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(no subject)

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Rating: will go up to R due to imagery - subject to mod decision, if not?
Characters: open for all
Summary: Rituals and worship and Sacrifice. May the City Gods be pleased, let them come to War otherwise.

Log:
- ALPHA -

-

…gathered the vintage of the earth, and cast it into the winepress, the great winepress, of the wrath of God. And the winepress are trodden without the City, and there came out blood from the winepress, even unto the bridles of the horses, as far as a thousand and six hundred furlongs. :: 14:19 – 15:1 :: Apocalypse after John

-

:: Touya :: shinobi_of_ice ::

Touya had no idea what Rosiel had in mind when he requested a statue made of ice. The demon had never expected to have to make a statue of a god of the City, especially one made of diluted blood. Anyone else probably would have refused, but Touya had agreed, and backing down now would not be accepted by Rosiel, that much he knew for certain. And really, the scent of blood, even diluted blood was familiar to him, as a shinobi, assassinations were a regularity for him.

So, kneeling down before the liquid presented, he ignored the ramblings of Rosiel in the background, and concentrated his aura into the bloody water. The statue was to be large, and after the details had been explained, Touya decided to create the monstrosity in layers. He started with the central pillar where the still beating heart was to be placed, after that, layers of red ice built around it, slowly becoming the likeness of the Deity of the City, Lanika .It took around forty five minutes for the statue to form, Touya knelt at its base, aqua eyes closed to concentrate on what he was trying to form. In the end, when he pulled his hands away and stood up it was finished, a replica just as Rosiel had wanted. Turning, ignoring stuff limbs from staying still for so long, he looked to the insane angel. “It’s done.”

-

Who shall not fear, O Lord, and glorify thy name? for thou only art holy; for all the nations shall come and worship before thee; for thy righteous acts have been made manifest. :: 15:4 – 15:5 :: Apocalypse after John

-

:: Rosiel :: one_of_heaven ::

Their devotion was a blade well honed and the newly wed corpse of opportunity.

The statue was perfect – ah, sweet Lanika, the name such hemlock of diction on a spoiled tongue - the height of it was perfect, the chute dug rather auspiciously close to the base was perfect too; there must therefore be, he supposed, a degree of perfection even in such an assembly of lovely fiends-no-demons-no-creations that had prevailed over personal ambitions and strength of character and – dare he say it? - united in their doings.

They’d danced at first a cautious dance: a smile, an omen, the blurred line between open flirt and bribery; some had come for blood, others for interest, the most for the Hunt. And to think of how many of the Cattle his little ‘acquaintances’ had detained, they’d not gone without game, surely.

He fell to his knees, bloodied and bony and sickly white, never mind that Archbishop Enrico Maxwell, likely stoic, sermon ready, could see him; Rosiel was there, angel, monster, human and weakness, and from his place at the very top of the statue – the privilege of wings - for a moment, he could see them all.

Katan, nearby, silent and still. Always.
The pet in the chute, lying low in waiting.
The guards and abductors, still minding their trade.
The Sacrifices, being led near the Statue at cautious step, wavering in despair or anger or something of the both.

Indifference, disgust, arrogance – no love, no sentiment, no delusion – nothing for redundancy, for human beef.

Sacrifices – cravens and fools and condemned to their ignorance. No shying, no regret. He would not think of the gloves on his hands, black from a superstition marinated in religious privilege; he would not think of the flesh burnt underneath, if only to kill the smell of innocent blood that had needed spilling; he would not think – he couldn’t.

“Thy Kingdom come,” he said anew, though no V here to spite him. “Thy Kingdom come.”

The Sacrifices had all adjourned.

-

And he said unto me, These words are faithful and true: and the Lord, the God of the spirits of the prophets, sent his angels to show unto his servants the things which must shortly come to pass. And behold, I come quickly. Blessed is he that keepeth the words of the prophecy of this book :: 22:6 - 22:8 :: Apocalypse after John

-

:: Enrico Maxwell :: chief_judas ::

- sermon recorded and redistributed :: origins of influence for the religious critical study unknown -

- Last Gospel's direct influence acknowledged by the Holy Archbishop -

"Hear this, lost lambs, you who are blackened by misguidance! You who tremble now in fear of what you expect to see. Good! Fear the Lord, for lest you be of the most pure spirit, you will suffer the wrath of the Most High. You hedonists and heathens, you worshippers of idols, you who lost faith in the Truth--you all will perish, for He will come down upon you not for peace but for retribution.

