838/The Proud and the Damned

The Proud and the Damned
Date of Scene:	29 March 2020
Location:	Second Floor Landing
Synopsis:	Barghest is dead. James used a sword. Illyana punched the ground.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, James Proudstar

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Lately it feels like the school is either a ghost town or a hopping metropolis with no in-betweens. Between surges of the Summers clan in its various forms filling up the hallways or veritable silence stretching past countless doorways, the character of Xavier's School flips on a dime. In the foyer, heads comes up Cyke, and just about everyone dealing with matters down there stirs up a hubbub too loud to be borne. Other students are possibly holed up in their bedrooms studying, taking to leisure in different spaces, and most certainly looking over their shoulders as the lights-out time for the younger ones approaches.

Good luck enforcing that where the Demon Queen of Limbo is involved, of course. Time and space are two infinitesimally unimportant qualities where she's involved. The deal is rotten as she selects the one spot still coming up tails in activity terms, practically abandoned. The landing with its transecting hallways fail to disturb her sense of direction, and she stalks past the shining artifact illuminating the way. A pair of black hilts cross over her shoulders, one black as night, the other curiously wrapped in a Japanese style. Hilts suggest a Deadpool carryover, except there are only reasonable ways to carry a personal armoury, right? Her heels strike no sound to speak of, softened to avoid getting a diatribe from some uppity teacher or kid about being armed.

This time, she has a smartphone to look down at, halting as she reaches a railing. Good thing not to go arse over tea kettle right down into the foyer, given how embarrassing that might be.

James Proudstar has posed:
James Proudstar hasn't exactly been...gone, but he hasn't really been here, either. Either holed up in his room and rarely emerging, or wandering the grounds doing odd jobs that Logan directs him towards. With Spring having arrived there's no shortage of that stuff. It's something that keeps his hands occupied, anyway. Aside from a lot of smashing things in the Danger Room when the schedule allows, that's been about it. Word of his tribe has gotten around, even if in that hushed-whisper we're-not-supposed-to-know-about-it-but-we-do sort of way that happens in close-knit communities. Everyone that would be expected has offered what condolences they have, but with the Genosha Massacre there are most certainly far larger fish to fry.

But literally in the last day James has started to socialize again, and he HAD been headed downstairs to grab a bite when his superhumanly keen ears had caught some of the conversation going on below. Now, he's seated on the stairs, chin resting on his fist. From the right angle he'd practically look like Conan on his throne, only, you know, more clothed and less with the slashy-stabby. Not that he doesn't enjoy those given the opportunity. In any case, he's been half-listening to the conversation below and half contemplating if it was worth getting out of his room at all when Illyana arrives, absorbed mostly in her phone. He doesn't look directly at her, though he does turn his head to briefly flick his near-black eyes in her direction before he speaks.

"Hey, Illyana. Busy night?"

A somewhat oblique reference to her armament, but she does look dressed for business.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Spring gives reasons for even the deepest seeds to send up exploratory shoots through the earth, seeking the sun. Whether they choose to halt any further forays or explode into action depends on so many variables, but seeing those rarer faces is becoming a little more common. Take Illyana herself; not a common sight. Much less in civilian gear, but she manages it minus the swords here. Pretty much all the elder staff know the truth about a girl who stood in the ruins of Genosha with a glowing sword on several occasions. James' tales have possibly reached those Russian ears too. The evening is settled in well and truly, while a world away on the Indian Ocean, despair deepens into the graveyard of a mutant nation fallen. Even those drinking that kind of trouble as their preferred meal have to get on with life now and then.

He surely hears her where the others don't. The sway of golden hair over the oversized sweater clothing her, or catching that very unusual scent well beyond detection for most. Petrichor, the condition right before it rains; something woodsier beneath that, and very dry earth and stone. Not the kind of earth exposed to the sky, but the stillness of the sepulchre. The slip of her fingertip over the glossy screen of the StarkPhone (jailbroken, naturally) halts, pushing another chunk of map into luminous detail. Here, blue lines for transit intersect a web of dense streets as one only finds in New York or similar metropoli. Then she looks up and there James is, marked, noted by those frost-pale eyes, the antithesis of his. Yin to yang, as it were. "Not nearly enough."

Laconic as her answers are, she makes an effort. It beats terse, monosyllabic responses. "Here we are. Not on the rooftops, having a night on the town. You?"

James Proudstar has posed:
"Half-listening to the mess downstairs. Some guy called Sinister messed with Scott's brother's head. Some lady I don't know found it in there. Telepath, I guess, and I think his girlfriend. Seems like it's a big deal. Scott left, he's pissed." His tone may as well be discussing the weather, but for this place, such events may be just that commonplace.

James rises to his feet again, all too gracefully for someone of his size, moving the extra couple of steps to the landing proper, "But just like always, they'll let me know if they need me to punch something."

He gives a shrug, "Otherwise trying to get back into the world. No use being stuck on what happened at the Reservation now. That vengeance will have to wait. There's someone or something out there screaming louder for it, now." He cants his head, "You could be on any rooftop in the world if you wanted. Nothin' on 'em worth your time, tonight?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Sinister," hisses Illyana. The name just might ring a bell for her. She slants a look over the bannister, but beyond picking out the shadows on the wall or the bodies mingling down there, she shows little indication of catching the finer points. That's up to James to do, and she nods to him. "Scott will find control and return." This leaves little indication she doubts whether or not he can manage it, since the building is evidently not on fire. Her pallid complexion and that blunt, direct stare don't soften the impact of her responses either. Every motion around her she takes in, watchful as the sort of person thriving in terrible conditions must be. "You expect them to ask?"

