleeting?" A bemused chiding; strong and assured. Then, more somberly, more direct and almost clipped as if this maternal, sensual female presence was also a warrior, too, a leader. "Two. Above the Lessers; beneath the Umbrood. One a Slave, one a Servant. The Slave's master is stronger in this world; in this City. The Slave's master has touched you already...
...And you, as well, young one."
Her attention turns here, Israel-the-Vessal's face turning towards Emily now, direct. Stern and kind all at once. Powerful and intangible. There is a Wonder here, it caresses and cajoles. Embraces without touch. "I do not know you. I hope to."
Nathan speaks then; not-Israel turns his away, still suspended. Floating. Overshadowed by this stronger, mystical being. "The Padre brought you here... I have a vague recollection. You are afraid of the Wanderers. The Aimless. The Drifting. Of the Slave you should be. Of the Servant you should not. You will tell the difference if you are discerning. The Slave is a Trickster, but not like the Trickster who Inhabits the Tree."
Ashley speaks her name and the woman - the woman who is a shadow, but more powerful than the real form she rides - grins. A toothy grin that, for an instant, almost mirrors Ashley's own Hunger. But sleeker. More comfortable in it. "I am. You, I know, though we have not spoken. I am beholden to you, in a way. You and your brood. You feel better than the others who were here,[/i]" her face twists, a half-snarl of distaste, like something purtid and blasphemous on her tongue. Then it clears and she sighs...

...Israel-not-Israel begins to sink down to the ground. "You did not Ward against this, girl."

The lights flicker in the basement. Atlas - chugging along on the tail of the others passage into the basement - arrives; Ashley has yet to have a chance to leave. The lights flicker.

"They come."

The lights in the basement pulse. They brighten in a flash like old photography bulbs; there is the crakc of glass as one light bulb blows out. The Node-Spirit [[i]do they realize how rare, how unique, how odd this node is?] within the tiny woman growls. "Invader." Not a yell; a snarl. Then gone.

Israel collapses and crumbles on the ground.

The lights go out and all is as pitch.

[Solomon Ward] His eyes flicker about as the priest makes his slow circuit, not yet complete, around the well and Israel's suspended body. He watches Nathan and makes sure he isn't going to do some thing brash with that gun of his... which he doesn't. Good man. Brown eyes move to Emily, her shyness of the situation, her unspoken but seen prayer. A nod to Ashley and her words. Wards were good, and the Catherine-Israel had given them reason to worry. If the thing inside the well was desperate enough to borrow a body to get attention, then they had serious problems coming to hand.

You didn't need to be a seer or an astrologer to see that coming.

He listens to her words and snorts softly. It almost appeared it was trying to rile him, but he let that pass. Pettiness is a rather human thing, and the thing in the well was once human. No longer. It digs into his ire slightly, but he swallows it down and keeps his voice schooled, controlled.

There's no more need to converse with her. She's said her part and gone before he get any further question out of his mouth. Instead he slips out another incantation, this one Latin, classical. An old school staple of well constructed, scientificly measured even, sorcerery. A charm to see in the dark that he might scoop up Israel and get her up the stairs before what comes to pass passes.

"In Gabriel, Fiat Lux"

[Fiat Lux rote - Vulgar, No witnesses 4 + Prime 2 / Forces 2 = 6. Practiced rote -1, -1 Foci, -1 Near Node =3
1 Sux to accomplish, all others to duration]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 7, 10 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[Solomon Ward] [WP roll, as directed]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7)

[Emily Littleton] Israel is possessed. That is the only word that Emily can find for it, in her limited lexicon for things Spiritual or Occult. She already believed possession to be real, after watching how the Man had toyed with the woman in the park. It frightened her, on a fundamental level, this new and awakened world with all of its extended threats. Though reason told her that the threats had been real all along, they'd always been at the margin of her darker moments; it is only the awareness of them that is new and uncomfortable now.

She straightens with Israel-not-Israel turns toward her, addresses her directly. Emily's back draws tall and straight, erect, and her shoulders square under the scrutiny. For that moment, there is no favoring of one foot over the other. Deep bue eyes find hazel, and for this moment it seems that the other Orphan looks right through her. Her breath catches, stills, and waits until the push of that intangible embrace slides past her.

It is not all fear, though. Not what the Spirit would see in Emily's features. No. There is Wonder there, full faithed and resonant. She has not forgotten the place Awe holds, even as the thought of the Slave's Master sends shudders down her spine.

There's a little gasp from the Apprentice when all the lights blink out in concert. She's already reaching for an absolute sense of space, something to help right herself when the priest brings light back to the room via his charm. In that fey light, she moves herself over to where the others are grouped so that if they all must move, she can move with them.

((Corr for vision, aborted when Solomon's charm fires off. Willpower roll as requested.))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] ((Addendum: Roll should have been dif 8. 2 suxx, not 3))

[Atlas Mason] Atlas enters the room, in time to see Israel floating in the air, and to see the lights flicker, he hears the voice that is not Israel's voice, and in the flicker and strobe of the lights he can see that her face...is not quite her face. He takes all of these details in quickly, ascertaining the situation, as he looks around and takes stock of those present.

