Just trying to save the world... nothing big, Open topic

[-Dory]

((Xanthe's a character))

She'd seen Alegrarse in better shape.

But she couldn't tell the difference from inside the tavern.

The Lady of the Night was busy as always, filled with raucus laughter to drown out the more pleasant sounds of music emanating from the stage far from the table she had long claimed as her own. Their howls grated on her nerves, filling the already tense air with what once had been pitiable ignorance; but for the most part, she was left to her own devices. It was a dangerous thing. Her third glass of whiskey was making the threat just a little more bearable.

Papers were spread across the heavy wooden table-- an account of her journey as she had seen, and mirror-glassed eyes caught the subtle changes in the inky sweep of her handwriting. Red ink highlighted the ones which stood out the most and marked notations in what she'd left as the parchment's margins; whereas blue ink streaked through whole paragraphs of the black. More paper might have been a necessity for the corrections, but the backs of the paper she had served just as well-- perhaps better, for the sake of chronology.

She wasn't easily recognizable. Apparently it was all the disguise she needed, though the darkening of her hair and the bronzing of her skin hadn't come at her own behest. Time forgot what the heart did not; she knew-- and though the hefty metal box at her feet drew some passing glances, her presence did not.

Names were re-inked in green, connections penned in violet; and the assassin sighed as she took another swig of alcohol. It wasn't strong enough, but that was always her opinion when she neared the bottom of her third glass, and it would change when she got her hands on the fourth.

She'd been a fool to set her faith to rest in the heart of another. Roush had run off on a wild goose chase-- after Faerie, and Freya in to the inferno that was what had become of Nazca; and she couldn't place her cards on his return. Freya would live, though; even if the fact was both curse and blessing in one pretty little package, and the vampire played for keeps. She would fight, she would probably struggle; and she would kill-- such things came with as little surprise as the much heralded 'facts' of life.

Xanthe couldn't have denied them if she wanted to.

So she would count the Firebringer as out of the picture, an unfortunate casualty to Nectara's prowl; and Salamel would come shortly after. It still left three, and... unless Ariel and Luthe counted, she wasn't certain she'd ever met them.

But she did meet the bottom of her glass.

Hell, pinning Faerie as one of the Five had taken an attack. The Scorched Earth method of handling things remained an unsavory option, but such things threatened far too many casualties for her to catch, much less alone-- and if Caspian planned genocide anyway... it was also playing along.

She sighed and thumped the empty glass against the table before she leaned back, and squinted thoughtfully at the papers in front of her. The pieces fit-- she could be certain of that, if nothing else. She'd walked the path with countless others, now if she could just remember how to take the method en masse...

Her head was splitting; and that was a problem.

"Waitress!" She shouted over the chaos as she lifted a hand in to the air. "More whiskey!"

And dropped her arm to the blade at her side. A tap drew just enough electricity to pool in to her palm and spiral around the arm as the gauntlet sheathing the other arm condensed, and spun to mirror the pattern. Resting a hand on the edge of the table, she let the metal snake over the papers and form a sort of sheet before her, and leaned back.

"And what have we got here..."

The metal shifted form again, bubbling in to a series of seven-sided prongs which then hovered, and began to rearrange before her.

That was the key to intuition. There was always somebody, somewhere, that needed to be saved.

[-Dory]

((Yeah, -that- bored. *whistles*))

It was a gradual process, and like every other gradual process, the practice took some measure of patience.

The seven pronged array of metal spun through the air before her, electricity crackling rebelliously against the skin of her arm as the warping pieces arranged and rearranged fitfully over the space she had effectively transformed in to something resembling her version of a drawing board. Every now and then, the chunks of metal paused, shivering in place as the psychic behind them read their positions, and swept in to a whirlwind of movement once again. They came close-- closer every time, but no cigar.

As a child assassin, most of the practice had been done on paper; but as a child assassin, she hadn't exactly seen much of the field. Every conduit reflected a factor, which might then have been objectively evaluated-- the findings swiftly notated and carefully taken in to account. Once the factors were graphed and the principles applied, the rest was a simple matter of math and logic.

All she had to do was solve for the freaking alphabet, and connect the dots.

Of course, most things didn't often work the way they did on paper. Understanding that there was no such thing as a perfect plan had been late in her development, but it had also come to rest in the beginnings of her self prophessed curriculum. The very thought of knowing every factor was as ridiculously egotistical as her aunt in a good mood, but that was only one in a long line of reasons that careful thought and a pen couldn't -actually- save the world.

The biggest issue was that, no matter how many colors she threw in there, paper was still two dimensional; and everything written was entirely self reliant. Without knowing every law of the universe-- including luck, nature, and every situation everywhere, a plan was actually something kin to an educated guess-- a guess that could never even be finished, unless one was God.

Xanthe wasn't God; and even if she had been, free will (given that it was still floating around somewhere) still made omnipotence an impossibility. Through the proper avenues, and the proper intellect; something kin to it was easily attainable... over an individual, or (with enough of the aforementioned ingredients) a small group of them; but the world was something else entirely. That free will thing-- it was a hell of a thing in bulk; and damned near impossible to squelch out. Unless everyone was happy all the time, it would rear it's ugly head-- but it was also Freya's weapon, not hers.

And that was why she preferred simulations over plans any day of the week. This was the first time she had tried this one in particular, but the concepts behind it had danced behind her eyes for ages. Principles-- especially organic ones-- did tend to mimic each other, once they were isolated and given to careful observation, and if the concept was already being tested among the variables at hand, she didn't have to know what they were to know how they would affect the projected outcome.

The practice of experimentation still didn't isolate any guarantees, but it came a hell of a lot closer than color coded scribbles. Some factors-- namely, the ones which Xanthe had taken to-- were still entirely unpredictable until a concept moved in to action. The forces of nature, of luck, and circumstance were among those factors. Individually, they could be harnessed and worked in to favor, but they weren't things that could be controlled-- and in tandem, they spelled the phenomenon that most regarded as 'Fate'.

Her ancient enemy; and most powerful ally... whenever it decided to come around. Pattern personified, she could only have identified the damnable force as an incubus-- some shit that randomly popped in to your comfortable little world through whatever damned medium it chose (normally, whichever one it made you vulnerable to, to begin with) and fucked you over before it even bothered with an introduction. Sometimes you didn't even get that, and suddenly you find yourself trying to figure out how you just gave birth to the soulless spawn of hell.

Which was kinda the point, she thought wryly, and sighed.