The question is loaded. The delivery is not, simple and unassuming. Make of it as he will. Still, she hooks her thumbs in the pockets of her leather pants. Leather pants really ought not to have pockets; unable to justify them in profile, yet somehow, here they are. In stillness, she presents so much less of a threat than he does, physically fit but unimposing. Swords notwithstanding. "A chorus does not lessen the just cry," she murmurs. Maybe advice, maybe acknowledgement of his feelings, but she nods with the crisp, quick fashion of acknowledgment deeper still. The tide ebbs and flows in silence, leaving him ground to respond as is his wont.

"I do not sit idle well. Tonight, it is idle." She gestures with a roll of her shoulder. "Trouble will not come to us, I will go to it."

James Proudstar has posed:
"Didn't say they'd ask. Said they'd let me know." The tone is mild, though, utterly lacking in the undercurrents that speak of defensiveness. Just a clarification. Illyana's stare holds no chill for him. He's given plenty of those flat looks in his day. Near-black eyes and a stony mien can go a long way towards convincing someone not to be more trouble than they ought to be. But he also knows with Illyana it's different. Most of the spirits his people taught him to venerate may be far afield of the type of things Illyana oft-trafficks with, but that doesn't leave him lacking a feeling for some of the more metaphorical demons that cling to Illyana alongside the all-too-real ones. He knows someone that's cursed when he sees them. That bottomless gaze that speaks of someone that has seen the most fundamental loss. Mostly because he sees it every time he looks in the mirror.

"You want some company? Wouldn't mind a scrap that isn't a Danger Room program."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Clarification, then. Accepted for what it is, undemanding on the whole. The little Russian sorceress owns a chilly countenance by default, her brother's antithesis, embodying the tundra surrounding that enormously deep rift lake that bore her forebears to the height of Russian history and wiped out the imperial family. Up rises her chin, not so much in challenge, but clear-eyed recognition going slightly deeper than remains immediately visible. "Danger Room? Nyet, you come to Limbo for a real trial." She lifts her shoulders. "You can even be a bard. More likely druid, though."

That much stated, she nods to the left avenue snaking down around the foyer. "You think we can sneak past them?" It's not really much hope, all said and done.

James Proudstar has posed:
"Yeah, Druid probably does sound closer. I know the songs of my people but they sure ain't like what you hear from that guy on that new Netflix show. Long as I don't turn into one of those big cow people from that game Doug was obsessed with a few years back." Jimmy allows the faintest of wry grins to flicker across his face, then turns his attention towards the direction Illyana gestures, considering the approach for a few moments, then shaking his head, "I'm pretty quiet when I want to be, but I can't get any smaller. Either we take a different exit or we try to act as casual as either of us ever do, and even then it might be hard to avoid any questions about your other sword." He figures the one most folks around here are used to by now.

However, he pauses a moment, canting his head just slightly, "Hold on...we're clear. They're headed to the infirmary, just give 'em a few seconds to clear out."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Cow people." No, it doesn't ring a bell. Needs more cowbell, as St Christopher of Walken would suggest. Illyana might take the point literally but she surrenders the point for a moment. "The one with the level in all the bloodshed?" Her slim shoulders straighten to the burden of shifting the swords a little, releasing the first grip on the arc of power connecting her to another realm. Her pupils fade back in after that brief blink. James' confirmation they could just mosey on out is accepted, and she starts down the stairs. "Windows work. You have not lived before you slip out of one."

Easy for her to say, but then her best friend walks through walls. This time, the tap of her footfalls guide her forth into the foyer, making a direct line purposefully for the door and into the city. "Spirits bound to churchyards have come free. Something lets them go. Free, they bring despair by consuming their victims' emotions. Vampirism, a little. But not wholly."

James Proudstar has posed:
"Yeah, window would've been my next suggestion." James admits, and thankfully there are plenty here that are actually large enough for him to get through, even if it's a tight fit. As they're out the door, he listens intently to Illyana's words, "Spirits normally bound to the graveyards, but sounds like not the spirits of the dead." James considers this as they move, "They take on some kind of physical form?"

"So if they're feeding, and somebody let 'em go...is their "food" getting sent somewhere else besides their spiritual bellies?"

There's no sense that any of this is unbelievable to him, quite the opposite in that he accepts it as simple fact. His people knew of a world of spirits that suffuses, underlays, and overlays the world of men since the ancient days. The forms may be different, and he may not be able to sense and interact with them as tangibly as Illyana does (at least not most of the time), but the principle is the same.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Windows line the hallway in part, giving an architectural accent as much as a convenient source of light. The night beyond provides a glimpse of the grounds, spotlit effectively by little electric lamps set at periodic intervals. Beyond them, shadow prevails as the landscaping and especially evergreen trees fringe off the world outside from the mutant students and those adults probably involved in less good than not. At least in this particular corner, for all they need is Laura to round out a troupe of bad young things.

The doorway proves a conventional path for someone used to unconventional routes, to say the least. Illyana doesn't even bother to try and pull her hair over the swords. What's the point? Bystanders in town might point or shout "Edgelord!" if they're under a certain age, but that suggests even seeing her. "Spirits bound to the yard protect the graves," she explains, picking out the right words to explain to James. "You know the legend of black dogs? Free, they are dangerous. They spread bad emotions. The energy they eat goes to them. Power, da?"

She holds up her hand, giving a little flick of her wrist to illustrate the point.

James Proudstar has posed:
"Ok." James says, more or less getting the gist of it. "Just trying to figure out the agenda of whoever or whatever might have set them free. Though I guess there's always the types that just want to mess with things, and don't really care much beyond that." The big man gives a shrug, "And I guess it doesn't really matter, if we can mess up the plan by messing with the dogs. So what do we have to do? Try to get them bound back where they belong?"