All of this took seconds, and then Atlas stepped forward just as one of the lights blew, and as the woman snarled that one decisive word he frowned, lines that were not usually present on his face appearing, as if they were somehow hidden just below the surface.

He was about to question Israel's inhabitant, his mouth opening just as the woman slumped to the ground, the bulbs flashed, and the lights died leaving them in darkness. The man sighed, and reached into his pocket, fiddling around in their for something, and pulled out a monocle. He slipped the ring into his eye and as he did so was able to see once more...in one eye at least. [Using both Matter and Corr, just to get more info and such, done as a freebie as stated:P]

"Most Perturbatory." Is all he says for now.

[Willpower]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Atlas Mason] [[err same prob...but still 3 suxx]

[Nathan Spriggs] The thing addressed Solomon first, they seemed to know each other on some level from what he grasped. Still, the tension didn't leave him, warning them as it might be, nothing in this world was free. Especially when it came to spirits.

A small step backward before freezing in place momentarily as it turned to him, addressing him. It knew about him. That thought pissed him off, but the gun stayed down. Concern for Israel but also partly fear stopped him.

The description of the Slave made him remember something. A tidbit he'd read somewhere. Maybe of no importance, maybe not. He chose to assume it might be relevant, "Ratatoskr? Guide to those who to the World Tree for knowledge. Messenger too. Norse mythology."
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 6, 6, 7, 7 (Botch x 1 at target 8)

[Ashley McGowen] Atlas appears at the top of the stairs just as Ashley is leaving, and the small Hermetic nearly collides with him on her way out. She wasn't rushing, she was full of a sense of foreboding at Catherine's parting words, and that is what keeps her head from colliding with his chest as she reaches that last step.

Then only darkness. We'll talk again. That promise, silent and to herself because Catherine is gone and can't here right now. Or can she?

She is still attuned to those other Wills around her, sensing them, pushing against them ever so subtly, feeling their weight and strength in comparison to her own. She's calm. Not serene, but bold: pushing herself forward, refusing to give in to fear at the darkness around them, headstrong and determined.

"Two somethings are coming here, Atlas. One's helpful, one's harmful, and we won't know which," she tells the Etherite, hand patting the rail, Atlas' chest just briefly as she feels her way around him and up out of the stairwell. Solomon's fire burns the pitch away, and the Hermetic's silhouette is limned at the top of the stairs, staring out into the house, toward the approaching Wills.

"Come on! We don't have all night!"

[Willpower]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 8 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] ((Doom?))
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10

[Solomon Ward] [as directed]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Solomon Ward] [Mind 1, Mind empowerment (Shield)] Diff 4 -1 (near node)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[Fallen] [[Contest 1]]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Nathan Spriggs] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 7, 7, 8 (Failure at target 8)

[Fallen] [[Contest 2]]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 6, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Fallen] A beat after pitch and inky darkness [no light sheds down from the open basement door; the lights seem to be out throughout the house] there is a glow that begins around the Priest and blooms outwards suffusing the basement in a blue-tinged glow, like corpse-light or black-lighting. It is better than not being able to see anything at all, but unsettling in its own manner.

Movement. Preparations. They are getting ready to what? Stand their ground? Follow the Hermetic into action? The Disciple of House Tytalus can sense the presence of new sentient beings in the house, but they are coming down too fast, too swift, too hellbent on their goals. She stands at the stop of the stairs and can sense as the difference in distance between them becomes next to nothing and then passes as 'they' descend.

Still, no one can see anything. There is a primitive terror to not being able to stand up and face your attacker(s?). To have a sense of their presence, if only through the perceptions of someone else, but nothing else to go on. To act on. The briefest of warnings and then a confrontation with the intangible; the spiritual. Wills contest each other: The Priest passes the test; but the Cultist does not. Nathan's body jerks, a physical manifestation of a psychological [spiritual] aggression.
His mouth opens, forcibly, the Rider pressing its advantage while it can. The voice is.. female? High pitched at least. Frantic. Desperate.

"I am the herald! The messenger! Slay the other; it seeks to reap me for the Fallen one!" Pleading. Urgent.

Nathan Spriggs likely never thought that tonight he'd be the convenient shell for some kind of fucked up spiritual damsel in distress.

[Emily Littleton] ((Hey... Nathan doesn't scream like a girl! And, by the way, are you lying? -- Subter + Percept, dif 7 per ST))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)

[Solomon Ward] This is great. Outstanding. Beautiful.

Lets list the shit that can go wrong. Two people have been possessed by some one or thing so far. math says there out to be three, and Solomon knows that some thing scraped across the edges of his mind and being. Lesser souls may have succumbed (sorry Nathan, get some religion), but Solomon pushes it at bay and keeps it there.

Which brings us to his next dilemma. He has no gun. He doesn't have his Big Black Bag, and thus most of his more specialized tools. He has knowledge, faith, and nothing that really goes boom .

Fucking boojums.

"We'll see about that", even pitched, stern. Another brief chant, another incantation, thankful of the nearness of the Node and all its essence of creation giving additional power to his will.

