9082/Path of Glory: All Nations Shall Serve

Path of Glory: All Nations Shall Serve
Date of Scene:	15 January 2022
Location:	Financial District
Synopsis:	The full force of the angelic army arrives in Manhattan and the battle beings in earnest. The defense force of mortality manages to fight the forces of Michael back enough to win a decisive victory in the war.
Cast of Characters:	Michael Demiurgos, Jonathan Sims, Terry O'Neil, Phoebe Beacon, Lydia Dietrich, Daniel Ketch, Clarice Ferguson, Asariel
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

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Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    The invasion began in earnest not long ago. Any hopes of the vanguard being the whole of the angelic forces is quickly dashed as the fifty thousand strong (give or take a few hundred) swells to nearly two million. And that isn't nearly all. By a long shot. To those with magical senses the sky is ablaze with energy. They may not be visible but they are there. Hundreds of millions, perhaps even billions, of angels wait to be called in as reinforcements. The number beyond counting.

    The initial aggressive wave moves in on the island; spreading out, filling pockets that the vanguard prepared as staging and holding areas for the commencement of the attack. The resistance forces suffer heavy casualties even as they maintain a tenuous hold on the supply lines filtering in and out of Murray Hill.

    But that is not where the bulk of the first wave focuses their attack. Instead, they sail south down 5th Avenue. A nearly solid column of light and fire blazing like a sentient comet to their destination, the leaders of the army at the head of the column. A sharp easterward turn on 8th destroys an abandoned office building housing administrative offices for a number of businesses. The dust and debris doesn't seem to phase them. Another sharp turn on Broadway, again heading south, destroys the corporate offices of one of the world's major social media sites (Meta indeed.) It doesn't stop their advance as their target falls in sight.

    The swell of green that is Battery Park.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The forces of the resistance are waiting for the angels, though they're probably not expecting quite so... many. Some of those stationed in Battery Park visibly waver at the sight of the angels, and there's a quiet murmurs of commands to hold steady from others in their ranks. There's a simple enough plan, at least for the organized resistance, in place today: hold off the angels long enough for the wellspring of energy at Bosque Fountain to be properly sealed so the angels have no more reason to come here, at least not until the seal fades within a lunar month.

    Of course, this is a holding action and a distraction. Let the angels think this is the whole of the resistance's plan, don't let them know about the grander, more permanent Seal that Lydia Dietrich is working on with other members of the Justice League Dark. That's why the plan is so simple, and the magical working so obvious and flashy. Let the Champion stand there and hold Michael's attention so someone else can get the shot on him. It's worked before.

    Jon's wearing his SHIELD tac gear and swapped his boots for water shoes, because he's standing /in/ the fountain, and boots will just be heavy and waterlogged. He waves a circle with his staff and green fire erupts around the edge of the fountain. "Keep the angels out of this perimeter until I'm done," he says, staring at the column of light coming down the street toward him. Not /visibly/ wavering, but good /lord/ that's terrifying. "And... don't /die/. I... I think I can probably heal anything short of that." It's a prayer, in a way. He doesn't want his friends to die in this. Anything else, well, Michael's almost here. The game's about to start.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"I've no intention of dying," Vorpal says, "I've got 'Hamilton' tickets for 2024, so at least I have to make it to then. Jesus, the waitlists on that are /crazy/." And then, a beat, "They had better not destroy the theater."

The Cheshire cat is wearing his usual Titans outfit, but complemented with some heavy tac gear that the Tower has for those non-powered or squishy people in case of extreme situations. This counts as one of those. Lydia's amulet safely secured under the layers of protective gear.

"I wonder if my mom's office is still standing," he muses. Not that his mother was /there/, she was with April. With enough ammo to start a small section of world war three by herself. Add Harley to that equation, and it was a marvel that it hadn't started yet.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe was not prepared for the sheer numbers that she was seeing. Her magical senses were nearly overwhelmed, her eyes narrowing as she sees the pillar of fire oncoming. She steels herself watching as they make their way down.

    She feels The Light well up. She feels her fingers tingle with anxiousness and her own magic. She was wearing her gray jacket over her Gotham-made armor, hood up, her domino lowered as she looks to the oncoming horror of the Host.

    "If you can't, I can." she calls back to Jon, and gives a wan smile to the other head of the JLD, and then she cracks her neck, and on the backs of her gloves the eight-point magical circles draw up on the backs of her hands.

    "Exolvo mi, da mihi lumen..."

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia stands there gaping as the hosts of heaven descend upon them. "My God," she breathes. "There's so many." Already her beast inside is whimpering in terror, urging her to flee, but this time she's prepared for it and holds her ground.

She's dressed up today in combat armor that's standard issue for Brotherhood ops. No use taking any chances, here. She tears her gaze away from the heavens to glance at Jon and says, wryly, "Too late, Jon. I'm already dead."

Daniel Ketch has posed:
The second the angel offensive starts the Ghost Rider overrides all of Daniel's objections and heads back to Manhattan at high speed. Showing all the surviving instincts of a mad lemming, he rides to intercept the huge angelic horde. His flaming motorcycle races over the water, coming from Brooklyn, crossing the East River as it reaches the sea in matter of seconds.

There are people dying, and many qualify as innocents. The Ghost Rider is a creature of focused purpose. It doesn't matter if the cause is a hell lord, or a million angels, he will take vengeance or die fighting.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    Clarice stands near Lydia, similarly dressed for the fight - standing out amongst the combatants with her bright magenta hair and skin. "Yuh gawh be kiddin..." she murmurs quietly, slipping into a Bajan accent, as she's been doing now and than ever since she started spending more time in Barbados.
    There's not a lot that scares the magenta-hued mutant. She's confident, and she believes her portals can get her through almost any danger. But this... this is a lot. "...if we don't hold here it's bad, right? Real bad?"
    Great.

Asariel has posed:
Asariel's floating about fifty feet off the ground as she watches the Heavenly Host make their descent. Her wings are spread out behind her and her eyes have that glow to them that most people might get used to seeing from the incoming vanguard, but she's not one of the bad guys! Who ever thought the /ANGELS/ would be /THEBADGUYS/. She wasn't looking forward to the conflict, is this what huge family reunions felt like? Just pure adrenaline, anxiety and the urge to throw up nana's banana pudding before the afternoon is over?

Probably.

She's dressed in jeans, long sleeved button up shirt and her boots. She ditched the coat today, she was going to be too adrenalized to worry about the cold. So for now...she waits.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    The angelic legion stops at the edge of the open space that houses the waterplay area that is the Bosque Fountain. Thirteen of their number appear distinct from the troops behind them. The lead central figure is of course Michael; resplendent in armor that glows metallic white. It seems he's upgraded from holy gold to holy platinum. The lance in his right hand is still gold and the shiled in his left is that same fire-blackened silver as before.

    To his left stand six other individualized angels. The first is a creature of light and marble. He is only somewhat shorter than Michael, with white hair that curls about his head like a crown. His skin in alabaster in color and seems set as much as the substance. His eyes are pure white as is his armor. Over the armor he wears a surcoat with a book and quill. His wings, massive silver and white feather covered appendanges spread out behind him. Looking upon him forces his name into the mind: METATRON.

    Past him on the left is another. Well over seven feet in height. His own features are youthful and serene by comparison to the sterness that Michael exudes. His armor is burnished bronze and his long curly blonde hair only emphasizes his youth. His eyes glow golden, as do the feathers on his resplendent wings. His name also comes to mind as he is viewed: Sandalphon.

    Another yet is to the left of him. He too seems youthful but not in the same innocent way. His sandy blonde hair flares out behind him and his light blue eyes shine with eagerness. He carries a trumpet in one hand and a simple sword in the other. His armor is polished gold, like Michael's was in their first encounter. His blue-silver wings flap in time; possibly keeping him afloat, possibly for appeareances sake. Gabriel.

    Another still to his left. This angels features almost appear feminine, riding the line of androgyny perfectly. Long straight dark hair is head back in a cord and his eyes glow pink with unnatural light. In one hand he carrries a simple, unadorned staff. Rose petals swirl about him adding more color to the already rose colored wings that flare out behind him. His armor is also rose hued gold. Raphael.

