8939/Path of Glory: All Kings Shall Fall

Path of Glory: All Kings Shall Fall
Date of Scene:	06 January 2022
Location:	Saint Patrick's Cathedral
Synopsis:	The Battle with the Vanguard of the Hosts and Michael's champion almost ends in victory but a rebolstering of the enemy at the final moments pushes the defense force to retreat.
Cast of Characters:	Chas Chandler, Jonathan Sims, Hope Svelgate, Caitlin Fairchild, Lydia Dietrich, Cael Becker, Atrun Rai, Michael Demiurgos
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

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Chas Chandler has posed:
    The Epiphany had arrived with an explosive measure of divine light and force minutes ago. Fifty-thousand strong of the angelic army have appeared over Manhattan and spread out over the city. Initial damages could probably be measured with nine figures. But that was simply the start. Once the initial rush had pushed out, two primary contingents form over the vicinty of Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Among the contingents is their leader Michael, Archangel and General of the Host.

    He is resplendent in his gold plate, his mismatched wings flapping with forceful bursts to keep him in the air. At his side is his sword, sheathed. In his right hand is a spear, the head gleaming with divine light. In his left, is a shield. There is a strange dullness to the shield that makes it stand out against everything else that screamed divinity with the being. He speaks to a pair of six winged, fire encased, multi-eyed beings: Seraphim. "They will be here soon. Be ready. I will divide myself and see that I am with both of you but I entrust you to see that the lessers are engaged properly. Even with the strange energy that affected you all--we will still have the upper hand. I entrust you to do what you will in keeping with our Purpose. Glory for Our Father."

    Once the commands are given, Michael simply divides. Instead of one being in his place there are now two.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The forces of humanity's defense were gathered in the streets near Saint Patrick's before dawn, ready for the vanguard with the information the Justice League Dark has been gleaning from their contacts with various archangels. So the vanguard of the Host does not arrive in an empty city--there are defenders waiting, those they've been able to gather, between superheroes and agents and normal people who refused to leave. When the vanguard splits in two, they do as well, half their number sent after each group of angels.

    The Archivist stays with the contingent nearest the Cathedral, already in his 'superhero' outfit and cape, staff at the ready. "I'm going to /try/ to talk to him," he says to those around him. "Doubt that'll work, but we have to try. Once this starts... try not to kill mortals, but give the angels no quarter."

    Then he goes to face one of the copies of Michael, lighting the tip of his staff with a citrine glow so it can be seen. "MICHAEL!" he shouts, with lungs trained to pitch a singing voice to the back of a crowded theatre. "Get down here and /talk/ to us! Nobody wants this to come to a fight!"

    Well. Nobody except the local Hell Lord, of course, but he has to try.

Hope Svelgate has posed:
The appointed hour arrives and the decimation of Manhattan begins, but even as Divine Light explodes from the heavens and angelic beings pour through the streets, as the host descends upon St. Patrick's Cathedral, one of the players is nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps the albino Hell Lord has decided to leave humanity to their fate, she's certainly expressed enough disdain for them in the past. Perhaps Michael found and bested her in the interim. Or perhaps the White Witch known as much for her cunning as her battlefield prowess has chosen not to tip her hand just yet.

As Jon shouts for Michael, there is a throbbing from within his chest, a pulse of forgotten power that has certainly not forgotten him.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
The doors to the Cathedral swing open. From within comes the sound of hymns being sung, voices being raised in praise on high. Light pours around a figure that walks out of the entryway.

No, light pours *from* a figure leaving the entryway. Caitlin Fairchild stands out anywhere she goes, but there is a literal radiance around the redheaded warrior that turns her into a living beacon of holy purpose. Her red hair is pulled back into a tight fighting braid and pinned into a bun. The armor she wears is of no earthly design; heavy pauldrons, segmented chestpieces, a knee-length split skirt that covers her outer legs over a full set of chausses and greaves. Her gauntlets are heavy silver and steel. Her heraldry is blue and white; Christian iconography covers her tabard and the mantle and cloak hanging from those heavy guardpieces. The entire armor is a work of art in gold and silver, all obdurate as adamantite and covered in sigils and icons of her faith. In her left hand is a winged helmet, and in the right is a spear much like the one Michael is bearing.

With no visible effort she leaps into the air and crosses the gap between the Cathedral and the allies around Jon. She crashes to Earth some thirty feet from them and plants her spear in the ground at her side. The impact makes the ground shudder and the radiant glory pouring from her skin is as palpable as a summer heatwave.

"God has sent His angels to test us and make us ready for His gifts," Caitlin announces. Jon's voice carries that skilled orator's projection, but the words rolling from Caitlin's mouth are at a volume that would probably make them audible in Harlem.

"The faithful and the penitent need fear nothing. We are in His hands. If you lay down your arms and repent, you will be welcomed among the congregation." Her face grows flinty, a resolute mien that bears the grace of grudging old mountains. "I don't want to fight you, but I won't let you keep these people from Salvation," she says-- and directs those words to Jon, most of all.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
This is it. This is the moment that Lydia has been dreading for the past couple of weeks. The angels have finally come. She's standing with her friends and comrades near St. Patrick's cathedral and stares at the sky, whose every inch is thick with divine beings.

"There's so many of them," she breathes, trying to keep the despair from her voice. "Where do we even begin?" She looks over her shoulder when Jon tries to summon the Archangel. "You scad," she says giving him a grin. "You took my idea."

But then Caitlin is there, radiating holy power given to her from the Archangel Michael. There's a bit of jealousy that runs through her. All Gabriel gave her was a pep talk and some flower petals. She can't help but feel completely out of her depth. How in hell is she supposed to fight this?

