universalis | IC: EVENT

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IC: EVENT

A TERRIBLE THING IS HAPPENING

reference books detailing myths and legends stolen from libraries...
wikipedia pages wiped clean from the face of the internet...
ancient stained glass windows smashed and destroyed...
historical research centers burnt to the ground...

Someone out there is trying very, very hard to erase all of the possible sources of power and belief of the ancient gods and goddesses. And it hurts. Whilst the powers of the minders are unharmed by the attacks, the gods and goddesses will be certainly feeling the toll: it's now painfully clear that even the simplest of miracles are now becoming almost impossible to perform.

deities, you had better have gifted your minders with some decent blessings! Because now you're going to rely on them more than ever. Someone is out to get you.

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[ The Iron Queen moves and Ruin and Lamentation follow.

Ruin runs on strong, sound feet, as swift as the madness that she can incur, a steady tattoo beating in her ears as the powers of Lamentation breathe their own into hers. (Grief and guilt can drive a person mad, after all.) Upon her fingers, in every muscle and sinew, delusion and folly write their spell, simply waiting to be unleashed. ]

[ The demon can feel the various curses blossom and take hold in the museum through the electric crackle of reality as it stretches and strains to accommodate the metaphysical activity. He pauses thoughtfully at the door, one hand held aloft curiously in mid-hum. Ah, an audience.

Cursing the Angel of Darkness, the king of the accursed? It was a nice try.

The cigarette - a thin, twisted thing clamped between thin, twisted lips - is drawn away as Belial pivots on one sneaker'd heel, Hawaiian shirt fluttering as he twists in the direction of his would-be assailants. While other deities around the world have been suffering Belial has been enjoying the surge of his own particular brand of faith: divorce from the love of Gods of all kinds around the world. He casts the cigarette aside, heedless of its path as it falls in to the carpet of the stairs. ]

Holy shit, you guys. [ A wheedling drawl that broaches the quiet stillness of the museum. There's no real surprise in it; if anything's it's a tone of faux-delight. His nostrils flare at the sniff of the wraiths in the air - a demon has nothing to fear from the undead, he knows this. A hand flexes, then rests on the handle of the door behind him regardless of vines; hellfire was only a blink of an eye away. ] Fancy seeing you all here.

[ Penthos brings the suffering of the dead, and Persephone breathes it in, hair carried in the breeze their cries create. Jerusalem is old, its history long; it has been destroyed, besieged, attacked, captured, and recaptured. Death is in its bones, and she reaches for it, feels the souls who fought and bled and died here. The vine on the door twists, poisoned thorns filling the rooms behind it. The dead, after all, make excellent fertilizer.

The smell of asphodel filters into the room, and just beyond it, blood. ]

You know why we're here.

[ If draining them of their powers wasn't enough, Belial opened Tartarus, part of her domain. He will pay for it. She may feel bad about the destruction of parts of the museum later, but if their powers return, it is nothing that cannot be fixed. Long ago, people fought against each other and died here. Persephone calls them back now so that they may fight together, dead and unfeeling and under her control, clawing their way in with bones and rotted flesh. A demon may have nothing to fear from their souls, but their swords still bite. ]

[ Unlike Persephone, Penthos has suffered no personal affront from Belial beyond the obvious and most general — the assault of faith, the disruption of the balance between the gods and those who provide the worship that gives them strength. If he is to fight, he does not fight for revenge — not for the breech of Tartarus nor the gods' suffering — but for a return to order, however tenuous. He watches silently as the demon usurper breathes deep and, perhaps, Penthos smiles in a vague way, his demeanor sullen and not yet riled. What Belial inhales is not wholly vapor nor is it wholly the breath of the dead; no it is suffering — slow, sick and insidious one moment, hair-tearing and teeth-gnashing the next.

The suffering of others as it is the suffering of oneself — that is what Penthos brings to this meeting. But does a demon, arguably soulless, have conscious enough to suffer the pangs of grief? If not, then Penthos and his wraiths will give Belial one, looking to infuse him slowly it the way air fills lungs, the way tea steeps water. A gnawing inside, quiet and niggling at first, that only with time grows to a violent crescendo.