    Yet another to his left. This angel's hair is curly brown and ringed by a crown of white flowers. In his right hand he carries a thurible, the incense within misting around him and his brothers. In his left is a scepter that looks more like a mace. His armor is bronze and topped with a dark green surcoat. His wings, simple and white flex and flap in a stationary rhythm. Selaphiel.

    Finally, to the left at the end of the line is an angel encased entirely in dull grey armor from head to toe. In his hands he carries a pair of curved swords, possibly scimitars. His wings, also iron grey flare out behind him. There is an almost sentry feeling to this one and his name (like the others) is also burned into the minds of those who look upon him. Barachiel.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    To Michael's right stand six more archangels. The first is the nondescript youthful angel. His armor looks almost out of place on him, a simple breastplate and greaves under a dull linen surcoat with a stylized eye on it. His wings almost as respendent as Michael's untarnished one fan out without moving behind him. In one hand he carries a sword made of golden fire. Uriel.

    The next is a woman. Nothing could mistake her for anything but, her between the curves of her armor and the beauty of her features, it is most assuredly a woman. Long black hair flares out behind her and striking black eyes stare pitilessly upon the gathering. She wears a crownlike helmet on her head and carries a long sword in her right hand hand. Her left arm is covered in a fully armored guantlet, hiding it from view. Her wings are black feathered and she carries herself with the intent of battle. Jophiel.

    The next archangel is tall with white skin and white hair, much like the Metatron. His blue surcoat covers iron grey armor and in one hand he holds a simple dark leather book, in the other a long pole of the same dull metal as his armor. His wings spread out behind him in gold and red feathers. Jerahmiel.

    To his right is another angel wearing no armor at all. He is carrying a three pronged whip in his right hand. His dark brown hair is held back by a braided cord around his brows. His tunic is gold and teal in color. He exudes power, but also restraint. Wings of pale pink fan out behind him. His name echoes in the minds of those who view him: Jegudiel.

    Two more remain. To Jegudiel's right is another angel, this one also stradles the line of androgyny closely. In one hand it carries a crooked staff in the other a woodsman's axe that is ringed with flame. It's blonde hair and violet colored eyes peer upon the defenses with pity. Its armor is silver and shines with pride. Wings of a lavendar color spread out behind it and it shifts in place with unrestrained energy. Suriel.

    Finally, to the right of Suriel is another. It wears silver armor with a scarlet surcoat over it. A sword is sheathed at its side. Around its unblemished face is a halo of red energy, blending with the red-gold hair framing the face with its curls. His wings, also blood red, fan out behind him in a great display of power. Zadkiel.

    Behind the thirteen, forms a legion of the hierarchy. Angels, Cherubs, Principalities, Powers, Virtues, Dominions, Thrones and Seraphs form groups beyond stretching over the financial district.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    Michael speaks to the group. "Well, well, the defenders of mortality are gathered. Not an altogether poor showing if I am to be honest." Which he always is, in his own way. "You stand before us and attempt to take that which I have claimed as mine. I will give you one chance. You can depart now and I will not visit destruction on all you hold dear. You may spend your last few months in peace while we work to remake all that is. You will not be harmed and the end will come swiftly and without pain. One moment you will be, the next you will not and you won't even realize you're gone.." He smiles upon the group waiting for a response.

    The response he gets might not be the one he expects.

    Next to Jon a fountain of green water bursts up from one of the holes in the concrete as it falls a woman stands next to the Archivist. She is beautiful beyond words. Long brown hair falling down her back and deep green-brown eyes sparkle with kindness. A crown of living ivy rests on her head. Her gown is a simple green number without any identifying marks on it. She places a hand on Jon's shoulder and stares at Michael. "You should know my children will not drop so easily before your Light, Michael. They came to play just as you have. Stop your foolishness and let us begin" the words of Gaea, The Great Mother, shake with anger enough to make the Earth tremble."

    Michael's eyes narrow at the sight of Gaea and he nods. "So be it." He waves a hand and ten of the archangels simply vanish from the field, leaving Michael, Zadkiel, and Raphael behind along with a large contengincy of forces. "Hosts!" the Archangel calls, Demiurgic power rushing through his voice. "Advance!"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon swallows hard, staring at the ranks of the archangels and the legion of angels behind them. He notes each of the thirteen in turn, ensuring their names and countenances are burned into the Archive for so long as it exists. He takes a step back away from them as Michael speaks, knuckles going almost white on his staff. As Gaea places her hand on his shoulder, though, he stops the backward motion, straightens his shoulders. He nods.

    <<Hold steady,>> he says into the comms provided to those who came along with the resistance. <<We just have to keep them from the fountain long enough to get this spell off.>> He looks over toward Phoebe, nodding to her, the other leader of the JLD there.

    Then he speaks in a ringing voice--though not nearly so loud as Michael's. "We do not surrender! We do not retreat! We will hold, and in the name of Gaea, we will win." He frowns at Michael. "And I pray that in the end, we can forgive what you've done. This isn't the way. I hope we can show you that."

    He raises his staff, then, and begins to manipulate the magical energy welling up from the fountain, blue and gold light, trying to bend the energy to his will. This is his part in the game, at least for now. The energy streams quaver, but do not yet bend.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Bodycam filming, Terry gets a good loook at the entire Holy Assembly. Look at all the pretty angels coming to kill you all, Metropolis, courtesy of the Daily Planet, bringing you the End Times with journalistic integrity and powered by whatever eldritch liquid Lois prepares. Because it has been scientifically established that whatever it is that she brews, it fails almost all definitions of 'coffee' on Earth. Coffee isn't supposed to leave the carafe /cleaner/ than when it went in.

One more glance at the thirteen Archangels and their flashy get-up. "You know, the traditional costume section of the Miss Universe pageant gets more and more ridiculous each year," the Cheshire cat says, crossing his arms. It's not that he is beyond fear, it's that the Cheshire Cat hides many things with humor. Fear is definitely one of them.

When Michael gives the advance, Terry frowns. /Ten/ Archangels vanish? This smells like that stinky cheese that Gar tried to convince the Titans was a very rare Fleur Verte cheese, but turned out to be something that had been forgotten at the back of the vast refrigerator for ten months. He doesn't trust this one bit, this smells like stinky cheese- like a pincer maneuver about to happen. ? But their main quest is to keep the angels /back/. The Cheshire cat speaks into his comms <<Roger. There's ten Archangels that suddenly fucked off, so we need to be on the lookout from getting rearguarded and flanked for the moment...>>

Hands raised to the sky, wrists crossed in the Themysciran salute. "These assholes can suck my-"

With the speed of thought, the Cheshire cat summons his ability to punch a hole in reality itself. It's a trick he uses to bring Point A right next to Point B. It's something he uses for travel, for battle, and other things.

Right now? He's using it to open a hole in the middle of the host, leading to somewhere in the vicinity of Mars, aiming to suck as many angels as possible into the vacuum of space. Even if it doesn't succeeded as he planned, it should hopefully still cause some delay. Hopefully. "Rabbit Hole!"

Because of course. Admittedly, Vorpal has almost no reason to feel respectful towards the angels and their Judgy McJudgy faces.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe was waiting for their approach. She had prepared her circles, she had readied what she could in the brief time she had once she was able to finalize her part of a plan. And of course, now that she is faced with the enormity of the task of defending this site. She stands resolute, the coat covering her catching against the wind. She looks at the thirteen Archangels, feeling her stomach twist, her gloved hands, showing the octagram stars and her fingertips glowing with rose-gold as her gaze rests to Sandalphon last of the host, looking to the tall, Youthful angel with the golden glow, listening to his Commander, the player of This Glorified Game speak -- the chance to hide, painless endings whisper their temptation to the dusk-skinned magician. Her fingers, shaking as she faces Goliath before her, reach to her pocket. From the wrinkled and storied pack she withdraws the catalyst for her spellwork out here in the open.