"Fuck me, I'm going to die again aren't I."

Cael Becker has posed:
    Cael's features have remained a stoic and determined mask as their forces gathered, and arranged themselves in preparation for the angels' arrival. She was dressed in tactical gear and armor, with multiple weapons and ammunition strapped into place. Everything from flash bangs, to tear gas, to actual grenades are available for her to use - in addition to her pistaol, her ICER, and a second ICER, that has been colored a deep red to set it apart from her other weapons. That was a gun she had no desire to fire unwittingly.
    She shielded her eyes from the bright flash of light that heralded their arrival, and grits her teeth tightly as Michael appears above them. Oddly, though, it's not until Caitlin arrives - gleaming with her own heavenly light - that real anger shows briefly on her features. She steps up behind Jon, her gaze fixing on Caitlin as she declares, "We don't want to fight you and your followers either, but we will. Michael is in the wrong - and we won't allow him to unmake reality. You're letting him manipulate you and the people who've flocked to you. You're making a mistake. Where are the rest of the Titans? Where are your friends? Why don't they stand with you - if you're so right in this? Do you put so little trust in the combined judgement of your dearest friends?" she asks the woman cooly.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    And at dawn, a light came to the west over Manhattan, and from it spilled the potential authors of annihilation.

    Among the assembly is the ancient Atlantean, Atrun-Rai, whose feet trod the land of that continent many thousands of years before it met its doom. Where the others are dressed in modern armor, carry modern weapons, the sorceror dresses in the fashion of citizen-soldiers of the ancient city-states: articulated cuirasse akin to Lorica segmentata, but thicker, lighter, far more easy to move in. A broad skirt of mail and leather, again of quality that modern metallurgy would need to bring about. A helmet that speaks something of ancient Greece, though only somewhat - again, it is as one might imagine a hoplite of the day would dress in far cleverer times. The armor is black, dark enough as if to swallow the light that beams down from the heavens, and the fabric of the tunic worn beneath all this a charcoal gray. He looks dressed for a funeral - and, perhaps, he is.

    And in his hand, a tall spear, six feet of blood-red wood chased with bewildering glyphs of bright red-gold metal - as is its point, a slender, savage thing done in the fashion of a modern archery broadhead, also of the same metal. He carries it like a staff, and though quiet, he stares at the legion ahead without fear, without trepidation. It is not in him, not anymore. It left when he was killed the first time. Now. Now, comes the test. Reality must be preserved.

    Even if it kills him again.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael flutters down and hovers behind Caitlin. "Archivist. Good to see you brought reinforcements. Welcome to the beginning of the end. I will purge the vile and return this world to the Glory it is meant for. You however, will not be taken today. Your heart still weighs too much on things not fulfilled. But I will take great pleasure in dismissing you from this field and showing the forces of evil that their time has come."

    Ranks of lesser angels, humanoid forms with wings and armor armed with swords and spears begin to form tight formations before the group. Their eyes seem bound by some black cloth and yet the move with purpose and order into Platoons, ready to engage at the drop of a word.

    At the same time three figures descend from the sky. Concentric rings covered in eyes spin rapidly around a single vivid blue eyball. There is a whine in the air as the rings spin faster and faster, power gathering around the central eye.

    "You heard the words of my Champion. Will you take her offer for salvation or will you join the ranks of the unfaithful and fall?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist can feel the throbbing in his chest, and it makes him smile. He has a guess about what might be going on, and he /suspects/ that the unexpected third player in the game put Lady Death in as their own champion. But a smile is the only hint he gives that he's aware of the throbbing. He has no idea what it might mean save that she's near, and probably about to wreck something.

    Aside, to the others, "The Witchblade is engaging the other Michael. Because of /course/ she is." A sigh, and he turns to Caitlin.

    "I won't stop anyone that wants to join you, Fairchild," he says calmly. "And we're going to do our best not to kill your followers. But a choice between 'repent or die' is no choice at all." He shifts his grip on his staff, raises his voice. "Any of your people that wish to surrender, at /any/ time, will be given leave to evacuate Manhattan. Send the sick and the children away, Fairchild. Let them go home."

    He frowns at Michael. His heart weighs too much, does it? "Very well," is all he says. "In that case... you've gone too far. You've killed /trillions/ trying to re-set reality again and again. I know violence won't solve this in the end, but we're going to stop this. You can't just keep wiping the slate clean and starting over. It's wrong." His voice is flat, his eyes hard. "I didn't want to fight you... but for all those you've killed, in their name..."

    He levels his staff at Michael, concentrates... and nothing happens. He frowns, and grips the staff harder. Glares. Nothing happens.

    Then his eyes widen. "Oh, /shit/," he whispers. "I /surrendered/ to you. I can't fight you, can I?"

    There's only a moment of hesitation. Just a moment. Then he steps back, twists his staff, and pulls up a glimmering shield around himself, Cael, and Lydia. "I'll be on defense, then. The rest of you--/attack/!"

    There's a surprise waiting for the angels, after all, courtesy of the Atlantean sorceror that's with them.

Hope Svelgate has posed:
It is right as Jon is coming to the realization that he cannot fight Michael that the throbbing intensifies. Fiery blue mystic energy begins to bleed out of him until it surrounds him like an aura.

<<Welcome to the party Michael.>> An almost sinister female voice echoes from ...Jon?! <<Time to die!>>

The words resound through the square and no sooner have they then from the north, from the south, from the east, from the west, and from above portals tear open, gaping rents in the fabric of reality that look upon a vast plane of endless cenotaphs and mausoleums with a foreboding castle fortress in the distance. From the portals pour demons and dead, the armies of Lady Death, armed with Netheranium weapons and hellbent on angelic blood.