Aesthetics weren't on the top of her list of priorities, but the chunks of metal fell still, and began to redesign themselves one by one. There was a metaphor for everything, which wasn't really her specialty, but she did well enough to shift pillars in to tiny animal statuettes which only looked vaguely strange with their prongs still attached. A falcon, larger than the others and with wings curled around the bulk of her body, came first; followed by thirteen tiny imitations, and were swept high above and to the left of the rest of the array as her focus moved on to alter the remaining pieces. Three more condensed, and then melted in to the shape of a roaring (or yawning) lion's head, and the bits that fell away hovered to spin a ring around the figurine. Casting it aside with a wave of her fingers, she moved on to the third and most integral piece of the design she would come to etch. Three more pieces came together, and spun inches from the assassin's nose as, once again, she paused to think way too much.

Amitiel-- Rhiannon, as she would come to be known, was still a being of infinite mystery to her even despite the fact that she was also the only life form to whom Xanthe would pledge her services. Experience with her second incarnation, Dorine, gave her some idea of what properties to look for; but the Lady was, by nature, an enigma of development. By and large, Rhiannon was little more than a myth-- a bedtime story to lull lost Abyssals in to dreams of a higher evolution; and Dorine's method of communication had only become more garbled with proximity to the actual soul. There was a metaphor for everything, but translators were few and far between, Xanthe was only an apprentice; and it still said absolutely nothing for little Lady Amitiel of Fallen Skies.

Who was, if anything, not an animal by any stretch. Maybe a mouse-- she did stash things, as every member of the trinity did; but, damnit, what did she stash? Xanthe kept the lessons, Freya had the power; so what was it that the girl didn't know she had hidden in her pack?

The whiskey came back, thank God (or fate, or incubus, or whatever the shit wanted to be called at the moment), and immediately went to join the rest in her stomach. Before the wench could escape again, the glass was back on her platter; and Xanthe demanded another refill.

[-Kilik]

There was always a trick to the bar scene. It was of course the easiest way to gather intell on everything from the whispers of whores and that of angry wives who would circulate the bars to ridicule or spite whatever thing their significant 'other' had done. Then there were the barmaids and what tasty tidbit of information they had picked up from word of mouth and loose-lipped soldiers who had too much to drink. In this world, thier minds were ripe for the picking and the best part was, no energy need be wasted or exerted.

They willingly spoke it and with ears as sharp as unnatural as any beast. It didn't matter how loud the drunken cadence's got or how the tone or volume was pitched. He heard it all. Straight down to the scratching of pen on paper. Various inks spluttered on paper. 'Book worm?' Not even a bit. The question was seeing what was written and opprutunity was never far away from the Iridej.

Her hand shot up. She was hollering for whiskey. Oh, how opprotunity loved to knock on his door. He had been masquareding all night, special equipment and even the most mentally adept couldn't pinpoint what he was. Though they almost always knew. A toothy smile of a slightly overweight woman came upon the girl with drink in hand his eyes steadily flickering over the paperwork taking in everything. What was this woman up to?

No that wasn't the real question Gregori had to ask. How much of this was true? Moreso, how would he best slip into the action. Quicker he read what he could slowly trying to relieve himself before being noticed. A hollow clunk told him that she wanted more and he sent that mental whisper to the barmaid, Chrissy. Chrissy was smart. She took Gregori's payment of a few steel pieces to cover for her to get his job done and Chrissy would... well work on the side for a couple of the drunks in one of the rooms upstairs.

He sent the psychic whisper on a silent note. Like the ping of a sewing needle against metal and was quick to move. He sent a second flicker of thought. [I]"All alone in the big bad world?"[/] His toothy grin broke as he didn't wait for a response. He was already sitting at the other end of the table. With a bottle of whiskey slidding across the table towards her.

Looking up to see the Chrissy enter the room he allowed his image to shift slightly appearing to be a more slender and idealized version of the whore. Well, Chrissy wasn't trash. Just trash enough. He opened his mouth. "Well? How do these things usually go on for you or should I just waste my talents on better things?" The voice he used was young. Indifferent from male to female. His head tilted downward showing sunken cheekbones and his own soul piercing green eyes. A playful smile as his swords sheeth was tapping underneath table. He knew the game just as well as she did.

He just hoped that she wasn't crazy. At least when it came to the whimsical writings in front of her.

[-Dory]

She was being watched. Intuition told her as much-- a tickling in the back of her mind, right next to the hyper sensitive mass of gray matter which synthesized perception in response to whatever stimuli was given. It wasn't new. Xanthe was a woman under constant observation-- if not through the ring safely embedded in one muscular thigh, or the circlet of corite looped securely around her aorta; then by herself.

These people-- the citizens of this world called Redemption-- they were adorable. So sure that she didn't see them, so polar on the matter of seeing her; and completely oblivious to the fact that 'seeing' really wasn't the point. She had yet to bother with the waste of time that hiding had long proven to be-- all that she did was a matter of plain sight; depending on the quality of the eyes looking.

There was a sort of magic to it, really. People saw what they wanted-- or in really fortunate cases, what they needed-- to see. The integral tinting of her art-- that was to say, 'the art of perception', and not the art of killing-- was a thing lost upon the vast majority of them. Ignorance to it made for a good foothold in an assassin's endeavors to stay just one step ahead (or perhaps above), where the view of such things was clearer-- and the line of sight cleaner.

Knowledge was power-- and that was the only secret to it, really, considering that power generally came with more knowledge. The defining factor, then, was simply a matter of how much knowledge a mind could handle-- and therein lay the truer danger of the psychic talent. The standard mind filled to brimming so easily, and consumption with the matters of the superficial drowned realities with relative ease. Even Roush-- with his lifetime of training, and stint of dual apprenticeship, had fallen prey to that-- but Xanthe had not; and now his tricks were also hers.

No one acted on something didn't occur to them; and so anything which affected her was pre-filtered for quality. The night before, she had searched for potential. Today, she searched for ability, and initiative.

"All alone in the big bad world?" Words were cheap, but contact was action; and her eyes flickered away from the piece momentarily as a small grin touched the corner of her lips. Hocus pocus, bibbity boop. If you build it, they will come... and so on, and so forth.

Never been alone. Her answer came whether he waited for it or not; and mostly by accident. Though I -have- wondered what it might be like.

She was drunk. Not fall over, slur your words, having problems thinking drunk-- but drunk enough to note the similarities between a ping and a set of cross-hairs on her forehead, and still not really give a fuck either way. He sunk in to the seat she had leveled her gaze upon, but her eyes moved with the bottle-- peace offering or trojan horse; did it really matter which was which?

"If what 'usually goes on' is your concern, you're at the wrong table." Her eyes shifted back toward him, noting that his appearance had changed and sniffing back a laugh as she gave him her very best shit-eating grin. Superficial. was the message that accompanied it, whether his apparently keen perception picked it up in the expression or not, and she snatched the bottle out of her display. The papers were left to lie where they were-- profiles conveniently tucked beneath the meatier bits of her excursion, and her marks-- her resume.