    A single Silk Cut Cigarette. She holds it by the filter in her glowing fingertips, holding it before her as if it was a wand, a magic trick -- presto! Make this cigarette into a dove of peace! -- no such luck, however. She had a grim view of the outcome of this battle... and she had a bone to pick with the leader.

    "Per manum meam et hoc Terrae procuratorem, semitas ante me strenue." (Through my hand and this agent of Earth, activate the paths before me. )she speaks out, her Liverpuddlian-accented Latin echoing from the Gotham-grown mage as she feeds the energies gathered from collapsing the Radio City Music Hall ceiling on the rank-and-file and Cherubim. The lines of magic gather around her, the strings of her aura becoming visible, her eyes glowing with her rose-gold Light borrowed from the parting of the waters of Chaos in Times Before. The Silk Cut Cigarette lights like a sparkler

    "Fututus et mori en igni!" (Fuck off and die in fire!)

    And as Vorpal opens up his rabbit hole, Phoebe ignites her first round of Blast Circles, painted on the ground, etched in chalk and blood along buildings.

    Give Jon time? She's going to take down as many as she can to take the heat off the other leader. After all, those who heal can also Harm.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia recognizes a few of the archangels on sight, having met them. Some she knows oppose what Michael is trying to do but cannot work directly against him. Others seem to be rather eager to engage in combat. The appearance of Gaea is a surprise, and not an unwelcome one. This will level the playing field enormously.

She steps up and rests a hand on Clarice's shoulder. "We got this," she says with a confidence she doesn't exactly feel. She gestures to the woman standing next to Jon. "That's Gaea. She can take on Michael. We have a shot at this." She hesitates for a moment before slipping an arm around her for a sideways hug. "Let's kick some ass, right, sis?"

She disengages and crouches, ebony ectoplasmic talons growing from her fingers. The motes of black ectoplasm swirl about her almost as if they're eager to get into combat.

When the call to attack commences black wings erupt from her back and propel her forward with supernatural speed. But instead of hitting them head on she disappears in a flash of purple and *blinks* right behind the host, flanking them. The lesser angels aren't much of a match for her. Neither, really, are the Cherubim. The higher tiers will be harder to take down, but really, that isn't her goal. Her goal is to sow discord amongst the ranks, send their charge into disarray from the beginning. As soon as it looks like she'll be overrun she retreats, drawing a portion of the host with her.

Daniel Ketch has posed:
The Ghost Rider actually stop, dead stops and the massive motorcycle goes quiet when the thirteen archangels show up. He stares to the rulers of the Silver City for a few seconds, as Michael speaks. There are some ancient memories stirring in his mind, but nothing clear. What is clear is the angel host is a threat to the inhabitants of New York, and the whole world.

"Invaders, murderers!" He shouts with his deep and unearthly voice. "You who threaten the lives of countless innocents now face the wrath of the Spirit of Vengeance!" The flaming motorcycle roars and the Rider charges the host of heaven, whirling a flaming chain on his right hand, the chain explodes in a hundred incandescent stars as he comes a few yards from the winged enemies. A second later the whole motorcycle smashes against the first angels.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    Clarice's gaze, electric green and for once reflecting hints of fear that likely only the vampiric woman can recognize, fix onto her sister answer her with a nod. "For Theo," she says with determination. She'd do anything for her brother - she'd defend reality for //his// sake.
    After returning the one armed hug, she watches Lydia leap into the fray - and rather than opening a portal for her, she tosses a silvery javelin that hits Lydia in the shoulder, causing her to blink out in a flash of purple-hued energy, and reappear amongst the angelic host. Making sure she keeps Lydia in her line of vision, she lifts her hands, and a portal appears above the defenders who still encircle the fountain - capturing the ranged fire from some of the Thrones. An exit portal appears behind some of the angels - letting the blast through to assault the angelic forces instead. This was the second time Clarice was trying this trick - so she was prepared for the strain of carrying that much power through her portals - but her teeth grit with the effort of keeping the portals in the place.

Asariel has posed:
"So it begins." Asariel whispers to herself, given she's not on the ground with others she wasn't expecting anyone to hear her. She wasn't sure how this was going to go and she felt like she was playing a part that she'd not read whenever it came to this. The woman doesn't give any words after the others have said their peace. Michael and the others had most of the things that she cared dearly for.

She lets her wings guide her heavensward, heading for the closest angel that she can square up against, she was tiny, but she was mighty with her martial arts training...and they were going to see how it worked in the air!

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    The SHIELD forces engage against the angels, bullets and magical armaments tearing into the advancing force. They die in brilliant displays of faerie fire that fades shortly after it appears.

    The angelic advance was not expecting to be relocated so quickly and a number of the hosts are flung into the outer reaches of Mars, the quick change from pressure to vaccum destroys a number of them, the St. Elmos fire of their demise dispersing into nothing quickly. A number of other ones are set to righting themselves, surviving the trip but disoriented. Even so, two of the larger angels, Powers from the look of it move in to exert their Will on the hole it seals fairly quickly at that.

    The Archangels are -slowed- by the firebombs that erupt beneath them, but they pass through looking unscathed. Michael heads for Jon and Gaea but notices that the Great Mother has left the field of battle. She can't be in on this fight, instead trusting her children to manage with their own power. Jon is protected by the field of green fire; -her- fire. Instead he turns and angles for the other leader of the Justice League Dark, the young magus who -dares- to use the fires of divinity as a fuel source for her insignificant spells.

    Insignificant to the point that the entire first two lines of lesser angels 'die' in the explosive force released by the firebombs. More advance through the misting line of phantom fire that is the angels death throes.

    They engage with the phantasmic ectoplasm covered vampiress. They engage and fall, misting before her but also managing the cut at her form. Shallow slices that are easily healed by her vampiric enhancement, fade as quickly as they appear. So too do the burns from the plasma cannons of the cherubs that manage to hit the speeding target that she presents aided as she is by Clarice's teleportation powers. After a moment of harrassment she breaks off and a score move after her along with a formation of the greater tiers to control and command.

    One of the Archangels, Zadkiel, arcs and moves for the Ghost Rider as he mows down a number of the front line. "Another Rider of Vengenace. I met your brother just last night. A good talk. I doubt our meeting will be as cordial. Let us see what madness has taught you. Your jailor calls." He lifts a hand and a blast of holy light, the fires of Heaven, spills over the Rider's form.

    Clarice's portals redirect the beams that emmantate from the Thrones back onto the forces, destroying rank and file with realtive ease. A heavenly beam strikes a Virtue, causing it to exploded in a shower of mystical energy that erradicates an entire formation of lesser angels. Still they advance. Their numbers not seeming to suffer even though multitudes die.

    An androgynous figure appears before Asariel. It's Raphael. "Metatron's charge. Your lover sends his regards. I will engage you." Without warning he strikes out with the staff, flower petals swirling around the strike adding some measure of divine force behind it.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    A voice in Jon's mind /screams/ at him, that Lydia has charged into the ranks of the angels, that Asariel is engaged with Raphael, that /Michael is going after Phoebe/. Michael is going after Phoebe. /Michael/ is going after /Phoebe/. He's supposed to keep her safe. For Chas, for Tim, for Zatanna, for himself as her friend.

    He pushes that voice aside. Phoebe can handle herself. He has to trust that, because not trusting her, and the others, just prolongs this battle.

    Gaea disappears from Jon's side, but he holds firm, focusing his concentration on weaving the wellspring into... something. A pattern, drawn from folk magic and ancient beliefs brought from Europe to these shores centuries ago, a pattern etched on the walls of churches and barns, carved on tombstones, doodled in books. One tendril of light, shimmering blue to magical Sight, starts to bend and forms into a circle, lying on its side in the air. One down, six to go.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Vorpal had thought about what he would do if he faced the Heavenly Host. He remembered Michael calling him 'not an expansive threat,' and remembered how Colette once told him that, if he wanted to, he could open a Rabbit Hole to the sun itself (wich was true) if he wanted to, and the cat had to come to the conclusion that Archangels have sword-sharp intellects, but are severely lacking in imagination. It makes sense, too, when you happen to look at the world in an order-chaos axis: Order was the studious little child carefully stacking blocks organized by common characteristics, whereas Chaos was the little sibling running around, covered in various substances (chocolate sauce, cobwebs, glitter, glue, the regrets of their mother) and barreling into the blocks in a mad dash. When the siblings are reduced to squabbling shortly after, It's war. When they look at what has happened to the blocks and, fascinated, try to make sense of the pattern that wasn't there before and make something meaningful of it together, Art.