James gives a glance towards the treeline as they walk, but if he sees or hears anyone else out here, he gives no sign of it. With all the excitement inside it's not too surprising. Most of the younger residents are inclined to either hunker down or try to eavesdrop when there's such a commotion.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Unclear. Cultist, rogue mage, many options. Demon hunters are passing rare these days and not many real shamans now," Illyana agrees, turning to the path. The crunch of gravel under her boots is muffled but there, a steady cadence to make it easier to trace her across the school grounds. James ghosting or overshadowing her hardly causes any signs of discomfort, though she scans ahead with less interest than some. "Going to the gap between that ash and the hedgerow. Portals are faster from there." Younger residents have no place to really see them, partly because the darkness will eventually swallow them up. What else are they going to review? One very tall man and a very distinctive blonde roaming around together don't exactly warrant much gossip.

Sooner or later she reaches the treeline and squishes into one of the narrowest corridors in the hedge. The swords jostle around, causing her to push a few overeager boughs from her face. "I hunted one by their victims. Two committed suicide. Another in the hospital. The dog should be put back in the yard. May be too big for that. Then?"

A tap of her finger on the katana hilt. "We do what we do best."

James Proudstar has posed:
"OK, I'm tracking." James gives a curt nod as to Illyana's implication as to whether they can get it back. "Good that we try to get it back. Wouldn't want to leave those places unprotected if we don't have to." More than a little bit of a personal quibble there, most likely, but he also recognizes the cold, hard truth. Still, that former bit may be why Illyana so readily accepted his help. He just might try that much harder to "bring it in alive" so to speak...but you know, not likely to the point of stupidity about it.

"So where we headed?" He queries as he pushes aside some of those boughs himself. Or really quite a few more, but this kind of momentary physical discomfort isn't something worth worrying over. Not like they can scratch him, but by the same token, he tries not to break any of them if it can be avoided. Both to avoid signs of passage, and because he just generally prefers to leave natural things intact until it absolutely needs trimming back. Or you know, he needs a handy tree to swat someone with in the middle of a fight.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Tracking begins first with a flick of the wrist. The cellphone was useful for getting a sense of bearings on a map, but that all falls to the wayside. "Not far. St. Paul's," she says. It might be familiar to him, a feature with red granite wrapped around the belltower. A handsome thing of petite size dating back before the Revolution, the building is buried in Eastchester to their Westchester. Illyana tears open a portal, and the radiating lines reaching out for her like tendrils of a nebula lock her within their embrace. Beyond night is revealed, a row of crooked headstones poking up like cookie sheets mired in weathered age and heavy moss. There's barely a light to be seen within the shadowy place.

"My way is through Limbo." James receives the blunt warning. If he hasn't had the chance to step sideways into the otherworldly hell she rules over, well, it's an experience. That she thinks to offer the warning at all is growth on her part. The extension of her hand to him isn't all sweetness and light, either, is it? Reputation has it she'd rather jump into acid than accept a hug from anyone other than Sam. "Most direct. Or we can go on foot. Might have to steal a motorcycle, though."

James Proudstar has posed:
"I'll get by." James replies, reaching to take the hand and allow himself to be led through. He's heard a few of the stories. He found it all too believable that extended stays can lead people to become as evil spirits themselves without some form of protection. That it's hell by any other name. But he's glimpsed his own personal hell on Earth, a glimpse of another one might make for a change of pace.

"You think this might've been something targeted at you specifically? Or is it just in the neighborhood and you're cleaning up the mess because nobody else is around?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Her hand grips James' and holds perfectly still until he is ready to cross through the radiant oval. For him to take that step is the same as being torn in twenty different directions at once, the energy engulfing him shuttling the world away from him. Limbo is the halfway point, and the effect of going down is like being flung downwards to rise up, a psychic punch to the chest that shuttles the soul backward while the body hurtles at a comet's speed towards the heart of a black sun. Black fire roars up around them, turning incandescent gold, while they freefall past soaring white cliffs studded in jagged, bone-like protrusions and spinal-column bridges. Shapes crawl over them, violet and red, legions besieging a fortress chiselled into an islet on a towering, open vent full of magma that oozes out through cracks in its sides. No small number of pointed cages are full of thrashing, igneous figures in torment, their screams mingling with the sulfurous air. Shadowy creatures like vastly oversized sea scorpions forgotten in the terrestrial fossil record swarm up from the sinuous ichor of a lake mirroring their crash.

Another tunnel bifurcates the freefall, as passage hauling them through at horrific speeds, and no sooner do feet touch solid ground than the iridescent walls shudder with a bellowing howl. It sounds... excited? Yes.

Well. The Queen's back.

Another jaunt forward and compressed hours breach the meniscus of the otherworld to launch them back into New York. Illyana's streaming white-blonde hair most definitely is floating, her eyes full of blank blue-white fire, one of the swords on her back echoing the same unearthly hue. Shuddering tremors race through the cavern as the floor steeply tilts and going through the other side of the portal means crashing into the darkness... and coming up vertically in a churchyard. Really, it makes no sense. Non-Euclidean geometry applies freely.

No dragons wait curled up on the belfry. No gargoyles, wrong city. Just a very nice little, somewhat tidy churchyard with fallen headstones and a gouge in a very old stone wall.