Archivad Covenant-- first sword of the fallen empire, was headed by a lovely red caricature of a head rolling out the door of what appeared to be a hastily drawn cart, grinning like a maniac at the feet of some stick figure guards. Inside the box, the outline of what appeared to be a valkyrie-- though nothing about her was proportional, and her wrack was huge-- held a carefully labeled line which read "Silver platter" in blue. To the left of it was a paper which read, "The Beggar", with the word, "Diversion" penned lightly underneath. The paper was mostly occupied by a giant octopus, though symbols lined it's tentacles with surprising detail.

And on the other side-- the third paper bore the heavy title name, "Caspian" and the word "Corite" underneath... nothing more. She might have been fine with being watched, but an assassin's instinct wasn't about to provide a magnifying glass. Perspective was hilarious-- from a higher one, you got to see more in less detail, and from a lower one, you got to see less in more detail. Xanthe liked the fence, it was uncomfortable as all hell, but it was her buddy.

She lifted her mind from the papers to place it again in matters at hand-- wondering if her visitor had had the sense to walk the thought train with her-- as she opened the bottle rather violently, and helped herself to a glass. She could always afford the game, she just couldn't afford the asking-- reason number two that experimentation had reached an all time high in her preparation methods. No two people shared the same perception, after all; and if she could tint the results with the abstract... Caspian never had to know. Anything.

'Luck' is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. The secret she had given Ivan, spiraled Amitiel's piece like water and vanished. A rose, she decided temporarily, and waved it away to join the others.

"To old friends." She lifted the glass as the bottle hovered over his; eyes positively glittering with mischief and light. There was another funny thing about perspective-- sometimes they were just similar enough to get bullet points across. It was a wavelength of unspoken communication, really; and when that wave was separated from everything else-- well, the people in it tended to stand out. An assassin always knew an assassin on sight, because an assassin already knew the code and where to find it.

A better assassin knew how to become it, but that was an ego trip for another time. Or this time. She suppressed the urge to giggle. Discombobulate.

His glass was full, and so she drank from hers. Something else that was fucking 'hilarious'-- sometimes, in Xanthe's particularly special line of work, an assassin became her own enemy. She liked the fence, it was her buddy-- but it was uncomfortable as hell.

[-Kilik]

The grin he held grew larger as she drank. Why would it not. She had already let something slip. Didn't she? There was only one real question left for the Iridej to ask. Was she intreasting enough to be special? Ah, the want of being alone. How we do enjoy it. It had taken him the time of finally raising his own glass to drink to respond and then in his own cheer to encourage a second drink.

What would be the point of a self trojan horse when there was much work to be done at every hand. "To the world within!" Like a giggling schoolboy he smiled as his visage shifted again. He was himself, all over again. A void within the room yet as clear as day he existed.

The drink of course was nothing but alchohol. He just loved this mannerism of existence. In a room filled with drunks no one really paid attention to the childhood riddle. 'Why do dragon's sleep all day?' And here it was at play.

"My Dear. If I was at the wrong table then I'd be at the right one. It's as simple as that." He took another sip without a spill through an impossibly large and toothy grin. As he shifted the sound of the light tapping of his sheeth had disappeared and it seemed the weapon with it. "It's as simple as that or at least I always thought so. It's wonderful to think about this but first... another drink." He didn't pay much attention to whether or not the girl before him took his lead today was a day of much importance, Gregori had known that the second he had taken to this bar, it was the chase he wanted.

Like his glasses that found themselves delicately placed within the coat pocket he now wore. It was never about sight, seeing can never be believing. He chuckled now, no seeing was believing. You just believed what you saw or what you thought you knew.

He shifted in his seat again. Slightly looking down and at the girl before him. "Gregori." He paused for a moment to take another drink then seemed to change his mind. "Tesla." A quick shift of his head at a sound to far to be heard and he smiled placing his drink down. "Between you and me... All those people are already on their death bed. Well, except that rag torn man. Why worry too much about them." A twinkle in his soul piecring green eyes. "Pity 'bout the girl though."

Gregori didn't bother trying to read her. Hopefully the drinks before would let her be more enthusiastic. Maybe her training would be more then he could expect. Not like someone who'd, train themselves out in the woods for example or did it all on thier own. How he hated those 'types.'

He dropped his grin. Maybe it was what he saw or the memory of the answer or both. 'They liked to hunt knights.'

[-Dory]

((Size of Always-- Kidneythieves))

Darker then-- hmn, well that was something of a development; and Xanthe settled back in to her seat as her eyes darted back and forth across the figure before her. Darkness was in short supply, in Redemption, and something else that needed just a touch of... inspiring.

Something else that resonated within the faithless angelkin.

The falcon and lion pieces drew closer together somewhere in her peripheral vision, and her gaze flickered toward them. Barely a movement, much less a breath; and the electricity untwined from her arm to jump between them. Compassion was a weapon, or maybe a poison; but she withdrew her influence from the ropes of energy and let them sustain as they would inside the given cycle. Freya was darkness... a drug most complimentary to the light she refused to take haven behind.

And Xanthe had lied-- well, just a little; since her place in the trinity was (like all else) self prophessed. Another piece melted together from three of the lessers, and an owl rose to join the growing collection and split the single bolt in to two, competing ones.

The world within, or was it the world underneath-- she supposed it depended on who one asked. When one was her own enemy, it was never a great idea to ask too many questions-- after all, her strengths would be used against her; but her weaknesses... oh and what fools were Gods to think they could survive a realm which could never be their own?

She took another drink, slipped just a bit further in to the dive. Her options were limited, but that was her ace in the hole-- and just how far could this assassin go?

Luck was with her, and the dive was natural-- the only thing left to rein, was circumstance. She could do that. Easy.

"On their deathbed..." She repeated his words as his grin fell, and hers remained. "But I wonder who chose the sheets."

And she looked back toward her drink thoughtfully. To say that she had killed Archivad wouldn't have been totally fair-- though completely accurate. In total honesty, it had been DB to drop his mutilated body at her feet, begging for the release of death. Xanthe had simply made him presentable, and granted his only remaining wish before she had made her delivery. Another trick from Freya's book-- fucking cat-- she had left his mangled corpse upon Caspian's doorstep with just a touch of personal flair, and a message his 'omniscience' probably didn't see. One down, two to go.

Of course, even if he -had- seen it, she doubted he'd have understood the meaning. She was too small for that, after all; and what lists she had weren't going to concern him until his immortality was debunked, too.

Three more pieces condensed in to a molten metal orb, morphing directly over the center of the table and falling in to a state of constant flux. Features formed and smoothed again in to the silver idly as the jeweler's mind skipped drunkenly elsewhere.

Alegrarse was an Aesiran territory, but Tristan had surrendered too. The difference was-- Alegrarse didn't have a military to fight back with. Nazca and Tristan had both fallen; and so the next logical target...

