[Fallen] 1. This is 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. That said, there is a portion where combat is likely to occur. If/When it does 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! Let's go ahead and have you guys post your PCs as being about a block away from the address given. Which is in Lakeview, an area with shops, restaurants and nightclubs. As per the FPM I sent out, the hour is around 11pm.
[Fallen] Note: If your PC has charms and would distribute them, please mention that in your post as the PCs cluster together. Likewise, if your PC has any Rotes in Effect from the get go, let me know via IM.
[Ashley] It's here that she meets the others: a block from where they're all supposed to meet this man for dinner. She knows that they're going to be here, who will be, and she can't guess at first for why it's this specific mix of individuals. Israel can't go. Wharil was not invited, though Ashley thought of asking him to come anyway - but the Euthanatos can be a difficult man to get a hold of.
She'd feel more secure, safer, if her cabal mate was there and that, in part, is why she gives up and goes alone in the end.
She doesn't know who they're meeting. She knows that Technocrats are here, in Chicago: Morgan told her this, Solomon told them all. Maybe it's one of them, but she doubts it. Maybe it's a representative of the demon, the Other, that Solomon thinks is here. She isn't sure.
Ashley has no weapons. She has a metal flip-top lighter in her pocket, and she has her necklace there around her neck, tucked away beneath her collar. Bran made it, when he was still fresh, flushed with his new abilities to shape metal, and she was an apprentice, and it was the sort of present where he held her hands between his as he pressed it there, said she'd want something to focus her magic. So she has memories, and she has her Will to shape them into something formidable, and that's all.
The Hermetic is one of the first to arrive there, black pinstriped pants and a dark red shirt, a jacket. Last summer she used to dress this way all the time: she figures that on the offchance this -is- a Technocrat, looking like a young professional instead of a collegiate that threw on some clothes after rolling out of bed.
[Emily Littleton] Unnervingly, this place in Lake View where they all must gather is not terribly far from the place in Lake View where Emily lays her head at night. It's a handful of blocks away, maybe less or more. It's only a handful of blocks from her flat to Owen's, to St. James's, to Kage's. They've clustered here, tiny flecks of brightness against the dark backdrop of a banal city. They've settled here like stardust, bright and luminescent.
It's a warm night, but the Orphan girl wears a light jacket. It gives her extra pocket space for the things she has brought with her. In one of those pockets is a string of small, simple stone beads. They are grey and worn smooth. At one end, there is a maltese cross, and her thumb worries one of the points as she walks.
Given the weight of the invitation, the paper on which it is printed, the sort of things that Emily associates with the world of such finery, she is wearing slacks and a feminie blouse under the lightweight jacket. It has a mandarin collar, little frog clasps down to one shoulder. Very oriental. With her dark curls piled at the crown of her head and secured with pins, Emily looks much more an echo of her childhood past than a thing of her Chicagoan present.
The silver glint of the thin chain at her neck is concealed by the high collar. No doubt she wears the Wonder still, that it rests against her sternum, cages still the heartbeat of Home, home, home.
There is a readiness, too, in the tension to her posture. In the polite comportment she has adopted. The invitation she carries in long fingers, held at her side as if she expects she will have to present it for entry. This is not the Emily they all know so well; but it is a piece of her. It is the Embassy brat, come forward, to augment and reinforce the magus she will become.
Her footsteps click on the pavement as she approaches the location. Punctual, a little early so that she might gather with the others before they all go inside.
[Atlas Mason] Atlas arrives promptly and on time to the meeting place, his motorcycle left behind him after he shrugs out of his leather barnstormer jacket, and into a brown suit jacket for the occasion, he walks to where the others are gathered, a wave and an amiable smile on his lips as he steps up to them.
"Tepid acknowledgement of social materialistic existences my homogenous personages. Are all of your material structures, as well as synaptic functional capabiltites at a nominal or postively nominal state?"
He asks, looking around at each person in turn with a hint of concern and leadership, making sure each of them is prepared to the best of their abilties.
Before we initiate forward accelerant without our musculature and osseus structures towards the aligned juncture of convergence I wish to disseminate additional materiel to all present." He says as he reaches into his pockets and pulls out eight key ring laser pointers, he holds them out to all of them, indicating two for each of them.
"These tools will replicate and actualize the same phenomena and effect that I have previously utilized to discombobulate and deactivate any non actualizing bioforms, as well as any other non actualizing particles or materiel you could need to neutralize. I recommend the safe storage and utilization of each as is appropriate."
Its noted that there are none for Atlas himself, but then, the man could pull off the effect without the need for a charm, or 'tool' as he called them, otherwise he seemed as ready and as prepared as he could be.
[Solomon Ward] Father Ward arrives at the location indicated on the invitation punctually. It's no surprise that when he had contacted Nathan that the man had the same invitation.
Convergence. It seemed all the same players in this game of spiritual roulette where invited. It made sense. Thus far they were the ones that had been there when the 'Trickster' had come, or had some how caused problems for this being from the onset of its (known) arrival. Solomon picked up Nathan himself and they spoke quietly on the ride over. The man had been offered three Charms by the sullenly quiet priest. Two to heal, another as a mind blocker. "Activate the mind ward. Keep the other two, if some thing happens" was all he had instructed.
The priest himself is dressed...oddly. Formally. His usual attire of black slacks and shirt are hidden under a great black frock coat. It's buttoned to the throat and a brilliant purple sash is tied about his waist like a broad, loose, belt. A silver crucifix hangs from a chain, openly, around his neck. The coats collar is open just slightly, and another high collar juts from it, the white Roman collar of his profession and the purple sash breaking the monotony of his out fit.
It looks hot. It IS hot. The man already has a strong sheen of sweat and smaller beads as well, forming on his forehead and trickling behind his ear. "Assume its a trap, but don't do any thing half cocked Nathan. I'm serious. This is too weird. It knows we oppose it, but wants to meet. The public is as much its advantage as ours. We'll wait, because I assume the others will be here soon...speaking of...."
When Emily arrives Solomon will each into the deep pockets of his coat and offer her three things. Stone vials, cork topped, the size of a cheap plastic bic lighter. "Two of these are healing potions. Hang on to them incase some thing happens. The third is a defense for your mind. Drink it, and focus your Will. Do it like you would if trying to see magic or exert your knowledge of a Sphere, bot focus intently on the water in the vial as you do so, ok ? Its easy" he smiles slightly, reassuringly. He knows her magical knwoeldge is limited.
Then to Atlas, he offers the same Mind Charm "For you. Israel made them. And no, my synaptics are off. This is a God damn trap, I'm sure of it... but what can one do ?" Another smile, this one a touch bitter. The priest is sweating buckets, though wether nerves or the uniform is any ones guess.
[Ashley] "I'll be warding everyone as soon as we're all here," Ashley tells them. "Save those."
[Nathan Spriggs] All through a quiet ride, once more the priest had offered to pick him up, once more he'd accepted. If he thought this little babysitting bit was more to protect against him than protect him, he didn't comment. The Cultist was, quite naturally, on edge, jittery, yes. But still a sense of calm around him that seemed off with the obvious afraid demeanor, it was more like someone who'd simply accepted his fate.
If whatever this was wanted them dead? If this was really some coming apocalypse? What would being afraid do, he might as well just give up. He'd die either way. Might as well go fighting to the last breath. The last, miserable, painful breath. So there he is, black business suit, dark red undershirt and black tie, with black leather shoes. Dressed to impress or something, more like some corporate honcho out for a fine dinner at night. He looked almost like he was off for a funeral as far as he was concerned though.
His, theirs, everyone's. Still, a religious man and a corporate yuppie getting out of the same car? It was an odd sight. If anything, when he saw the others, the man's demeanor at least lightened slightly, just barely but enough to notice with his current state. He was carrying his own defenses, though, so he wasn't walking in with the proverbial pants down "Hey. Keep your eyes peeled, and don't do anything stupid." Hilarious, that. Him warning them not to be too jumpy.
In any case, he stepped forward into the pavement and looked back to Solomon, the priest was the only one who knew his preparations and he'd rather keep it that way for now. Just for now, but he was Watching them in a way, at least. "So, what now?"
[Owen Page] Emily isn't alone. Or rather, she's not alone for long.
Owen arrived shortly thereafter, on her heels. On, it seemed, many of their heels, though he was not dressed any more formally than was normal for him save for the addition of one of the two collared shirts he owned being worn beneath his jacket. It was a navy blue and accentuated the matching shade of his eyes. When he arrives, it is with his hands in his pockets, his eyes briefly skimming over the assembled, whose names had each been engraved on an invitation.
"Hey."
They get, on mass.
[Ashley] The others arrive, one by one. Nathan and Solomon arrive together, which raises the Hermetic's eyebrows, though she declines commentary.
Ashley can't do anything beyond what she has done; her defenses are in place, and though there's a concerned glance cast toward the apprentice, quick, and she remembers that Riley is due to be here too, that abates when Solomon hands her the charms. The others, well, they can take care of themselves, or should. Emily and Riley are still in the infancy of their Willworking.
"You guys ready?" Ashley asks, roughing a hand through the short hair at the back of her neck. Running her fingers through it, as though to release heat or try to get it to lie a certain way. As it is it's waving and curling a little at the back, which doesn't help the impression of youth she gives off, doesn't help her rounded features, suit or no.
[Emily Littleton] As Owen came up behind her, he'd notice she stood a little taller than usual. That she came closer to eye level than most nights. He gets a small smile, nervous but welcoming, as she adjusts her stride to let him fall in step beside her. It's steadying, having him there. Knowing one of her cabalmates (this one of her cabalmates) had shown up to the party.
Ashley gets a polite nod of her head, then Atlas. Her mannerisms are a little shifted, like her matter of dress. She's quieter -- an Apprentice among more experienced Magi might be expected to hold her tongue and keep her place -- but she's also a little off. The dip of her head, it's a bow more than a nod. The set of her smile is practiced more than genuine. They're walking in to parlay with God only knows what, and she's straight-backed, squared-shouldered, chin-held-high. She's bluffing, that's what; but it's convincing enough if you don't know her well.
And who, of the assembled, really knew her all that well.