James Proudstar has posed:
James is generally a stoic fellow. Discomfort, pain, all that sort of thing he tends to weather with considerably less fuss than many. Even still, the experience of the first trip to Limbo is certainly not something he's going to forget any time soon. Maybe subsequent trips will be better, simply for being more prepared for what comes. He doesn't stagger, or vomit, or physically waver much beyond perhaps a steadying step amidst the vertigo-that-isn't-quite-vertigo but somehow is, as well, or the morass that his enhanced senses become at the rapid shifts in locale and the pit-stop in a non euclidean dimenson.

But when they are back in what passes for their "proper" world (even if that may be in question where Illyana is concerned), he lets out a breath he didn't exactly intend to hold...almost like it was halted mid-exhale and only now continued. James isn't known for being a wiseacre, though he shows glimmers of it in the midst of battle. But at this point, all he can do is give a shaky laugh, and speak with a wry undercurrent to his tone:

"Damn...don't take this the wrong way, Illyana, but I used to think I'd never find a way of gettin' around worse than flying Coach on LexAir. Thinkin' I might've been a little premature on that."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Of course, the blonde looks totally unperturbed by this experience. Perhaps that is the equivalent of an escalator ride for her, considering how frequently she pulls open portals and dives through the between spaces of reality to find another. She also has perfect reason for being late whenever the occasion calls for.

"Limbo has its favourites," she explains without any further detail or preamble. The transit hasn't changed much but noticeably those standing black barrettes mount her temples, fitted like a hairband. Possibly mistaken for some weird kind of headphones at a distance, but not really. Her armour hasn't made a visible appearance otherwise, restrained to that backswept headdress.

The church sits there as it has for nearly three hundred years. Some of the headstones come from battles around the time America took her independence from the Redcoats, others far newer, dating into the Civil War and Reconstruction. It smells of overturned earth and green things starting to awaken, of bashed mortar disturbed and copper in the air. "I would take demon over Spirit Air."

James Proudstar has posed:
"Yeah, might have a point." James concedes the point as far as certain airlines go. His bearings returning swiftly, he peers around the graveyard with a near-equal mix of curiosity and wariness. He particularly takes in the scents and sounds...the sights are a given. He doesn't offer much else in the way of words right now, letting Illyana lead the way in terms of tracking down their quarry...at least unless he catches the kind of scent that he might surmise is not of the material world.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The place feels odd. Flat and sorrowful. Eastchester arcs around the church and behind the rectangular field turned over to the respectful dead. This is, of course, Native American territory. It was long before Europeans clambered up the Hudson and started placing their farms and villages on the high shores, and the land remembers. Perhaps it's a familiar feeling or an uneasy one, but for the Rasputin scion, nothing too uncomfortable or the opposite. She trudges under a very large oak, kneeling down in front of a headstone. It tilts drunkenly and not solely due to age.

No, it's probably much more due to something setting it to plunge over. James can probably see the general shape of fallen stones lingering this way and that. The smell of overturned earth mingles with copper, and following it will lead him eventually into the middle of a spiral of tumble-down headstones where he can just pat the ground and feel it being packed and settled in a way that doesn't make a lot of sense.

However, no signs of a black dog panting and hoping for pets.

James Proudstar has posed:
Well of course all the land here was Native American territory once upon a time. While such things are a matter of resigned acceptance of the way things are for James, he is not above the deep-smoldering fire of resentment that is not altogether uncommon to those of the Native American persuasion. A mistrust of certain authority. A recognition of what was lost. Nothing he'll ever be able to change, though.

James moves over, following his nose, so to speak, and crouches down at the odd patch of ground, running his fingers across it. "So this where it went down?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Native territory, but the land knows itself. It knows the ancient wars fought with the French, against the British, the Americans, those freebooter rascals going up and down the waterways. The Hudson might as well be called the Blood, for all it washed away into a dying submerged fjord now choked and riddled by sewage. Maybe it's for the better he is more ranger than druid, at least here. The rage inspired by tasting how befouled humanity has made its home is one hateful aspect of the modern day. The other might be the restless state of the dead, their violation a cause for some kind of disrupted atmosphere full of disquiet.

"Maybe." His question reaches the blonde sorceress, who hasn't drawn a blade. Not yet, though she moves widdershins around the fallen headstone and moves on to the next one. Triangulating to the road, Illyana rotates slowly. "Something broke through there." A point to the wall. "Something came in, not out." Even though the stones are spilled back in a fan from the gouge roughly made, they're all in a jumble beyond the ancient church wall. It would possibly be a reasonable conclusion. The air is cold, damp, almost cloying to move through like an unpleasant shower. "No shovel. Maybe that shed? Hands?"

James Proudstar has posed:
"Hands're fine." James replies, more of a murmur really. It's not a great leap that's how he buried his people. As reverently as possible, of course, and he likely could have found a shovel but it was just as likely to break with the strain he'd put on it. He doesn't move from his crouch, easily driving hands into the earth, pulling up a significant clod and setting it aside. He's not moving with exteme haste...he doesn't want to damage anyone's remains by accident. Under other circumstances he might be averse to this at all, but he's understanding this as a process to bring the dead peace and security, and that outweighs any qualms about disturbing a grave he might otherwise have.

If he sat and thought about it there might be a mildly twisted bit of ironic humor at the idea of a Native American disturbing the graves of Colonials. No less ceremony to the burial, though in many ways a good bit more work. Deeper graves, in any case.

"We just waiting for a Dog to jump out, or looking for something else?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Hands digging into the hard-packed earth make for a distinctly different approach, to be sure. Good earth cracking under his nails is packed together, in places wet. Trying to haul his hands through the packed surface takes a lot more effort than it normally would or should. Trying to haul chunks and clouds out simply demands a ton of physical effort, the sort of thing that would normally revolve around a backhoe huffing and puffing at the request. Maybe it feels good to flex that strength to a purpose. On the other hand, he's desecrating a graveyard. One attached to an actual church, Saint Paul be damned, so it could be an act that sits uncomfortably. Still, there aren't many stones immediately nearby and even if there were, there's an old drain cover that goes flying around him.