The really, -really- funny part-- and the part that made her laugh outright; was that -that- spelled for circumstance. Oh look, the assassin was exactly one step ahead? And she'd stuck another one in her web? Oh dear.

"Welcome to the Underground." To herself, supressing the laugh to speak as she quite giddily presented her glass for another refill. The girl that never was, was bending fates again? How 'surprising'!

And also to this Gregori Tesla, who had so unfortunately given her his real name; "Can't say I didn't warn you."

[-Kilik]

"The sheets. Were the sheets changed at home? Were the sheets chosen or given. Who am I kidding. They were stolen. At least they were clean. Weren't they?" If that was true then that annoying mental snort of a dragon wouldn't have rang through his head. Gregori smiled and nodded along for a second. Watch her try to stifle a laugh. It was always fun to play along. Give and take. He was a confidant by trade.

Yes, welcome to the underground. His thoughts were layered underneath the thoughts of his sheets at home. Always the sound of bells and wind chiming in the distance. The unnatural quality of using pictures instead of some words as imageary was the preffered process passed down from Hymn.

He snorted. "To the underground then." swilling his drink around as he did with his thoughts before taking another drink. His left hand found its way on the table slowly tapping. He nodded his head slightly remembering an old tune to play. "Didn't warn me? but alas, You've yet to say anything at all."

"The sheets. Why the sheets. Didn't they.... but they had the time. Oh yes. DENNIS!" The thought layered again. The image of a bed being made. Sheets layered themselves and crinkled in very specific patterns. Another sheet.

He smiled knowing full well the thoughts were his to own but hers to watch. Somehow he managed to let it lay. The mismatched patches of the patchwork seemed to match the colors used on the paper before her. "In fact my dear, you never even shared your name. It is the most essential thing for people in our buisness after all. Knowledge for knowledge." He could help himself now if he wanted but he didn't. She had presented him with something much... More.

Oh how he loved quid pro quo. The rules of trade extradonaire, that they were. His thoughts repeated themselve's again. This time the eteching of something across them. The girl before him... Another girl seemingly and then another. Somehow they looked alike but then again. He thought... It was a pity for the girl wasn't it?

Where was Sara in all this mess. He swiveled around in his seat and the image of his face shifted just slightly as the toothy smile became a grin and again as he came back around again eyes meeting hers as they darted off for a fraction of a second. It seemed she had her own way of dealing with this he nodded and stopped everything. Held himself upright in his seat in a curious manner. He waited for her name.

and set the sheets on fire.

[-Dory]

Enough drinking. She was getting sloppy.

Sometimes, the sheer volume of the assassin's thoughts was terrifying. Not to her, naturally-- as a child assassin, she'd learned to turn such things as fear to her advantage; but they did still hold their silent threat... and their excerpts. It was for that, and the unknowns beyond, that they'd been trained in pairs-- but it had been so very long since she had turned her mind back to The Flock. Thoughts of them stung her, now; and washed her clean of the childlike giddiness she had so recently displayed. He toasted to the underground, but did he know that he drank to the dead? And what of the ones that could never die?

Criss-Crossed, they'd said; and she was at a very good level of drunk for the situation at hand. She had always been The Falcon, and these lessons were ones that she had not let go-- these memories of other children who took their namesakes from the Skies themselves. The Eagle had been her partner in lifetheft, and life itself; and it had been foretold that they would be wed-- but Xanthe was a much more talented prophet than her mother. Her mother had never learned to take certain things in to account. Darkness-- Freya, continued to elude her at every turn and, by proxy, so had Xanthe.

But Adrianna had risen, and twelve pieces took the rough outline of birds before they took to the air to spiral around the owl. None of them held any detail, and that took every fiber of her being to let be-- for she remembered every face and the blood that streaked across it with every ascension; but it tipped the electric scales away from the falcon entirely. None were born unto the Abyss-- Xanthe and, Fate be damned, her brother not withstanding-- and so the Flock had been taken from the ashes of dominated worlds and leased a new life before they'd had time to grow attached to the first. None of them-- Xanthe and, Fate be damned, her brother not withstanding-- had parents to interfere with the writing of new minds and new fates. They'd been a brotherhood baptized in blood, entirely self sustaining-- for when a pair graduated, they bounced the missions between them, and took the time given to teach the Youngers.

The Eagle had fallen to Freya's fury, but Xanthe had made a good instructor and better killer; even alone.


He wanted her name. Ebb and flow, give and take-- it was a matter of fair trade, really; but she wondered if he knew what he was asking for. Her eyes fell upon the center piece again-- haunted. Names were powerful things, and on this-- all sides agreed. Amongst the citizens of the Underground, a name was the single most effective method of invocation, and so those who wished to keep their heads down, kept theirs silent... but those were few and far between. The others kept aliases, titles, and nicknames. One woman was often many forces; and which she showed was hers to decide.

Her aunt was: Freya, The Nectara, The Abomination, Nothing, and everything. The parts of her were named Alexandra, and Nedrah. Those who followed her were Plague (Fesseln), and Desperation (Everything else). Of course, then there were the parts no other would hear-- Grace of Amon, Lock and Key; and Gregori Tesla wasn't the only one watching.

"My name is Xanthe." She spoke, and rocked with the power of the words-- or the alcohol in her system. Names were a little more important to the younger, than it was to her demonic aunt. Where most Abyssals held two; and the advanced held three-- Xanthe had only one which was true. Unlike the others, who had struggled valiantly to find balance between a new spirit and an ancient soul connected only by blood, Xanthe had been bred for the position she (equally valiantly) struggled to deny. She, and her brother-- they were their own Abyssals. "Xanthe Hamilton." And they were bred to work in tandem with their nonexistent kind.

In other words, their nature had been shifted to match that of their chosen purpose. It was her very favorite loophole, but left untended, it spelled her death. One that was a couple decades overdue; and she could have sworn she could feel them-- not three, but five sets of eyes upon her. Freya was paranoid, and the sense could easily have been an effect of that-- discombobulation had been the first tool to ensure her honesty in these moments-- and a psychic's mind was dangerous, also, in the instability of it's command... but she didn't think so.

A dive was the last thing she needed recorded in the depths she sensed; and the game had just gotten a whole lot more complex. She lowered her hands back to the table, fingers smoothing over the papers they found there as her eyes grew distant-- suddenly vacant entirely as her mind began to spin away from her to check for damage. She sensed no hostility, at least not in the city-- what signatures she'd placed remained where they lay. Amitiel was safely in Natalia's care, Adrianna remained preoccupied with Freya--

Which was what everyone else that could kill her was supposed to be paying attention to. If she could feel them, it could only mean that they had overstepped her defender... So what was that pull?