"Cheers, Atlas," she says, folding the tool the Etherite hands her into a pocket. It's there, at the ready, for future use. To do this, of course, her hand must come away from the comforting smooth, stone beads. From the traces of a familiar (nearly forgotten) resonance sequestered there.
There's respect shown, too, for the trappings that Solomon wears. She recognizes the regalia and it garners a notable response from the young woman who holds out her hands again to accept these charms. Instead of the more familiar Cheers, he gets a polite, "Thank you, Father."
Nathan is recognized with a somber nod, this more chin-lift than formal bow. She mentally checks the location of the firearm he's lent her, secured where it would be safely concealed. Its imbued payload likely to draw another round of scowls and creased brows from her Mentor-to-be.
Emily takes the Mind talisman in her hands, closes her eyes momentarily and stills her thoughts. She reaches out, like she would to work her Will; feels the sing of resonance at her breastbone of what would someday be her Mind focus. She pulls in that calm, that surety, and drinks down the liquid Israel has prepare. Whether bitter or sweet, she makes no reaction to its taste; restoppers the bottle and tucks it into a pocket along with the life potions. This is an odd thing, the portable magic, but welcomed.
"As ready as I'll ever be," she says to Ashley. Her voice is warm, enough. Resonant, enough.
((-1WP; Mind charm.))
[Atlas Mason] His resources given out, and the resources of others taken in, Atlas simply steps back and waits ready as he will be to go and meet whoever it was who had sent them the invitations. He checked his jacket absently, straightening it out and ensuring he looked presentable, death could be waiting for them in plush surroundings. He would look his best if that was the case, ready to meet death or glory in the next few hours.
Ashley asks if they are ready, and he nods. "Let us locate to the precise juncture that is required of our personages to initiate this convergence." He says stoicly, as he gets ready to move.
[Solomon Ward] The priest is nervous. In control of his faculties no doubt, but nervous all the same. This doesn't sit well with him. The level of experience amongst half these magi doesn't sit well with him. The lack of over all faith in half of them doesn't sit well with him. The man can only nod and swallow, adam's apple bobbing slightly, and hope that its enough for what ever is in store for them.
If he had his druthers he wouldn't be here. Then again, there is no better way to study some thing than first hand, even though he's expecting a minion or proxy or, as already stated, a trap. The man seems on edge, and his flawed echo of lives past is bleeding through his regalia. Despite the formality behind the coat and the sash, the sweating middle aged man still manages to appear stern and demanding.
He pocketed the offered items that Atlas gave him, not entirely sure what he was going to do with a laser pointer, or what the man had said they even did, but he got the general idea. Point and shoot. Like a gun, but not. Close enough.
"What ever happens, be mindful of your mental faculties. If you feel like your going black, losing control of thoughts, or have any other signs that your Will is being imposed on, you speak up. We can't afford, no offense Nathan, another one of us in its grips. Other then that, lets go"
[Nathan Spriggs] The Cultist remained quite still for a while, watching the group, waiting, but more than that his mind seemed elsewhere in a way whenever he stopped concentrating on the here and now. After a few seconds, he took out the 'tools' given out by the older and more experienced man that was Atlas and gave him a thankful smile and nod in return. "Thank you, simply point and concentrate on as well?" A question on their working to be sure, better safe than sorry.
Meanwhile, another glance around, eyes stopping on Ashley for just a moment, a beat, then back to the group at large. Owen's arrival got a quiet nod, expressionless and hard to read, whatever hard feelings might exist, now wasn't the time. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be for this." He spoke quietly, but loud enough for them to hear.
Then, again, a look over to the priest, a step closer to him and another look around the area as though gauging something. "All good so far, I see nothing." The meaning of the words were something between the two at the moment. Now back to the group, a glance to Emily with her somber greeting and formal bow, a quick glance to where he'd shown her was a good spot to conceal a weapon and then back to her eyes. "Hey, be careful."
[Nathan Spriggs] (Didn't see Jessiah's post)
Addendum: "No offense taken, I won't let it happen again." He was forceful on this, certain as far as the ghost-fearing, gun-totting paranoid Cultist could be of anything in his state.
[Owen Page] Owen doesn't take much time for discussion. Then again, who, if anyone present, would be shocked by this? He's even more monosyllabic than ever, the young Initiate as they prepare themselves for what lay ahead. Owen, for his part, had made his preparations earlier. He wasn't sure how the conversation had gone on one side, but on his it had left him feeling resolute.
Purposeful.
He was ready, because he knew there wasn't any other way to be.
So, when Ashley asks the question, the Chorister merely nods, his mouth a thin line, mind carefully closed off from any potential intrusion. "Let's go."
[Fallen] The address they were each given takes them to the outskirts of Lincoln Park. A Gothic construct, once a church. The massive doors that once lead inward to the heart of a sanctuary is now cordoned like a nightclub; a massive Hispanic looking male in a sharp midnight suits stands outside. Impassive - the sort of impassive that gives the impression of strength - of violence - held in check. When they arrive he asks their names in a basso voice devoid of inflection. A tablet is referenced; he nods, short, and opens the door allowing them admittance. It leads to a foyer where smiling, shapely women in sleek crimson dresses ask if they'd like to check their coats or any items. No? Ah. No worries. Another door is opened, this one of sleek, brass-toned metal. Bass thrums now, vibrates: Music with a gyrating, grinding beat.
It is a strip club.
One such voluptuous woman - blonde haired; sweet eyes, precious smile, splendid of breast and hip and thigh; the garment she wears covers all that is private but slinks and slips and slides just so, just so... she is apparently going to lead them to their destination. The place is packed. The din a roar. The decor is opulent and fine; bright and classic as any grand ballroom. A central stage features women completely nude, dancing athletically, unabashed, unashamed. Around poles. On poles. Ah, the things a woman can do while holding onto... a pole. There are cages, too, suspended just slightly above broad tables, where businessmen - and women, too - politicians, and other such white-collar giants enjoy their drinks, laugh, ogle, carouse. Within the cages are couples in fetish costumes that lean heavily towards leather and metal and lace. Women and women. Men and women. No overt acts of actual intercourse are on display here; no, they aren't fucking... but what is going on is certainly descriptively lewd enough to make such a simple detail like text-book copulation unnecessary.
They are led to a large table off to one side. The table is round and, like the rest of the place, formally set as one might find in any fine-dining establishment. Rich, decadent colours of linen; pristine, delicate china and fine crystal. A man is at the table, drawing a cigar from a mahogany box, carved and polished. Another woman leans in, offering a clipper; this one dressed ivory-sheer, the deep champagne-grape colour of her areola distinctive..among other things. Before him a prime cut of steak; served just this side of still breathing; besides the plate a stack of something that looks like large playing cards. He looks lazily towards the group as they near; or at least appears to. Sunglasses obscure the exact look of his eyes. Dressed rumpled-chic, he could be any Caucasian man in his 30's or so, really. A broad brow; a high hair-line, some early receding. Handsome but not overly. His smile is slight; suave.. and speaks of things that lurk in deep waters, with sharp, sharp teeth. Just before going through the motions of lighting the cigar, he waves towards them. Beckoning. Welcoming. The cigar lit.
He rises.
"Welcome. Welcome." He must speak up to be heard.. but as they draw closer they will find that while the din of music and flesh-dance and good times doesn't disappear it mutes considerably, to tolerable levels for conversation. "Please." Indicating the chairs, though he will not sit until each of the two women have.
[Emily Littleton] ((Perception + Awareness: Because this meeting is rather suspect, and strange things are afoot!))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
to Fallen
[Emily Littleton] ((Manip + Subterfuge: Nothing surprises me after that college orgy, and then Lara... right?))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Fallen
[Ashley] Ashley likes Gothic churches. The Hermetic is not religious, not in the slightest: she does have an appreciation for beauty, though, deep-seated, likely unexpected by many of the mages that know her. That's how she appreciates such buildings; she loves their form, loves how they flow.
So yes. This strikes her as deep a desecration as it likely will the Choristers that accompany her. Even if she says nothing, even if her jaw only tightens a little as they all step inside.
And inside, well. Her face is soon matching the shirt beneath her jacket, uncomfortable, distracted, trying to forget how similar this is to an incident two weeks ago. One in which she controlled herself only because of the strength of her own Will. It's that Will she focuses, now, trying to keep in mind why they're here. The music (noise) helps clear her head, oddly - if only because it drives her to distraction itself, that horrible clashing, like metal being scraped over slate, asphalt, torn asunder and screeching behind a backdrop of rattling pans.
There's a man, and he greets them, and the music is blissfully dampened in here. So are the sights. She seats herself when invited, staring at the man for a few seconds before she greets him. "Hello."
[Fallen] So far everything seems quite... normal. Well, as normal as such an environment and situation allows. She can sense the Resonances of those around her but no other. Her fellows buzz with various rotes that are in effect, most of them similar to the Mind Shield she can feel like a a warm hand laid upon her in comfort, Piercing Static, strong, but not the overbearing Unrelenting Hunger of the Mind magic she's felt from Ashley. The other surroundings, however, register as human. Human in its most primal and base forms, yes... lust; greed; intoxication; joy; heedlessness; hedonism. Sensuality unbridled. Here and there a sense of weariness; a sense of masked strife, though that seems to be from the normal course of the human condition, not anything magical.
The man, now.. there is a sense of Power, there, a sense of.. otherworld; otherthing; entropic; dynamic; chaos and raw, raw, raw... It rings of what she felt that night in the courtyard, though the man does not look the same physically.
to Emily Littleton
[Nathan Spriggs] A beautiful Gothic building, no doubt magnificent in the days of it's glory. Now gone, changed to something else. Something base, true but the man was more concerned about what was behind it than what had been done to it.
Still, Nathan slowly steadied himself as he looked around, there are times when one is just completely out of his element, just so in the wrong place at the wrong time that it's painful and scary.
Afraid and terrified of the shadows as this man is, this place is not one of them. This man that stands before them, in a way, the kind of thing he's used to dealing with to an extent. Or was he? Time would tell.