There is no God but He, seated at the Throne of Heaven, who abhors all who speak falsely. Hear this, heathens! You have been led astray by the plots of the Devil. It is he who colored you black with his wickedness, he who rotted your minds with his sweet poison. And now look at you--you dogs, you pigs, you who accept the deities when the only omniscient and omnipotent being is the Creator Himself.

And so it was written: "If any man worshippeth the beast and his image, he shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is prepared unmixed in the cup of his anger; and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb: and the smoke of their torment goeth up for ever and ever; and they have no rest day and night, they that worship the beast and his image."

And now you might ask, "What can I do to receive the Lord's forgiveness? How can I repent?" But you sinners are beyond repentance, beyond forgiveness. Your fate is Hell! You gluttons, fated to wallow in mire; you heretics, to be fed to the furnaces; you misers, hypocrites, blasphemers, traitors, fated to suffer eternally in punishment fitting of your crimes.

May the Lord smile upon you pure of spirit, you blessed who shall receive Heaven, but for for the fearful, and unbelieving, and abominable, and murderers, and fornicators, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, your part shall be in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone."

-

And when he opened the fifth seal, I saw underneath the altar the souls of them that had been slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held; and they cried with a great voice, saying, How long, O Master, the holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth? :: 6:9 - 6:11:: Apocalypse after John

-

:: Pyramid Head :: redhorror ::

-

The hulk of a monster seemed dressed for the occasion. The massive steel helmet was scrawled with writing in a chalky white, perhaps from scraped bone, or something more sinister. Say no more tongues. The cryptic message was joined by strange designs, odd, eerie scrawling that didn’t seem to be done by the monster himself. Around the monstrous torso were at least forty black, worn leather belts, hiding most of his bare flesh from view, and from them hung strips of red fabric, each written upon in black. At least a hundred languages could be identified, all of them warnings to the superstitious. Finally, smeared across the butcher’s apron were the words, Bow thy heads, all ye sinners , the words in blood messily written.

The creature stood upon its perch, a large platform reached only by a set of dilapidated stairs. The handrails were rusted over in a few places, in the shape of handprints, where the monster’s timeless transgressions had worn away the steel beneath his touch. He seemed to have a strange countenance about him, as if he were enjoying himself, not just mindlessly carrying out his timeless duty. His weapon lay against the handrail, polished to a bright sheen, the razor-sharp edge free of all knicks and dings. The creature himself stood stock-still, his arms raised high into the sky, as if calling forth something wicked and terrible into his very body.

Yes, the night would be bloody. Bloody indeed.

-

And if any man desireth to hurt them, fire proceedeth out of their mouth and devoureth their enemies; and if any man shall desire to hurt them, in this manner must he be killed. These have the power to shut the heaven, that it rain not during the days of their prophecy: and they have power over the waters to turn them into blood, and to smite the earth with every plague, as often as they shall desire. :: 11:6 - 11:7 :: Apocalypse after John

-

:: Soubi ::

lying_obedience ::

Perfect. Perfect, calm, and stoic. Sentouki.

Pale eyes watched from behind glass as the world fell apart, this City of gods cruel and wickedly unjust. And somewhere, it was beautiful. Painted with the strokes of an artist bred in tempered horror. Amidst it, Soubi stood calm, more so towards an expression of frowning. Only once did his mouth twitch with the softest of smiles, thinking of his Sacrifice safely tucked away within the elegance of the Cathedral.

His disposition would be angry, worried. But the rules were his to abide by, ground, beaten, whipped into him, and to twist them was also his. Soubi did this for Ritsuka, for no one, and certainly not the hellaceous workings of a winged devil.

“Accepted.” A whisper. Influx.

Fingers were already at his throat to loosen the bandages there, revealing the scars, his own claim in the worlds as the wind bit at his hair, his face. Not bothering with his glasses, a simple will of igniting the wick with a wordless command, and the flames licked furiously, spinning and twisting. It fell from the sky to caress enamored flesh, burned the ice goddess into a softening glacier. It touched only her, the angle of control his alone, free to tarnish the glory, his apathy. Soubi did not fear the exhaustion, the puddle of crimson slowly beginning to brush his feet. He did not fear the tilt or sway, pushing and pulling of the crowd as he stood amongst them at the base.

Soubi feared nothing, and beauty drove the despaired.