Fuck. Volume control. Her head was splitting, factors ticking in to place. She couldn't see them-- or rather, she -could-, but she couldn't bring the sense to belief-- and that was the terror in her eyes. An assassin was always a step ahead... She was being hunted all of a sudden. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

The figurine chosen for Amitiel jerked beside the falcon to force the electric flow to even, and her fingers curled-- very lightly over the parchment in front of her. She was in the middle of something, and in no position to be swept away by panic-- but the natural ease with which it had begun-- That was dangerous. That was very very dangerous.

And it meant that Amitiel was next. She was unconsciously gathering the papers, and so when she became conscious again, she continued to do so. Dropping them in to the box at her feet, she watched the damned thing come seamlessly closed before she risked a glance back toward the company she had temporarily forgotten entirely.

"Sorry." How much did he see, how much did he know, how much did he understand? These moments meant everything-- damnit, she couldn't afford to waver. The Aesir...

The Aesir were distant in her mind, even with the foreign calm; and she swallowed. Chopping blocks were everywhere, but she was going down and all she could feel-- too much magician for one room. The presence made Caspian-- hell, every mark she'd ever had-- look like a chump.

But she resisted the burning need to run, and forced her eyes to focus again. Whether Freya had been overstepped or not, Xanthe merely needed to maintain until she finished the fight at hand. Her life had been forfeit for as long as she had had it-- but Amitiel would remain safe at any cost.

[-Kilik]

Xanthe Hamiliton He rolled the name around as he returned to swilling his glass again. Rearanging the letters of the name before passing it off to a distant mind all his own. Hymn loved puzzles moreso than himself and if there was anything of importance in the name, Hymn would find it with ease.

The world through Gregori's eyes had been bathed in blood. Yet with trained eyes he saw a drunk fascinated with Xanthe's sculptures and with his mind he saw through the drunks, a man named Ralph. Ralph was not a very kind man with a battered heart. This too went to Hymn, a dragon had to eat after all and what better way than to rid the filth of the world at the gluttony of another.

The underground. He mused himself with the imagery of the phrase six feet under and glowing eyes of birds piercing through the layers of mulch that they would ineveitablly become. He had it locked in place. The choice parts of her ghastly mind haunting her. What became of Xanthe Hamilton. This was what he was seeking. Her slip up was his toys.

How fascinating. How wonderful. A new trinket? No, a bauble... Maybe. He watched the young girl fold everything up just as he watched through Ralph's eyes at the flock above before severing that connection as well he couldn't help but leave the whisper implication in Ralph's thoughts. "Any last requests?" The words would ring throughout the drunkards mental periphial's till Hymn would befell the poor soul.

He smiled at Xanthe. For once it was not a cruel or playful. Tricky or dissenting. No, it was compassion. "Don't be sorry. You have all the time you need." He couldn't help but think of the flower he carried within one of the fathomless depths of his pockets.

"So... Birds?" Gregori flashed back to one of his first memory's under this name. The engulfing waters and sounds of creasting waves. The sounds of gulls in the distance and the plant that he came upon that brought on this 'transformation' that made him, for lack of a better word, him & Hymn.

He couldn't hear her over the sounds of the cascading memory. Though he could've sworn her mouth moved in response to a flock, or was that a memory of the mulching, moist grime of the underworld? This was a fun game indeed. A game of Hymn's and knights. Of flocks and thunders of the world's within realms. He still held himself in check. Trying desperately not to cinch under pressure.

The sound of distant chiming again. Wooden wind chimes underlaying metal bell. No musical orientation clacking and clinging around as the wine glass swilled. Stop. He placed the glass down. Changed his mind agian and took a satisfying swig through tightly pressed lips.

Down again the glass went. Empty this time and his finger slightly wet as he swept it in a carefully pressed circling manner around the rung of the glass. Sing. He couldn't help but whisper as his the whole time his left hand had unvieled the flower from pocket to hand. To be within sight of the child before him. She was just that wasn't she? No, something far more enjoyable.

The spikey prescence of the flower showed a huming bird like plant. "Birds of paradise and my dear this one is just for you." Sing louder.' The wind chimes turned earthen to metallic. The sound of the wind rustling louder and with psychic teasing the plant itself seemed to reverbreate. The petals humming and flapping at a fast pace.

"Just tell me where you want me." A novelty? "I'll be glad to be of service in any which way." A thiner and softer smile.

No. He decided then and there as his smile became finite and almost non-existent. She was a Curio. Most definately a sequin of a Curio. How wonderful, Hymn was purring within the crevices of his mind in agreeance.

[-Dory]

((A.Y.A-- remixed))

One pair down-- four to go. Xanthe eyed the floating statuettes wordlessly for a long, suspended moment. The corners of her mind registered the obvious suspicion in their nature, but the display had served a purpose-- once. At the moment, she couldn't seem to remember what it had been. Ever so gradually, her mind was shutting down-- and that wasn't supposed to happen. There were only a few million possibilities behind it-- plausible, possibilities. Like the trinity; Xanthe was the first of her kind, and she was due for a merger.

She hadn't expected it to affect her physically. She couldn't rule anything out of the realm of possibility, and she sure as hell couldn't afford to pull a Freya, and freeze.

Flash-focus. The whisper was self imposed, but she visually straightened, and brought the statuettes before her. Though the cerulean depths of her eyes remained vacant, her head stopped splitting as she raised both hands before her and brought the array to order. Burning, now; as her thoughts would seem to fragment-- hundreds of tiny sparks of electricity filled the space between her ears with a deafening buzz; the remaining pieces fell to sparking, crackling chaos.

Freya, no doubt, mistook the experience for the thought of blood rushing in her hyper sensitive ears; but unlike Freya, Xanthe knew exactly what she was doing. The pieces began to mold all at once as the electricity popped against them, and just as quickly as it had begun, it had finished. The whirlwind which had taken them settled abruptly, and there before her waited the runes of her creation.

The din of her mind quieted; and the sentience came back to her eyes. Only in that moment did she realize that the gentleman assassin had given her a flower. She looked toward it, watching the petals reverberate as put-aside memory came back to her; and pressed her lips in to a thin line before she smiled-- albeit a bit sadly. The presence-- the maddening one, was fading fast; and with poor sap number two down... He would help her. She had to concentrate.

So where did she want Gregori Tesla?

She eyed the pieces for a long moment-- noting, in particular, a powerful arc of glowing blue and violet between a lion and a number of other pieces; which then connected in to what once had been a rose-- and had since shifted in to a simple spiral. The pattern she saw now almost mirrored the one she had foreseen before-- a circled in, celtic trinity knot with the chosen cited at each tip... but it was distorted.

There were obstructions.