In any case, the Cultist's shoulders seemed to release just a bit of tension in them, no doubt the others would think for all the wrong reasons. A small smile cracking on his lips as he glanced back to the priest, to the most overdressed one of them all.
Maybe it was for all the wrong reasons after all, just not the ones they'd expect. For the first time in a while, he actually finds something genuinely funny though his face was soon back to being just expressionless enough to not let it show.
Unlike most of them, he was capable of blending in for the most part in how he had dressed, and behaved to some extents. A look here, a glance there, nothing mechanical or overly jittery like usual. Nathan was actually dealing with the situation without freaking out, trying to be natural, and it was actually working, or so he hoped. He didn't, however, take a seat at the table, not until Ashley did anyhow.
Eyes on the man, watching him, measuring him, considering him. But his mind still on that something else he had right now, that thing that seemed to take him away from reality for a while. After a moment, a second maybe, he was back. "Hello, you must be our host, Mr. Basileous?" A smile there, (seemingly) natural, the kind he gave people when he wanted something out of it.
[Emily Littleton] Profane, this building must be. In the older sense, before it took on connotations of a less savory sort. She is thinking, only, that this once-blessed place must have fallen to disuse and been repurposed and, that, presaging that event it must have been deemed by the Diocese to be profane.
And yet, upon entering the establishment, all the less denotative meanings of that word come rushing over her. Emily stands tall this evening, almost of a height with Owen. She is slender and long limbed, pale skinned, bright eyed. She is not lovely, but tonight she stands closer to it than she has in recent times.
She does not offer up her coat, but tenders a polite No thank you to the woman who asks after it. As they enter the room, which is every bit as overwhelming and disturbing as the pile and tangle of limbs on the campus has been, not so many days before, Emily looks around. She glances about the room without any apparent embarrassement, without letting her gaze linger on any particular face or feature long enough to know it, to name it, to internalize it as anything more than a writhing background to their task at hand.
Inwardly, though, she's quailing. Flushing crimson. Pulling back and wanting out of this place more than any might imagine. Outwardly she is comported and calm. Her awareness extended, she moves with the cluster of Awakened through the space. She keeps close to them, does not splinter off or explore. Keeps close enough to Owen's side that he could reach out and take her hand, or steady her.
Reaching the table, however, her attention narrows and focuses only on the man already waiting there. Emily's mouth purses, and the lines around her eyes tighten. It is recognition, a flare of something akin to abject hatred, but that, too, is tamped down as tightly as her revulsion and embarrassment.
Tonight she must be controlled, calm, careful, comported. He bids them sit. Emily waits for someone to pull out her chair, seats herself, folds her hands politely in her lap. If her Mentor to be is sitting next to her, then her hand will find his, or his knee, some way to communicate her imminent anxiety.
[Atlas Mason] He drinks the potion as they near the door, downing it quickly and expending that ounce of will to ensure that he was protected, you never knew what could happen in the next three seconds.
Atlas had obviously been prepared for something high class, something posh and grandeous and they had certainly got that, if it wasn't precisely what they had expected. The strip club, because this location could not be called a 'joint' was as posh and fantasic as many places Atlas had been, but the nudity threw him for a loop, the people in cages dressed in leather, vinyl and metal drew his eye and distracted him fro the task at hand, if only momentarily before he resumes moving with the group.
They reach their destination, the man who had summoned them presumably sat like a king in his court, he drank, and he ate, and he showed proper respect for the women who approached, not seating himself till they too had been seated, but there is a feeling of menace from the man, something Atlas cannot shake, and he sits carefully, keeping the man in his field of vision.
"Trepidatious acknowledgments Sir." He says in a quick clipped moment of conversation before looking about at his companions, and then out and about to the club one more time, before turning his gaze to the man once more.
[Owen Page] Well, he'd known it would be bad.
It wasn't as if he was expecting that they'd walk in and find the pearly gates, with St Michael holding out a harp for him, chin-nodding sup, Owen, got your back, brother as he passed by. No, he wasn't expecting miracles tonight, or anything close to -- but it didn't mean he wanted to see what they actually did. He could handle it, even if his face did burn [not with shame, but righteous indignation, with a faithful's fury] as they passed among the masses thrown before them in a deliberately lavish display.
Owen, for the most part, fixedly ignores looking at anything but his feet, putting one in front of the other. Then, when they approach the table, he changes to fixedly staring at the man with the cigar. Not the female beside him. He keeps, Owen, close to Emily, without crowding or preventing her steps. When they are asked to seat themselves, and, in fact, eventually, on Owen's side, do -- he takes her hand beneath the table and holds it; palm warm and dry.
Comfort.
[Solomon Ward] Ever heard the expression 'A den of Evil' ?
It might as well be. Never mind how much the world as advanced in its mores and beliefs since the middle ages, the man is an anachronism. You don't embrace self control and discipline, abstinence and poverty, by embracing such debaucheries. You distance yourself from them. Now pack all that sexual tension, desire, and debauchery into a former Church ?
It isn't an act of will for the priest to enter the building. It's an act of will for him to enter the building at a casual pace, and not start smashing staff into tables.
The sweat is running down his forehead and behind his ear more intensely now. Self control isn't the problem. The man has decades of it. He's definitely out of his comfort zone now, if he wasn't already, and he takes up his crucifix to kiss it, sign himself with the cross, and tuck it into his coat. "Lord, forgive me for what I do. I do it for Your will" he whispers softly. The sash is untied, folded quickly, and stuffed into a pocket. The Roman Collar follows.
For the moment he simply follows the others quietly. When they are offered a seat he waits for the women to be seated as well, before taking his own, though some what stiffly. The priest doesn't so much seem ashamed of the location as much as he's infuriated by it.
[Fallen] Does the party that enters receive much by way of looks? No. Not really. Frankly, people are too preoccupied with the show(s), with the entertainment, with the booze and the food and the myriad vices, joys, debauchery, wretchedness that consumes their lives. A few of the 'waitresses' steal a glance... they smile; they blow kisses; they place their stance just so, flirtatious, inviting, sloooooow honeyed comforts. The Priest draws a few grins, ah yes, the women an upturned brow and here and there particular interest. Not shocked, no. No, nothing shocks them much, you see.
"Welcome," he repeats, drawing off the sunglasses now, taking one of the arms between his teeth as eyes the colour of liquid-gold slide over them, each in turn, each observed; revealing nothing beyond that edge of danger to belie the quietly corrupted playboy mannerisms. Then, settling down in his chair once more he sets down the sunglasses; places the smoking cigar on a waiting ashtray and reaches for the deck beside his steak. "Let's get better acquainted, hmmm?" Selecting one card from the top of the deck he casually, lightly, fluidly tosses one each in clockwise order around him... they are Tarot cards, of course, of the Thoth design. As he hands out each; as each in turn is revealed; he speaks briefly; with a tone of playful curiosity, joking...
...biting.
Atlas gets.... Nine of Wands. "Strength, eh? I wouldn't have thought it. Though perhaps it means.. longevity? Strength of life?" He speaks with a wry, tight little smile.
Ashley gets.... Death. "Mmmm.. the Serpent. The crux. To devour or to be reborn?" He speaks with... hunger?
Emily....Temperance. "Alchemy, sweet thang. Art. Blending science and faith, the material and beyond. Kinda lukewarm, that, mmm? How goes the balancing act?" He speaks with fluid, sonorous syllables that only just mask the mockery beneath it.
Owen...The Devil. "Ooooo. Sexy. And, well... Enslaved. Addicted. Tsk, tsk, choir boy." As with Emily a mocking note, just there, just below, but anger, too.
Nathan.... The Hermit. "Hrmph. Restless. Analytical. Un-trusting. Untrustworthy? Course, when all you tell is lies, how can you believe the truth in anyone else? I understand, brother." Close. Comfortable. Like he knows him, like they are alike, though Nathan the lesser.
Solomon... The Tower. "....fitting. War. Light and Dark. Truth Crumbles. Revelations. Oh, yes... what truths I could tell you, Padre." In his eyes is malevolence; like something personal, like something... ah, no, it's gone. He is grinning.
"All in all," he says, as each card lays in their hands - if they take them - or face up on their plates, "An Enlightening read. Ripe with the potential for, ahhh... progressions. Dynamism. Mmmm..." He licks his lips and takes up his cigar again, then, oh-so-suave, indicates the box with his other hand. "Where are my manners.. cigars? Wine? Order what you like, please."
It should be noted that once they are all seated, the table sits just so next to a wall and two noise-dampening partitions, that they can speak normally, the din of the establishment cut back considerably. They are still, however, highly visible to any who might look.
[Ashley] He speaks with hunger, and that's the troubling thing: Ashley knows there are similarities. She can see them, feel a pull in the back of her mind, pit of her stomach...well.
Death is set in front of her, and for a moment, she just looks at it, then up at him. Knows its meaning, that he chose well, that he spoke a truth, has in a few simple sentences pinpointed the conflict that spins over and over within her, devours its own rebirth, tendencies that war.
Except this: Kage said it, and that was a truth too. Ashley has walked there, has had a shadow. She's seen what he has to offer already, and "I think you're wasting your time."
But she will order a drink.
[Atlas Mason] Atlas looks at the card on his plate, picking it up gingerly, and turning it over slowly examining each plane, each line. His eyes move from the card in his hands, to the others, and then to the smoking man and the woman next to him, before finally returning to the card in hand his gaze long, and thoughtful as if it could mean everything....or nothing at all, in the end he sets the card down on the plate once more and looks at the man that sat across from them. The man...thing that thought it knew them so well.
"Curious you instigate an initiating event with the intent to portray superior data accumulation and retention, a distinct social political dynamic display of perceived tactical superiority. However, to further illicit a palpable theorum regarding this event, your action plan registers and exposes a series of personality archetype intrinsic flaws..." He pauses. "What is your intrinsic purpose?" He inquires before looking over to whoever was taking the order.
"Formulate and manufacture an ethol alcohol based fermented derivative known to laymen as Brandy, situated with a glass filiment open environmental container accompanied by solid state H20."
He then turned his gaze back to the smoking man, and waited for his answer.