High above from the sky portal, astride an albino Nightmare stallion leaving a trail of Hellfire in its wake, emerges Lady Death. She Who Reaps is dressed for War. In one hand is the Chaos-forged blade Apocalypse, in the other a Rune-forged Asgardian scythe tempered in a Hellfire furnace. Her left hand holding the scythe is esconced in a new gleaming metal gauntlet, likely the result of the injuries from her last encounter with Michael.

<<Vermoord ze allemaal!>>

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin whips her spear into a fighting position the moment Jon raises his weapon. And when he calls for attack-- she screams.

'Loud' is perhaps an understatement. It's certainly scientifically inaccurate. No human could create that tone, produce that many decibels. It's an explosion of noise and force like a literal bomb going off; there's a fluttering air-pressure shockwave that flashes across the parking lot and shatters dozens of windows into razor shards.

The screeching stops and she follows it up with a heavy foot stomp at a sharp angle. The raw force of the blow digs her holy sabatons six inches into the asphalt. It also sends a rolling shockwave of displaced earth towards Jon and his allies. Asphalt stretches and shatters into radiating cracks underfoot and throws stinging grit into the air. Cait's lone strike must have displaced easily one or two tons of dirt, rocks, and blacktop by several feet.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia is just... overwhelmed. She's handled skirmishes before, true, but that was against opponents of her level. But this is war, and she just simply isn't prepared for it. Not against beings that dwarf her in power, in beings that she has no hope of even surviving. For all her bravado she discovers that, in the end, against overwhelming odds, she just isn't that brave.

It's a common misconception that there's only two responses to danger, fight or flight. There's another: Freeze, and this is what Lydia does. She doesn't go on the offensive, sure, but she also doesn't run. Instead her brain just kinds of locks up until that terrible screech sends daggers into her skull.

Her sensitive hearing makes it all that much worse. She drops to her knees, clutching her head, faint trickles of blood seep from her ears. It's only Jon's shield that keeps her from getting knocked flat from the subsequent stomp attack.

Cael Becker has posed:
    "Especially when the choice is actually 'resist or repent AND die,'" Cael grits out. "As I know better than anyone else." After all - she'd repented for her sins long before Michael took her - yet he still sentenced her to torture and death.
    As Jon's attack fails, and he takes a step back, Cael can't help but let out a forceful, "What the //shit//, Sims?!" See! This is why you don't surrender to angels in bars!
    Well. Jon said attack - so Cael's hand reaches for the weapon marked out with a deep, red hue. She draws it quickly, and starts swinging it towards Michael and Caitlin, when the strength and volume of the woman's scream causes her ears to start ringing with a violence that implies she just suffered some degree of hearing loss - just before the pressure wave hits, staggering her back - just in time for the earth to rock under her feet. While Jon's shields protect her from being pelted by the shards of glass, and stinging asphalt - they've done little to protect her from the sheer physical force of Caitlin's attack.
    Oh, Fuck, what has she gotten herself into? If that's the strength this //human// woman has been imbued with?
    She doesn't linger on the floor, however, and quickly pops back up to her feet, ignoring the bruises she just earned. Her weapon is brought to bear swiftly, as she lines up the shot - squeezing a single, carefully aimed test-shot with one of her precious bale-water rounds center-mass at Michael. She can feel the recoil of the gun in her hand - so she knows it fired, but it dimly registers that she didn't hear the retort over the ringing of her ears.
    That's probably not good.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    It is the end of days indeed, or a very good trial run at it -- as the skies open up and a legion of hungry, angry dead come boiling out, the angels aren't the immediate threat they were going to be. Instead, there is Caitlin, whose voice is a thunderclap, her trod an earthquake. And /that/ is what needs to be dealt with.

    Though his ears ring, his body, powerful as it is, does not shudder as it might have should - instead, he steps forward, and drives the butt spike of his spear into the ground while bellowing a word that might have been a war cry, or a shout of defiance...but is, instead, a command of ancient power. And Caitlin, powerful as she is, finds herself suddenly surrounded by a force irresistable even by her standards -- and into the air she goes, straight up like a beautiful, beautiful rocket, her hair like a warning light visible even as she goes off into the sky.

    "Get those people out of here," he bellows, pointing with his spear toward the church, where the innocent are, indeed, /now in the middle of a cloud of howling demons./ He snatches up Lydia with his spare arm, flinging her over his shoulder. "She'll be coming back sooner than we want!"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael laughs as Jon realizes the error of his state. But it's a short victory as the portals of the Endless Graveyard open and it's armies spill forth. He barks out an angellic command and forces of lesser angels simply manifest and engage the hoards of the Hell Lord. He eyes the Lady Death and darts for her, shield at the ready and spear glowing with the need for violence. "You had your chance creature, now we will dance."

    It's his singular focus on Lady Death that makes him not see the shot coming his way. The bale water bullet cuts into his armor and sizzles with angry red heat. The archangel jerks and a trickle of blood pours from him mouth. His eyes widen and he looks down at Cael. He looks in pain. In agony. His words drip with anger and violence. "Enough with the games. Destroy them. Destroy them all." He zips forth, his trjectory shifting faster than the eye can track. In a split instance he materializes beneath the White Witch's steed and shoves his divine spear into the beasts mass before darting past the pairing. He appears above, hand clutching another divine spear, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and an angry red hole pulsing at his side where the bullet entered. Waiting for the true threat to rise to engage him.