Blame. Survivor's guilt. Self-loathing. Saudade. These are not spectres here to haunt, they are facets of the human condition, and as Persephone speaks and Penthos listens, these things try to suffuse themselves into the Angel of Darkness, try to make their feelings his own. ]

This cannot continue.

[ Ate, for her part, does not speak. (Nor does she stand upon both feet, yet. She scuffs her toes, one foot hooking itself about the ankle of the other.) Instead, she sighs, the breath carried under the words of her two companions. In that breath are a multitude of questions and doubts — the beginnings of madness, the clouding of one's judgment and reason. She has no doubt that Belial is mad already, and as such, a little of him falls into her own domain. It's her hope, now, that she'll be able to turn that foot in the door into something more fruitful.

If not, then she will fight, hellfire be damned (and no pun intended). Slight though she may be, she takes after her siblings in at least that one respect: she can hold her own in a brawl. ]

[ He can feel it; the insidious seeping of something a little bit more unpleasant than the general demon-level hideousness he and his kin have been dishing out for centuries. The hand tightens on the door handle and his eyes narrow, darting sharply between the faces of the deities that were to apprehend him. ]

Cut that shit out, Grecians. What, you think you've got the upper hand here? [ A mirthless smile reveals broken teeth; injuries that were still left over from the last War he had taken part in, cursed to never heal. ] This whole site is rigged to blow. It might only decommission you fuckers for a bit, but get too close I'll take out the whole block, civilians and artefacts and everything in between. [ He pauses. ] Hope you ain't got any minders lurking about here or anything.

[Eden came from around a corner in the room, hiding and waiting for someone to show up. She lucked out with her hunch being right here. And the Greeks were already here. All she could feel was relief, at least she wasn't alone.

But she wouldn't be for long. Even if she did come by herself at first. Uriel and the other archangels weren't far behind.

At least she hoped so. Eden knew she was strong. But she doubted she could finish a Prince of Hell with just her own abilities. Foresight and fire count for little, but if she's able to do something, by God she'll give it her best.]

Hey asshole.

[She looks very unassuming. At first. Standing at five foot four and out of uniform, she's dressed like a local. Easier to pass through crowds and stay unnoticed. Tourists didn't have it easy in Jerusalem and frankly Eden didn't think her status in the UK law enforcement would help her any. So her badge, her issued gun and her Kevlar are all back at home. She's actually wearing a dress - of all things - and underneath it shorts. She wanted to look as unintimidating as possible. Till now.

Eden Ignacia is glowing from inside. Waves of invisible heat radiate off of her like pavement in the sun before fire blossoms off her shoulders and snakes down her arms, ever fingertip ignited and red with the fire she'd been blessed with. One of the very strange things about this was that there was no smoke, no smell of flesh or cloth or hair burning under the flames. This was organic, coming from inside her and it was her controlling it.

It wasn't often she used this gift her angel gave her. It wasn't often she wanted to.

Belial really made her want to use this. Holy fire verses Hell fire. Should be interesting.]

They might not have any. But you know who's coming if I'm here, don't you?

[ There's a moment where Persephone looks around, seeming to consider the warning. Then she shrugs. ]

It's not my city.

[ And to be honest, she's not too fussed if a few feathers have to be singed, as long as they aren't hers. As for civilians dead, well... that's nothing new. There's an almost lazy wave toward Uriel's master minder. Sorry, dear. At least you might die for a good cause. ]

And a curse may mean nothing to you, Belial, but the Erinyes are coming. A curse in my name means they have your scent, and they will find you, no matter what happens here.

[ The first of the corpses begin to shuffle in now, skeletal hands pulling open doors. If her power were intact, she could make them move the way they once did, but she's already overdoing it. Belial says that the explosion may not do much to them, and it may not, but the power she is exerting may do it for him -- but she won't let it until after they have him. ]

And, of course, it now seems the angels are coming. If you have anything else you'd like to say, you ought to say it quickly.