[Emily Littleton] Taking the card up in long fingers, Emily draws it toward her. Studies it carefully. It pulls her attention away from the man, but only for so long. The card is a collection of bright colors; she cannot know it, but it is one of the most hopeful in a collection of powerful and potent Arcana. Emily handles the card like it might be made of some etheral trickery. Once she has studied it (Art, Alchemy, Wonder), she sets it aside.
He calls her sweet thang. Asks about her balancing act. Mocks her for blending belief with rational study. Mocks Owen. Emily's smile turns sipid, cloying like honey and dangerously sweet. As if he'd complimented, not mocked her.
But he asked her how her studies were going, and true to polite form she answered without answering. "Well enough, thank you."
She declined, with a small gesture of her hand, when it came time to order drinks or anything to eat. Emily would not partake. She would not take anything home with her, or eat anything in this establishment. After the previous night as a reminder, she didn't need any assistance waving off thoughts of alcohol consumption and how it might complicate their evening.
[Solomon Ward] "Water", is all he says at first. The priest takes his time taking some thing from one of his pockets. His pipe, tobacco pouch, lighter. He tamps the pipe down slowly and applies the lighter to the yellowed ivory bowl, puffing a few times before he actually stops to look at the card laid before him.
Divination has never been one of his strong points. The Old Testament forbids it actually, and it has always been one of the laws of his Art that Solomon abides by. Symbolism on the other hand ? Yes, he understands symbolism.
The atmosphere and accumulated bod heat isn't doing much for the priests profuse sweating. He undoes two buttons of the coat casually, though all it reveals is some thing black under the coat and a peek of a vertical slash of red dyed into it. "Edom Basileous. Hebrew and Greek. The Chieftain of Edom, King of the Red Lands, or, most loosely... The Crimson King. You killed Mrs. Mendoza, Mr. Basileous. You delivered a rather nasty message, and then you offer hospitality ?"
He says some thing else, soft and serious. It has a harsh bite to it, glottal, thick.
[Fallen] [Let's See...]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] Nathan froze, just for a heartbeat, a look, not quite a glare but near it. The card that lay before him, The Hermit, more than it angered him to be told an analysis, it... amused him. The choice did. Still, to be called 'brother' by the man sitting across them was not something he'd look forward, even with present company excluded. To be called inferior, to be called a liar to his face, untrusting. Not untrue, but certainly irksome and insulting.
Then Solomon spoke, and his breath halted for a moment, a deep exhale before it returned to normal. Nervous? Yes. But he did his best not to show it. No signs of weaknesses could be permitted at this point.
"Nothing for me, thanks." He spoke, biting back another form of reply, and stopping himself from reaching for the weapons hidden in his clothes. "So, what exactly brings us here, before you? Mr. 'Crimson King'."
[Owen Page] The man flicks a card at him, Owen lets go of Emily's hand and turns it over on the dinner plate, casting his eyes over the grotesque detail of a horned devil with two smaller human figures chained by an ankle each to him, a man and woman. Victims of their own weakness.
Well, he couldn't critique him for choice, as far as fitting parlor tricks, went.
It didn't prevent the smirk from stealing over a corner of the Initiate's lips, however. It was not an encouraging expression, it was openly hostile. Though the Singer's voice was strangely absent of his face's wrath, it was simply diplomatically unconvinced, pleasantly emphatic: "I'm nobody's choir boy."
Unfortunately, the chain hidden beneath his open-necked shirt, begged to differ.
[Fallen] They have their reactions, their responses. Ashley says he is wasting his time.. the man smiles; an edge to it [ravenous]. Atlas speaks and for once the stranger among them doesn't blink or look askance. He takes it expertly in stride, following along with seeming ease. He shrugs; rolling his shoulders smoothly, inhaling on the cigar with a moist, savouring pleasure. Exhales. And says nothing, not yet... To Emily who smiles just-so, who wears mask, just-so and is so very polite.. he licks his lips, the tip of the cigar. Winks at her. Solomon speaks up, naming him [or so he thinks] and at this he leans back, engrossed. Watching, like a snake, cool. Cold. But for fire in golden, luminous eyes. Still, he says nothing immediately. He drinks it all in, impassive, faintly amused. Nathan is displeased; is nervous and echoes Solomon's query. Owen is openly hostile with but a smirk and the man drink that in, eyes dipping down to that glint of chain, up again with a smug expression of Oh -really- now?.
When at last each has been given a chance to respond [how polite, how cultured; such manners] he waves a lazy hand towards the woman clad in the sheer, Grecian style gown who is standing just a bit off from his right, sliding a free hand down the curvature of the small of her spine, the wealth of ample bottom. "Their drinks..." A squeeze, a light slap that sets flesh to quivering wonderfully and off she goes, sashaying.
To Atlas, "My purpose? To communicate, of course. Just as I said. Openly and honestly, though I don't expect you to believe it." He feigns a hurt expression, though it is openly just that. Fake. Laughing... mocking, still. Then, his eyes cut to the Priest. He grins lopsided, the cigar between his slightly yellowed teeth, clamped, a slashing rictus. "Did you like that? A clever trick, if I do say so myself. And as for the rest..." He doesn't speak in Hebrew, though it's clear he understood the language. "You shouldn't be laying the people here to waste because it would be ungodly, Padre. Are all sinners condemned, then? You first, then, Father. You. First.[/i]" He leans in slightly with that, eager... vehement. Eyes him. "But your sins are not the same, mm? Is that it. Funny thing you religious types, you monks, you eunuchs. Always ready to claim the moral high ground, always ready to point to a passage and ignore another. I thought current cannon says all sins are equal in the eyes of your martyred-Jew and his.. Father?" He snorts. He looks to Ashley now; so close, so kindred, a caress. "I've a story to tell you, if you'll spare me the time. A truth. An offer of understanding. I've offered Hospitality, mm? Half of you have broken that offering already,"
He flicks his hand and the person wearing guns can feel them vibrate briefly but starkly, a faint pulse of heat. Then gone. "But still, I've made no move against you. Your laws do not constrain me. All I ask.. is that you listen."
[Emily Littleton] ((Perception+Subterfuge: What trickery is this? Because you're up to something...))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 4, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Fallen
[Ashley] There are laws of hospitality. There are old laws, older than nations that have devoured, fallen to their own decadence or absorbed by others, older than those first efforts to articulate Will. They say that hosts don't harm those to whom they've extended food and drink, to those who have accepted. A glass of amber liquid over ice arrives and she sips from it.
Ashley doesn't like the way he smiles at her when she speaks, or the way he looks to her while he's offering his diatribe. She doesn't like the fact that he's evaluating all of them, maybe thinking that the pull in her is the strongest, that he might walk out of here with at least one.
She's not comfortable here in the slightest, particularly not with the din that she can still hear even through the barriers. It would be painful, if it were louder, if the not-music could reach them here. But she's trying not to show it.
Ashley's a poor bluffer.
She drinks again. "I'll hear your story." Challenge me.
[Atlas Mason] Atlas listens to the man, he had not broken any of the rules of hospitality, he had simply asked of the man, spoken of his actions and wondered of his motives...well that and order a tumbler of Brandy, who was to say such things couldn't be enjoyed if one was going to die at the hands of.. He laughs internally the 'crimson king'.
He listens to the words of his fellows, all approaching it from a different manner, some of them are agressive, some of them...inquisitive, others are simply quiet, but still they recieve the attentions of the man before them. He watches the woman briefly as she walks off to acquire the very few drinks that had been asked for, before looking back to the 'crimson king'.
"Then initiate your data dissemination and co communication between our personages and yours. My personage is at the minimum requirement of social interaction based upon a semblence of the articles of war sub heading peaceful action negotiations prepared to receive data."
He says as he entwines his fingers and sits up straight, as if they really were at some form of conference or peace summit. Some might call him naive or outright foolish, but the man had dealt with great threats before, threats that were outwardly hostile and instantly dangerous, this man...this creature was no less dangerous, but at least...it played by some form or rules.
[Solomon Ward] "I'd accept your 'hospitality' more readily if you hadn't killed one member of my flock and threatened others, you fuck. But go ahead. Tell us your little story, and maybe after the worlds smallest violin plays for your oath-breaking, murdering, heretical ass you can sit there and lay some more judgment on me. I'd love to hear some sort of cosmic reasoning behind all of this, and maybe it will be more interesting than a drawn out story of 'Daddy you loved most'"
Solomon takes the glass of water, spits in it, and slides it in front of himself between Mr. 'Basileous', in acceptence of the man's hospitality. "Just so we know where we stand".
[Emily Littleton] That flash of warm pulls Emily's attention, but not her eyes away from the yellow-eyed trickster. She is certain, by now, that the primal pull, the raw and inescapable energy about him is familiar. This manipulative tang about him, is familiar: sadly because it calls upon nothing more elevated than the basic natures of the human beings surrounding them. Deception; it's natural, it's part of the world they live in, they breathe it in every damn day.
The Apprentice runs her fingertip along the tine of her fork, draws it down the shaft of the utensil, drags it along the tablecloth just firmly enough to feel its warp against her fingerprint. It's a sensual thing, but not sexual. Tactile. Grounding. It answers the flick of his tongue against his cigar butt; echoes it in a stripped-down, hollowed-out, never-gonna-happen sort of way.
Accusing them of breaking the bounds of hospitality, however, brings a cant to Emily's head and a upward flick of the corner of her mouth. She will speak, now, and her voice is pared down from its usual clutter of accents. Controlled. Focused. The clearest note is still British, but the tiny tells of not here and not now are fainter.
"I hardly feel that accusation is appropriate," she says, her voice mellifluous and calm. Tempered. This is the diplomat's daughter, so-polite, too-polite, sweet: grace under fire. "At least in my position. You, or someone who feels," (tastes, says the slip of that word against her soft palette), "Quite like you threatened me just last month. Might have killed me, had things gone differently. A little precaution is hardly remiss."
Chiding, that; taunting almost, the way he had teased her. She reminds him that he's not so innocent, does not hold the high ground, might control the deck but not the players. Then Emily folds her hands back into her lap, seemingly unperturbed still.