    More angels, seraphim by their look, appear in the door to the Cathedral and with them are a group of mortals, seven by their count. Each holds what might be a pulse rifle of some advanced technological make. They level their guns at the defense force and open fire with trained bursts of violent blue energy, if the smoking pits in the asphalt are any indication, getting hit with one of those bursts wouldn't be recommended.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist /laughs/ as Lady Death's voice echoes from him, and the prtals open. His eyes light up, and he /beams/ at Michael. "Bet you weren't--"

    Caitlin's scream hits, then, and the stomp. The Outsiders comm he's wearing dampens the sound--they work with speedsters on the regular, the comms can filter out sonic booms--and the firey blue mystical energy in his chest expands to form a shield around him, protecting him from the worst of the damage. He peers down at that, blinking, then looks up at Caitlin rocketing away.

    "Yeah, that's not happening," the Archivist says to Atrun. "They're on Michael's side. That's their /headquarters/. Do /not/ try to storm it--let's focus on wiping out as much of the vanguard as we can so they can't expand their footprint."

    He takes a breath. "Lydia," he says to the vampire Atrun's holding, "/get up/." He pushes out his own emotional aura around him--hope, and confidence, bravery overcoming the terror. They can /do/ this. Maybe it's just because he's wrapped in the outfit and the glowing citrine glow of his ancestors, but he's not half so terrified as the others. "If we don't fight, Bushwick dies. If we don't fight, Raven and Clarice and all our friends /die/. Get /up/. Focus on Fairchild. She's mortal, just like us. We can fight her, once she's back. Cael, don't stop shooting Michael until the clip's empty."

    Clearly he has no idea just how bad that sound was, for the others.

    He orients himself on Caitlin, drops his personal shield, to depend on the one Lady Death provided through her Energy Arcane. It gives him enough concentration to be able to spin his staff and slam the butt into the ground. Ice surrounds the Titan, magical ice cold as any glacier, the pure /idea/ of ice, drawn from the Astral Plane. It should hurt, and it might, one hopes, hold her in place once she lands. "I swore to Troia and Sarah Rainmaker that I would keep you alive!" he calls to her. "I didn't promise not to hurt you!"

Hope Svelgate has posed:
Shambling horrors, skeletal warriors, rotting corpses, the dead that fill the square take many forms and yet they seem completely lucid, each in possession of a soul and all of the prowess they had in life. Their armaments range from medieval to machinegun as they charge the angelic forces, charge the place where Caitlin was until moments before and charge the Cathedral itself. Following their orders to the letter it would seem Lady Death's armies really are intent on there being no survivors.

Vassago lets out a whiny of pain as Michael's spear pierces the creature. The beast whose speed has been described as unimaginable is caught offguard by the alacrity of the Angelic foe and though wounded, when Michael turns his back to engage Lady Death, Vassago belches forth a cloud of Hellfire at the Angel's wings, even as still more flames bleed from its wound.

Even as Vassago twists and belches the Hellfire at Michael, the image of Lady Death upon Vassago's back shimmers and evaporates, another feint, an illusion, even going so far as to place her beloved Vassago in mortal peril to turn the tables on the Archangel.

<<You should talk to Jophiel more.>> Comes the voice of the real Lady Death standing atop of one of the Cathedral's spires, Apocalypse crackling with mystic power as she points it towards the sky preparing to call down a bolt of lightning charged with her magic upon Michael. <<I don't fight fair, I fight to win!>>

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Up she goes, at a velocity that would be breakneck if Caitlin were human. She's out of sight in moments thanks to the incredible power of the former Atlantean battle-mage.

There is perhaps a problem with this plan. It fails to take several factors into account. One of them is that Caitlin can survive re-entry if she has to. It hurts, and it's not fun, but she does make an effective orbital strike weapon.

The second one, and more relevant, is that Caitlin's new powers have established a moratorium on her former problems with being airborne.

A blue speck burns with flashes of orange and yellow overhead. It plunges to Earth at a breakneck speed, like a rocket rushing to its target. Caitlin shoots past Lady Death close enough for her wake to destabilize Hope's flight trim. But her target is below, and at the last minute a set of ethereal, wispy wings like white silk streamers flares from her back. Magic as they are, they certainly work as advertised and they transfer Caitlin's momentum into her swinging feet. The impact makes dozens of cars jump and rock on their axles and sprays more detritus from the parking lot around.

The redhead turns towards Jon and runs right into his invocation. She manages to get a hand up in front of her face but the primordial ice encapsulates her fast and crushes her in layer after layer of clear, frozen water.

A moment passed. Then a few more. Abruptly the ice explodes like a bomb goes off in the heart of it, sending frozen shrapnel in all directions. Where it touches Caitlin's still-hot armor, the mush flashes to steam and curls around her dramatically.

"You need to /surrender/," she grates at Jon-- and just to prove her point she reaches over and flicks Atrun-Rai in the inner shoulder with her middle finger.

The impact from that single digit is sufficient to break bone, tear muscles, and send a grown man ass over teakettle in full flight for a measure of full yards.

"Now."

Cael Becker has posed:
    "Hey Jon! They work!" Cael crows - a large, satisfied smile on her features as she meets Michael's gaze. "FIRE FUCKING SUCKS, DOESN'T IT, MICHAEL!" she shouts at the angel.
    Okay, nevermind that it's water - look. That's not the point.
    She stuggles to track Michael with her weapon as he zips, and moves with the sort of speed that, she worries, might make dodging bullets a very real possibility - and it forces her to wait for the right moment. The moment she chooses is as he raises his divine spear to engage with Lady Death. She pumps off shot after carefully aimed shot, aimed for center mass just as the image of Michael's foe blinks out, and Cael counts down in her mind each of her remaining bullets, ready to pull her finger away from the trigger if he blurs away from his current position. Thirteen, Twelve, Eleven...
    One. She shifts her aim upwards, towards the being's face, as she squeezes off the last shot. Sure, it's risky. But she'd made a promise. "Right in your smug fucking face," she mutters under her breath - completely inaudibly. Well, to her at least.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    And then, just like that, his shoulder twists exactly in the way that shoulders shouldn't. Metal shatters, bones snap, muscles tear - and he is driven back, ten, fifteen feet, and he is in agony. Pain, despite his horrible substance, is still a thing that he knows well.