"I am looking." Illyana is totally making him do all the work while she walks that appointed course, eyes glowing. "Everything is steeped in anger. No signs of symbols. Still." The duck to make sure nothing gets in the way, dirt hitting her or worse, is simply an advantageous escape as she beelines for the break in the wall. And when she hits that gap...

That's one hell of a vibrating sound rolling through them, suggestive entirely of a loud bell rolling by.

James Proudstar has posed:
Jimmy does frown a bit at the effort it's taking to move that earth. Nothing he isn't capable of, but he's cognizant that it's...heavier?...than it should be. Definitely weird, but he doesn't really comment on it just yet, letting Illyana perform her investigation.

"That doesn't sound good." James doesn't flinch at the sound, but he does cease his digging for the time being, mostly to look over towards where Illyana had bolted towards, mostly because that sounds kinda like an impact that might sting a little bit. So he's up from his crouch and moving in that direction in a flash, "Some kinda...what...magic force field? Or just an alarm?" He's most certainly still alert, keeping an eye to see if there's any other disturbance beyond the sound.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Movement takes time, a weightier compaction that shouldn't be there, but it is. Clods shift and as he sets himself into it, the first hints of a gleam appear. May well be the first time that his nails rake through anything but dense clay squeezed out like plasticine, and finding metal showing up. It's old, absolutely tarnished to the point its gleam is difficult to see. The patina is coppery, dully so, smeared by gunk and muck. But definitely metal.

Noise registers and rolls with a hissing strength, reverberating off the bones. She resonates a little in motion with the harmonics dully registered. Almost immediately her hands drop and she reaches for the sword at her back, not hesitating in hauling it out. "Checking." Because there are options at hand, and that means thrusting her fist out to punch air. Not her most graceful sign, but it's one that brings another low, rolling claxon like an angry bee in a bell. A big bell.

Not liking that result, she holds up the Soulsword in both hands. "Sit tight. Bringing it down, da?"

James Proudstar has posed:
"I did find something there. Some kinda coppery metal object. Can't quite tell what it is and need to dig a bit more to get it out." Seeing Illyana is OK, he moves back to where he was digging, but remains on his feet, giving Illyana a nod and a thumbs-up, forcing himself into that mindset that's ready for a fight...relaxed but prepared. Thankfully it's easier for him than most.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
How tall means digging around it, displacing something... well. It's not as big as Liberty, its close cousin. Though it is, in fact, an alarmingly large shape when viewed only from the corroded loop at the top where presumably some kind of rope would have threaded through. The depression James digs out must be sufficient to contain an object large enough for him to wear as an extremely impressive hat. Fifty gallon type, at least, and heavy enough to make a Honda Fit or a similar micro-box car feel very uncomfortable. But even three feet of bell is heavy. This thing would be hard put to fit up in the belltower overlooking the cemetery, attached to the church. Begs the question if the church /has/ a bell, in fact.

The Soulsword sings its dulcet harmonies, barely audible, the synchronized hymn melodic to the ear and strangely intensifying. It -does- communicate briefly in combat, particularly with Illyana fighting demons, though rarely is it more than a swell of strings or a symphonic cadence. There, in the crackling instant of patience, there's nothing to strike. So what? She looks impressive using a sharp overhand swing, considering the sword is currently in its broadsword form and not that great, hacking blade bigger than she is tall.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
And, roughly five seconds after collision with air, the resonating noise builds and folds like origami. It's the saddest br---squonk ever heard. A mournful howl in the distance answers.

James Proudstar has posed:
Sound of a bell...and actual bell. This is the part of the adventure where the Ranger can guess there might be some kind of connection, but he's gonna need the Sorceress/Antipaladin to make a Knowledge Check. "We got a bell over here. Want me to pull it out? Or d'you think it needs to stay....some kinda anchor, maybe?" He glances towards the church tower, then back to the bell, moreover looking to see just -how- corroded it is...like "recently buried" or "Been here for ages" kinds of corroded?

"Sounds like we got something's attention." He drops into a basic fighting stance, but calls out, "You think this thing might belong up in the Church tower?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
An actual bell. The big, actual bell is lying top down in the soil, in that crater, and it has no throaty voice to give to them. The dog definitely howls, though. It's an eerie sound, two dimensional, the kind of echoing resonance going straight into the gut. For him, it's easy to see the patina isn't green but brown, suggesting it's brass or bronze. Scum covers what's definitely a seam, and checking the foundry marks -- on the inside -- mean pulling the whole thing out from its imprisonment. If he does, though, James will find the date 1758, Whitechapel Foundry listed. Right where the Liberty Bell herself came from. Fecit Lester and Pack also appear, a mention of the makers. Very fancy. It's quite the interesting thing, right down to the bloody smear that isn't about 270 years old, but much newer. Ichorous, all in all.

Nothing like standing there with a glowing sword to attract attention from just about everyone else in the dark. Jamming the bright point in the cemetery grounds, she comes bounding over to James at a particularly quick pace. Let it not be said she moseys along at a slow clip, but moves through the rocky minefield of sorts.

James Proudstar has posed:
For the purposes of you know...potential magical solutions to the situation they find themselves in, James grabs that ring at the top of the bell, and with something that actually involves a little bit of effort and that kind of "shlucking" sound that comes from extracting something from wet earth, he gets the thing out of the ground, finding the maker's mark and probably more importantly the bloodstain.