-

And a great sign appeared in the sky: a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars. And being with child, she cried out, laboring in birth, and was in pain to be delivered :: 12:1 – 12:3 :: Apocalypse after John

-

:: Lucy ::

theneweve

Do you hear their screams? Do you smell their fear lanced with fresh spilled blood? Beautiful… The voice was lower than her own, buried deep inside that part of her mind that Lucy had repressed for years by taking control of her fate. Diclonius. But it had awoken, stirred by the human sacrifices (Cattle, as Rosiel had called them, even if he employed some into his service) displayed before her eyes.

I know. The world… the world has become red. Finally.

Red eyes surveyed the destruction of the statue, the frosted crimson masterpiece melting away and pouring on the floor, staining her bare feet, touching the hem of her yellow robe. She was not completely pure, lily, wearing white would be improper. This show was not fit for innocent eyes, even if Lucy considered all humans guilty of existing.

The blood did not extinguish the flames; fire lingered, consuming the sacrifices to fuel its intensity.

Lucy lowered her lashes and held her breath, enjoying the scent of sweat, tears and despair, listening to their cries and recalling the times when Kouta did not exist as anything but a bittersweet memory. Her horns itched painfully, as if growing, increasing their magnitude, drifting in a daydream of how her vectors could embrace the City whole and crush it.

Shocked, Lucy snapped her eyes open, almost panting for the effort. Biting her bottom lip, she took a leap in the air, remaining suspended above, held by two of her vectors. Tilting her head to see when Rosiel had gave her the signal, the girl focused her actions in the task assigned to her.

Nyuu would not remember - it would be alright. She would never know what her counterpart had done.

No. This isn’t for me, it’s for Rosiel and Kouta. They won’t destroy his world. If I must, I will throw myself into oblivion to protect it.

Reaching out, Lucy commanded her vectors to scout the shapeless sculpture in search of the core, in order to snatch out the heart and put an end to this chapter at last. Invisible fingers dug into the mass until they found their target and delivered the organ to her waiting mouth.

Her real hands did not touch it. They were Nyuu’s hands - they should remain spotless and white. Her mouth hesitated, repelled by the smell of repulsive human fluids, but she could not back down. Kouta depended on her and so did the victory of the war. Just as easily as I broke his heart, I can break this one.

Bracing herself, she took a bite into the raw meat and willed herself to chew on it for a minute and a half. Her face blanched, disgusted by the taste. She had mastered her nausea ages long ago, since her first murder as a child, but Lucy could not deny its terrible flavor. In spite of it, the girl spat the half chewed piece into the ground. Blood smeared on her lips, trailing down her haughty chin.

“Uncle, they must be worthless if their taste is inferior to that of cows and chickens!” Lucy exclaimed while her vectors squished the heart and threw it to the flames. “Unworthy of tribute when they taste no different to mere Cattle.”

After her closing words, Lucy landed behind Rosiel, head bowed. Soon, soon it would be over. Nyuu would awaken to see the reckoning. She was tired and wished for nothing but too sleep for long - forever.

-

And all that dwell on the earth shall worship him, every one whose name hath not been written from the foundation of the world in the book of life of the Lamb that hath been slain. If any man hath an ear, let him hear. If any man is for captivity, into captivity he goeth: if any man shall kill with the sword, with the sword must he be killed. Here is the patience and the faith of the saints :: 13:8 – 13: 11 :: Apocalypse after John

-

:: Rosiel :: one_of_heaven ::

- speech recorded and redistributed -

"Ah, how unkind.

What with all your wailing – truly, now, what is a severed limb or two between friends anyway? - you’ve made our precious Messiah, Lanika cry. And as all ever so true Gods, her tears run deep and of blood making - your blood, your Goddess, you asked – desired - summoned her.

With each day in this City, your intentions to escape atrophy, your ambitions to conspire against a chance preordained by foolish pseudo-Gods stray to nothingness. Lovelym lovely theatrics and drama, to be sure. When they severed you from your homes or the Void, they proposed an invitation to war, however subtle, however guised. Accept it.

Fight – the Curses, the Carousel, whatever your nemesis – but fight, or stand stilled and meek, and therefore worship.

But if you should worship? Do it well, for by the God that anointed me, I shall see their Holy days of Curse respected, their Rituals kept, their Sacrifices honoured. I shall bleed you, cattle that you are, I shall hunt you, I shall humiliate you for followers and slaves lacking volition!

V – how did it go?