    But Atrun-Rai is as stubborn as Caitlin. And this is not a fight that he will win - so he does what a man of logic does, and with one arm a mangled ruin hanging limply at his side, and dark, dark blood (or is it black?) drooling from his mouth, Atrun-Rai starts to approach once more, the spear in his hand brandished like a magic staff. Which, unbeknownst to anyone yet, it is. Though it is pained, his mouth forms another word, and like her scream at the start his voice carries forward in a bellowing roar, the force of it flinging Caitlin through the air once more albeit to a much lesser distance. Because while she can lift many many tons, she is still just the weight of a woman, and that isn't much when her attention is elsewhere.

    << WE DO NOT YIELD TO DESTRUCTION, >> he bellows, his voice taking on a strange, sonorous roar. << REALITY WILL BE PRESERVED. >>

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The angelic forces meet with the forces of the dead and its a stalemate. Neither force gains ground and it seems a one for one loss from high above. The belch of hellfire is only barely dodged by the Archangel and he focus his deiurgic gaze on the fellsteed. "Foul beast... you should know when your rider is gone that you are of no more use."

    There is a crackling in the air around the fellsteed and the sheer force of Michael's Will imposes itself upon it. If it doesn't eraticate it completely it is likely to remove it from being a threat.

    He turns to see Lady Death atop the spires of the Cathedral. He doesn't engage her in talk, instead he simply throws a divine lance at her form. The spear of holy forged power speeds for the woman at nearly impossible speed. Just as he releases the lance a bolt of blue-red energy lances down through him, he arches in torment but despite the searing force of Apocalptic energy tearing at the fabric of his being, he still remains afloat.

    Below one of the seraphim behind the mortals with guns speaks. "The innocent have been Raptured and are experiencing paradise. Those within this place are Michael's chosen. Warriors all. You seek to save those who will move against you. A foolish gesture."

    Again Michael's singular focus seems to be his downfall. Bullet after bullet after bullet impact Miachel's prone yet hovering form. And the amror encasing him beings to crack, crevaces of golden white light bleed forth from within. The final bulletstrikes home just under his left eye, an angry red hole sizzling with sullen heat. More cracks appear over his face, as more golden light beings to spill out from within. "And unfortunate turn..." he says, his weary eyes drifting to Cael. "Now you have settled our score. I congratulate you..."

    His body then begins to shudder and writhe with violent jerks and spasms. Thunder rolls overhead, its own tone a counter bell against Lady Death's strike. What does it mean?

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The shield of Energy Arcane around the Archivist stands up to the hail of shards of his own ice. He glances aside to the cathedral, but the seraph calms his worry. There are no innocents there, no babes or sick or elderly to save. Michael's proven himself honorable to his own people, at least. Where are they? That's for later.

    "Yeah, no," he replies, as Caitlin goes flying. "Not surrendering. Fairchild, I'll give you a hint--/you're/ the villain here. And /we're/ the heroes, so, you know, insert a witty quip here, something about paying more attention to what you're facing. Like your boss over there." He grins at Cael, but it's brief.

    Then he takes a breath and focuses. Murmurs something under his breath in ancient Egyptian. This is going to hurt. It's going to hurt a /lot/. But with Caitlin so overpowered...

    "The trouble you're having, Fairchild, is that you're depending on /one/ source of power. And that's why your side is going to lose this game--because we're drawing from /several/ places. That was the power of Hell that just broke Michael's armor--and this is the power of Void."

    The shield around Cael falls. The ice disappears. Every other bit of magic save the faint trickle that keeps the Archivist outfit on him falls away. The Archivist focuses the whole of his mind onto one thing: the beam of not-light, of nothing and nowhere, that pours from his staff, aimed directly at Caitlin. The power of Nullspace, granted by Ammit, at least for the moment. But the strain on him is clear; he's not /meant/ to channel this power, not directly. Not like this. Still, it's been enough to hold off Michael and power circles before; it should be enough to at least touch Caitlin.

Hope Svelgate has posed:
Lady Death's face contorts with rage as Michael attacks Vassago and she is about to yell something, when there is a wet thunk and she feels a sensation she hasn't felt in some time, her own blood or what passes for it as she looks down to see herself impaled through the abdomen on Michael's holy lance pinning her to the spire.

The realization only seems to make her angrier, frothing rage as the battle lust rises within her. She gives a cough and vomits some more of that blood-like substance as she tears the spear from her stomach. <<Nice shot, you son of a bitch.>> She spits and wipes her mouth, holding tightly to the spear. <<Trying to pierce me with your holy shaft? JUST FUCKING DIE ALREADY!!!>> The white haired warrior screams as she lunges for Michael's faltering form, the spear erupting in pure Hellfire along its entire length as she does in blasphemous mockery of its holy purpose.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin goes flying backwards, crashing through one car and into another before her tumbling reversal is complete. She's fast, though, fast on her feet and kicks her way clear of the debris.

It's just in time to catch Jon's entropic assault. And it -hurts-. It hurts like nothing that Caitlin's ever been hit with. She screams in pain, raw and real and unfiltered. The entropic ray annihilates swahtes of her armor like tissue, leaving jagged edges where the faith shield is simply *deleted* from reality. Jon's attack isn't just undoing her protection, it's attacking the reality of her person-- and even Caitlin's obdurate skin can't hold up against an attack that literally deletes energy from the universe itself.