[Rote: Unclean Souls (Details PM'd to ST) - Mind 1, Spirit 1, Entropy 1. - Diff 4 - 1, Node = 3]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 6, 8 (Success x 3 at target 3)

[Emily Littleton] "You're lying!"

It's the first thing out of Emily's mouth. Clear and forceful. Most of them hadn't heard her speak that loud before, or that forcefully. Hopefully it would give them all pause, enough to listen to the rest of what the Apprentice had to say.

"I believe you're the Herald," she says, addressing Nathan-not-Nathan with her back rigid and her hands balled into fists at her side. She believes it, which is strong language for this girl, whose voices rolls off her tongue in shades of far-away and not-here. "But not that the Slave wants you dead. Or at least not for Him."

The last syllable is vile to her. If she'd had a name for Him, she would have spat it out angrily. He had wrenched a family apart, had tried to kill her, had... her jaw clenched angrily at the memories, and even in the low blue light it was clear that her body was rigid with more than the present danger.

"Why should we follow your Will, if you can't speak plainly?"

Unused to speaking up to Umbral beings, the Orphan quaked quietly in her place. Hopefully she wouldn't be smote where she stood.

[Atlas Mason] This situation was already problematic for Atlas, and was quickly becoming worse. As Nathan squealed in that womanish voice Atlas considered the request, up until the point that Emily flat out accused it of being the Herald, Though he had never heard the woman's voice, not until now. Atlas was inclined to believe his once off fishing partner more then the spirit which had decided Nathan would make a nice time share.

For the moment though, there was little Atlas could do, he stood there as he started to search his pockets for various items, trying to identify them by touch, and by the eerie glow of Solomon's body, and he slowly started to piece something together on the fly.

[Nathan Spriggs]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 7, 10 (Failure at target 8)

[Fallen] [[Contest 2]]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 8, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7)

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley's head turns from where she's standing at the top of the stairs. She felt those two Wills rush past her into the basement, understands what has happened. The first thing the Hermetic does: her brows furrow together at the high-pitched tone of Nathan's voice. Disgust.

Leave it to a Cultist to fail in fighting off a foreign Will.

Emily says the spirit is lying, which she had already suspected. How the girl knows she isn't sure, but she trusts. Emily might be an apprentice, but Ashley is fairly well assured of her competence. Hand finding the rail once more, the other gripping the iron link, she moves her way back down to the floor of the basement.

She extends her Will outward toward those two new presences, trying to gauge which is which, why they're here, what they're here to do.

[Mind 2, detecting surface thoughts, two targets. -1 for focus, -1 for applicable resonance Static: Determined, spending WP. Extending if she doesn't get 3 successes.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 4, 10 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[Fallen] Manifestation.

One moment there was an assault with no visible enemy. Now something begins to take shape, to form, somewhere near the Well, close to Israel's prostrate form but not hovering over her, not reaching out into her. Of the lot gathered here there are two at least who believe in Angels. [there is one who sees one - or what he believes to be one - on a regular basis] The rest: Well, a materialized Spirit, irregardless of how you believe in them, is still something both Atlas and Ashley have at least heard about in their lifetimes, surely. Atlas has experiences well beyond the years of those around him and Ashley is a Hermetic: Hermetics have truck with the celestial Umbrood though she herself may not venture there.

All Light. All Radiance. A body that is androgynous. There are no wings, no halo, no such staple trappings. In the end this manifestation is what each present wishes to see: A Reflection of something each of them associates with a benign being. For some that might be a creature of love. For others a being of pure Will and Resolution. For others perhaps a embodiment of the search for Enlightenment and pure Logic. However those present see the entity it presents itself as a creature to be Believed. To be listened to. Striven for.

It speaks. Only two here will understand what it says at first; slippery vowels; granite consonants. If elements could be words, then this is what it would sound like. Neither male or female. Beyond.

Nathan-not-Nathan recoils. Shudders. Hisses. That high-pitched voice slithers more than it whispers, Nathan's eyes sliding from the Priest to the Apprentice to the Hermetic as if gauging; regarding. A half-glance to where the Other has materialized and the Nathan's fists curl up.. clench... around.. the grip of a gun?

....oooooo....
A fleetingly pleased expression.
It contorts then. Frustration. This riding is difficult, for it is impromptu. The Humans it has encountered too perceptive in their own ways. "Listen to that one over there.. it doesn't even speak to all of you, just a select few. So Eletist. I am the Herald. The one with information founded in veracity. All the Other will tell you is riddles; riddles and impotent pledges of aid. Mine is the Way..."

[Solomon Ward] "You are a liar and a deciever" the priest says, loud, stern, damning. He takes two strides forward, eyes flickering towards the gun that the Possessed Nathan holds and noting its presence firmly in his mind. Its the little things, like details and bullets, that get people killed. He had cast the Enochian rote and been granted vision of definition, of place. An echoing hint of Name. Not full and total by any means, but a sliver. An Echo. Enough to learn of IT and make a decision to cast judgment, and that judgment was damning.