By that same coin, Terry's challenge was his weakness of Order- which is why he /doesn't/ indulge in the idea that he had of opening a needle-tiny Rabbit Hole in close proximity to the sun and pointing it at the rows of angels. Primarily because physics and the like are not his forte, and his calculations (which he knows are /basic/ to say the least) tell him that the resulting effect could be a plume of super-hot plasma several miles /long/. While that might be effective to dealing with an angel army, Terry is very conscious that he shouldn't trust his calculations and that he needs someone to consult. Like Nadia, or Victor.

Nadia, definitely. Victor would ask "Why the HELL do you want to do THAT?", whereas Nadia would be all "Oooh!"

Heavens. He hopes he will be able to see them again, after this.

So instead of The Finger Of Rage Like A Thousand Suns (yes, he named it like a special attack, shut up), he regroups as his Rabbit Hole is dismissed. Michael is coming for Phoebe. Lydia is charging. He clenches his fists. When Raphael reappears, he hisses. <<Isn't he supposed to be a healer of humanity? Jackass. Healing of the Lord? More like Heel of the Lord>>

All of this holiness is starting to make him feel giddy, even with Lydia's amulet pressed against his chest. It was starting to make him less serious, and suddenly he lets out a laugh. These angels were corporalized, they were subjected to the senses to some degree. It was time to test just how much, as the funhouse of his mind creaks the door open, just a little.

He becomes invisible, and he deploys a massive illusion before the angel ranks. At first, it is darkness, but then anyone who has been to a funhouse will recognize what comes next: the vortex tunnel, that combination of light and smoke that sends you to the floor and screws with the sense of balance.

If it doesn't work, he will have learned something very valuable about angels. Hopefully he would live to profit from it.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Michael is going after Phoebe. As he makes his approach, looming over her small, gray form, a thought crosses Phoebe's mind.

    Oh, Shit.

    "We're counting on you Jon." she states into her comm, and she feels her heart drop, and she brings her staff into glowing existence. "No pressure, right?"

    And then she moves, turning and slamming her right hand into her left shoulder with a soft sound of pain. She feels blood from the pins, but she begins to harvest.

    Altered devil's traps to hold the energies of what was extinguished activate with her pain.

    And she goes on the defensive. She's not the fighter Batman is, she's not the force of Ancient Power that Witchblade is, but she knew she painted a target on her back the minute that she collapsed the Radio City Music Hall.

    "This all could have been avoided if you'd given me my dad back." she comments to Michael, opening herself up to The Light again, her eyes glow the same as her fingertips, that rosy-gold color of sand in the evening sun.

    "Shall we dance?"

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Well, the good news is that her plan worked. She's broken off a division of the Host so their charge isn't quite so unified. The bad news is that she now has an entire battalion of angels after her. It has its price. She never expected to remain unscathed taking on so many, and the damage she's taking, only little bits at a time, is starting to stack up.

Eyes red and fangs out, she's fighting them defensively, drawing them ever onward away from the main battle, but while doing so she makes sure she's always within Clarice's line of sight.

When she deems she's far enough away, she sends, <<Clarice! Now!>> over the comms and she *blinks* away from this regiment to appear at the other end of the assault. Divide and conquer is the name of the game. For each regiment she's able to draw away from the main battle, the less pressure the SHIELD agents have to contend with.

Daniel Ketch has posed:
The Ghost Rider jumps off his Motorcycle as it keeps going, mowing down a few angels until the sheer number of them stop it and tear it apart.

Never mind, as he can summon another with some effort, but not now, as he stands his ground to protect the mortal fighters defending the park. His chain becomes a faming scythe, and he hacks at the celestial warriors as they come close, punching those that get through his guard with a spiked gauntlet.

And then Zadkiel comes, speaking words that, again, make the Rider pause. "I know you, yet I have never seen you, how is thus possible?" he growls. "Yet your words make little sense... eeaaargh!"

The Holy Light hits the Rider fully, clenching the Hellfire that makes his body. Causing him scream in pain and rage. But his is not the corrupt flame than many demons use to scorch and even devour souls, but the primordial Empyrean Fire, that tempers and cleanses. Despite the pain, the flaming skeletons stands, and the Rider takes a step towards Zadkiel, and then another, and another. And then he aims a punch to the Archangel's face.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    This time - a portal appears before Lydia for her to dive through. Lydia's quickly followed by one of the lesser angels - but as the portal snaps shut, the angel is sliced in half - its lower half remaining with its battallion, with its upper half falling near Lydia.
    Trying to maintain, and redirect the portal that protects Jon and any other defenders of the Fountain from the direct fire of the Thrones is a exhausing, and Clarice knows she can only maintain it for so long. She needs to //deal// with some of these Thrones - so she sends a lone portal towards two of them, trying to slice them cleanly in half as she had the lesser angel - but taking them out in small groups like that, how could they ever turn the tide of this tsunami of force arrayed against them?

Asariel has posed:
Raphael manages to surprise Asariel and the words from the Archangel distract her. Metatron's charge? Then Chas is brought up and there's a whispered, "We've not slept together, so..." but she is cut off by the strike from the staff. RUDE! Her wings reflexively spread out to stop her from going too far. She rights herself as as she places a hand on her side, "Ow." she grits out. Thankfully she heals ridiculously fast.

She throws caution to the wind and tries to strike out with one of her attacks, trying to catch Raphael with a hit, but she didn't know just how fast their reflexes might be.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    A Virtue flies up above the mass and raises a hand, fire rips into the line of SHIELD forces, burning a number of agents and pressed militia to ash. The other hand is raises and electricity lances out towards Jon. The ring of fire flares and the green flames interept the lightning, dispersing it across the surface of the barrier in a spiderweb of power. A gesture from the Virtue draws two powers up beside it. They place their hands on either shoulder of the Virtue and raise their free hand. Along with the Virtue's two lances of energy rain upon the barrier of green fire, hoping to overload the barrier and show the Champion within to be a vulnerable target.

    A rear contingency of the angels step into the illusory vortex and stop. They turn and begin to fall upon each other, swords and guns turning on friendly targets as the Chaos energy infusing the illusion takes over them. Another moment and a nearby power fires a beam of concentrated Power Cosmic upon the illusion dispersing it but the damage was done. Another battalion reduced to tatters by its own hands at the catastrophic energy of the Cheshire Cat.

    Michael engages the young magus. In another circumstance it might be too much for Phoebe, even primordial light has its limits and her shields only managed three strikes from the angel when he was reduced by her Father's face. In his pure form he is leagues beyond that in power. But then again, infused with the Light of Creation from the angels she absorbed... so is she. The lance strikes out, and the shockwave of force behind it whips past her as she dodges and weaves in her dance. "Your father made a deal, his ignorance of it is not my fault." He attempts to slam against her with his shield, an overwhelming maneuver and one that sent the Witchblade into a building last time it was used.

    Lydia's quick turn from one end of the field to the other does the trick, the contingent after her turns to follow her quick retreat. Aside from the one sliced by Clarice's portal the rest walks directly into a beam from one of the thrones. Erradicating it with ease. She manages to draw another battalion after her in her quick strikes. Before something tall, and ringed with fire appears before her. "Death should have taken you the first time, child. I will see that your existence is exhausted. Fear not." The seraph strikes at her with talons of flame not unlike her talons of ectoplasm.

    A look of surprise blooms on Zadkiel's face as the punch connects and the archangel is sent back from the force of it. He rights himself and touches his face, white liquid comes free from his face on his fingers and he grimaces in rage. "Foolish creature... you dare draw blood from one of the pillars of existence. You will fall and be reclaimed like the rest of your brood." He draws his sword. A black blade of pulsing ebony light and charges the Ghost Rider, looking to skewer him on the blade.