[Nathan Spriggs] Nathan watched the yellow-eyed bastard, oh how he scrutinized his every word. This man was a snake, and he'd set down a challenge, called the Cultist inferior, mocked him. It was time for the blond man to do what he did best, bluff, bullshit, deal. Call him on it or not? Did he have enough information? Worth the risk? Decisions, decisions.
Once the mental war, and something else, was settled, he spoke. "Water please," an acceptance of the hospitality first, and then, "I do not see how we have broken the laws of hospitality. Correct me if I am wrong, but they speak nothing of being protected? Harm to the host, yes, but we have levied no harm or threats of it. At the very least in my case. In fact, I think I've been quite patient, as I'm sure you'd very much like us all to be." No hostility in his words, it was... amazingly casual, like idle conversation to Nathan.
"I do have a question though, is that name of yours a trick? A bluff maybe? A distraction? What is you wait for? What is it you're buying time for? Could it be you're nothing but a peasant passing itself as a lord? Standing in place for a master you're waiting for to appear? Is that why we're really here? You didn't want people on the street that could prevent it?" Still the same tone, though a sharpness to it, not quite accusations but a return of the mockery he, or it, had shown them.
This might not end well.
[Owen Page] The Initiate's eyes shift to encompass each of his colleges as they speak in turn, Owen cannot prevent the briefest hint of some approving humor turning up a corner of his lip at the Priest's rather blunt retort to the offered hospitality. They were, though neither would likely freely admit it, on exactly the same page when it came to accepting anything this man had to say at face value.
Owen's eyes shifted back.
He kept his hands loosely resting on the tabletop, back straight, one leg propped up on some part of the table beneath them so he adopted some false sense of ease, of a lack of discomfort that he was well aware was being pressed upon them all in turn. Owen knew enough about this man, and those like him, to comprehend that nothing he said would be entirely true, or entirely honest.
One of his fingers idly rubbed along the edge of the card before him, casting the Devil's face into shadow where his wrist fell across it. He didn't speak, however. He left that to those who were better at it than he was, words were not his strong point, observation, however, that was something he was adept at.
So the Chorister watched.
[Fallen] This time he doesn't spare anyone a response; he shows only a fractional interest in what they have to say, in their actions, their queries. They all stay to listen and that, it seems, is all he cares about.
"The tragic tale, then," he begins, leaning back expansively. "Truth; though you... Magi... may not want to believe it. It'll be the abbreviated version. Something the mortal mind may begin to fathom. The kiddie-version. Don't bother getting your hackles up," A liquid smile; hard-line, cruel-glints, liquid-gold eyes sliding from person to person at the table while the heavy bass thrums in the bones and the smell of booze and lust and other things cloys in the air. "There was a Creator. God. The Dynamic Force. The One. Whatever the fuck you want to call It, It was there. God - yes, we'll call It God, though the half of you rail against the word - created humans on this earth," the slightest stress on 'this'. "as the Masterwork. The Pinnacle. The force to affect change on all other things. To rule with benevolence or cruelty or all things in between. The Choice was always there. And my kind... ah.... how we loved you." He halts. He does not sigh; he does not weep; he does not scowl... he becomes distant... removed... apart from a recollection too strong. "The myths are all there... humans remember some of it, just enough; just enough to skew it into their mythos, their lore, their reasons for separation and degradation because each belief must surely be better than the other. Either way there's a common thread: Some break of Paradise. Because We brought you truth and It - God - wanted you blind. Like Pygmalion, God's desire was never to see growth in these creations... they were construct to please. To congratulate Himself on yet another clever creation. He could have left you all to those of Us who wished to truly Love you... We were not His Favored," a glance to Solomon, sharp. "And neither, let me break it to you, were you humans. But God... God is a Jealous son of a Bitch. Before God washed Its hands of you and us, first It waged war. Broke harmony. Fragmented reality enough to drive a wall between what you may call the 'real' world and the Shadow."
He's speaking calmly, smoking as he does, eyes occasionally drifting past the gathered to watch the byplays of fetishism and flesh display in the greater room. Outwardly all is ease; but there is a sense that beneath he roils, he rages, he seethes. He... hurts?
"Of course God 'won'... the war. Never-mind what ruins He left for your kind. Even those faithful to God and the angels who never left His side... even those Faithful he left to desolation and despair. And We? We, the Downcast? The Punished? We were ejected to imprisonment in the Abyss. It drove most of us mad, you know. And our maddest nightmares touched some fragment of yours, creating visions of Hell and fears of Damnation. At our hands," A snort. Bitterness. A brief breaking in the smooth facade. Then another rich mouthful of the fragrant Cuban before he exhales the plume of it into the air above them. "Two thousand years. More... thousands of years. And then... suddenly.... we were able to break free of our prison. Some of us. We did it with trepidation. With fucking fear, you get me? We knew.. we knew to escape would mean to face God's Wrath anew. To be Unmade. But in our madness we just didn't give a rat's ass anymore. Blinded by need we shimmied and squeezed through the cracks... drew our breaths, prepared to look our last of the Worlds between-above-within-beyond Worlds.... and no one. No one. Showed. Up. Not God. Not the Faithful. Nada." He puffs out smoke while holding his hand in front of his mouth, four fingertips pressed to the pad of thumb, then releases them outward with the exhalation... gone up in a cloud of smoke. How expressive.
...in his eyes there is a flicker of primordial dread.
He grins. "Moral of the story?" Here he looks towards Solomon, Owen and Emily, each one in turn. Each direct. Unblinking. Grinning. Malice. [anguishisthere;despairisthere. crueltyreigns] "God is dead. Or at least gone. Maybe having to take arms against his own creation ruined him, huh? Maybe. There's a paradox there. Whatever the reason... God ain't around. God doesn't give a shit. God left you assholes. So maybe this one here... Death." He waves a hand in Ashley's direction. "Has got the right of it. You humans with the ability to work Wonders. You could become gods. Some of you have. Demi-gods, at least. But never in this World. Because this world, as it stands, has no place for you. The Others, with their.. ah, what is the quaint phrase they used when I spoke to them? Enlightened Science. Yes. They have forged something of a path but even they feel the constraints, as all tyrants do." He sips his win, swirls it in the glass. "So what do I offer? To change that. To stirr it up. To make the World what it should be, where the God - the Higher Being, the Dynamic Spark - has fled and the Fools scrabble by a dull, blind existence. You could... Ascend. Truly. Without the irksome troubles of the dumb-brute lesser mind to stand in your way.
Something to think about."
Drawing out the stub of his cigar he begins to ground it into the ashtray, licking his lips. "Now then... if you would? I'd like to show you all something. We'll be leaving this public setting... you can strike at me immediately if that's your wish." The sheer force of how undaunted he is at the prospect is not cockiness. It is sheer, utter belief. Knowing. He rises. "Come if you like."
And with that, he is moving, heading away from the table and towards a back door along the rear wall of the thriving; thrumming modern little hellfire club.
[Fallen] The coo of a dove; the beat of thunderous wings. Anger. Roiling anger. Righteous anger and, ahhhhh.. weeping. And, yes, oh yes.. fear? The 'Man' speaks of God.. the Creator. The Divine Spark. And her Avatar within her wails for Its presence... where? where? where? It is sorrow, too, and reverence, like a balm, like preparation. Like Emily must follow, yes, where this Man goes because there is more... there is more to be done.
to Emily Littleton
[Ashley] The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.
This is an old story. Ashley has heard it before; well, she's heard those myths he's spoken of, efforts to separate and degrade. She read them. It was a long time ago, back when she was just beginning to delve into her readings after Awakening, but she can still recite portions of Milton.
She listens to his story, and some of it's the same, and some of it's a little different, and at the end Ashley frowns at him. "If you know me that well then you should know what I've seen, and that you aren't going to change my mind. I'll find my own way to Ascension." If she even wants it; she hasn't yet decided. Another conversation is still fresh in her mind.
There's a pull, though, something roiling there, telling her that there's more to learn. More to know, and there's undisguised hunger there in her eyes for a few moments when he beckons them after him. Ashley takes another drink, and then she rises.
[Atlas Mason] Atlas sits there, his face calm and neutral, it really should be concerning that it is, no one should be this inured and uncaring in regards to such horror's such lethal possibilities. Solomon swears up and down, he's taking this personally, he's getting involved, he's being drawn in...baited like this thing wants. As is owen, but Atlas is baited in his own way as well, curiosity, the pursuit of knowledge and understanding, such things had their darker sides....and it would seem Atlas was prepared to follow it through, despite the enemy that lead them.
The being finished its story, and stood preparing to go to the next stage, the next setup that it had prepared for its show and tell, and Atlas stood, moving to follow after a look to the others. "Shall we investigate this juncture to its final point of culmination?" He says, before heading after the man.
[Emily Littleton] Unprepared is she for the flurry of feathers in the place beside her heart; the frantic heartbeats; wailing. Emily's connection to her Avatar is still tenuous, their peace uncertain. There is a rush of wind and in its passing it pulls the air out of her lungs, leaves her momentarily breathless and ashen. She presses one hand to her chest, as if it could stay the flurry, the frenzy therein. Instead, she feels the lump of silver beneath her shirt.
The hand falls away. Emily pulls back from the sorrow, the anger and the brilliance (reverence) that sings out like her heartbeat. The others can think she is mortally offended by the assertion that God Almighty has fallen from his transcendental throne: this is not what steals her breath and pales her visage.
That same hand finds its way into Emily's pocket. Her fingers wrap around the stone beads in her pocket. She pulls from them the memory of someone whose faith was steadfast and certain. That's what they sing of (when they once Sang as well): surety (Faith). One day, some day not too long from now, they will Sing with her as well.
She is standing already, without a word to the others. The girl is impulsive, at times; follows the things that pull at her heartstrings, drive her awareness. It gets her in trouble; it leads her Home. Just before she leaves the table, Emily rethinks the tarot card. She grabs it and stuffs it into the pocket away from her beads. This is impulsive, like following the yellow-eyed man, but it strikes her as important just now.
It was something to lead them back to him; it was something to lead Him back to her.