The newest arrives. Becomes manifest. Seems so bright in the dark lit glow of his magic, and yet not overwhelming. It speaks, too primal for words, to elemental for mortal language. The priest understands, and heeds. His is a deference of faith, a place in Creation unquestioning. The Highest of Umbrood may not be the Angels of the Bible as mortal man wished to envision them all, believes he understands them, but they serve Creation no less in any other form.

"Don't harm Nathan" he says, more for the benefit of others present than to the Thing inside the Cultist.

"Take up the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God", his point a little too select for the non Christians in the room, but they should get the point. He steps one step closer to Nathan. "We believe in one God, the Father,the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen."

The Nicene Creed. Faith given tribute and oath.

[Emily Littleton] Never has a member of the heavenly host revealed itself to the Orphan Apprentice, though she and Owen were mistaken for their brethern on one occasion by a small, tortured boy. She has learned the names of their divisions, read of them in scriptures, heard their stories and celestial names. She believes in them, in theory. She believes in the possibility of Angels utterly. (After all, it is a non-zero probability that divine vessels and agents exist.)

Twice, now, something in this room has called to the resonances within her, the threads of magic that are wound tightly around her soul. This being, radiant and ethereal, calls up the Reverence: the quiet grace that pervades and elevates belief to Faith.

It speaks all slip-syllables and oddly shaped vowels, that cannot catch at her understanding or pull forward any concrete thoughts. Instead, Emily turns her attention to the one that cajoles, the Nathan-not-Nathan. The girl tips up her chin, presses her lips into a thin line. The fingers of one hand find the Wonder at her throat, and though its resonance is not called forth and though it is no true talisman against Evil, it steadies her.

From the snares of the devil, deliver us, O God.

With the light of the Manifest filling the room, Emily drops her eyes away from the Other (even as he finds Nathan's firearm). She bows her head, bringing her chin down to brush her fingertips. And then the bitch (Do you remember calling me that?) begins to pray.

Her Faith, but not her voice, reaches out to join Solomon's.

May thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us.
As great as our hope in Thee.

[Nathan Spriggs] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Fallen] [[Contest 2]]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 7, 8, 8 (Failure at target 9)

[Atlas Mason] Atlas listens as he continues to work, piecing together small bits and with the use of things like rubber bands, twist ties, anything he could salvage from his pocket's, he had left his burlap sack upstairs. A miscalculation to be certain.

When at last he was done the monocle was strapped onto the oddly designed laser pointer, held there by a few twist ties and rubber bands, it wasn't pretty, but it was a good impromptu focus. He saw the thing that was inhabiting Nathan find his gun, and reach for it.

That was unacceptable, he stretched out his hand, laser pointer held out before him and turned it on the tight red beam passing through the monocle and dispersing and widening as it did so.

"Utilization of that gunpowder cartridge based forced projectile acceleration unit is unacceptable with this physical locality. I will assist in your cessation of its utility."

[Melt and Reform base diff 5 vulgar +1 Rote,-1 -1 for quint WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 7 (Success x 2 at target 3) [WP]

[Nathan Spriggs] ...
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 3, 5, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Nathan Spriggs] It all happened so fast. A pain in the back of his head, a sensation of something clawing inside was the best he could describe it. Then suddenly he wasn't himself. He saw it all, oh yes. But he had no control. His voice wasn't his own.

A sweeping terror took the Cultist if he could still feel, which on some level he could. His body was not his own but his mind was. He fought, and fought. Fear and a pure anger like nothing he'd ever felt before fueling the fight.

Yet it was too strong. He couldn't fight it. Almost giving up, almost just letting himself go, Nathan steeled himself. His concentration too busy to focus on the events happening around him in the body that wasn't his now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt it find the gun but it was a fleeting thing.

Then words, indistinct to him, burning to it or something of the like. It weakened, and his resolve finally broke through. Like a wall smashed with a hammer, he felt his mind liberated, a weight disappearing. A presence retreat away.

The anger, however, remained. For the moment he had consciousness again, he moved to help himself concentrate. Pain would undoubtedly affect it more than him. In a split second the gun was pressed against his left shoulder and the trigger pulled.

Yet nothing, no gunfire, muffled or otherwise. The gun did not seem to function. All he could do was blink at it and notice the lack of presence still. A look around at last, where he spotted the glowing being. A surge of anger. Spirits.

They had to die.

[WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 8, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 8)

[Ashley McGowen] "The one that's possessing him is the one we need to be rid of." Her voice doesn't waver. No uncertainty there. Something else, though, clotted undertones: wariness, maybe. Anger, maybe.

She doesn't pray with Solomon and Emily. She wouldn't dream of it. A Willworker doesn't face down some supernatural horror with blind appeals to some greater power, with supplication. She's about to extend her Will forward to force the presence from Nathan's mind, and then the Cultist finally manages to force it out himself.

It's fleeing now, trying to retreat and move back through the Gauntlet it came from. She can't see it, just senses the intent, understands that it's fleeing.

There's a single word in some tongue most in the room don't know, blunt, cracking, brief, as she attempts to impose her own Will on the fleeing spirit. Something to make it obey: stop, be still, something to keep it there until Solomon (Atlas perhaps?) can deal with the creature.