Il nemico del mio nemico è il mio amico - your utterance, ser. If your touch of accents is as vile as your tongue, you will have made a mockery of the phonetics - but the principle stands to reason. Acolytes shall pay with and for their masters – such is and has always been the way of it.

Idleness will prove lethal - idleness is the fabric of Sacrifice.

And so, by all means, may you drown in Your Messiah’s tears."

-

[ To summarize:
Lanika statue has been built from highly diluted blood
it’s roughly 3-4 floors, has a chute closer to the soil, where PH is located
the “sermon-bearer” , Archbishop Maxwell, as well as others are located somewhere around the head of the statue
Archbishop Maxwell's sermon's been uttered
Pyramid Head has appeared and is Butchering about rather merrily, from Sacrifices of his choice (in game wise - he'll only pick people from the Major Sacrifice Group, but he might...feel up the merchendise)
(still present) Sacrifices are being pushed forward, in a circle of sorts
the Statue has been half melted: blood all about
the heart has been eaten, more blood, perhaps bits of it around? Souvenirs?
the second speech has been uttered
spectators are by all means accepted, but the guards will probably not let them close
guards, either played or NPCs will be present
let’s none of us forget the “torches and incense” handed about, namely severed hands, folded as if in prayer, oiled and set ablaze
ESCAPING about NOW would be a pretty GOOD IDEA. But you can also STICK AROUND, RESCUE, be RESCUED, just cause a bit of chaos? ]

- OMEGA -

[ooc : What the ritual will include in its whole:
- statue creation;
- sermon on the nature of gods;
- Executions ♥
- statue being half melt;
- heart inside being...played with;
- statue being melted;
- parting "fight the Gods or worship them as sacrifices" speech.

well, we ended up with it earlier than scheduled, but I assume characters can participate? Let us hope…why yes, that is indeed a highly manipped Mistress Nine picture. ^_^ ]

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Her fingers tightened on Haineko's hilt as the newcomer dropped in front of her. "You. You owe me a hat and a dance, if I remember correctly." Full lips stretch into a grin, making her blood splattered expression a mockery of mirth.

Nemu ceased movements at the sight of the being in front of them. Not human, not mortal. Something like themselves.

She looked to Rangiku and Kyouraku, unsure. She waited for orders, she was best at following them, and the being had not addressed her. She waited for instruction, on whether it was to be ignored or engaged.

"Nemu..." Kyouraku looked on as the mysterious stranger landed before them. "It looks like this won't be as easy I had hoped it would be." From what he was seeing, it appeared that Rangiku had something to settle with their friend here.

"Rangiku... Will you face him alone or..."

No matter what the answer Kyouraku had no intention of leaving her there alone.

"Nemu, see if you can find anymore hostages... Understood?"

Her eyes never left the figure before them, even though her head tilted towards the 8th Division captain. "Go on... I'll be fine. Nothing can happen to me here, sir. Not anymore."

Her feet carried her into a classic defensive posture as her attention snapped into focus.

"Help Nemu clear out as many from the area as you can. I can handle this."

"Understood, Kyouraku-taichou." Nemu answered smoothly. She made to go, but paused a moment, looking at Rangiku and the mysterious being that had seemed to challenge her. It was only a moment, a flicker of concern, before she let duty take it's place.

"I shall assist as many as I can, then rendevue at a later time." And with that she was off, flash steps taking her to where her orders told her she needed to be, a tiny thought in the back of her head nagging with concern.

Pales eyes flickered to the others before settling more profoundly on the woman before him, gracious. Truly a beauty. But nothing could compare to Rosiel’s outstanding luster, his elegance, and Katan sighed. Out of amusement, worry, agony. Should he have left?

I fall on my knees for no one but You.

“Then be careful of your step. I’m a quick lead,” he answered, fingers tapping the brim of his hat, the skin within his gloves sweaty. It had been too long for this. Too long.

Katan smiled in Rangiku’s direction, still unmoving.

"You're not the only one. I've always been light on my feet." Her waraji scuffed in the dirt as she moved, turning him away from her comrades.

Haineko rumbled a warning in her mind, but she knew she was facing yet another unknown opponent. Her stance widened to allow her to drop a little lower as she swung Haineko to rest in front of her.

Her words instigated sickness in him, deep and churning. Immediate. Katan almost wretched at the feel of it swirling in the pit of his stomach, still strong after all this time. And at the feel of something sliding down the corner of his mouth, wet and oh so warm, his hand was over it, wiping it away, tossing it into the feet of the statue where they resided.