[Solomon Ward] The priest swallows, eyes flickering slightly. Between the man and his tale and the appearance of some thing only he can see. What ever he keeps looking at has him on edge. The sweat is dribbling behind his ear and off the tip of his nose now. His right hand has to grip the length of his coat in a tight, white, fist under the table in order not to shake violently.
He knows we know this is a trap. Of course we're not going to all just run and jump and hop on board his little offer. We all have our reasons for not doing it. Faith, for some of us. Self empowerment and ego, for others. Maybe Nathan... he's a little unstable, but that isn't giving the man enough credit. This shit terrifies him... so what to now ? We leave, and go where ? The trap... this must be the trap... .
The priest is not being baited into this. You can't fall for a trap you know exists; You can fail to execute its countering, how ever. The man stands with the others, nodding slightly. He takes hand from his pocket, where it was shaking, and flips some thing into his mouth. A second one is passed into Nathan's, and the priest nods to him knowingly.
"May as well.. this is part of it".
[Solomon Ward] [er, Nathan's hand. Not mouth. He isn't feeding him grapes and shit]
[Nathan Spriggs] Nathan took the pill quietly, slipping it into his mouth quietly and concentrating. He knew this, similar to the others in his pockets, made by Israel. Concentrating on it, he felt it go in, senses heightened. It was... strange. Exhilaration. Still, there was something about the tension that surrounded him now, not fear, not like before anyhow. Curiosity, uncertainty. There was something he wanted to--no, needed to find out.
His head turning slightly to meet the priest's eyes, he gave him a look that showed as much before whispering something. Then a look back to the Man and he sped up his pace slightly, still keeping some distance. His resolve strengthening, he had to ask. Now or never. "What is it you're not telling us? From the story that is. Is it the spark that set off the war, maybe? The order you Fallen disobeyed?" What his question meant might not make sense to the others but it did to him, his findings...
[-1 WP, pill]
[Ashley] [Awareness]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 6, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((Awareness))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 7, 8 (Failure at target 6)
to Fallen
[Emily Littleton] ((Awareness: Re-roll +1 dif))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 7)
to Fallen
[Owen Page] Owen Page was a man of stoic quiet, stoic calm quite often in the face of danger, or imminent death. His only other true ruling emotion tended toward anger, when it got the best of him. It had done so only last night, when a Cultist Disciple had attempted to penetrate his mind and calm him without invitation or right to do so. The fact that he had rebuffed the attempt had not, for some minutes, nor hours after, taken away from the anger it brought.
So when this Man, this proverbial snake in the apple tree, begins to weave his version of what did, and what did not exist, or who did and who did not exist, Owen feels anger surging inside as it had so many times. His face retains its passive demeanor, but his fingers curl inward, forming fists on the table top. The Tarot card is crumpled in one hand; there could be meaning here, but he finds more in the sudden flurry of his Avatar, in the wings he hears beating in his ears like the rhythm of war drums.
Guard yourself, Guard yourself, Guard yourself
When he rises, it is not without a pointed look at Emily, at Solomon. It is not without one hand straying beneath his shirt and tugging out a pendant cross, his thumb gently tracing the symbol as they begin to make their trek behind the man, throughout the club.
[Fallen] He moves at an easy stride, him and that absolutely breathtaking woman with the garb that leaves oh so little to the imagination. She is beside him, yes. He fondles her briefly, absently, but then lets his hands slip into his pockets. Strolling along, or so it would seem. No urgency. None at all. He opens the door.. the woman holds it so, as promised, he moves ahead his back to them. Exposed. Once more he chooses not to answer questions outside of a calm, "All in good time."
Through the door. It leads to a stairwell. Down they go; down down down. The places as an earthen smell to it; an old look of dug-out construction like once it served to store hidden things, secret things. The come, at the last, to another door and in front of it the woman moves to stand, her hand on the handle though she doesn't open it yet.
"Well now." The man stops, turns around. Smiles, as if he's just enjoyed a fine, indulgent tea with close friends. "I really must go. Ophelia here will show you to what is yours. It's been.... invigorating." Hands in his pockets still, a little spring on his heels.
His eyes flash like sunrise.
The man - the body - collapses. Dead. A heap of nothing, of what once and is no more. Gone. Another puppet with its strings thoroughly cut. And just at that moment, Ophelia opens the doubles doors, throws them open wide.. perhaps they brace for an attack. None comes, not immediately...
....it is an open room, wide open and large, very large. Large enough to hold two semi-trailers easily. And what is displayed before them... the confusion. The.. what the fuck?
There is, in the back far right corner, a large room, set apart by transparent walls. Within it are people; people who stand along, shudders; people who cling to one another - two sisters, a man and a small girl - a woman who bangs her fist against the clear wall, screaming without noise, her panic, her rage very real, very real. Before that room stand three others. Two women and a man. They watch as the doors open, shifting their stance slightly, ready.
To the far left corner... an oddity. A shimmering curtain of translucence. Shadows, dark shadows move just beyond it, just out of reach. It seems silent though, except for two here. Two of the party.
Two more things that draw the eye of another two. Two women, bound up to poles in small clear-walled chambers. Water is rising up, up, up.. at their knees. .. no... no, god, no. It pouring in fast, too fast, too swift. Both women are older; in various stages of middle age. One once had hair of a lovely red, now gone that buttery white in places; she's aged well. The other looks strikingly like someone present. Small. Dark of hair, though much older. She is horrified, her lips moving, perhaps in prayer.
.... a swarm of something black, something moving, something, a hundred tiny somethings, begins to swirl and cyclone in the air above the heads of the people, the people, the terrified, despairing, enraged people in the clear-walled room.
Ophelia speaks up behind them, her voice melodic; her voice soothing.
"The swarm will ravish their flesh. The guardians will bar your way. What price then, the life of strangers for the lives of those you love? Choose."
[Emily Littleton] ((Life Scan: dif 4, practiced -1 -- Who's alive, who's dead, who aren't we seeing? Getting my bearings through my go-to scan.))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 3)
to Fallen
[Owen Page] [*whistles*]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Ashley] The last time they saw each other was at Christmas. Knowing that she couldn't drive to Connecticut to meet her, she drove up to Boston to see Ashley: tenuous peace for a little while with her father. They'd do that once in a while for her, on holidays, put aside the fact that after all these years apart they're more or less strangers, even their anger forgotten. Other than the occasional conversation about her thesis, what she's doing in Chicago (half-spun truths, always) she has very little of a relationship with this woman.
Still, the word comes from her mouth almost as a croak. "...Mom?"
The woman is talking, telling them to choose, and Ashley glances back and forth between her to the victims behind one wall, the women tied to the poles. This happens in stories. There's some kind of answer, some riddle maybe, there has to be. Something that is more than the two choices provided. There are guards.
Ashley raises a hand, prepared to act, to drain the water from those glass boxes, but stops, eyes hovering on the swarm. She's good. She's a strong Willworker. But she's not that good. "...Is there something you'd accept to let them go?"
[Atlas Mason] "Selina...." Is all that Atlas says in sudden shock and surprise. The logical part of his mind reels, and fights against this, Selina Lafette had been dead for over half a century, he had buried her himself, shovel full by shovel full. This could not be reality, this must be fallicy. The other half doesn't even hear his logical side as it tries to explain it.
After what he had seen recently, what he had experienced it was perhaps to much for the overly analytical mind to work around...at least initially. But that meant the rest of him, the part that knew love and pain and anguish and hate, leapt to the foreground.
Atlas started forward, heading for the shimmering silvery curtain, of the other lives that hung in the balance, for all his powers of deduction and science, this was one of his weaknesses his achilles heel, and for the moment he was captured by it.
A hand reaching into his pocket and pulling out a prism which he spun and held before his eyes. "Selina?!" He called as tried to ascertain what it was that was keeping her from him. What this silvery curtain was, and what it was doing to the woman beyond.
[Omni sight. Diff 4 -1 for rote]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 9 (Failure at target 3)
[Emily Littleton] ((Willpower check))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Fallen
[Fallen] "Yes." Responds Ophelia, to Ashley.
"A commitment. A vow. A Geas. That you will not impede the Master any further within the City."
[Emily Littleton] At first, there is only the swarm. The stings, the tears, the rends. The swell of adrenaline, of panic, of feeling it all in her veins -- Oh why had she studied Life under a Verbena of all people? -- to rise up and overtake her. If Emily had been ashen before, she was all but waxy now. In her naivete and inexperience, she had chosen precisely the wrong sphere to scan the room full of people who were terrified and imagining their own deaths.
She does not see anyone from beyond the great curtain; no voices from the Shadow call out. Only the seething, writhing patterns of those who were kept here; suspended in fear and pain and panic. A strangle sound leaves her throat, low and mournful; it's a wordless sound of anguish.
Her fingers close hard around the cross affixed to the rosary. Its sharp points dig into her palm. It drags her back, this small pain; the greater pain of losing someone so completely that he could not come back across the Gauntlet, could not touch her mind to pull her attention away just now. She had the wrong spheres, sensitivities, to be so tortured -- and that was a blessing.
Emily pulls back, she grounds herself, she feels her five mundane senses overtake the others. Her teeth grind. She remembers, now, the one thing that had helped before.
If God is dead, then this will do nothing. If God had abandoned them, it would be like it had been before. But she had not fought her way back to Faith to leave it at the first sign of adversity. Ashley bartered; Emily prayed. Silently and inwardly, without bowing her head or closing her eyes. She prayed for direction, for steadiness: for the first time in many, many years, Emily prayed on her own behalf and not another's.
[Owen Page] He'd been fine up until this point. Holding it together under duress, under the potential lethal danger they faced. There were a lot of things he could handle, many burdens he could shoulder without complaint, hell, he'd been doing it for years, hadn't he? But like in the park, there was a stark difference between the memory of a person we've loved, and hearing their voice again.
"Maggie." He mutters, and closes his eyes for a moment, breathes out, slow and steady, fingers wrapped around the pendant around his neck so tight his knuckles are painted white by it. "Why should we vow anything to those who have no faith?" He grinds out, opening his eyes. "How do we know you won't just kill them once we give you our word?"
[Entropy 1, Scanning those glass rooms for signs of weakness, points where they could break. -1 Foci, -1 Rote]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 3, 3 (Success x 2 at target 3)
[Solomon Ward] The priest is horrified. Mouth agape, moving just slightly as he considers what he's seeing.