[Mind 3, commanding. -1 for practiced rote, -1 for focus, -1 for applicable resonance Static: Relentless. Spending WP.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 7 (Success x 2 at target 3) [WP]

[Fallen] "Pawns! Fools! Johns who suck away on the Great Whores teet." Madness and fear echo in the voice, now screeching. Rage and frothing hatred even as the Spirit recoils, forcing Nathan to stagger backwards, moving to slip into a crouch, ready to spring, ready to raise the gun in its captives hand...
...the gun that has been formed and rendered useless. Misshapen. Little more than a bludgeoning device, if that at all. The creature within sneers, a venomous rictus, though it is an animal edge of terror that dances in glazed eyes now. Trapped. Cornered.

It barely fights to maintain hold of the shell that it uses Nathan for. No hero, here. No fucking work ethic. Seeing the odds stacking soundly against its favour it flees instead, as much the coward - or mere survivalist - as the Other named it. "You've bought yourself nothing, yo--" Half ejected, half ready to vacate. The gauntlet is thin here and the Spirit withdraws, fleeing. Fleeing to its master or perhaps well away from both.

Or such was its intention. But then there is the Word; the Will, projected. And while it does not halt its progress completely it slows it, muddles and hampers with its own intentions; inhibits its own willpower to the point where it faltrs just enough so that, perhaps, something might be done to keep it from escaping with its 'life' intact.

The materialized spirit now moves forward, one step, looking over those present. Still this Other glows, a light that should be bright enough to cause the eyes to squint and yet does not. Still it seems different to each person present, a hazy imagery drawn forth from the subconscious. One cannot make out its eyes though one can feel it drinking them in each in turn in manner that is detached but not cold. All business. All duty. A specific goal in mind as it stretches out its arms, palms upwards, an attempt to show that it is not a threat, though to call it meek couldn't be farther from the truth.

Otherwise it says and does nothing, but watches, a luminescent sentinel.

[Solomon Ward] Blind supplication ? Hardly. This is no appeal to a higher power, no beggar's call for aid and none of that amateurish attempts at divine intervention. Solomon, rather ironically and jadedly given his profession, doesn't believe in such. He is as much as sorcerer as he is a priest, the two over lapping, occasionally contradicting.

What is magic, but the control of forces outside of the mundane ? The tappings of Creation and all of its forms, manipulation of the Firmament and the Fundiment ? This is merely Faith, wielded bright edged like a weapon against a being that can not tolerate its existence. Faith my be given to some thing higher, but it comes from within.

Still, the fleeing spirit falters. Nathan attempts to shoot himself and fails, though the thing inside seems ejected all the same. What ever Ashley did, coupled with Emily's own work, has seen to that. Amidst its confusion and inability to immediately flee, Solomon lashes out.

The words make no sense to most ears. Ashley would understand them. The Herald would know them. They are old and dangerous and things not to be toyed with. Destruction is a part of Creation, an end for the remaking. It's some thing the priest does only very rarely, and never lightly. He's screams out that intelligible, primal, elemental language and forces his Will against the spirits.

Fear of God rote - Prime 3, Spirit 2, Vulgar = 3, -1 for foci, -1 for rote, -1 for node = 4.
Each Sux after the first two affect the spirit. extended.
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 7 (Success x 4 at target 4) [WP]

[Emily Littleton] The Thing within Nathan is not one of his own demons--of which Emily suspects he has plenty--and it writhes and seethes as it peels itself out of him. It shucks his body and leaves the human husk behind. These are the things of nightmares, and Emily would have plenty of fodder for new ones once this night was over.

She hears the Priest's voice continue on in a language she does not know. Where they may have once been some rational motivation for bowing her head in prayer, now continuing on with that testament of Faith is the only thing Emily can think of to do. She is unversed in the Umbrood, but she can keep pushing at this thing, this work of the soul that is not manifest in Magic or named as a Sphere.

Perhaps her Faith will follow this minion back to wherever He is, and it will pain and burn at him the way it had in the park. There is hope within her now that this might be true, or at the very least that this minion His would be unable and unwilling to step into the skin of anyone new.

[Atlas Mason] The weapon rendered useless Atlas held the makeshift foci carefully, any quick movement could undo it, snapping rubber bands or breaking apart his carefully assembled twist ties and render it almost useless.

He listened to the thing rant at best, finding its analogies somewhat crude, but entertaining. Then he felt, and heard its ejection from Nathan's body. It was a moment of triumph as the thing was pushed out of Nathan freeing the fellow mage from its domineering presence a smile sliding across his face, before he realized it was now beyond his reach.

He lowered the foci now and looked around at the others there, in particularly at Solomon. "My capabilities are rendered null and void due to the non molecular frotean etheric entities disassociation from the physical molecular plane of reality." He states plainly, hoping that someone else, anyone else might be able to do something about the bad one.

He then turned his gaze upon the more angelic of the two entities and regarded it through squinting eyes, a mixture of wonder, and curiosity written across his face.