"Yeah OK, you're the expert, but my inexpert opinion is that this is probably important." He sets the Bell down where Illyana can better examine it, and for now, takes a position between that gap and Illyana and the Bell, ready to wrestle with...whatever's coming. At least until instructed otherwise.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
He now has something really impressive to hurl: a bell from a national historical site, heavy and definitely solid cast the way something in the 18th century would be. The blood inside is still dry, but mucky, suggesting it's not that old. Past 72 hours, definitely. A scent that sticks in the brain, but the coppery notes are all that metal rather than the iron-tang that might be more familiar. "Soldier, keep on marching on," she quips, trying to help get her footing. Kneeling, Illyana scrapes some of the dirt off and runs her hand over the thing.

It stings, without gloves, the rough surface and the mess leaving her skin reddened a fair bit. It doesn't even bring a look of disgust, for she ignores the discomfort to swipe a finger through the stain. "Human." Well, that might be comforting. "Thank you." Manners still count for something in the midst of trouble. "Why is a church bell buried like the dead? To hide faith? The blood profanes the sacred. What would be used in the black arts to suspend sacred protection, best if it were a priest. Minister. Holy man, forced to shed. You see, it is a bad thing, da?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Meanwhile, for a man who scoffs at eagle-eyed vision and makes birds feel bad about themselves, there is absolutely a patch of Vantablack night superimposed on the comparatively blue-black evening approaching them. It's not exactly small. No blue bull folk tale, but definitely making that bell look pretty small. For a dog, it's closer to making a Great Pyrenees be a Mid-size Sedan Pyrenees.

James Proudstar has posed:
"Spill the blood of a Medicine Man, and Great Owl might curse the ground and haunt your dreams." Pretty much the same thing, right?

"OK yeah...that's a big dog." He considers a half moment, waiting to meet it's charge. "If I die, give Dani my stuff. Different tribe, but she'll know what to do with it." He doesn't seem like he thinks it terribly LIKELY but he acknowledges the possibility. Best to be prepared right? "You need me to do anything besides punch and wrestle this thing, just give a shout."

And with that, he moves a little bit further towards the oncoming dog, mostly to hopefully not interfere with whatever it is Illyana might need to do.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Pretty much the exact thing from her sharp nod. The sword is glowing brightly on the ground, standing where she left it. Illyana wipes her sleeve against the bloodstain for all the good it does, and then she arises from the shadows. "Da. But if you die I take you to Limbo. Problem solved." The eerie certainty the Demon Queen holds about that could be alarming for anyone else to hear, but this is their moment.

He's dealing with an embodied spirit or some kind of actual supernatural being that barely makes any noise. How can a shadow make a sound as it lopes over the ground, paralleling the road and coming for the churchyard straight up to the wall. When it comes to actual tactics, well, they devolve down to raising a murky gloom that makes it hard to see. Then, of course, the mournful howls at proximity have an awful way of flipping the stomach and leaving someone jittery with sorrow and fear. Bundle it up like a pair of socks, whirl it around in the blender, it's the apathetic sapping of energy to face such a thing. All black, its eyes make even Vantablack look like charcoal and the night seem daylit by comparison. It slinks and slithers.

"Do what comes naturally. I need to keep the dead from rising." That can't be serious. Maybe it is, but that sustained baying is a withering thing even for her.

James Proudstar has posed:
Warpath grits his teeth as that wave of negative emotion hits him, but he doesn't hesitate, letting out a war-cry and charging forward to grapple with the creature directly, attempting to get enough of a grip that he can lift it and slam it to the ground. If it takes a few punches to get an opening for that, well, he's good at those too. But the initial read is very much that there's a countdown timer on this. He isn't in the best place even on "good" days. For all his raw physical power, the sharpest cuts don't usually come from a material blade. Though this feels a lot more like a smothering or a drowning than a cutting.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Something about that particular dog: it's not wholly tangible. Shadow resists him passing right through, but the black dog trails the stuff of ephemeral night behind it, and the moment James grips it, coldness rolls up his arms and his hands. The beast's side should be furry. Everything would hint it has a coat, maybe something like a jackal's. It isn't sticky so much as sort of smooth, slick, sucking darkness.

Bit like a bog, in fact.

Graphic shadows slope around his arms, and the body within his grasp flows and twists without any limitations that usually apply to bones and cartilage. He doesn't path wholly through, but the stones under his knees as he moves over the wall are far more real. The black dog -- the barghest -- has ceased to howl, at least, snapping that black maw at him, trying to get a good mouthful of shoulder. It's really not picky. Back? Hip? Hamstring? Just as suitable.

The world is grey around him in proximity to that thing, though already dark, saturated into monochrome greyscale except for the crackling white-blue glow of the Soulsword.

Illyana herself isn't idle, kneeling by the ground and chanting in a language that sounds utterly profane in every sense. It should be. Some lilt of Demonic cant on her tongue cracks and bends, defined by the harsh contours of invoking it. Another weary, cracking knell answers as the bell's casting breaks.

James Proudstar has posed:
OK, this is probably not gonna work so well. Less focus on trying to get a grip, and a lot more on evading that maw. But moving through the morass of negative emotion and magic...whatever this is isn't easy, even for him. He avoids getting hamstrung, de-shouldered, or de-hipped, but he has to put up a forearm to block one that gets far too close to his throat. There's a growl of pain, but he holds his ground, trying to slam his fist against the thing's head, but he's already catching on that, to use the RPG parlance once more, this thing got mad Damage Resistance, yo, and James doesn't have any Monk levels or the proper magic items to overcome that. Sooooo.....speaking of magic items.