A hole, in the gauntlet, silvery and wavering. A room full of innocents, bystanders, Sleepers caught up in a war that wasn't theirs to fight.. .not to fight, no but they can fall victim to it. They can always fall victim to it. Wars have no winners.
Ashley's mother, though its almost a surprise that Ashley has a mother. One might some think some one that incredibly strong willed spawned themselves into existence with a thought... but there she was, and in the same predicament was ... .
Oh my God... Dear Lord, please, no...
He hadn't seen her in over twenty years. He hadn't thought about her, until recently in his fevered dream of shock and pain, in the last ten. In all the conversations with family back home, with his aunt become step mother, with his brothers, he had never asked about her, and in turn they had never said her name aloud to him.
Astrid.
The fulcrum of his life, the choice he made when he went to seminary, the choice she made that impacted his life more than any other. More than fire or violence, faith or righteousness, a higher calling or a sense of duty.
Astrid. The (once) teenage love who had chosen not to carry what they had created... .
"Fuck this"
Solomon pops the buttons off the coat. It slides off his arms easily, practiced. The heavy garb is explained. Body Armor. The priest is wearing military grade body armor, dyed black with a simple red Cross painted across its front, mirrored on the back. A gun belt, speed loaders. A heavy pistol sits on his right hip, ready for a left handed cross draw. A combat knife on the thigh below it. A shot gun.... a fucking shot gun, is secured to his left thigh by velcro straps. Its barrel length is only as long as the chamber-tube, its stock folded over the top. There's no way in hells that its legal.
There's no way in a hell a priest should be loaded like this.
The pistol comes out, wicked fast. Again, practiced. It raises up before any one can tell him other wise, its loud report near to deafening in the underground room.
The priest is shooting Ophelia first, before Ashley can respond with any potential answer of a deal.
[Firearms, to include armor penalty]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]
[Solomon Ward] [Damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Fallen] "That's Faith, isn't it? Believing when there is no reason to." he sounds so serene, so calm...
...until the bullets hit her, then a choked, strangled sound; her mouth open wide in shock; those lovely baby-blues likewise. She crumples, not dead but down hard; grievously wounded.
The three guardians. Two men. One woman.
Grin.
[Fallen] 5
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10
[Fallen] 6
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10
[Solomon Ward] [+8]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Atlas Mason] 5
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2
[Emily Littleton] (Init: +6)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2
[Emily Littleton] ((Wits + Alert))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
to Fallen
[Nathan Spriggs] Unfettered, it was a word that described the Cultist, putting what he was nicely anyway. Always, he'd avoided personal relationships, even as a child. He was good at acting like he was close to people, at smiling and giving that little wink that made everyone feel better. But he'd never actually bought it. Friendship was for saps, so was trust. Better off alone. Better off looking out for +1. He was no bleeding heart full, but he wasn’t completely detached either.
He still didn't understand all this, understand the connections these people had to the people who stood besides him. Quick to sense what awaited, quick to warn the priest. Insensitive to what was happening, to some extent. He understood the pain though, that he knew, and decided what the hell, he was already involved. Might as well help. Sure as hell wasn't gonna bend over to some Geas.
But he didn't lose his logical thinking, his objectivity. Funny how it was, they expected him to be the first to lose it. Seemed he wasn't. Then things went to the shitter like he knew they would.
He’d felt it, felt the change, the chaos coming before it came to it. And he was ready, gun withdraw just as the priest was readying his own attack. It was synchronized, in a way.
[Owen Page] [+7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8
[Ashley] 5
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4
[Nathan Spriggs] 8
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6
[Fallen] 7
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7
[Fallen]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9
[Fallen]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10
[Solomon Ward] [ties?]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5 (Failure at target 6)
[Owen Page] [Ack, again!]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2
[Fallen] Order:
Guard 2
Sol
Guard 1
Owen
Nathan
Guard 3
Ashley
Emily
Atlas
[Atlas Mason] [Declare 1A: Keep moving for the gateway, defend self]
[Emily Littleton] ((Declare: Draw firearm.))
[Ashley] [Corr 3 ward on the swarm to contain it.]
[Fallen] Guard 3: 1A: Draw Firearm
1B: Shoot Ashley. [WP]
[Nathan Spriggs] [Reflexive: "THEY'RE GONNA SHOOT IMBUED ROUNDS, FUCKING SCRAMBLE!"; 1A. shoot Guard 2 in head; 2A. shoot Guard 2 in head, 3 if 2 is dead;]
[Owen Page] [1a. Going after Guard 3, movement to reach[?]
1b. Tackle to ground.]
[Fallen] Guard 1: Forces Effect. Dual Target: Astrid and Eileen.
[Owen Page] [WP: LALALA I'm not LISTENING TO YOU.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 6, 8, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Solomon Ward] Shoot Guard 2, twice.
[Fallen] G2: 1. Draw Weapon.
2. Shoot Solomon. [WP]
[Fallen] Guard 2: Dex [4] + Firearms [3] - 3, Split. WP
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]
[Fallen] Damage:
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Solomon Ward] Armor Soak
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Solomon Ward] Spending wp to change action, full dice action, single shot. 6 dice, -2 armor, -2 wounds.
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 6, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Solomon Ward] Damage
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Atlas Mason] [Think man think! WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 5, 7, 8 (Failure at target 6)
[Fallen] Guard 1:
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 5, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 4) [WP]
[Owen Page] [Dex + Ath, -2 Split Action]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 6, 7, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Owen Page] [Dex + Brawl, TACKLE JOU! + WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 4, 6, 7 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]
[Fallen] Guard 3: Eeeeee! Dex + Dodge
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 6, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Die, fucker! Dex + Firearms -2 split; diff 8]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Damage +1]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] [BOOM HEADSHOT? Dex + Firearms -3; diff 8] WP
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 3, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]
[Nathan Spriggs] [DIEEEEEE]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Fallen] Guard 3: [WP] for changed action. Shooting -4 Diff.
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 6, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Fallen] Damage:
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Ashley] [Corr 3, ban. +3 for surpassing a necessary focus (circle or line), -1 for applicable resonance Static: Determined, -1 for Quintessence, -1 for focus (glass link.) Spending WP.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 4, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6) [WP]
[Emily Littleton] ((Per + Alert: dif 7 per Meesh))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 5, 6, 6, 7 (Failure at target 7)
[Emily Littleton] ((Corr1, Meesh said I could roll it this round: A little targeting help [Guard 1]; dif 4.))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 5, 6 (Success x 2 at target 4)
[Fallen] It happens as all things happen. Quickly. One moment the impasse; the Reveal [Revelation. Perhaps the Man played the Magus tonight]. Choices. And then: Action. A flurry of motion...
This is how it goes....
One of the male guards; tall, lithe and dark of hair, decked out in an all white suit opens fire on Solomon; he aims true. The Priest is shot, straight to the chest; though armor just now displayed after shedding his coat takes some modicum of the blow. All the same it spins the Priest around, knock him down, flat on his ass.... it's a testament to resilience [sheer gal; completely unflappable; righteous, too] that the priest still twists at the waist, firearm raised and returns fire; downing his opponent.
[meanwhile, the two smaller clear chambers. within them a mother. an old love; an old betrayer?. the water gushes up, it geysers up, what was thigh level is now inundating them and they squirm, they wriggle. It's up, up, up to their chins.]
Owen, forcing away the voice of his dead sister [Owen! Owen.. please, Owen, I promise I'll do better. I'll be better. I promise, promise, promise. Why won't you save me?!] channels that anguish into physical force, propelling himself forward with a swiftness that is awful, in the truest sense of the word. He moves to tackle the Guard - the Female, flaxen haired, slightly heavyset - but she out steps him, moving with a dexterity that belies the look of her.
Nathan, who felt this danger coming, just seconds before, aims on the first Guard, all in white, and fires. Once. Twice. That's all it takes to finish him off, his body jerking with the impact; what was white now crimson soaked, flailing, twitching, then still.
Ashley - Ashley who turns away from her estranged mother, who focuses on the swarm of biting things, stinging things, tearing things... focuses her Will, to save the people within, just out of reach. There, there -- panicked. Running in small quarters. Screaming with no sound. Huddled over loved ones. Not enough... a little more. A little more. But blood is beginning to splatter the clear walls red. Bits and pieces of flesh.
Time is running out.
Emily; Emily who prayed for the first time in so long for herself, for her own benefit; is bolstered. She takes her time; focusing on the one working his Will, focusing as she raises the gun that feels so alien in her hands.
And Atlas.... [my love, my love... please... the time that was stolen from us; help me take it back. help me. don't let me suffer anymore, dearest.] ... Atlas moves towards the curtain-that-is-not, towards the translucence and the silver-glow. He knows he can reach her. He knows it.
[Atlas Mason] [You might be the Dr...but you can't save everyone. WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 5, 7, 8 (Failure at target 6)
[Owen Page] [Per + Alert on Atlas. Where's he going?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 7, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 5)
[Emily Littleton] ((Declare: Shoot Guard 1; don't botch [WP]; +1dif no firearms skill, -1dif corr rote))
[Ashley] [Extending the Corr ban.]
[Fallen] Guard 3: 1a. Shoot Sol.
1b. Shoot Ashley
[Nathan Spriggs] [Reflexive: "SOMEONE HELP SOL WHILE I GET THIS GUY OFF OUR BACK!" A1. Shoot Guard 3; A2. Shoot Guard 3]
[Owen Page] [Reflexive: "I'M TRYING. THIS GUY WANTS TO EMBRACE HIS DEATH."
1a. Make a run for Atlas, oh for the love of the One, dude.
1b. Grapple, drag away from Curtain 'o wavery Doom.]
[Fallen] Guard 1: More Cruel Magic.