She lifts her hands and arms, trying to shield herself, her core, then her face, and stumbles sideways to get ahead of the beam. Caitlin is fast and agile and even wounded she manages to duck under it and get a pace ahead of Jon's aim.

Two steps is all she needs. She grabs a tire from the the now-wrecked car and rips it clear of the axel. Brake pads and discs go flying. She turns and pirouettes beautifully and hurls the fifty-pound mass of rubber and steel right for Jon, with pinpoint accuracy and enough velocity to get her a walk-on with the Red Sox as a starting pitcher.

Cael Becker has posed:
    Cael ignores the shards of ice the shatter across the shields around her - as she drops the now empty gun she was holding, and answers Michael's with one of the most universally understood gestures of humanity: the double birds. "Fuck off, asshole."
    She doubts the rest of her armaments will harm Michael in any way, so with some regret she turns her attention away from him, only to spy a group of seraphim advancing on a group of what appeared to be normal citizens, defended by a few SHIELD agents who'd also joined in the fight. Reaching for her weapons, she decides it's time to try the sort of thing you really should do in New York under normal circumstances. ...she lobs a grenade into the middle of the group of Seraphim.
    Call it a science experiment, because she has questions she wants to answer. Can you blow up angels?

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Bleeding still, the ichor drooling from his lips, Atrun-Rai is hit by one of the sparkling packets of light shot from the Childrens' rifles at the door - it's a glancing blow, only, but he lets out a bellow of pain that still rings with the resonance of his previous telekinetic roar. Turning to stare at Michael's mortal soldiers, his eyes fill with bright light, blue-white and shining like corpse-lights in the moment.

    << NATHEN-KE TANA. >>

    And as one, the their potent weapons shudder before turning into salt, crumbling away through their fingers. He turns, then, and proceeds forth, casting a black look at the angels bellowing from the church's door. << THERE IS NOTHING FOOLISH OF MERCY WHEN IT IS JUST, >> he tells them, then prepares to deal with what comes next. Whatever that might be. Smoke billowing from his ravaged side.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael's form shudders more and he arches back, golden light spills out from his eyes and mouth into the sky. There is a scream of defiant rage from the other side of the Church as a creature born of Vengeance bellows the name of his quarry: "MIIIICHAAAAAEEEEELLLL!!!"

    It might be that defiant call that sets it off, it could be the deathstrike of Lady Death upon his form, or it could just be that whatever timer was inside of the Archangel hit :00. Whatever the cause, the Archangel's body splits open and its as if a nuclear bomb is set off in the air.

    Golden flame, white light, and divine energy erupt in a catastrophic sound, consuming the figure of Lady Death in its blast. Windows shatter, buildings fall, and a shockwave of force rains down upon the street.

    The forces of the angels seem to be bolstered by the eruption instead of hurt by it. Some that had fallen in the fight rise up once more to fight again. The tide of angels starts to grow in power and push back against the Army of the Dead. Holy energy washes down over Caitlin and her armor is forged anew, her strength restored to full.

    The grenade Cael threw was succesful to a point. The angelic forces are blasted away only the rise once more and push against the SHIELD agents, forcing them to retreat.

    The mortal Warriors, their weapons turned to salt, look to the sky and instead of fleeing the field they bask in the radiance of their leaders glorious counterstrike.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    It's only the Energy Arcane that saves Jon's life.

    At that speed, fifty pounds of rubber and steel slamming into the Archivist's torso should break ribs, break spine, splatter organs. As it is, he's sent flying, his body flung like a rag doll, right into the side of a building. His staff clatters to the ground, his head rebounds against the brick, and his eyes go crossed and then slide closed. Every bit of magic--even the Archivist transformation--drops away. He's dressed in SHIELD tactical gear, though even that isn't enough to protect him. But there's that flash of blue energy about him, and it's enough--just enough--to keep him alive and his spine unbroken.

    For about a minute, it might very well look like he's dead.

    Then Jon groans and starts to sit up. Before he moves far he stops, gasping, coughing. Blood comes up with the cough. "Shit." He presses a hand to his side. Broken rib. Maybe more than one. "Shit." Maybe a punctured lung? He can't quite recall what happened, and that's not good. He was firing negative energy at Caitlin and then... Tim was talking to him? And now he's slumped against a wall.

    Over the Outsiders comm: <<"Red Robin, repeat? I think I have a concussion. Repeat. Can you hear me?">>

    Someone's down. He heard that much. Someone's down, and none of the possibilities are good.

    Then there's a flare of holy energy in the sky and another shockwave hits; the shield of Energy Arcane protects him once more. How long will that last, though? He looks up. Several things click into place: First, that Michael just /died/, and all it did was re-charge the angels. Second, that the hyper-focus on Michael instead of his angels--against whom they'd have had a chance--has only /increased/ the vanguard's power. Third, that Caitlin Fairchild hits like a damn /asteroid/ without even trying.

    They're going to have to change tactics, and fast. Asymmetrical warfare. Sabotage, precision strikes, ambushes. He's going to have to talk to Uriel again, /and/ he's probably going to have to try to get Lady Death to actually... work with them.

    But all of /that/ only happens if they survive.

    <<FALL BACK,>> he calls out telepathically. <<We're going to have to come at this from another angle! FALL BACK.>>

Hope Svelgate has posed:
When the blinding flash of light clears, Lady Death's singed and battered form still hangs there in the air for at least a few moments longer. <<Well played, you son of a bitch.>> she manages to croak before losing consciousness and plummeting from the sky to the ground below. The charred shaft of Michael's Holy Lance clatters to the ground next to where her body impacts with a heavy thud, smoke still rising from it.