    Clarice's turning of the portals on the Thrones themselves results in something that was possibly unexpected. The shockwave of force that comes as the eyes are bisected destroys windows and glass structures for miles. The resulting silence after is obliterated by the explosion of sound as the two artillery munitions of the Hosts are destroyed simultaneously. The craters of earth left beneath where they hovered are also devoid of lesser hosts. This act alone may have turned the tide in their favor even if they are still greatly outnumbered.

    Her strike manages to take Raphael on the shoulder and he winces in silence from the hit. "The Nephalim have not lost any power from their diminished size in the eons from their inception it would seem. Fascinating," he lashes out again another flurry of strikes from the bo staff that he weilds with expert efficiency.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    <<If there were any more pressure on me just now, I'd collapse into a black hole,>> Jon notes wryly into his comm. His voice is strained as he concentrates. <<Bonus: that would probably end all of this right quick.>>

    After a pause, <<Kick his ass, Phoebe.>>

    Oddly enough, the talking /helps/ him focus. Jon manages to forget, sometimes, that he concentrates better if he's fidgeting or fiddling or talking. It's less a product of being Archivist or homo magi or anything mystical at all, and more a product of brain wiring. Attention deficit disorder is less about an actual deficit of attention and more about a surplus, that focuses either tightly narrow or broad and wide. Point being that chatter and banter and fidgeting can help with focus, in those cases.

    Maybe /that's/ the real reason superheroes banter and quip?

    Regardless, Jon forms a ring of golden light into a circle and lays it atop the blue but slightly to one side, then another strand of blue light into a third circle that's laid atop part the golden. Each new circle laid down causes the ones before to shift, creating new shapes. Two circles makes a vesca piscis, then three something like unlinked Borromean rings. They float horizontally in the air above the fountain, becoming visible even to normal eyes.

    The circles are stable for the moment, but this is the last part where they will be. The rest of this will not stabilize on its own until he's done. Jon takes a breath, glances out at the battle. Defenders burned to ash, and Gaea's power cannot revive them. His barrier failing, his friends engaged in battle, the people who follow him dying.

    So, get it /done./

    He stomps one foot, splashing water about his legs. A circle of green light flares around around the fountain, past the ring of green fire, sending a wave of Gaea's energy to energize and heal the nearby defenders, in the moment of split attention he's able to muster. The wave of energy ruffles the winter-brown grass as it passes, making the blades shimmer through summer's growth and then wilt back into dormancy again.

    Then he turns and focuses all his concentration on the spell he's weaving, tapping his foot as he does so, to the beat of a song only he can hear. Focus, focus.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
<<Beautiful job, Clarice!>> the Cheshire laughs, even as his illusion is dispelled. He is definitely feeling giddy and playful, even in the face of death. His illusion had some effect, he is happy to see, but now he needs to turn his attention to his team-mates. Phoebe is in the path of impact with Michael. Asariel, meanwhile, is about to get a staff-trouncing from Raphael.

Sometimes cat sits in box. Sometimes cat thinks outside of it.

He opens a Rabbit Hole as Raphael goes for the blow- the other Rabbit Hole is aimed at the back of Michael's head, in the hopes of giving Asariel a free blow at Raphael, and hopefully distract Michael from the full power of his attack... and then he will also learn whether or not Archangels can damage or inconvenience each other, if he's successful.

<<Besides, he's fake. It's /Donatello/ who wields the staff. Raph wields dinner forks.>> Yes, he's definitely slightly loopy now, and nobody here would probably know what the hell he is talking about. But then again, what's new?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    It was a quick turn of her body that saves Phoebe from the blow, she feels the energies begin to work against the domino on her face, the blue lenses blinking a moment as energy crackles against it. Her dark eyes regard Michael, so close that every muscle on her body is lighting up with the aura he emits, Creation.

     She channels the Light. Opens herself to it further. She feels it burn on the agonizing Vodoun pins that keep her burned-in circle active, feeling every syllable of the Hiermetic text boxing the energy in as she draws more on it, feeling the shockwave of the lance pass her, pulling at her coat, leaving her sidelong, and when Michael attempts to bash her with his shield, she returns. She brings her shields up, a brilliant and radiant display in prismatic colors in lieu of the pale rose-gold, her staff held low and to the back of her, her right hand holding her shield. She skids back from the blow, exhaling in pain, her boots leaving a trail almost half an inch deep as she leans into the forces, her eyes still on Michael.

    "You're a Deceiver. A Conman. That I could even appreciate, after all..."

    Phoebe gives a wry grin, and she bares her teeth in a snarl. "I learned from one of the best."

    Play the game if you can win. Cheat if you can't.

    Phoebe drops her shield, and summoning up more of the stolen Celestial light she snarls out: "Omnia ante me luce ure!" -- summoning a Celestial-powered fire blast at Michael. "He's not my father, but he *is* my Rock, and I am his Lighthouse!"

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia snarls and rears back from the Seraph's attack. While she's effective against the rank and file members of the angelic host, a seraphim is more than a threat to her. Its had martial training whereas she works mostly on instinct.

She manages to dodge the first slash, but she knows that she's outmatched. <<Clarice! Get me....>> She never manages to finish her words as the second slash nearly takes her head off, leaving three seared rents in her face, exposing bone and sinew.

Growling, her vision turns red and the Beast takes over. She darts in with a couple of slashes of her own. One manages to connect but is nothing more than a scratch to the Seraph. Disdainfully, the angel lashes out and manages to go /through/ the stomach of the vampire, emerging from the other side.

Lydia grunts in surprise, her wings and armor dissipating at the near fatal blow, as the angel shakes his hand free of her, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Seeing the woman fall to the earth he nods in satisfaction to rejoin the host in their assault.

The thing is, though, that vampires are a sturdy bunch, and a blow like that is only /near/ fatal. Fully in thrall of the Beast it recognizes that if it wants to survive it needs blood, and it needs blood /now/. And there's only one target nearby, the one that's been trying to kill her.

With a roar, a myriad of tentacles fly up and wrap themselves around the Seraph, pulling Lydia to his back. Despite the fire, despite the pain, she wraps her arms and legs around him too and sinks her fangs into the neck of the angel. Caught by surprise, the angel flails but is unable to dislodge her as she drinks deep the primordial blood.

Daniel Ketch has posed:
"I shall deliver the punishment you deserve," declares the Ghost Rider, undaunted by Zadkiel's rage. Hellfire burst from his hands and eyes, burning the closer angels; then he raises his arms and directs it all to Zadkiel.

And that is a fatal mistake, because Zadkiel is well above him in the divine hierarchy, and the Rider's hellfire can't harm an Archangel. By the time he realizes this, it is too late to dodge or parry the black sword. It goes through the Ghost Rider's chest, shattering steel-hard bones and disrupting the energy flame that is his body. His flame falters, and he steps back.

It could be a death-blow for any Spirit of Vengeance, but as the sword strikes, the light of Gaea flows to him. The fire re-ignites, this time burning more green than red. "NO!" He screams. "I won't fail today!" He steps forward, further impaling himself with the dark sword, but his hands reach for his adversary, trying to grab the redheaded Archangel's head, smash his own skull against Zadkiel's handsome head, looking for his eyes.

And deliver the Penance Stare.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    With the sheer number of forces engaged in the battle, it's impossible to keep track of everything that's happening. The Throne's explode - bringing a momentary smile of satisfaction to Clarice's features, but that doesn't last. Jon's shields are under assault by the combined power of a Virtue and two Powers, and Clarice repositions her portals - summoning a new one to intercept the incoming fire - and an exit below and behind the three angels, blasting their own attack back up at them.
    Only then does she hear Lydia's cry and see what Lydia is up against, and her heart drops as the angel's hand goes through her friend's torso. "LYDIA!"
    One of her javelins flies towards the woman, hoping to strike her and teleport her clear to safety, even as Lydia is latched onto the Seraphim's throat.
    If only one of the Principalities hadn't got in the way. It ends up appearing next to Clarice, much to her displeasure. "Oh, hey. Nice, umm, sword you've got there..."