It seemed to smile upon the chaos, at him, almost loving, knowing Her fate would come far too soon.

“By your leave, lady.” A another slight bow, the tightening in his chest, the spit-coated gloves grinding closed. “I’m not one to keep a person waiting.” Indeed. But he would not make the first move, would not draw the energy twisting inside him.

Are You watching? And Katan felt his nerves cringe in answer.

Icy eyes caught the brief sight of something that might be a weakness. She didn't say another word to him, but instead she focused her energy and silently recited the incantation, Haineko's gravelly voice overlaying hers in her mind.

Shakouhou.

The energy winged toward her opponent, followed closely by a quick strike of her blade.

Cool. The Voices whispered to him as if he drowned in the same darkness he’d been pulled from so long ago upon Rangiku’s strike, and Katan evaded. Twisted elegantly, moving to the side without so much as a simple thought to what he did. The pillar of Rosiel’s glorious insight caught him, became a stepping ladder for him to climb. Backwards. Faster and faster, allowing her chase. It was daring, provoking.

Oh, he danced for her, for Him, for everyone falling, bleeding, and crushed in the panic swirling below. And Katan tilted his head back, eyes raised to the sky. How dark it had become. Ugly. Putrid. But still so…

He paused. For the slightest moment, hesitated. And his foot caught, pulled, twisted, turned him down. Something else entirely, something beyond his control. Don’t look. Please, have mercy. Disgusted, ashamed.

Katan ignored the feel of his hat loosening from his head as he worked to catch himself, staining his gloves with the residue of blood making the whole of his landing. And inside, he screamed.

"Unare, Haineko."

Her zanpakutou dissolved into a cloud of grey ash, the particles moving quickly towards Katan. Before he could hope to react, the ash solidified into a large grey cat, bearing eyes the exact same color of her mistress. Haineko slid beside him in a flash, then reappeared between them, Katan's hat held in gently in her teeth.

The large grey head bowed to him, only slightly mocking, before returning to her mistress.

Rangiku's fingers closed over the brim of the hat, tipping it to rest on her head with a saucy smirk.

"Mine now. I told you."

It took of a slip of a hand and a slip of a feather – and the faint-white-faint crack of a bone. Too thin. The landing was rather swift, if exhaustive, and he recalled rather vividly a day, an hour, a secret - practise and practise, the ethics of a flesh he would never truly domesticate. Too frail to be athletic, but by all means, fast enough to cover a measure of a step, a fall, and snatch that blasted little hat with ridiculous ease.

“Hmmmm…no.” He came to his feet, unaided, wavering. “Mine.” There was an elegance to impudence, a dignity, and he had learned it well – so well, in fact, that though the wings were dauntingly heavy, and the effort to keep them unfolded too straining, he possessed to skill to mock a soft military salute: put the cap on, take it off briefly, back again – “Vice captain. Well met. Out for a feisty little stroll?”

The hat was there, then gone in a flash, much to Ran's chagrin. Her hair flying, she spun when the light weight of the hat lifted away, only to see Rosiel. With a long suffering sigh, she frowned at him and called Haineko back to her side.

"I had a feeling I'd find you around here... "

Numb, unable to think, Katan righted his inexcusable posture, glove slipping in the frosted iciness painted red. Staining him, blood. More blood. Coating his encased fingers despite its frozen malevolence. And he felt that inexhaustible sadness tear at his chest, reminding him of his dearest, dearest Rosiel.

The staining burned him liquid hot. Out, out. Get it out!

He pushed from Her, landed as one broken on the ground, shaking and pulling his control back into himself. Was this what the City and its chaos did to oneself? Altered, changed, ripped apart and sewed together. In pieces? Katan breathed, stagnant wind caressing his hair in a fashion most similar to His amidst quiet temperament, and he gathered himself into a crouch, listening to the words, watching the withdraw, Rosiel’s face beneath the brim of his hat.

Here are you not displeased with me?

“Rosiel…” He spoke not but that one word, that one reverent, holy, pristine word, and lost the courage to explain otherwise.

Charming - charmed.

"...yes, Lieutenant?" He slipped it off quite carelessly, never mind the blood, never mind anything but a shallow curt nod of acknowledgment - yours. The hat hung limply in his hand, foreign and distant like a dead thing in waiting.