For a moment the legions of the Dead and Damned falter to see their Lady fallen, but then a cry goes up and it seems like the onslaught will be renewed with twice the ferocity, Vengeance is a cardinal virtue in the Endless Graveyard after all. Only the attack does not come.

<<Hold!>> Comes a deep ressonant male voice and every single one of the Dead soldiers and Demon warriors halts their assault as a mountain of a man, perhaps seven feet tall, and seemingly made of little else aside from muscle with weapons seemingly too big to be used by any ordinary human strapped to his back steps out.

Cremator takes a moment to survey the aftermath of the attack and shakes his head. <<She may direct her rage at me when she awakens. Form a vanguard! We are leaving! Bring Vassago! This fight is finished, for now.>> Cremator lifts Lady Death in his arms like she weighs nothing at all and begins walking towards one of the portals with the intent of leaving and as he does so the Armies of the Dead and Damned begin to fall back towards the gaping rents in reality from which they first emerged.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin staggers and falls into cover. She's hurting. That attack, that entropic weapon, hurt her in ways no other weapon had. A broken femur, a smashed collarbone-- nothing compared to the gripping, utter certainty that she was *dying* at the touch of that thing.

She grips her heart, head bowed and breath coming in choking, rasping gasps. There is a flash of light, a soul-shaking shudder, and sudden warmth. Caitlin's eye flutter and shut as that holy light pours into her. In just a moment, all the pain and fear and uncertainty becomes... bliss. Relaxed and razor sharp. Even her armor reforges itself and in short order she gets her feet under her.

From somewhere in the parking lot, a mid-size Buick is hurled in a high arc towards the last place Caitlin remembered seeing the whole trio attacking her from.

They are not a priority anymore; she leaps over two vehicles and dives for her spear. Those silken wings flare wide and carry her up into the air. She is no substitute for Michael's blinding glory but the radiance of heaven pouring from her is still a star that burns bright.

"No quarter for the demons!" Caitlin cries. "No mercy for the undead!" She delivers fast and efficient orders to the momentarily disoriented angelic legion. It takes them only moments to reform ranks and their pursuit of the retreating unholy forces becomes significantly more efficient and aggressive. Caitlin herself flies forward like a loosed arrow, spear held against her body and her narrow-eyed aim fixed right on the vulnerable half-demon godling being carried away from peril. At the very edge of range and timing she comes up short before the hulking demon can depart with his ward, and throws the spear at him with all the force and accuracy she can muster.

Cael Becker has posed:
    "Jon!" Cael cries in alarm when he's knocked flying, and all his magic seems to go out. No, no, no. It wasn't supposed to happen yet. It wasn't supposed to- "Sims is down," she says urgently into her comms. "I can't hear any replies. I've been deafened. He- thank-" who, God? "...He's breathing." She barely even had time to register the results of her experiiment as she takes up a position over Jon, guarding him with her gun drawn while firing off the occasional shot at any angels that threaten her position or any of her allies. She hurls a second grenade at another group of angels, just as Jon wakes up coughing, to find her crouching over him.
    "Got your back," she remarks with a brief smile. "You good? Use hand signals - can't hear anything." She doesn't seem particularly troubled by this fact, however - as she squeezes off a few more shots past Jon's shoulder - just before that bright flash is followed by a blast of force that knocks her flat again, accompanied by a renewed ringing in her ears. She can feel something warm trickling down from her ears now as she starts to climb back to her feet, and she lets out a quiet, but heartfelt, "Fuck." She'd anticipated a lot of risks today - the possibility of going permanently deaf hadn't been anywhere on her radar, though.
    It'll heal. Right?
    At the telepathic call to fall back Cael offers Jon, "I'll cover you," as she slams a new clip into her gun to continue firing.
    But a gun can only do so much. "JON THERE'S A CAR!"

Atrun Rai has posed:
    He sees what's coming, the light pouring from the cracks in Michael's incarnated form. Knows that is about to happen. Atrun-Rai has seen death before, and knows it coming even as its curvaceous avatar screams obscenities from on high. The moment is lost; was it strategy? Sacrifice? So too does he see Death come again, and alas, no pale maiden is to come down and ferry him to rest. At the other end of the tunnel is only to be angry, hungry maws and coldly alien gods.

    Even as the first of the holy beams shine down upon him, when nobody else is looking, his body is already dissolving into vapor. The powerful sorceror, creature of the slavering abyss that he is, has only a moment to frown before he is erased entirely from existence by the awesome surge of solar light, vanishing in an instant. No spear, no armor, not even the black blood from his wounds - all these things are either removed from this plane or spirited away by the tendrils of his abhorrent masters even as the last rays of the holy blast begin to fade. Back, back, where even Death will die - as She very nearly has - and eventual, agonizing reconstitution awaits.

    But none else, of course, know this. For anyone else, when they finally can look up...nothing remains of Atrun-Rai but a scorched spot where the Atlantean had stood.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    A resonant baritone voice calls from the center of the fading light of the explosion. "Let them go..." the Lord of Hosts says. He isn't in armor at this moment. Instead, he wears a tunic of white and a circlet of gold at his brow. His wing still bears the damage done by Jon before his full arrival but otherwise he looks unscathed. He lands not far from the group and and reaches a hand out to the oncoming Buick. The car simply evaporates at the gesture. "Shelley," he says to Cael, "such vulgarities are beneath you, especially when you fought so well. Hurt me in ways that not even the entity who supplied the fuel of your bullets has done."

    The angelic forces regroup and form up once more as the last of the Dead Army leave the field. "Tell the Lady I meant no disrespect in my trick... but it needed to be shown that I am not to be trifled with."