[Nathan Spriggs] A momentary reprieve for the glowing being. A shudder passed across Nathan, pure unadulterated fear, his body shaking as he dug through the bag for the Colt. The one that'd touched him remained, and he would see it gone. It could not be forgiven.

Instantly, he concentrated on feeling out the runes he'd so carefully carved out on the grip. Concentrating his utmost, the hatred fueling it. At the same time, an anger burning in his eyes, he glared around the room, trying to find a sign of some invisible force. Or at least the direction.

[Prime 2, imbuing gun; diff 5 coincidental, -1 rote, -1 resonance]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 3) [WP]

[Ashley McGowen] It curses them, struggles to get away, and feeling its fear through the connection she established earlier only encourages her - a predator with a trapped rabbit struggling in its jaws. The other creature is there, luminous, unearthly. She'll be awed by it later, will take it in with a sort of appreciation for its beauty of which, right at this moment, others might not imagine her capable of.

There's Solomon, again, and she looks sidelong at the priest, choosing not to comment on his use of that tongue for right now. There's momentary approval, even, for his Will, for the fact that he knows Enochian at all, for what he's doing with it.

The Word lashes forth again, almost lazily, as she tries to continue to hold it in place until Solomon can finish rending it apart.

[Same deal! Mind 3, commanding. -1 for practiced rote, -1 for focus, -1 for applicable resonance Static: Relentless. Spending WP.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 7, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[Fallen] Of all present only three are truly privy to this Unmaking. The violence of Prime slices away and into and around the Spirit as it attempts to free itself of the Hermetics Will and back into its own territory, back to its own longevity. It has no such chance. They stand Witness: Solomon and the Materialized Spirit. Witness to an absolute rending that causes an immediate backlash through the Priest in return. The Brilliant Other shudders; not in fear and not in disgust but more in surprise. The sharpness of its countenance settles on the Priest for a long moment: Speculative. Observant. Measuring. Ashley is the third Witness and though she does not see the actual process of obliteration - the way the Essence of the Spirit shatters and returns to the Tapestry of Creation - she can feel it when its thoughts simply cease to exist; utter and absolute and she can mark that brief instant of searing, otherworldly pain and horror just before the severing.

As for the rest they do not see or hear or really sense these things, but there is a fundamental Awareness in each of them. It feels something like a lightening, a sudden ability to breath a little easier as a destructive entity is eradicated.

To the Priest the Other speaks again in that same language that is more and beyond any other language known. Then it reviews the others... it lingers on Emily with something like the protective observances of a stoic, silent Guardian. It passes to Atlas with what could almost be described as a quizzical, curious look, if stone and light could indeed adopt such expressions. To Nathan It shakes its head and finally speaks, using their tongue now in a voice that sounds like smoke rising; like glaciers moving.
There is nothing more to battle, human. Not here. Not now. For now.

It moves forward again and Light follows its wake. Light pours like brilliant mercury, like quicksilver to pool and seep into cracks int he basement floor, it forms patterns, occult sigils and Angelic script and esoteric Seals.

The Path of the Red Eye passes over you. The Storm comes. He Who Is Fallen will reap the harvest these signs afford him and seek to levy his Revenge. You have seen signs already and born witness to his depravities. There is worse to come. You must prepare yourselves.

[Solomon Ward] The priest has suffered worse backlashes. A trickle of blood from his left nostril, and little else. His chest heaves, not in laboured breathing and exertion but in righteous anger. The flare of his resonance after his wunderworks is heavy on his skin and that blessing-curse of his countenance, that terriable crusader, shows through under his skin.

"Fear and deception are the weapons of wicked things which barb men's hearts" he says to the Umbrood, bowing slightly to its voiced (felt,heard,seen,encompassing) words directed at himself. "What I did is terrible, but I understand the price of that which I do. Now its Master knows what potential it faces, and not from where it came. A..message...of sorts"

After that he repeats the Herald's message over and over in his like a mantra, memorizing it, even as he moves to kneel next to Israel and place a hand on one temple, checking her pulse and temperature before carefully scooping his arms under the woman.

[Fallen] For a moment It says or does nothing but regards the Priest, a gaze penetrating and unfathomable. Better to try and peer to the depths of the Marianas Trench from a fishing boat. Then, simply: Beware. Others will also receive such messages over time. Do not be so quick to herald your power. That one was weak. It is not chastising or even overly cautionary. It states fact so plainly as to be nearly dull; impassive.

[Atlas Mason] Atlas watches and listens as the thing glides about the node room, its essence flowing about as if it had to much to contain within its body and therefor had to leak into reality itself and leave its mark as it went. He examined each of the patterns and sigils as they formed on the ground he looked like he wanted to take pictures, or start tracing out each facet and detail.

Such idea's however were set aside as the entity met Atlas' gaze and looked back at him in almost the exact same way he had looked at it. He looked back at it like he hadn't expected that, and watched it all the more intently, soaking up its message as well as its manners.

But a situation such as this demanded questions, and Atlas just couldn't keep himself from asking them. When the entity had finished speaking he took a step forward.
"A prominent chronological linear pathway extrapolating on these particulars would ensure our adequate preparations before independent junctures become too diffuse and hazardous to manage within protocol limitations. Do you postulate..."