Asariel has posed:
Asariel takes the hit from Raphael and wobbles a bit in the air, but her wings keep her up. She could heal, but enough damage would put her down and she was feeling something broken. She channels mystic power into her next swing, giving up pulling her punches given the situation that they were in and if these guys held grudges she was fucked anyways.

The rabbit hole that opens in front of Raphael startles her for a moment though before she reaims her strike. She wasn't going to be good enough to immobilize an Archangel, so she was just buying time for others at this point.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    The wave of healing energy from Jon washes over the SHIELD forces and they redouble their assault, felling lesser angels in droves. The Virtue and Power trio pour more cosmic and elemental fire against the fire of Gaea. Clarice's portals help for a few blasts but eventually the flames drop. They still designate the borders of his spell but a beam of concentrated Power Cosmic sails past the barrier aiming straight for the suddenly vulnerable Archivist.

    Terry's portal catches Raphael by surprise and he stumbles a bit as he catches open air. In fact the bo staff passes through Michael's head as it he was immaterial. No damage, but knowledge gained nonetheless. The stike from Asariel catches the Archangel off guard and he flies back, bo falling through the rabbit hole. He rights himself and light flows freely from his perfect nose. His blood. He smiles at her, the light framing his mouth. "Very impressive, child. I see what he sees in you now. You--" He looks down suddenly distracted. "Oh dear. That is not good. Michael, no!"

    Michael narrows his eyes and presses his advantage, not even registering the passing of the bo through his head. It's his mistake. As her shield drops he stumbles into it taking the blast filled with the blended primordial and celestial light direclty square in the face. He is blasted back, snarling at the child as the flames lick at his perfect face, lingering as boiled scars even as the rest heals. "Insolence will not be tolerated from the likes of you." His eyes change, filling with cosmic energy. The threat on Phoebe is palpable and felt by all in the vicinity. Unless she moves she will be obliterated.

    The blood pours into Lydia and it -hurts-. It hurts like drinking flame. But in that pain is power. So much power. Power of Creation. Power of Divinity. Power of Time. The flaming blood rushes into her and flame consumes her and the seraph together the light of it obscuring both figures as something unthinkable occurs within.

    Zadkiel smiles in triump as the Ghost Rider nearly falls but then his eyes widen again in surprise as the healing wave of Gaea flows through his adversary. The strike from the flaming headbutt splits the perfect skin under the eye of the 'newest' Archangel of the Hosts. Then the Penance Stare hit him. There is a battle of wills that takes place in the seconds for the outside world but could last for eternity within the minds of the archangel and the spirit of vengeance. The judgement of the Stare finds the Angel within its Purpose. It doesn't have a soul to truly judge, but something about its Will falters in the Gaze of the Rider. "I WILL NOT BE JUDGED BY YOU!" Zadkiel screams and a blast of energy sends both attackers away from each other.

    The Principality stares down on Clarice and raises the Sword divine penance in its gaze. Holy fire surrounds the blade and the angel brings it down toward the mutant, hoping to smite her for her transgressions.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Another strand of golden light curls around and lays itself atop the three already there, shifting them around the center of the fountain. This, here, is the hardest part of the thing Jon's doing. If he can lay down and hold these three rings, the seventh will stabilize on its own. Then it'll just be the last bit of the spell to hold it in place for a month and Bob's your uncle.

    But first, he has to get through these next circles.

    Those nearby might be able to hear the song he's humming, tapping foot causing ripples in the fountain in time. The Pump Shanty, a traditional sea shanty about, among other things, pumping out the bilge so the ship doesn't sink. The space-themed version Jon's college band performed is one of Chas' favorite songs, a melody he taught to his daughter Geraldine. Appropriate, in its way.

    Another strand of energy is laid down, blue atop golden. The myriad beams of light that had made the wellspring have formed themselves into only seven strands, bent to the Archivist's will, as he uses the melody to focus his attention. Another strand, golden this time, and now there are six overlapping circles. The form wavers, wanting to fall apart, to split in half into two groups of three. He has to hold it there. He can hold it there. Just one more. He's got this.

    (Pump, me boys, let her fly / Down to hell and up to the sky / Bend your backs and break your bones / We're just a million miles--)

    A beam of Power Cosmic slams into the Archivist's back.

    It's strong enough that it should kill him, reduce him to cinders--but a shimmering green light ripples across his body, a weave of green armor, Gaea's protection. Her Champion will not die until it is his time to die.

    Despite the barrier that saves his life, Jon stumbles and falls to hands and knees in the fountain. It's a shock; it's below freezing today, and the water only moves by virtue of whatever the New York City works department puts in the pipes to keep it from freezing. The rings hanging in the air above him falter, threatens to fall apart entirely. The last strand of blue light left unwoven begins to wobble.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"How about insolence from /me/?"

A Rabbit Hole appears to swallow Phoebe up. Where did she go?

Well, Terry is aiming to spring Pheebs behind Michael, like a birthday surprise, except not pleasant. "I took her from you!" the Cheshire cat says, arms akimbo, feet planted wide on the ground. "So what are you going to do about it, you Instagram Filter Fabio?"

The grin from ear to ear shows Terry is beyond caring at this point, Lydia's amulet is keeping a fair share of holiness from him, but enough has seeped in that the part of him that likes to play etch-a-sketch with reality is coming loose. By taunting Michael, he's putting himself right in the path of total extinction. Unless, of course, the ploy works and Phoebe gives him a what-for from behind.

Jon is on his knees, but Vorpal can't tear his eyes away from Michael right this moment, just in case...

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Michael's mistake earned him new scars, the blended energies and fire from Phoebe's spell lighting up her face, reflecting in the rose-gold of her eyes, filled with stolen power. His name rings like an iron bell of Death in her head as she watches him burn. It was a strange satisfaction, the young magus standing up to an Archangel, with power she *stole*, banking up the energy for a promise to return her Dad to Geraldine by Easter.

    There is a brilliant flash of light as Phoebe disappears -- was it the Rabbit Hole --

    -- or was it the gaping maw of the earth left where she had been standing, leading down to darkness. A water line bursts open, spraying into the air and creating a delicate sparkle of snow as it hits the freezing temperatures. Electrical lines spark. Somewhere below a Subway tunnel has a brand new entry way leading up to Battery Park -- if you don't mind a climb.

    For a breath, the Rabbit hole doesn't dump Phoebe out as fine, powdery snow fills the immediate area, catching in Celestial light.

     -- and then the hole opens from the other side. Phoebe comes out of it suspiciously glittery, but her staff is still alight, and taking it in both hands, the child hisses a soft "Piss off!" and SWINGS for the stands, aiming to strike at the back of Michael's head.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
The ball of fire that is Lydia and the Seraphim plummet to the earth, burning like a meteorite. It seems like forever they burn, and for Lydia it's the exquisite height of agony and ecstasy. She feels like she's being incinerated by the flames from the inside out and yet the sheer /power/ of the angel's blood heals her faster than she's being consumed.

When the flames finally die down, it leaves Lydia standing there, naked over the corpse of the Seraph. Her eyes are alight with the fires of creation, burning pools of white-gold heat. Her veins and arteries glow with the same light, and motes of light dance around her like fireflies.

"Yesssssss," she hisses, drunk on the power that she has consumed. "/Gloriousss/." She lifts her hand to gaze at the wonder of her flawless alabaster lit from within. It's like she can see every cell individually. It's only Clarice's voice that snaps her out of her daze.

She looks over to see a Principality fighting with Clarice. Still not quite in control of herself, her flaming eyes narrow. "Sssisster..." She hisses, and golden flaming wings explode from her back. She moves so fast that it looks like she nearly /teleports/ over to the Principality and she pierces its heart with a flaming sword she manifested along the way.

Daniel Ketch has posed:
There are few, very few beings in the universe that can just reject the Penance Stare without having first being forgiven by their transgressions, and it is a safe bet the Spirit of Vengeance that calls himself Noble Kale had never found one before! Usually happens the more powerful a creature, the more ancient, the more responsibilities he or she carries, the more likely he has harmed, even if intentionally, some (or many) other sentient being.