When he returned his attentions to that horribly stubborn woman, he did so try not to laugh. And failed spectacularly. All of them, spectators of his Sacrifices, in tatters and misery and ruin, and he - he - so graciously, flawlessly beautiful. It's the blood, he would meant to say, it's the blood that curries true favour with aesthetics.

Instead, he toasted irony with more laughter. "And what especially lovely circumstances might have conspired to bring us together on this lovely occasion, Vice Captain? Ah. No, by all means, divination has forever been a particular pleasantry with me. Hmmm...let us see, let us see, whatever could it be?" Mockery, it came far too easily. His eyes lit up with the faintest amusement, and between all the blood and the gore and the rich-right fragrance of plunder, Rosiel giggled. "Pet, to your feet, full stand salute. Our Lady has of course come to greet you and make your acquaintance. Such kindness on her part, such utmost propriety, wouldn't you say? By all means, by all means, let me: Cherubim Katan, Lieutenant of Atziluth's Second Sphere, Conqueror of the Tyrant Sevotharte, to an extent. We breed his sort as instruments of warfare, or philosophy, or something of the both - and like good blades - like yours, perhaps? - we educate them to cut oh so well. Haven't you noticed...? Very sharp."

Fingers clutched over that damned hat almost furiously. "Your pardon, Vice Captain...in his enthusiasm at such a prompt arrival, likely the lieutenant forgets himself - and that we do so try, in our courtesy, to spare kind, gentle, female hearts of our more unruly dispositions."

A flood, a damning river of treasured heart, word and poise slipping from a tongue difficult to mimic in its striking audacity. Katan swallowed, gaze on his gloves, pink, red, oh so dark, and then higher, up and up. They slid over Rosiel’s choice of dress, far so elegant, wings perplexed, and the hat, the hat of years in servitude gripped so harshly in his grasp.

And anger forthwith… But no, the sermon had long since ceased in his mind.

Simple, drawing himself together, embarrassment, humiliation, degredation aside, Katan rose, unknowing what to do with his hands, his body, the tilt of his head. Dirty. Cannot touch. Had it but rained blood and displeasure from the sky, the scene would have been ended. And slowly, he extracted himself from one of those tarnished guards, flesh chilled in the air tasting so fresh of pain, touched fingertips to temple. Solemn, stoic, nevermind his spoiled pride.

Rosiel praised him, mocked, bit, and tore open the stinging wound glazing over with admiration, silent love. Love.

“A please, lady.” He followed command, on repeat of earlier pretenses, less sardonic, more gentility and quiet wonder. Torn between, Katan knew not what else to do but watch, her, Him and listen, otherwise disinclined to speak.

Icy eyes slid over both of the men facing her, and for once, she truly felt out of her depth. She wouldn't admit it, though.

Never.

She gave no matching bow, which was what honor demanded. Instead, she stayed facing them, acknowledging Haineko's vibrant growl in her mind. The blade didn't like the situation, and neither did she.

"Warfare and philosophy aren't that different."

Her hands held her blade steady, showing her unwillingness to back down.

"Oh, but on the contrary, they are most different.The philosopher seeks , to his scrutiny and amenable pursuit, the question, with no regard for the answer. Irrelevant." The sight of the blade warranted no intellectual response - fear? What was it? And for what? - but the physical, mind-wrenching nausea, because it was too soon and too much, and somehow his Great Statue of Virtues had left him insanely bitter. "The warrior finds a sufficient end in blood. So you see, a world's worth between them." Like Alexiel and I, like change."A world apart."

A world, and so many corpses.

"Go home, Vice Captain. We've won today's game, and make no mistake - we won because you all couldn't be bothered to awaken and put an end to anything at all. So take what's left and go home to lick your wounds and think."

He had honoured her enough with the privilege of his attention, he supposed; to linger on enemies was not an anomaly, but he had often found broken puppets quite useless.

Afterwards, when the deed was done, he would think of it as a fanciful thing, that he'd covered the distance between Katan and himself without a whimper, without a flinch. For now, there was only the livid, timed weight tearing down his bones, and the faint scent of flesh and bone in rupture - then he was against his Lieutenant again, and his legs were sinking, but he threw that damned cap on Katan's head all the same.

"Fly, next time. Fly, or I'll push you off myself." Caution, castigation; whisper, intimate. A curious thing. He did not even deem to look at that woman again, though if for arrogance or sheer exhaustion, he was uncertain. "Go - before I reconsider."

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