Between the falcon and the core of the knot stood two imposing pieces, who brought the electricity to scatter noisily in to the air: An owl, and a dramatized bat. Hovering upon the edge of the line noting the severance caused by the bat was a sleek, saber toothed... fox. A nudge, and the animal shifted-- only a few inches toward the bat-- and the loose tie slipped seamlessly in to place. She left it, there; to watch the owl piece take life of it's own and swoop after the falcon, but-- woozily-- let the fight ensue as the loop took it's (violent) shape.

And looked on to the second loop-- that of the lion. Three dragons had taken form inside of the electric haze, and though each one was different, they supported an extremely powerful line of electricity which she had not foreseen. Fesseln's piece had been one of incredible difficulty to pin, what with his vying struggle against so many other forms, but it looked as though a good number of obstructions had been removed from, at least, one course... and it was the one he supported. Many obstructions lay in the vampire's path to return; but they were all lined up... and tiny unshaped birds continuously drew the power away.

With everything else, Amitiel's loop was faint; and compared to it, entirely unfinished. Just a point of electricity marked her projected future, fueled through Freya's by an incredibly graceful-looking Pegasus.

"Here." Looking back toward the odd looking fox, she pointed at it to indicate which one she meant, and they hovered just high enough above the rest to break the circuit. The powerflow between the two pieces surged violently in to the figurine of the bat, and with a clap, it flew out of the assortment and became a simple nail again before it hit the floor.

The pieces returned peacefully in to the assembly and left a clear line in it's wake. Energy pooled inside of the psychic's hand again, and she offered up the fuel-- as though burnt, the owl ricocheted away from the falcon, and made a bee-line for Freya. More detailed tiny birds rushed to cover the falcon's first line as the fox took up the trail of the ones of lesser form. When the owl dove for the lion, three dragons sprung in to action-- the fight was short lived, and the bird fled for Amitiel, but the Pegasus was tougher than it looked.

"And here." With all the chaos, it was easy to miss the path of a fox to the edges of the circle linking Xanthe and Freya. The connection gave phenomenal power to every other connection made, and the pieces began to spark with overflow; but no energy cycled beyond Amitiel. The pattern was still an entire third incomplete.

[-Kilik]

OoC: had a slip on thought process. Tricky post & all. Obliteration Untold

Gregori paused. Filled with excitement of sorts as he watched his new curio of a toy play with her own toys. She unfolded the pieces of the puzzles and pointed at an odd canine. A fox of sorts. Oh, what a bag full of goodies she was. he wondered momentarily, how she managed to point out one of his favorite animals in this world. He shared a psychic connection with Xanthe as it was but could not help trying to view the puzzle through her eyes. Trying to see, what exactly it was, that she saw but it seemed that this time around it would come to no avail. Her mind was a dangerous place to be, even for Gregori.

Again she pointed and he had to watch the chess piece's path a second time for what most would've considered being lost for moment's in the confusion of the mass of political tricks. So what was it exactly that he was supposed to do? He shrugged the thought off to Hymn. Another riddle for the dragon's bloody thirst of knowledge. Gregori watched the flicker of more powerful surges. "You're missing something, my dear." He couldn't help but smile giving his toothy signature of an expression a slightly serpentine quality.

His thoughts were in the form of a dried leather bound journal this time. Where the written was done similar in process of that to dragon's. Logogram's floated off the pages and re-arranged themselves as chess pieces. The wavering, flitting images mimicked that of Xanthe's toy's. Ripping themselves off the pages in strange ways. Some shredding and others dissappearing while others flashed and they all reappeared mid-air.

The Iridej gestured to his piece as it made it's rounds again while sending a flash of an image to his new found plaything. Dragon scale's, hot pink and deep Navy blue, calico in nature. "Just another piece of the puzzle." The flower before him flickered again as he considered what it was she was proposing among a few of the other thoughts running its course.

"What the hell is missing?" He waved towards Chrissy. As he repeated the question in a fast-forward motion like a child asking 'but why?' The logograms flickered and re-arranged themselves again. This time a sheering sound chimed in with the bells as the faint memory of the smell of smoke. The drink was another bottle and as the heavy clunk of a bottle of whiskey landed against the oaken table, his thoughts took another field of 'vision'.

The logograms formed abstract images of peoples faces in a tribal artwork manner. Another piece of a complex puzzle was missing all together. They contorted and melded before becoming another journal. The words 'Woe it is, to be anybody who isn't me.' Were written in hard trade.

He motioned towards Xanthe. A lazy gesture as he rested his right arm behind him on his seat. "So how do you suppose would be the best way to form this... Pathway? After all I'm sure this piece here wouldn't play nicely from what I gather anyway." The Iridej motioned towards the piece representing Freya.

[-Dory]

((Mastermind-- Mindless Self Indulgence))

There was something off in his grin-- she had caught a momentary glimpse of it once before, but with the revelation that she was 'missing' something, it became all the more tangible. The reason behind the teeth like sabers-- her eyes steeled over as she leaned back again, and cast them away. 'Missing' something, certainly-- actually, the display was missing a good number of things. Namely, the rest of the world was a chief concern; and it said absolutely-- positively-- nothing for the hairs standing up on the back of her neck.

But she watched the following display in reserved silence; setting it to mull in the back of her mind as the simple phrase, "I see." Escaped her lips. Her eyes glinted sourly as she looked back to the figurines, and crossed her arms over her chest-- the strange discomfort could wait; right now, she needed to take care of business.

"Don't worry about that just yet." Her mind's hand moved the strange fox piece back to it's initial place rooting the falcon's arc to the core of the design, and the bat came soon to follow.

"The lioness will do her job as surely as I have done mine." She was a Guardian by trade and nature; and though her motives were questionable in and of themselves, Xanthe's seal was not. The woman had no choice but to serve her purpose, and that purpose would provide the drive such a formation required to advance. Whether or not that meant that she would -cooperate-... now that was another story entirely.

One that drew her to quiet again as her eyes moved coldly back to Gregori. One of the muscles just below her left eye twitched, and her breathing slowed-- if she wasn't missing something, little Mr. Tesla was mistaking her for the experiment she had pioneered. It was the impression she had intended to make upon her mark, but all in all it was a laughable one for one who thought himself an ally; and for a brief, unreasonable moment, she let her temper carry her mind to every possible reaction.

She was heavily armed. Her metal alone was enough to shred a man so close, and if she wanted a blunter effect, there was always the option of slamming the man's head in to the table. Of course, then there was the crossbow at one side and the blade at the other, but such civilized methods of handling such misunderstandings tended toward the boring. She was beginning to favor the more colorful image of setting her figurines loose to rip through his skin and in to the spongy organs inside, when the shift took hold; and her mind lost it's balance.

The change was a subtle one, unlikely to be noticed by outside eyes; but the feel of metal moving over her skin was unmistakeable, and her fingers were curling over the table again.

"Remember this feeling, Xanthe." She'd been so young when she'd come upon it, she'd almost forgotten. "Know it. Recognize it. This is possession-- learn to reject it; not by panic, caution, or rage but by reflex alone."