Being just told NO really stuns the Rider. And then the energy blast sends him flying tens of yards to land among the defenders of Battery Park. Still impaled with the black blade of the Archangel.

It takes him almost a minute to stand up again, and another agonizing minute to pull the sword out of his chest.

Battered, but not dead, the Rider stumbles back into the fight. This time with Zadkiel's own sword in one hand. He will gladly use it on the lesser celestials in his way, although in truth he contemplates the vague idea of returning it to its owner, the pointy side first.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "LYDIA!" Clarice shrieks as she sees her sister catch flame - sees Lydia and the seraphim falling, burning, to the ground. No, no, no, no- ACK!
    In her distraction, she doesn't quite summon her portal in time to block the blade of the Principality and it slices into her side as she tries to twist away. Ignore this fight, she reminds herself, and you die as well.
    She blinks away her tears as she concentrates on staying alive for her Brothers - she has to go home to them. They can't lose both of their sisters in this battle. With each swing of the sword, a new portal appears, with the exit aimed to cause the angel to hack and slash at itself as she backs hasily away from the creature.
    She certainly doesn't expect a creature of flame and light to appear, to impale the creature - and she definitely doesn't expect it to have Lydia's frizzy, curly hair - or her face. "Lydia?" she asks in surprise.

Asariel has posed:
Asariel's eyes glow brightly when Raphael looks down distracted, "Uncle Raphael..." she murmurs as she balls up her fist and calls into existence what Angelfire that she can summon to wreathe it in a warm golden light and then she puts all of her force, anger and soul into the punch that she delivers to the Angel's perfect jaw. Driving him back unless he pulls up quick and shakes her. She realized that she got her looks from all this gorgeous harpies. "...You aren't paying attention." she giggles at him.

That giggle might be unsettling if others could hear it.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    The SHIELD forces stop as they see their Field Commander stumble but he isn't dead. He's shielded. He's protected by Gaea. He can do it they just need to give him enough time. They turn their assault on the Powers and Virtue trio targetting him and mow them down with overwhelming gunfire.

    Michael turns his gaze (his eyes returning to normal) toward Vorpal and he raises a hand. "I'm starting to get a feel for your game, 'bishop'," he says with. "Check." The blast of angelic fire isn't fatal but it strikes the Cheshire Cat directly in the chest. Then Phoebe's swing hits him and the Primordial and Celestial mixed power behind it erupts in a blast of white light that might be blinding to any who look directly upon it.

    The Principality continuing in its endeavor to smite Clarice stiffens and looks down at the bloody, light filled claw that peireces its chest. The sword falls and both sword and angel erupts in flame and boiling blood that has no effect on the Holy imbued vampire.

    Zadkiel, rattled by the experience of a creature piericing his mind disappears in a clap of thunder as he flees the field. Daniel Ketch--or is it Noble Kale--has a new toy. While most angelic weapons would disappear in the hands of anyone else, his inhabitor is not unknown to the residual Celestial energy coursing through it and he uses it to great effect, running through a Dominion's skull as it tries to turn its gaze of awe on the Rider.

    Above, Raphael breathes a sigh of relief as Phoebe doesn't fall victim to Michael's baleful gaze... only to be struck by the giggling Nephilim's energy fueled punch. Usually angelic fire wouldn't work on one of the Archangels, but infused with the power of a soul and the woman's strength it's different enough to connect and be dangerously efficient. Raphael reels back and manages to right himself. He smiles at her again, light infused blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. She damaged him serverely. "Good job, child. Good job, indeed." He inclines his head to her in recognition, a sense of concession in the motion. Then with a flash of pink light and a spray of rose petals he's gone.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The water's cold enough to make Jon's teeth chatter, and for a moment he despairs. He can't hold the damn thing together, not and /also/ put in the seventh circle, not with cold seeping into his bones and fear threatening to engulf his emotions. He takes a moment to close his eyes and focus on the others. SHIELD and the civilians, taking heart from his survival of the blast of Power Cosmic. Terry's insolence and chaotic glee. Phoebe's angry defiance. Lydia burning, burning, burning. The Ghost Rider shaking off an energy blast and wading back into the fight. Clarice's concern for her sister, her determination to keep them both alive. Asariel showing a family member /just/ what she thinks of all this.

    As snow sifts down from the burst water line, dark eyes open and focus on the water in which he kneels. The /water/. His favored element, the thing he conjures and manipulates most easily. He begins to laugh. "Oh, bloody hell, Sims," he whispers. "You're an /idiot/." The answer, as usual, was staring him in the face the entire time.

    He pushes himself up off his hands, pulling the water up with him. As he rises from his knees up to his feet, water rises up the seven strands, encasing the blue and gold light, strengthening the magic and making it easier to manipulate. He grins brightly and, with a flourish of his left hand, twists the seventh strand of magic into place to lay atop the other six. There's a brief flash of light, blue and gold, as the magic stabilizes. What some call the Flower of Life hovers in the air above the fountain now.

    Jon pulls a small vial out of his tactical vest. Within is soil he dug up from the tunnels beneath Grand Central Station. Back in the little room he uses for an office at Grand Central, there's a map of Manhattan laid out on a table. On that map, atop Battery Park, sits another vial of soil from next to the fountain. Two strands of thread, one blue and one gold, has been tied to the vial, and then strung over to the Archivist's bracer, sitting atop Grand Central itself on the map. The first petal of the hexafoil that Jon is creating over Manhattan, to distract the angels from the Sepirot Lydia will be focusing on.

    He unstoppers the vial and tosses the soil over the center of the magical working he's made. The soil settles into place along the lines of the hexafoil in the center of the working, solidifying the seal for the next lunar month.

    Another /brilliant/ flash of light. Blue light shoots out to the northeast, connects to the vial of soil in the map room. Golden light flies back, down Broadway, connecting the vial of Battery Park soil back to the fountain. For a moment, the magical current glares so brightly it's almost blinding.

    Jon turns toward the leader of the archangels, and shouts at the top of his lungs, "MICHAEL! IT'S DONE!" He's beginning to shiver from the cold of the water he's standing in, the crisp chill of the air. "GAEA HOLDS THIS POINT! TAKE YOUR FORCES AND LEAVE THIS PLACE!"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
And that blast just does it- it simply does it. Lydia's amulet, which had been nestled against his breast, does the metaphysical equivalent of 'fuck this shit, man, I'm not getting paid enough for this' and /gives up/.' The Cheshire cat screams out in pain, as the chaos withim him reacts. He drops to his hands and knees, shuddering as every fiber of his body wants to scream with pain from the attack. But Jonathan, bless his soul, has declared victory. Michael has taken a blow.

Panting, tears streaming down his cheeks, the Cheshire cat looks up at Michael. "... you know. Back where I come from, gentlemen know to use lube."

And then he looks away, closing his eyes at the blinding light. There's blood running down his chest, there's pain. He's probably burned, too.

Looks like he's going to spend a day or so tripping balls. if Phoebe is up for it, that is.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    There is a moment where Phoebe is momentarily blinded. She hisses in pain, feeling the effect running up her left arm and seeping into the burn-marks collecting the celestial energy around her. She falls down to her feet, crouching, rolling -- and NEARLY falling into the hole she avoided becoming earlier -- but she hears, above the din, Vorpal's pain. She hears Jon declare victory, and her immediate concern became the darn cat. She has ashes on her cheeks, her domino still crackling -- but she removes it, sliding itback and over her head, secured in

    "/Terry/!" she hisses, her eyes wide as she makes her way to him, bringing one hand up in defense, ready to shield the feline hero from any follow up blow from Michael.

    She drops her other hand to him, and she focuses. Her aura, unbound, may already begin to heal at the ragged edges of the wounds, the eight-pointed octagram star and Egyptian text of her circle forming beneath her as she begins her area of affect healing.

    Terry'll be insufferable, but he'll be alive.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia grins a fangy grin of satisfaction as the Principality poofs around her outstretched hand. She feels like she can take on the world, and so, she turns to see how many angels she can massacre before they can retreat. But something keeps her from flying off.