[ More vines crawl, seeking out the explosives as best they can. Fire will consume them, but it's the most she can do about that, and mostly done as an afterthought. ]

[ Penthos moves, the wisps of guilt and conscious moving around all of them now — feeding Persephone and Ate in turns, looking to further pervade Belial. They curl about Eden Ignacia's ankles like smoke but do not touch her — she's not to grieve, not yet and not now. She has had enough of that in the past; Penthos knows because he can smell it on her, can inhale her past suffering off her like life-granting air. He turns towards the archangel's minder and tells her: ]

Set this place alight, and your house'll suffer the worst. [ He warns her, albeit in a neutral and almost disinterested voice. The artefacts held here were of a different faith than what held the Grecians aloft and while faith as a whole would suffer greatly at their loss, Penthos knows that he and his house would survive the blast in ways the Judeo-Christians may not. He doesn't know how well Eden can harness her powers or if she had intentions to start swinging at any moment, but tarrying and time would be a benefit and so Penthos looks to buy them some by tempering the situation.

In the end, it will hopefully be time enough for the angels to arrive along with the Erinyes; time enough for answers. ] Speak, Belial. While you still can.

[ With every moment that passes, Ate tries to find more cracks in Belial's metaphorical surface, more footholds and more ways to get in. She does her best to focus on doubt — Is this a good idea? Do I really want to do this? — her face twisting as she tries to focus. Still, she doesn't bother to speak, concentrating her efforts on doing what she can from the distance that they're at. (The others, after all, are doing enough to present elements of doubt. She just has to capitalize on them.) ]

[ While Ate's influence of doubt initially seems to have little effect - Belial has never been more committed to anything in his long, black, so-called-life; this is his divine duty as far as he is concerned – the threat of the Erinyes leaves him visibly hesitant. He freezes, eyes narrowing at the heathen Queen as his smile slowly turns in to something colder.

The Erinyes. They were a threat that couldn’t be lightly ignored and wasn’t quite so stupid as to dismiss the threat of them capturing him out of hand. If it came down to it then he didn’t want to be sent in to their hands; he wanted his own kind. His own brothers, who had understood so painfully little of his motives yesterday but could possibly be persuaded yet.

The Holy Fire. It’s an uncomfortable pinprick of light in the corner of his vision as his gaze inspects the three deities and attempts to ignore the presence of the little mortal woman. It brought a particular silent crackle of godliness to the air which left his broken teeth tingling in discomfort and his anger flaring – no doubt exacerbated by the threat of those insufferably righteous upstanding brothers of his. Holy Fire could be battled, but the angels – they had collectively bested him once before, and there was a sinking feeling that perhaps they would do it again…

No. This was the heathen magic tricks talking. He refocused his gaze, tendrils of hellfire threatening to burst forth as he eyed the three (still ignoring the mortal) with new-found worry. ]

What, you want to hear me talk? Why should I talk to you lot? Get my brothers out here - and not those angel fucks. If they turn up I'll take out the whole city, you tell them that.

You won't get the chance to.

[She sounded so blindingly confident, so painfully human. It might make someone in the room throw up. At least Eden hoped she was right. Being ignored was not a problem for her, it never had been.]

You might as well stay and chat, Bel.

[Among Eden's gifts. Aside from the holy fire and her gun, she'd been gifted with the ability to have premonitions - a leftover from her apprentice days left her with really strange dreams and cryptic flashes of the future. She could never truly interpret them till after the fact, but they did help sometimes.

Last night she dreamed of fire. Which largely accounted for her still being lit. Regardless of the plants. She didn't know who's fire it could have been - hers, or Belial's or what. She didn't know about the bombs. But there was no way she'd be the only mortal, unarmed person here.

At least until the archangels showed.]

[ Those eyes narrow at her, and Persephone smiles. It's not a nice smile, not the smile of the goddess of spring or the beloved wife. It's the smile of the goddess of curses, a smile that promises suffering. The Erinyes are coming, and if he gets away from here, they will find him and tear him into pieces -- and Persephone is fully prepared to do as much herself, even if it kills her. It's personal.

There's a laugh to match her smile, cruel and cold, and it makes the long-dead warriors stand a little straighter. ] I hardly have any of them on speed dial. Your 'brothers' are ready to throw you under their heels and crush you for what you've done to them. Pride is a powerful thing.

[ Corpses shuffle in further, taking places in front of the exhibits. Perhaps their bodies will help preserve a few things, in case this place is blown to bits. ]

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