Atlas was about to go on but he puts a hand up to his face and rubs his chin in thought. "Would a Etheric, non molecular entity postulate?" He looks back up at the creature that floats before him. "Excuse my derivative and non linear query for information, but do your cognizant function's base itself upon the basis of synaptic relay of information and sensory data? Or some other method of actualization?"

[Fallen] Insomuch as the air itself may boggle, so too does the Spirit, briefly.
You are a strange one, even for your kind.
For a long stretch that may seem all it will respond with, but at last comes that low rumbles so the words seem more felt than actually heard.
No longer than a fortnight. Beyond that I cannot tell the hour for that is beyond my reckoning. Watch the skies. When the Red Star reaches its peek above you, you will know the Storm will commence. It will jar those of you with sensitivities to the Otherworld and the Mindscape. You will know. He will act in concert; he is a Parasite; he knows only his Betrayal and Loathing.

[Emily Littleton] The weight lifts, something oppressive that has been seated on her chest, squishing down her lungs. She draws a deeper breath, reflexively, in the wake of the lessening evil. Her lashes part, and those deeply blue eyes open. It's as if she is seeing the room for the first time, with only measured wonder and awe and what residual fear remained.

Her hand falls away from the locket she's had concealed behind her fingers all this time. It lays out on the orange of her shirt in bright relief, catching and reflecting the light from the Host that remains in the room with them.

The Umbrood is so quiet, stoic and watchful as it studies her, that Emily cannot help but wonder if her own Mentor-to-be is not truly cut from the same cloth. The thought brings a soft and almost gentle smile to her features, as if she might hold some affection for the inscrutible expression the being of stone and light wore openly. Beneath the fondness, though, is a somber gravity; her Faith is worn and wearied, and though she bears witness to His miracles, the Orphan struggles with it.

When it speaks, Emily pulls the words down deeply into her center. Tries to burn them into her memory. She will want to review them with the others, both those present and they who had been elsewhere. It was also important, because bearing Witness was one of the duties of the Faithful. It was not enough to see this, behold it and name or know it.

Though Emily has many questions, too many to enumerate just now, the one she asks is: "Do you speak of the Light-bringer?"

It's a name that, to most, will seem archaic and inappropriate. However the epiteth is safer than naming the iconic Fallen. There is no smile, now, on the girl's lips. Only open concern. Twice His presence has darkened her nights. It would come to pass again, and she didn't relish the thought.

[Fallen] There was one called-such by your kind. The True Name was not comprehensible to your ear; could not be formed on your tongue. Your tales and mythos turn and change and alter the Truth, but that is your way, also. This is not He. But it is a faction or, a portion of, a shard of He. He still professes Love for you. This one knows only his disappointment and hate. Your Faith scalds him for it is Rare. Rarer now than ever before. It weakens our ilk, its near non-existence. Your Will opposes him and that is Power, also. Both are one and the same, though your kind cannot always see it.
The barest touch of softness: Though primordial fire is never any such thing. A hint of that protection; that bolstering.

[Nathan Spriggs] [Goddamn spirits]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8)

[Nathan Spriggs] All around him, words were spoken, they seemed like indistinct mutters to him. Nothing mattered right now. His mind still muddled, only rage kept him going. A visible shudder as the being spoke to him, telling him of no more enemies. This thing was no more an angel than anything in this room was a magic-repelling matter-eating goop.

Nathan responded with a glare. If only looks could kill. A feeble attempt to raise the now-empowered gun at the glowing being, arms shaking too much to keep it steady. The man looked unhurt and yet ragged, defeated and hollow. Not the same person he'd been minutes before.

He seemed barely conscious now, about to fall. Still, he glared and glared, finger attempting to squeeze the trigger slowly and failing as memories of the past assaulted him and he lost what little will remained. There was no strength in his arms for the task. "...there's still... one enemy left..." Even his voice sounded defeated, dead inside.

[Fallen] Compassion. No, too hard for that. Too removed. Clinical assessment, but somewhere there is something that could pass for the most ancient form of empathy, if only in that the recently possessed mans struggle is acknowledge.
You need rest and succor, human. You are alive and whole. The rest will heal in time if you do not throw that intangible commodity away.

He sniffs the air. Glows brighter; burns stronger without heat. My time draws to an end.
He turns to face Ashley, the last to speak. Still.

[Ashley McGowen] Searing, otherworldly pain and horror. Ashley's a Mind mage. It's not the first time she was attuned to other Minds as one died, the agony of being brought out of existence, but it's never pleasant. The Hermetic tenses, releases a shuddering breath as though with it she could expel that pain she was privy to, just for a moment in time, the echoes that surface

(heat searing her lungs, the taste of iron and something raw and slippery in her mouth, his Guilt)

before she pushes them down and away. Not enough to tear open those old scars, but enough to remind her that they're there.