Blood. The smell of it is all around her. Each person's blood has a unique scent and normally all the scents would run together, but with her angel enhanced senses one particular scent stands out to her: Clarice's.

This is enough to shake her out of her euphoric haze. "Clarice?" She turns back with her blazing eyes to see her sister badly wounded. "Clarice!"

She rushes up to her and grabs her in case the wounds would cause her to fall. "I've got you," she says, soothingly. She reaches out a hand and presses it on the wound, and concentrates. Deep within herself she feels the great wellspring of magical power, denied to her when she was turned. Now, whatever block there was has been burned away by the angel's blood. Drawing on threads of this power, she uses the light of creation to begin to knit Clarice's wounds back together. The motes of light that dance around her start zipping to where Clarice is wounded, putting her back together.

"There, done." she says, giving her friend a beatific smile. "All better." Her smile falters a bit as she begins to realize what had happened to have given her this power. "Oh," she says, as the horror of it dawns on her. "Oh, Clarice. What have I done!" She clutches her friend and hugs her close, as if the presence of her friend could help her forgive herself this ultimate transgression.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "I'm alright," Clarice promises Lydia. "I'm alright. I thought you died! I thought- you were on fire!" Despite her claim of being just fine, she lets her sister support her as she does her best to ignore the pain of the wound in her side. She's had worse. Surely she's had worse. Her gaze continues scanning the battle field around them, even as Jon is calling out news of their victory - watching for any threats to her and Lydia. She summons a few of her javelines - tossing them at any angels that come near, and teleporting them into the //same physical space// as others of their rank.
    She gasps as she can feel the wound being healed, and then after tossing out one last javelin, she suddenly finds herself tightly grasped by her friend and she hugs her back.
    "It's alright. It's okay, Lydia. You're alive - and that's what matters."

Asariel has posed:
"Oh shit!" Asariel winces as she sees the Cheshire cat get blown to hell and back by Michael. That's going to leave a mark. She then turns her gaze back to Archangel in front of her that she's knocked the crap out of. When he doesn't send her flying into another part of the world she tries to calm her heart but it's no use. It's not until she feels the petals that blow against her in the wind that she spits out a mouthful of blood and drops a few feet down from where she was, she catches herself though and her wings don't let her plummet to the Earth below.

Last thing she needed was broken ankles. Once she's settled her feet back on the ground there is a look around to see who is injured and where she can start offering healing assistance, they still had a long night ahead of them...and it was only getting started.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    Michael doesn't obliterate anyone in fact he raises a hand and the angelic forces cease their attack. All that power, and destruction and he can stop it with a gesture. He looks at Jon standing at the fountain and shakes his head. "Well played, Champion" he sees the glowing strands of circuitous magic and sighs.

    "You've won the day, but the war is far from over." Another wave of his hand and the angelic forces simply vanish in a wave of mist and light. "I look forward to engaging you again soon. All of you." He eyes linger on Phoebe, and Lydia for a moment before falling again on Jon. Then he too vanishes is a flash of light and a rumble of thunder.

    The SHIELD forces start tending to their wounded and picking up the remains of their dead, at least for identification purposes if nothing else. There will be more vigils tonight for the fallen.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I don't look forward to engaging you again!" Jon shouts after the angel. "Piss off!" It could have been so much less of a fight. So many fewer could have died. But Michael had to have his damn battle.

    The light of Jon's spell fades, though magical Sight can still see those two lines pulsing across the city, a circuit driving power between Battery Park and Grand Central Station. The temporary seal of the hexafoil hovering in the air over the fountain fades too, but the water remains in that configuration, the fountain redirected for a month.

    There's more power here, now, for the taking, now that they've claimed the wellspring. Jon can feel it, channeling to him, empowering him just that much more. Power he won't have forever, power he's going to pay for with his life. But right now, power he can use to help the others around him.

    He raises his staff, twirls it in the air, pulling water up from the fountain and then casting it out across the gathered defenders. It crystallizes into snow as it flies into the New York winter cold. He can't provide enough healing to such a wide group to fully close any major wounds, so it's good that Terry and Clarice have Phoebe and Lydia. But the snow, as it falls, will stabilize the dying long enough to get them back to Grand Central. It will get wounds that might not be fatal started on the way to closing up. And it will outright heal many of the more minor wounds: close scrapes, ease away bruises, soothe burns. It will refresh them all, and leave Battery Park covered in a blanket of glittering snow.

    He leans on his staff, the thrill of triumph fading as he looks out across the field. They won, but there are more dead, more names to put on the list of families he and Peggy and Daniel have to call. He sighs deeply.

    <<Good work, everyone. I'm... really proud of us. But he's right... the war is far from over. Let's get back to base.>>

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The Cheshire cat is beyond pain right now, because Phoebe is here, and she is filling him up with all of that holy magic. Which can only mean one thing-

Yes. He is high as a kite. As Michael vanishes, he shouts "Suuuure, go ahead and leave without even looking at me in the eye! Not even pillow talk?"

He lets out a few giggles, and suddenly the world shimmers and changes around them. And there's music- there is heavenly music playing- which, in Terry's case, means the music of Stephen Sondheim. As the healing works, the world around becomes a colorful fairy-tale setting. And there are fairy-tale characters that pop out of the woods that occupy where the buildings once used to be. And they sing.

~The way is dark
The light is dim
But now there's you, me, her, and him
The chances look small
The choices look grim
But everything you learn there
Will help when you return there
The light is getting dimmer-
I think I see a glimmer--~

And there's dancing. Boy, there is dancing. Snow white twirls, and there are birds. And animals. And deer. And Cinderella. And that is either Puss in Boots or Vorpal's fashion-conscious brother over there.

~Into the woods--you have to grope
But that's the way you learn to cope
Into the woods to find there's hope
Of getting through the journey
Into the woods, each time you go
There's more to learn of what you know
Into the woods, but not too slow--
Into the woods, it's nearing midnight--
Into the woods to mind the druid
To heed the witch, to honor the vampire~
To mind
To heed
To find
To think
To teach
To join
To go to the Festival!
Into the woods
Into the woods
Into the woods
Then out of the woods--
And happy ever after!~

"I wish-" Terry says, eyes beginning to close, "... I had a pillow."

Foomp. Face-first on the ground. And then he snores.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe just staaaaaaaaaares at Terry. Of all the things going on around her, absorbing the remaining celestial energies of those angels who had fallen (and weren't eaten by Lydia), and she takes a deep breath, and steels her resolve, and she wraps her arms around Terry to pull him back up and off the ground. "Nnnope. No dirtnap for you, cat." she mutters to him, and she breathes out, kneeling down as she looks back to Jonathan, and she looks out at all the others.

    "ANyone who needs to be stabilized before transport, alert me." she states.

    Because obviously it's not terrifying that someone who just took on Michael with a glowstick and a quip is now going to try to heal All The People.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia clings to Clarice for a full minute, before letting go. It's only then she seems to realize the state she's in. "I seem to be naked," she says, looking down at herself, at her veins still emitting light from beneath her skin. "And I seem to be glowing."

She looks back up to Clarice with blazing eyes. "I... I need to get back to the Asteroid. Are you good for that? I need clothes. I need Raven." She closes her eyes to steady herself. "I need to not feel this good after doing something so terrible."

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "Lydia... you did nothing terrible," Clarice answers her sister - even as a wolf, //with no pants,// waltzes past her letting out a brief 'Hello, little girl.'
    ...she'll examine that later.
    Or not.
    "We were in a fight for our lives, and for our reality. You did what you had to do. I needed you to survive. Theo and Pete needed you to survive. Raven needed you to survive. ...and the world needs you to survive, and finish this fight." She smiles reassuringly, then opens a portal that exits directly into Mystique's quarters, where she's sure Lydia has a few spare sets of clothes. "I'm going to help get the wounded to treatment - I'll come check on you after, okay? You didn't do anything wrong, Lydia."
    She gives her sister another tight hug before letting her go, and closes the portal after her - then turns her attention to getting everyone back to Grand Central Station - or an emergency medical facility. There was still a lot of work to- why was that fat man running around with a little girl's red cape?