All things considered, James is gonna have to go with forgiveness maybe being better than permission in this case. There's a magic weapon, and there's a magic...thing. And Illyana is in the middle of a ritual. Which he knows aren't the kinds of things that should be interrupted. So he spits through clenched teeth,

"You ain't giving me nothing I don't get every day." He tears his arm free, heedless of what damage he may or may not take, and drops beneath another snap of the jaws rolling away...right over next to that sword. And with the full and complete awareness that this might really suck, or might not work at all, he reaches down and grasps the hilt of that blade, looking to try to swing it around to intercept the shadowy-beast as it charges towards him once more.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
So. Speaking of proper magic items. There's a big shiny sword right there, humming in a cadence of increasing lilting urgency, the chaotic motion of the spheres incandescent with brightening light.

When he grabs it, the jolt running through him isn't likely to be light or easy to bear, considering he is literally putting hands on Illyana's living, manifested soul.

Her eyes share the same uncanny hue as the black-forked thing, and it's to James' credit he even dared. Her head turns to him, her headdress glinting, and gives the faintest of arched eyebrows.

A sword normally made for her size is pretty big. But for him, not enough. Hope he likes something redoubling its width, though it weighs precious little, but large enough it could shear through a car hood without even blinking. The extra foot of length it gains is probably to take advantage of his wingspan, as it were. From the peregrine falcon to the sea eagle: have fun.

She sweeps her hands apart, flipping her palms open, bloody streamers lifting in a matrix that look alarmingly like ribs cracked apart. Motes thread through the space between her palms, in this, the goriest game of cat's cradle. On the other hand, it isn't so much black magic as an act of surgery and she is absolutely /not/ the Doctor of this dimension. (Just his replacement, one day.) The chiseled statements from her aren't audible, but the ground is thrumming lightly, earth in the hole that he dug filling in around that fallen bell. Meanwhile, the barghest takes an opportunity to try and flow at him from an oblique angle. Snap, snap, snap, it's already eaten more than a little of its fill and his blood just makes life nicer. On the other hand, he has something that /really/ likes demons. One of the greatest artifacts thereof.

James Proudstar has posed:
Hoooo boy. Yep, James is gonna go with "suck" on this, at least at first. Not that what he's grabbed onto feels...wrong, exactly. He'd put it more akin to trying to trying to hold a tornado in his palms...maybe a Tornado laced with lightning, that also plucked up duelling tanker trucks of premium gasoline and liquid nitrogen. It's wild, powerful, burning hot and freezing cold, could the soul of a potential Sorceress Supreme be any less? Also doesn't often like being touched except by a very select few individuals. And yet there's an undercurrent there as well, that in that first instant that feels like a lifetime becomes apparent to the perceptive Apache. Still waters run deep, they say, and this is an ocean of stillness. The pure calm of that portion of Illyana's soul that has never been touched by the dark and chaos she lives with now. A tiny, precious, fragile thing that somehow manages to be as vast and awe-inspiring as a living star.

James pushes through the pain and chaos and the writhing to seek that oasis of calm, and suddenly it's...not so bad. It may seem like an eternity, but it's over in an instant. And then...it's on.

James has always had an instinctive gift for combat. He learns its' art exceptionally quickly when he applies himself. While it's far from mastery that he's displaying when he brings the now-expanded blade to bear against the Black Dog...how much mastery do you need when you're faster and stronger than any human could hope to be? It's still skill, and a certain grace, when he moves forward, bringing it in a crackling blue-white arc aimed to neatly bisect the creature as he meets it in mid-charge.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The soul of an -actual- Sorceress Supreme, in fact, albeit not of the terrestrial domain. It's the sum of two-fifths not evil, the compacted hue of purity and virtue a child caught in almost Hell could tear out of her psyche. Let a shaman chew on that, after venturing to find Belasco and kicking him in the teeth a few times for preying on the vulnerable. It speaks to the fact the whole sum must have been something unique indeed, if only the shard he wields can rip through the substance of inchoate darkness so heavily.

It sings as a part of the greater whole, but the greater whole is busy using the arts attained in the worst possible circumstances to undo a greater ill. She gets to mop up, he gets to kick over the bucket and yell at the trespasser. Fair deal, in the business of trying to secure the cemetery against further incrusions.

His grip best be strong. The Soulsword gives a little resistance, as willful and ornery as a teenager in a strange land might be, but it knows the enemy before it. Drawn to the barghest with the fierce, focused purpose, the blade radiates light with a clear, incinerating ecstasy sent humming back and forth. Antipaladin indeed, except that's an honest to God-Above-Presence-All artifact that sends the nightmarish fuel of barghest 'fur' boiling away before first contact. James' strength so far outmatches the Demon Queen, it's almost laughable when he cleaves the thing in twain, rending those tendrils into explosive lines. Power seeps out and the defiant howl of agony tears at the moors of a mortal soul. Should. Except it bursts and rings from a blade of no substance and all substance, a cutting edge as keen as a thought and all his pent-up emotions for loss and protectiveness to his people, the outrage and the wrath put to a crystallized point a full woman's height beyond him. Whatever of the barghest remains will burn with glittering gold sparks turned a cleansing sacred red.

About then, Illyana bites her tongue while grabbing the spell by the fist and plunging her hand straight into the soil. It's so much less impressive punching the ground. What did it ever do to her?

James Proudstar has posed:
That was all....somehow easier than James expected and exactly as easy as he thought it might be. There's no triumphant flourish or little victory fanfare, and while the blade lowers, he doesn't let it dip all the way to the ground. Somehow feels wrong even if it's where it had been resting before he plucked it up.