"You'll need to, where you're going."

The metal from her cincher was coiling around her wrists. She shoved her hands under the table, laced her fingers tightly together, and narrowed her eyes on the task at hand.

"But first we have to kill Caspian." She tried to go on as though nothing had happened, but she was visually unsettled; and her mind closed entirely. The pieces dropped, and melted in to the pile of nails and silverware they once had been; but damnit, she couldn't seem to grasp... "And there are more than enough obstacles there to keep us entertained."

"He must be isolated. Ariel will not come to his aid, but Luthe is unaccounted for; and then there are the five. Faerie and Salamel have been claimed in the name of the Lioness, but I don't know much about the others. In addition, I've been informed that Ascantha has been reinforced with... some otherworldly force, which is likely to cause substantial problem."

"So it comes to logic, that we'll need allies." Pausing, she drew a breath despite the maddening loss of just a segment of her alchemy, which continued to spin persistently about her wrists. "Two for each of the remaining three, and one to spearhead us in to the capital. Our job before the job is to divide the Aesir."

Hopefully, and she'd have crossed her fingers were she not struggling to keep them under her own control to begin with, the world would take the development as a blessing of 'fate'; and take their opportunity to act. It would have been a first, but they were running out of options-- and bodies-- fast.

"The name of the game-- to conquer or be conquered-- is what no one understands. Redemption stands divided. Someone's got to even the score, and buddy..."

She shook her head with a soft, sarcastic laugh. Lot of good she was doing at it, what with that maddening grip on both mind and body-- man, when she wasn't in the middle of saving the fucking world, and had time to figure out just who in the fuck was doing what why, someone's ass was getting kicked to hell and back for this one.

"I ain't seein' a lot of volunteers."

[-Kilik]

Eminem ft. Rihanna - Love the Way You Lie

He shifted his posture again. One to match the feeling of accumilation of 'play'. He wasn't one for drinking. Mostly people always considered him not able to handle his fire-waters. It was quite the opposite, just easier to play part of a drunk. His surroundings were all accounted for. Even the flicker of some portion of Xanthe's falter in control.

As Gregori watched the pieces melt before him he couldn't help but chide in with a soft 'huh' and his tapping finger dissappeared underneath the table. It was a cruel trade for any sort of living thing in this realm. To be a killer. To morally gruel over ever choice you made. That was a life once lost and he shrugged it off as he leaned further back in his seat.

"Volunteers? Why my dear, if only you had the sight to see it with." He took another drink from his glass. His empty glass. Upon his false notion of notice he couldn't help but murmer it again. "Huh." The Iridej loved that word. You couldn't argue with it, couldn't manipulate it into anything else and above all else, it instilled into the people around you feelings that could be manipulated. Thoughts and neurological pathways of a lifetime would tell you that 'huh' meant someone who didn't know something or wasn't paying attention.

Huh was a slight of hand in manners of the eloquent. "The Lycan's are again without an Alpha and the demon's are still in existence." He mused himself as he dropped his hand down and let the glass sit mid-air and pushed aside slightly as to 'see' clearly. Chrissy was ready to leave for the night.

"Volunteers? No. Volun~told? Yes." He paused to look at his fingernails against his palm. His right hand brandished almost perfect nails. "They'll do anything to get a chance at what they want." A slight frown as a cuticle was pushing forth on his pinkie finger. "Which gives us the..." Using his thumb he pushed it back. Careful not to tear the skin or ruin the appearance of his dissent. "Well, those of our trade the perfect advantage."

Bringing his whole attention back to Xanthe he couldn't help but smile. She wasn't just a toy to him. She wasn't a player in his game. No... Even better. She was ~the~ board upon which games were played yet thought herself the player. A rare kind of an item for him. Gregori made sure to hold back on his excitement. Feigning ignorance while his eyes moved to the floating glass. A shift in his focus.

Reflections were a wonderful thing. The scotch glass was the perfect tool as the film of dirty whiskey gave it backing in all of it's multitude of angles on one surface. Chrissy opened the bar door. Giving a wave and a wink towards Ralph. Any last request's? It was broad and trumpeted his threat across the psychic scape. Though aimed at Ralph he couldn't help but share the flash of imagery again. This time of hot pink and navy blue scales and the sounds of Ralph screaming and flesh tearing.

"I suppose I've a few acquaintance's as well that wouldn't mind the challenge." A slight of hand so to speak. "Enough chat, the night is young. Ta-ta, Xanthe Hamilton." The shadows flickered as he spun around in his seat again. The shift was as instant as his many visual appearance's. In the seat sat Chrissy and the bar door closing. The whiskey glass shattering as it hit the floor.

(OoC: Exit post. I will say this, Xanthe & Gregori are far too dangerous to be left alone and more so together. I'm a little excited to see how it all plays out. )

[-Dory]

((City -- Hollywood Undead))

She eyed the assassin with something kin to resent as he continued to speak, but her focus was tremulous at best. The liquor caught her eye again, reminding her that her throat was dry and that the pressure wasn't letting up; and she looked sharply away. Too vulnerable this way-- there were nearly fourty eight hours between her, and the last time she'd slept; and something in the back of her mind screamed that she had said too much. Too tired to question, and far too scrambled to try to pinpoint the source-- in the end, it didn't matter.

Caspian's death would be as good for Gregori Tesla as it would for any other assassin; and the role that followed was up his alley and then some. An assassin knew how to take what was given, and spin it in to something else-- his help was natural, if it would not be flawless; and it would serve as a test run for the days ahead.

The formation was all but complete. Once Freya's list of outlets was depleted, it was the night itself which would fall prey to her need to hunt. The coven borne of survivors, there, would be the leverage Xanthe needed to call the night to order; and-- if he made it that far-- Gregori would become the Underground crime lord that went between.

But that was only if he survived; and dashing along the edges of Xanthe's mind was the lesser feat. Judging from what she had seen, he was precisely the type of man to suddenly find the old adage true-- the bigger you are, the harder you fall.

That was, of course, an issue for another time-- and indeed, another person. Xanthe, in that moment, was exceedingly tired-- and the spiral was still going right along it's merry way. She was standing when the girl manifested where an assassin had been, and she ignored her entirely as she lifted her wrists to eye level-- watching the blue hued veins twitch against the nudge of metal with disbelief.

"You'll need to." Dorine's voice still rang clearly in her head. "Where you're going."

She needed to slip back in to the safety of her shadows. Indeed, the night was young-- the drunkards returning to their broken homes, and the scum setting between the crevices of the civilization around her. If there were to be any more nocturnal turns of the cards, it would have been then-- but even angels needed to sleep.

And the coil was tightening.