She lowers her hand away from the necklace and it hangs loose at her side as she turns to face the other spirit. Ashley observes it with a solemn sort of quiet, a wonder more muted than Emily's (because it has an edge, always there) but there nonetheless. A brief wrinkling of her nose as it suggests that Will and Faith are the same thing, but no protests. There's worse to come, it says, that it will jar her when it's coming, and she just gives it a nod, a little pale, a little wan.

She's tired. Partially drained. A little afraid of what is to come, even if she doesn't say so. The action is not as brash (nowhere near) as her earlier words. Still, it indicates without need for speech: she's ready.

[Fallen] The Heremetic says nothing and the Spirit studies her for a moment longer; then nods.. as if there is some understanding between them.

Then he steps back, already beginning to fade.
Be ye not weary or downhearted. You are a resilient creature and of your king, your lot manifest Power. You were forged in the earliest fires to be Guardians. Go then in Peace. Go then with Fervour.

The last words are a hum in the air, a vibration in their flesh. A last glow remains, like the afterimage of a flash burned to the retina. Then that, too, dissipates until the basement is still, lit only by the residual blue-wraith-glow of what they safeguard here. The lights flicker in the house. They buzz and drone and struggle... and then return.

[Solomon Ward] "We need to discuss this, at some point, by now isn't going to be possible for me" he says, arms scooped underneath Israel's prone form, knees straightening as he lifts up her child like weight in his arms. His stern quality and flaw of echoing appearances are being considerably compounded by his paradox backlash. He's likely to have trouble dealing with normal people for some days.

"Don't be dismissive of what took place here. It's a rarity indeed that a High Umbrood comes, with warnings no less, unbidden. If there are omens more terrible, I've yet to stumble across more than a fist full."

The priest is perturbed, but he hides it well. Few things shock the man, but Nathan's rapid possession and the subsequent events have taken their toll on him. The exertion of his Will so quickly after his recovery, physical and psychological, have wearied him. If its possible to age a year in a minute, Solomon has found the trick. He checks to make sure Israel's head is carefully cradled against his shoulder, lest he bang her head against the wall or some thing equally unheroic. He begins to head for the stairs, unless some one has some thing for him. Other wise he'll leave.

[Ashley McGowen] She watches the Umbrood fade, and if its words reassure her, it's hard to say. Dark times, when someone as blatantly self-interested as Ashley is called upon to be a guardian (maybe that's why she needed to hear it.)

"I don't think anyone is going to take this lightly," Ashley says to the priest, as he cradles the Orphan in his arms and makes his way toward the stairwell. The Hermetic sighs, runs her fingers back through the dark mop of hair on top of her head, and then just as compulsively combs them back through it to straighten it again. "We should talk, Solomon. I'll call you."

Then he's gone, and Atlas has disappeared - upstairs, probably - and she's left alone in the basement with Emily and Nathan (and Catherine.) There's no mockery for the Cultist, even though he might be expecting it. That's not her style. The sidelong, vaguely disapproving glance she gives him. That's her style.

"You okay, Em?"

[Emily Littleton] She watches the Umbrood until it is gone. Stares into the space it vacated just a little longer, for good measure. It takes her a little longer to recover from these revelatory moments than the others. Because she's still new, green, rough around the edges.

The Priest leaves, with the diminutive Orphan in his arms. The Etherite, with his strange patterned speach, isn't far behind. It leaves her in the node room with Ashley and Nathan. One of them is addressing her. It isn't Nathan.

"Yeah," she says, letting the informal affirmative hang between them for a few moments. "I'm fine," she assures. Offers the Hermetic a small smile that doesn't cover the weariness or concern on her features. "I've all my limbs and everyone made it out more or less okay," there's a concerned look for Nathan, here. "So I'm fine."

She folds her arms over her middle and starts towards the stairs. She only gets about half way before turning back to Ashley. "Some day I'd like to come down here when it's calmer. If that's alright. I'll understand if I have to bring Owen, or you, or someone else with me. I'm just... curious."

[Nathan Spriggs] As the being fades, the grip on the gun seems to relax until at some point it simply slides down and hits the floor with a loud clunk. A second or two of looking at the spot it'd been in, hatred still reflected in his eyes full force. Now his motivation was gone and the strength seemed to fade from his body.

He dropped to a knee, picking up the fallen gun as well as the ruined counterpart, throwing both in the bag and back to his feet. Almost ready to fall, the Cultist steadied himself against a wall for a moment, glancing at the two remaining people down there as he did. If Ashley's glance was noticed, he didn't show it.

After a few second, in the same silence he'd been in since the Umbrood, Nathan started to head for the door. Wobbling slightly with every step, as though stepping through a very unstable place. Reality just seemed so far off now.

Once he was out the door, he spoke at last to the two. "I'll be in contact for an update..."

[Ashley McGowen] "Once you're a cabal, you're permitted down here without us escorting you," Ashley tells her, "and you're welcome to look all you want."

She, too, is heading for the stairs, though there's a look back over her shoulder at Nathan. She isn't leaving him down here by himself - though more out of observance for the rules the Society has set down than actual concern - and she wants to make sure he can get himself up and out.

He does, and the Hermetic is the last to go up the stairs, with one last glance over her shoulder. She'll be returning to talk with Catherine.