[Solomon Ward] Shoot Guard 1
[Solomon Ward] Guard 1, Single Shot
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 5 (Failure at target 6) [WP]
[Fallen] Guard 1: Sadness. :(
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 6 (Success x 2 at target 4)
[Fallen]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10
[Owen Page] [1a. Dex + Ath: runrunrun!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Fallen]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6
[Fallen] Swarm:
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Owen Page] [1b. Grapple! Nnngh. No.Dying. Brawl + Strength]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 6, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]
[Nathan Spriggs] [Don't fucking shoot Sol! Dex + Firearms -2]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 6, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Fuuuuuck yoooooou!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 8, 8, 9 (Failure at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Don't fucking shoot Sol THE REDUX! Dex + Firearms -3] WP
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6) [WP]
[Nathan Spriggs] [Please die?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] Guard 3: Shooting Solomon. Dex + Firearms -2
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 6, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Fallen] Damage:
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 7, 7, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Solomon Ward] Armor ?
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 4, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] Guard 3: Shooting Ashley. -3 Diff.
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Fallen] Damage:
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Ashley] [Same as before, but +1 diff.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7) [WP]
[Emily Littleton] ((Firearms (imbued rounds): Dex3; dif 6 + 1 no firearms -1 corr effect; [WP]))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 6, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]
[Emily Littleton] ((Damage))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 6, 6, 6, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Atlas Mason] [Snap out of it jim, shes dead!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 3, 7, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Fallen] And again; The Priest, opens fire on the guardian working his will, as yet unmolested. And unmolested, untouched he remains. The water level in Astrid's chamber is now up to her eyes; the water level in Eileen's chamber is up to her bottom lip; she's straining her chin upward, desperate to get above it, eyes rolling.
Owen, the only other one present who has any idea the thrall [the desire, the longing, the heartache] Atlas is under, darts back across the space between them, legs churning, moving once more with that fluid, athletic grace. He grapples with the man, attempting to shake him back to his senses. It works, this time, Atlas' head whips about, realization of what is going on around him dawning.
Nathan targets the bitch mercilessly targeting first the Priest, then the Hermetic, her hand steady; her eyes hawkish; her face composed but for a sadistic little glint in the eye; a cruel-joyful smile playing on black-glossed lips. Only one round makes impact and she grunts, but recompenses for the hit. She aims for the Priest and assaults him anew with bullet fire the faulty armor only marginally soaks; he finds himself knocked back and down again, the pain searing. Turning she fires off at Ashley - Ashley who just manages to put up the Ban, Ashley who manages to stop the blood-spray, the flesh bits flying - and hits the Hermetic hard; knocking her back and down. Very much down.
For Emily that time spent gathering herself and focusing pays off. Disregarding her basic inexperience with the firearms she manages to hit her target and the heavyset gothette stumbles back, snarling now, grasping at gaping wound in her flank.
[Atlas Mason] [Declare, Melt and Reform charm on Astrid's chamber]
[Fallen] Astrid:
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((Declare: Shoot again, Guard 1 [WP], same penalties/modifiers apply))
[Ashley] [Forces ward to stop bullets.]
[Nathan Spriggs] [Reflexive: "STILL ALIVE, SOLOMON?"; A1. Shoot Guard 3, A2. Same]
[Owen Page] [1a. Sneak up on Guard 1 while distracted
1b. Knock (read: punch) out]
[Fallen] G3: Shoot Emily!
[Owen Page] [Correction! Guard 3.]
[Fallen] Guard 1: Continue Being A Total Dick
[Solomon Ward] Shoot Guard one... shotgun strapped to thigh.
WP to activate charm
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 5 (Failure at target 6)
[Fallen] Guard 1:
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 5, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 4)
[Fallen] Eileen:
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] Astrid:
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Owen Page] [Sneaking up! Stealth + Dex, -2 Split Action]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Owen Page] [1b. Punch Guard 3! Dex + Brawl, -3 Split]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 5, 7, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Owen Page] [Damage + 1]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] Soak:
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Fuck, die already... Dex + Firearms -2]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Diediediediedie]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Die, pleeeeease? Also, fuck Kahseeno; Dex + Firearms -3]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 5 (Botch x 1 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Don't die, please]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 5, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] ...
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1
[Owen Page] [I'M ON YOUR SIDE YOU DICK.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] Guard 3: Shoot Nathan. [WP to change actions] -5
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 5, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] Damage:
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Ashley] [Forces 2, -1 for focus.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 4, 6 (Success x 2 at target 4) [WP]
[Emily Littleton] ((Firearms, Guard 1: Dex3; dif 6 + 1 no firearms -1 corr effect; [WP]))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 3, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]
[Emily Littleton] ((Damage))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 4, 4, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Atlas Mason] [Declare: Last melt and reform charm on Eileen's chamber just to make sure they both live]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] Astrid:
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4 (Failure at target 6)
[Fallen] Eileen:
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 3, 4 (Failure at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((Declare: Ashley! Take this... Give healing charm to Ashley!))
[Ashley] [Melting Eileen's chamber.]
[Nathan Spriggs] [Shoot him dead (not Owen); (not Owen) again]
[Fallen] Guard 1: Lightning Strike. 2 Targets.
[Solomon Ward] Another desperate shot at the guard.
[Solomon Ward] Kahseeno, baby, Ill suck you off...
(Shot gun with charm ammo)
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 7, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Ashley] [Pleeaaaaaaaaaase don't kill my mom?]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 6 (Failure at target 6)
[Fallen] Eileen:
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2 (Failure at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] ((Nothing to roll, just giving something to Ashley))
[Atlas Mason] [Neutralize crap Arete WP cause, quint to drop diff]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 4 (Failure at target 5)
[Nathan Spriggs] [Nathan rushes to Ophelia and puts a gun to her head; Reflexive: "We're gonna have a nice long chat."]
[Fallen] The guards - all of them - are taken down; so much blood stains and rapidly cooling bodies. With it the shimmering curtain-that-is-not blinks out; leaving naught but a room corner, barren and unremarkable. The swarm in the main chamber blinks out as well, leaving shell-shocked, trembling people huddled within. Some of them have some nasty wounds and stings, but they are all alive.
...not so for the women who sprawl out on the wet floor beside their respective melted chambers. They are still; the veins of their skin bulging a deep blue-green, angry like varicose webs gone horribly wrong. Atlas realizes the water itself was poisoned.... it is all he can do to neutralize the component within it so that Ashley and Solomon may approach, if they should wish.
Ophelia shrinks back, clutching at her bloodied wound and nods, swallowing hard. Pale. "Whatever... whatever you want. But not here. He'll know if I'm still alive. He'll come back here... you want answers? Fine. But not here."
[Ashley] [Paradox]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 9 at target 6)
[Ashley] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 7, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Solomon Ward] Solomon is furious. Its a shaking hand that lifts up the stone vial and swallows down its contents. Its a shaking hand that opens up his vest so that he can breathe easier. Its a shaky hand that thumbs the cylinder of the revolver open to count unspent casings. A shaky hand that fires off three more rounds into the fallen guards, one each, to ensure that its over.
"Some one get them out of THAT!", screamed. He waves his revolver at the small crowd of people in indication of what he means, unthinking of the fact that waving a hand cannon around probably isn't the most assuring thing he could have done in the circumstance.
He picks up brass shell casings. He does every thing he can do (which isn't much) until there's one thing left to do. He walks over to Astrid's body with his coat in hand, wrapping it around her form. A raised hands wipes the tears off his face before he speaks again, looking towards the others.
"We need to get these people out of here. I don't care what does or doesn't get explained. Just get them out. This shallowing needs sealed. There's so much to do", the last part quietly, shaking his head slightly.
He points a finger, a single accusing finger at Ophelia. "Make sure she isn't awakened," a hand goes in one of the cargo pockets of his pants, finds some thing jingiling, throws it to Nathan. Hand cuffs. No, not the typical priest.
"She runs, she gets possessed by her master, she fights, or she shits, you kill her".
[Ashley] The past few minutes have been one long, drawn out harmony of pain. The front of her shirt is soaked with blood, not that anyone can tell. There's a hole, ragged, through the front, just below the right breast, but the potion Israel sent with them knit the flesh back together. No sooner has she done that than the heavy boot of Paradox crashes down out of the heavens, flattening the Hermetic back to the ground.
Given that her mother is lying there with her face swollen, veins bursting, perhaps it's better for her for right now.
[Nathan Spriggs] Death. An unpleasant affair on the best of days, which this wasn't. Or close to it. The Cultist's hands are shaky as the gunfight comes to an end, a mixture of pain and dread at the occurrences took over him. Only thing keeping steady is the woman that's on the floor in front of him. Injured as she was, he showed no mercy as he took the hand cuffs the priest threw and put them on her, forcing her to her feet again.
"She's not Awakened." All he says, he knows what he's got to do. In any case, his alertness is still on, that danger sense that got him through it all. Told him about the imbued rounds and the guards shooting before they came flying at him. "Where to?"
[Emily Littleton] The Orphan, the Apprentice among them, suddenly has more to do than she'd imagined. First to Nathan, to see what she can do for the man's wounds. And then to Ashley, when the Hermetic passes out from backlash. This takes an act of her Will, Will that is threadbare and fleeting at this moment. She'd burned through almost every last bit of resolve she has.
And then it's on to the people who'd been trapped in with the bugs. All of this keeps her busy until Solomon, or Owen, or Ashley says It's time to go.
It's time to go. Then the gun gets handed back to Nathan, and then Emily is carefully not to look to carefully at the face of the life she ended. Hopefully they can get back the few blocks to her apartment before it all comes slamming down on her.
[Ashley] When Emily lets a second draught drip into Ashley's partially open mouth, the Hermetic wakes, grimacing at the unpleasant mix of tastes in her mouth, trying to clear her head, to shake off the ache in her temples and jaws. To no avail.
Seconds later she remembers. Seconds later she sees that there's a body there, soaked, still lying in the water and the remains of the glass.
Like Emily, Ashley has no resolve left. When she crosses the floor and looks down at the woman who looks so much like what she will, given another thirty years or so, she's expressionless. Drops slowly to her knees to brush away a few damp locks of hair. There aren't any tears. So for a long time while the others discuss, she just kneels there.
Time ticks by, and presently she pulls away the jacket of her (ruined) suit. Places it over the dead woman's face, chest, and rises to her feet. Where the others go, she follows in silence.
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