She drew to a stop near the door of the bar, and cast one last glance toward the flight of it's inhabitants before she let herself get lost in the crowd. Trick number one was going to be finding a safe place to sleep, which wasn't too far away. Trick number two would be getting the evidence there, and trick number three was going to be using it properly while she still had the time. Her fingers curled over the metal casing her wrists as the crowds thinned, and the darkened streets waited.

"Fucking lovely." grumbling to oneself was not uncommon among drunks. It was a handy veil, indeed. "Sonovabitch..." And introspection was a realer detriment than the persistently grounding reminder of it. The city unfolding before her held no threat, and never had-- Alegrarse had been Sanctuary even in her darkest hour, but she couldn't shake the nagging dread pooling in the back of her mind. Her muscles burned to ease it, but she could think of nothing she had left undone.

Nothing, but... She growled at the metal still squirming beneath her hands, and took the first of the steps to carry her in to the labyrinth of colored lights. She should have pried it away, dropped it somewhere inconspicuous, and paid better attention next time; but she didn't. Instead, she simply stopped, eyes hollow as she looked toward the rogue alchemy again.

It wasn't like it was new. She bore her mother's mark, as well as Caspian's; and both could have been removed as easily as the bangles coiled over her wrists. A ring was mostly metal, which answered (mostly) to her-- rock wasn't conductive to the electricity she could simply have become. She simply hadn't.

Up until that moment she had told herself that she simply hadn't had time. She certainly had time now, didn't she?

Pinpricks bit in to her wrists and she swore, lifting the damned metal to meet a narrow gaze as she reconsidered tearing them away again... and restrained herself. Drunk, or filled with morbid fascination; she stumbled to brace herself against a lamppost, and closed her eyes to feel the offensive metal shift as though with a mind of it's own. Searching for an aura, trying to trace the source-- but there was no use, and what she had perceived to be spikes hollowed in to a series of needles despite her interference.

"Shit. Shit, shit, ow, shit..." As braided golden wires laced through the needles. "Motherfucking-- SHIT." and wove under the surface of her skin. The silver fell away entirely, and she clutched her arms dearly to her chest as crimson streamed over her elbow to stain her pants and the ground below.

And she wondered, as the world began to spin and her legs gave out; if they had any idea what she'd done.

Probably not; but she looked toward the settling gold-- what she saw now to have formed in to a spiraling strip of golden chainmail-- and couldn't help but to laugh before she swooned back against the lamppost and wiped the tears from her eyes. This was what 'according to plan' felt like, huh?

Weird.

[-Dory]

(( X ))

Something was off. Different; and she tried to pinpoint it, but there was no use.

This was no possession she'd ever seen; and though Freya's track record in such matters were far more extensive than those of the assassin, Xanthe had seen and cataloged some shit. This, she couldn't classify-- couldn't rationalize; and suddenly the rest of her armor slipped right between her fingers of control.

Maybe she was simply exhausted. Maybe her imagination had gotten the better of her, and turned inward. That wouldn't, necessarily, have been completely new; her use of metal was driven primarily by instinct, and she wasn't the only one. Amitiel's psychic abilities, for example, seemed to find their source in the matters of the emotional; and she had seen the aura infused mimics which had urged her to rise from the ruins of the home she had returned to in her moment of doubt.

But she didn't think that was it-- at least not all of it. The means to an end, maybe; but she couldn't think of a single instinct which might lead, even, the metal from her boots to wind up her calves and encase the legs bent before her within a thin layer of silver.

The pattern had been something of a reassurance to her-- the mark of a flash of memory that she didn't have-- but it didn't stick. Didn't seem satisfied with the space it occupied upon her wrists, alone; and the gold under her skin thinned in to wires before it roamed further up her arms, shoulders, and neck.

The silver pierced in to her legs the way it had her wrists, though she did have the presence of mind to note that these needles weren't needles at all, but the pointed tips of more wires-- less painful by far, but it didn't make any more sense.

Unless...

She didn't get to finish the thought. Her right thigh seemed to catch flame, wires plunging through scar tissue while more came up and over her hip, and her perfectly white cargo pants were going crimson as the wire found the ring it was looking for.

And stopped altogether. The world stopped with it. What breath she caught came out in a string of curses and threats she'd had the ridiculous notion that no one would hear. "Sonovabitch..." One of her favorites, as her head fell back to hit the lamppost behind her and she swallowed hard; trying to remember. The metal was hers, the alchemy was her calling card; she could take back control-- she kept these momento's inside for a reason-- except that she couldn't. A reason-- but what was that, exactly?

Better under her skin, than in the wrong hands; weren't they?

And who's hands were these? The pain settled in to her muscles, little more than a tingling ache as endorphins did their job, and her skin stretched, just ever so slightly, to accomidate for the metal underneath. Looking at her arms again, she saw that the pattern of winding chainmail blazed red over her wrists without the gold to hold the pocket it had made-- blood blisters.

"Fuck." It was real, and it was happening; and aside from cussing up a storm, she wasn't even trying to fight back anymore. "Fuck-- fuck-- -fuck---" Because she simply didn't want to.

She couldn't find the panic that had consumed her only moments before. Couldn't grasp the reflex which had urged her to put up a fight. Such things weren't from inside, and the metal wound under the skin of nearly three quarters of her body seemed to block it out. There was no trace of the world outside of it, not for her; for she was--

And there was the answer. She wasn't being possessed, she was simply rapt-- being Raptured; which made no sense for all her talk of killing Gods, and yet-- it was.

She nearly cried.

She needed the backing.

But nothing was free; so what was the price of salvation? Everything. She was already in debt.

And all at once, the metal started to course through her again. Longer loops than were entirely necessary carved a squishy hollow above the lip of the ring, and seized hold as the rest of her skin gave way to the wires of silver and gold; and those wires, like internal puppet strings, began to flex. She couldn't have dreamed of moving on her own, but her hand came to rest over the hilt of the Taurus blade she hadn't noticed digging uncomfortably in to her side; and she drew power from it as though in a daze. The sparks went directly through the system interwoven within her own; just as out of control as the metal which constructed it and then--

There was no body to hold her ties, much less feel pain. The ring was jerked from it's static cling, the Corite fell from the space which had been occupied by an aorta. But the system held her form and she stared, with what consciousness was left, as more of her metal wove around the objects. The ring came to rest where she assumed her finger was going to be, and the pendant the Corite became, was looped through by a chain which fell around the space which would eventually be her neck.

More appropriate that, some distant part of her agreed, the coming conquests became ornamentation; and the wires shot up and in to the air, stealing her right along with them, for the highest peak of the highest building.

She registered something soft, as her body took shape again, and the wires withdrew in to their original form; but the marks remained. She was just too damned tired to register what it was; and she was sleeping like a baby before she gave any particular fuck.

((Xanthe out, thread closed; ect ect))