    He looks to Jon. "Jonathan. Come to me when you are ready for it, not when you are still burdened by the loss of your child. Find her. Make her safe. Then you and I shall have our discourse."

    He takes to the air once more, hovering near Caitlin. He places a hand on her pauldron in an affectionate and almost fatherly manner. "Also give my regards to the Wise Man. His eagerness to show my subjects mercy was... inspiring. Go. Take your defeat and come when you are ready for another."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon manages to focus on Cael finally, and smiles brightly at her, standing over him with her gun, climbing back to her feet even after being laid out prone by another shockwave. Fire and determination surround her in an aura so bright it's almost blinding. "I really do love you," he says, and it's a good thing she can't hear and isn't looking at him, because this is probably the /worst/ time to blurt /that/ out.

    Look, the guy's got a concussion, okay? He's not thinking too clearly.

    But then there's a /car/ flying at them, and Jon's eyes widen. Despite broken ribs, he reaches out past the pain. He grabs Cael around the waist, pulls her close to him, and instinctively crouches down. He flings a hand into the air, his spread fingers creating a shimmering bubble of one of his water-based shields around them. Praying, praying, praying that it will be enough to protect them from the incoming Buick. He can't save anyone else--not Lydia, knocked out by Caitlin's attack, not Atrun who may be dead and gone again, not anyone on the other side of the cathedral. But maybe, /maybe/ he can protect Cael.

    But the Buick doesn't land.

    Jon blinks and looks up, uncurling just a bit, enough to let Cael go if she wants to move. Breath comes in painful gasps. He narrows his eyes at Michael.

    "I'll take... your mercy... in the spirit it's given," he manages. "Don't think... we'll stop, though. We won't... let you... do this... again."

    Into comms, both SHIELD and Outsiders: <<"Michael's... letting us go. Fall back. Regroup at Grand Central.">>

Hope Svelgate has posed:
The undead soldiers close ranks and it is a fighting retreat. Suppression fire from machine guns fields by the more recently deceased, dead who died in places like Viet Nam, keep most of the pursuers at bay with their Netheranium bullets.

The Spear thrown by Caitlin is another matter entirely and the seemingly even mannered Cremator turns, eyes flaring with absolute Hellfire. Still cradling Lady Death in one massive arm, the other is held forth unleashing a massive burst of Hellfire immolating the spear until it is only bits of burning slag on the wind. <<Learn when to give up and regroup Wounded Child, before you do something regrettable.>> His eyes stray to the reformed Michael, as he flies towards them, and he simply steps through the portal returning to the Endless Graveyard.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin turns her head at the sound of Michael's voice. Relief sags her shoulders and she turns in the air to fly towards his side obligingly. One hand rests on her ribs, over the armor, as if checking for lingering pain from the dastardly attack by Jon Sims.

She does not speak. Michael's said his piece for all of them. Instead she holds a resolute mien as the battered intruders limp away from the Cathedral, providing silently unwavering support for Michael's offer of peaceful withdrawal.

There will be another fight to come. Another battle to wage. Caitlin had weathered their best hits and surprise assaults with a disheartening lack of significant duress. She looks fresh and ready to fight, and there's a sense of the implacable stamina of the endurance hunter in her hard expression.

Cael Becker has posed:
    Cael was perfectly unaware of Jon's admiration as she continues to defend him - and doesn't resist at all as he pulls her to him, her eyes going wide as she sees the car arching in towards them - only to vanish entirely from sight, prompting a breath of relief. She's back on her feet moments later, standing over Jon defensively, and glaring at Michael - the message there clear enough without being spoken. She's more than happy to stand between Jon and her worst nightmare.
    "There's ten souls lined up behind me that still owe you their own retribution - and still you mean to take a twelvth victim? I'll talk to you any fucking way I please, you sack of shit." She continues to glare at him, as the evacuation begins in earnest, before she finally turn towards Jon - offering a hand to help him up, and assist him from the field of battle.
    "Let's get you some help, you look like shit," Cael murmurs. "Fuck I hope I don't live the rest of my life only able to hear //Michael's// voice. That would be some twisted bullshit right there."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael watches impassively as the defenders start to leave the field. He turns and gestures for Caitlin and his Warriors to follow him into the Cathedral. "There is much to discuss my, Champion. But you have done so very, very well today."

    The doors of the Cathedral close behind him and the angelic army takes fortifying positions behind the retreating force to the point of Murray Hill where Grand Central Station stands as the Minas Tirith of New York.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    It's a good thing there are SHIELD medics nearby, waiting to help with the wounded, because when Jon tries to take Cael's hand and push himself to his feet he suddenly coughs again, bringing up more blood. Oh. That's not good.

    He glances aside to Caitlin before she leaves with Michael. Smiles at her, faintly. "You'll be... the death of me... Fairchild."

    Then he slumps forward, into whoever's going to catch him, whether that's Cael or the SHIELD medics converging on the wounded--and taking away those agents who died here. Because surely there were fatalities.

Cael Becker has posed:
    "Jon?" Cael asks in concern, as she sees his lips flecked with blood. He starts weakening quickly, and her arms goes around him to support him, quickly lowering him back to the cracked, and shattered ground as she kneels beside him. "Jon, it's okay. We'll get you help," she promises, before calling urgently into her comms, <<"Sims is down. I need a medic - just east of 5th and 50th.">> And even though she can't hear any replies she adds reassuringly, "They're coming, Jon."
    Thankfully, it isn't a lie - and a pair of medics quickly arrive to load the man onto a stretcher, carrying him to safety - while Cael limps alongside him, ignoring her growing headache.
    She's fine. They need to see to Jon.