Jimmy doesn't let his guard down, wary that the creature might re-form somehow, though he's leaning towards that being less-likely rather than more. The crushing despair and fear is fading like the memory of a dream, leaving behind only that which he already carried with him. A beast he'll always have to wrestle with, but for the moment it is quelled.

After a few moments, he does turn to witness Illyana punching the ground, waiting to see just what the end of the ritual will bring, and whether it'll be anything he can see to begin with.

Holding onto the blade isn't any easier, but he'll bear it, until she's ready for him to hand it back.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Easy, like having the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch and counting precisely to three, only three, not four and certainly not two, nor five and a half. There are moments things turn out well for being prepared. The Soulsword in hand leaves a trail of numinous fire in its wake, nothing solid, perfectly eldritch in every way as it hums there.

The barghest is well and truly ichor, the smoldering puddles and drops all over the ground sure to fade away at the first break of dawn. Until then, they present icky hazards for anyone braving walking through them or around them. The ground doesn't sizzle. It is, however, cold. Any unfortunately grass wilts like frostbite set in, and the sad, dessicated husks are what they are.

Which leaves Illyana cursing the poor earth. Okay, nothing so serious. She pushes that energy down where it belongs, locking it up. "Easier had I faith. This is better for Doug. Dani. Not me." Unfortunately neither of them are in the position to bury a churchman's blood. Or a big bell, which sits beside them. "What do we do with it?"

She doesn't rise from her kneeling position yet, though she holds out her hand for the sword. "Dead. Good enough."

James Proudstar has posed:
James hands the blade back, with a degree of reverence, "Hope I did it justice."

He's not sure how faithful he could call himself anymore. Maybe still some. Maybe a tiny bit more after tonight.

"I could bury it again. Got a feeling it might not take as long to put back as it did to dig out." He glances towards the church tower, "Or maybe it's supposed to go up there. Could go look to see if it's missing one." He adds, "Or we could just leave it here and let it be someone else's problem."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Not undead," Illyana observes. The sword is too big for her, but she wields it with ease, as might be expected. Not as easily as James could swing it around, but still, she has a grace coming from violently carving out her survival and her reign. It shrinks a little and lands back against her shoulders, fitted into a sheath there with the katana. Of course, it shrinks to achieve that otherwise she'd be melted to pieces.

Looking up to the belltower, a dark finger capped in red granite and sandstone, she gives a nod. "Let's go. You first?" Let the guy who sees better in the dark roam ahead, right? Totally fair.

James Proudstar has posed:
James doesn't comment on Illyana's assessment, despite the errant thought of "Wait, that was something that could've happened?" Instead, he simply nods to Illyana, and with a degree of grace that belies his fairly massive frame, quickly scales the Church and moves to examine the belltower. Indeed, barring the unnatural haze of the creature so recently dispatched, faint star or moonlight or even just ambient light pollution give James enough to work with.

He does, however, steel himself for the distinct possibility of a body being found in the midst of his investigation.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Sometimes it's better not to ask. Brevity is the soul of her wit, as the blonde gives a petite shrug as an answer. The best he might get short of throttling her, shaking her, or demanding it. The belltower rears ahead of them, an unimpressive three and some stories up. It has a slightly rounded apex, rather than a great skinny spire, and the open sides present a free ringing of that bell lying forgotten down there. A plaque on the wall and locked doors forbid entrance to yon National Historic Site, marking its importance. And they're going to go cause a headache.

No signs without of much trouble, but then, a locked door and a shadow horror really could still sum up to a bad game of clue.

James Proudstar has posed:
"Yep...that's where it goes. Think I can get it back up there. But...." James takes a deep breath through his nose, "Definitely something dead inside." He clambers back down the Church, and after a bit of finagling figures out how to carry the burden of the bell while scaling the belltower, and get it back in place. He'll ferry Illyana inside so she can poke around herself, but even in this quiet place there's always the possibility of the authorities coming by, so they try to move quickly.

And then, it's another jaunt through Limbo that brings them back to the Xavier Mansion grounds. Thankfully by that point most people have wandered off to sleep and even those that might still be up aren't really keeping watch over comings and goings. So the excessively-dirty James and not quite as muddy Illyana quietly make their way back towards the house. Of course, this pair is one of a few possibilities that reside on these grounds that could likely answer any inquiry with a blank stare and silence and none are likely to gainsay it beyond the higher leaders of the school. Not that it's really necessary...this time.

"This was good. Little bit crazy...but good." He glances at his forearm, the memory of pain vivid, but no sign of a physical wound to be found. Magic. Weird, powerful stuff.

"You need or want my help again, you know where to find me."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Illyana is not one who likes depending on others, but then again, simple matter of necessity makes it so. He trusted her to take him into Limbo. She can trust James not to climb up, slip up, or leave her there. Does the demon queen of Limbo bounce? Does anyone want to find out?

Does anyone want to meet her angry older brother asking questions about his snowflake? Or worse, the /mad/ other one/? It doesn't make the day much better. Still, nothinguntoward happens and she spends a good point of her time while he maneuvers the bell into place trying to clean it up. That's one of the easiest of spells, though the blood of an older priest murdered by hanging -- and clearly already blooded before then -- takes a few careful flicks of her wrist to banish. There is a gravity in her eyes not there before, one that resides all the way back into the Manor. When she steps through Limbo, the war is still raging. The Manor is still floodlit when they step out the other side, warm and full of hope and childish dreams so beyond the hands of the darker shadows in their midst. Those who carry the weight of loss engraved on their palms, the scars on their backs and traumas in their minds.

"We need coffee," she says. "A lot of coffee. Clean up. Then kitchen. You need it. Barghests take much, and we are not psychic to see it."