9232/Path of Glory: Kingdom of Heaven

Path of Glory: Kingdom of Heaven
Date of Scene:	23 December 2021
Location:	Candle, Booke and Belle
Synopsis:	The astral projection to Heaven results in more questions and few answers. The players set the pieces on the game board. But will anyone play or will the game end in destruction? War looms on the horizon and preparations must be made to ensure the continued survival of all things.
Cast of Characters:	Chas Chandler, Nettie Crowe, Zatanna Zatara, Jonathan Sims, Sara Pezzini, Asariel, Atrun Rai, Lydia Dietrich, Johnny Blaze, Michael Demiurgos
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

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Chas Chandler has posed:
    The atmosphere over the Candle, Booke, and Belle this evening is hushed and quiet. A wonderful atomosphere for some forbidden magic. Which is exactly what is on the table for those of the Justice League Dark this quiet night.

    The "CLOSED" sign on the door swings in time with the shop's sign as a chill wind worms its way into the magic shop. The entirety of New York seems to be holding its breath tonight as it waits for something that is coming. What that something is is unknown to many, but nonetheless the city waits.

    As with many nights since its emergence, most eyes turn to the new star that has not moved in the sky for the better part of a week. Day or night, it hangs there in the sky mocking the star that is so popular during this time of year for celebrators of the birth of Christian's savior.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    Which is why Nettie was outside on her rooftop, looking up at the sky in an accusatory manner as she finished her hand-rolled cigarette. She pinches the cherry, then tosses the spent remainder to the side before she breathes out.

    "By the twitching of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." she breathes out, and she steps off the edge, disappearing in a little puff of feathers, and appearing back in her shop. Tonight she's in her 'hunting' clothes. Black leggings, a short gray skirt built in raggety layers, a gray, closely-held longsleeve shirt. Her hair was pulled back and braided to keep it in place. The chairs and cushions that litter the main floor of the shop have been pushed aside or moved, and over the swept and consecrated wooden floor there is a circle inscribed in black paint. To say it was complicated would be an understatement. She had spent the better part of the afternoon building it up, and even in a hundred and forty-three years of experience, it was the most complex, complete mandala she had constructed with her teleportation prowess.

    In the center of the circle, there is a large, black cauldron. The Cauldron holds a dark liquid inside of it, glittering and wine-dark. Upon it was floating a page, a bloody thumbprint in a black box held suspended on floating corks. Candles surrounded it, as of yet unlit, and there were images of Chas placed facing the cardinal directions. Some were older, longer hair, shorter beard. One has no beard at all. One has him and a shorter, blond magician of ill repute next to him.

    Nettie toys a moment with a silver ring on her left ring finger, lost momentarily in thought.

    "Will it be enough?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna sits engulfed in the shadows of one corner of the shop, gaze fixed on the old crone, Nettie. She looks more ready to storm hell in her black-on-black clothing - a boxy asymmetric jacket over loose pants, knee-high boots, and silky blouse than search for an angel. Yet, magic eyes might see she crackles with expectant energy, her blood humming in anticipation of the hunt.

"We will see, won't we?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's mood is foul as he joins those in the shop, foul enough to linger in the air as an aura about him. Rage, pain, guilt, strong enough to not manage to be held in, spilling out past the internal wards he's built up. It's not the best combination for fueling a magic circle meant to send people's minds to the Silver City, but no amount of deep breathing has fixed this particular problem. He's wearing jeans and a brown sweater, heavy boots, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets as he stands eyeing Nettie's work. He can't help but be impressed; his bad mood isn't directed at anyone in the room, after all, and he appreciates craftsmanship and dedication.

    "What do you need us to do?" he asks in a quiet voice. It doesn't match the air about him, being subdued and controlled.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
Although not entirely certain how she can help, or if there is really anything she can offer, Sara is determined to be there in case there /is/. Under normal circumstances she'd be dressed in something smart for the weather, but given the chance that Witchblade might make himself more known, she's wearing a pair of plain grey sweats, a sweater that already has holes in it, and a pair of hiking boots that look like they should have been retired years ago.

Having been watching Nettie work, attempting to get a better understanding of what she is doing, Sara has remained out of the way leaned against a wall. "If there's anything I can do to help, let me know," she says quietly.

Asariel has posed:
Asariel's been quietly waiting off to the side, the white haired woman not very talkative given situations and knowing that an Archangel is days or weeks away from trying to end most of the people she knows it's something that she's been dwelling on. She's dressed in utilitarian clothing with her red coat over it, nothing fancy today. She wasn't really sure what was going to happen, but that was life for the moment.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    In the back of the collective, near the door and far from the circle inscribed by Nettie, a man who can be described as 'vaguely Mediterranean' stands with one hand behind his back, observing the whole affair quietly. The new fellow in town, the mystery man. Atrun-Rai strokes his curled beard as if he were a displaced Sumerian advisor, his clothing vaguely priestly without being exactly so. All black, so black as to seem it were eating the light that the guttering candles project within the room.

    He says nothing, of course. Though he knows - however briefly - a few within the room, he keeps his own counsel, dark eyes glittering with candlespark as he tracks each face, observing auras while his own, a curious blur, defies easy identification. Odd sort for a fact-finding mission.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia makes her way into the store, bundled up against the cold she cannot feel. She's wearing her woolen skirt, and thick fuzzy boots, but up top she's going for the 'ugly sweater' time of year of having a deep blue knit sweater with a dreidel jauntily tipped over on it. Sure Chanukah has passed, but she can't help but remind people that not everybody celebrates Christmas.

She nods to those assembled, "Good evening." Her eyes go to the circle inscribed on the floor. "That's... quite a circle," she says. "The only thing I've ever done that's this complex was the binding circles used for Michael."

Johnny Blaze has posed:
He was at a church first on this day. He stood on the hallowed grounds and clasped his hands together in prayer. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.." He proceeds to finish the Lord's Prayer, as if asking for forgiveness for what he is about to do. Even if Zarathos stirs within. Yet, even still, he leaves the church to begin this mission.

The sounds of a motorcycle draw close and near, each turn striking fear into the hearts of evil. When it comes to a stop outside of the shop, he emerges and knocks on the door before attempting entry.

Blaze had arrived.

Dressed in all leather, including the leather jacket and a dark shirt, Blazes eyes burned with hellfire as Zarathos reminded him of his target where judgment must be taken...even if Blaze is going this time to see if they can get Chandler. "We're ready." he announces, suggesting the two-in-one is as ready as they'll ever be, even if Johnny is watching the preparations made, a breath slowly exhaled.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Another whisper of wind blows down the now deserted street in the East Village. The star above burns with vivid intensity as if daring those who would draw ire against it to even attempt a warning shot. There is a final hush over the room as the cauldron, candles, and circle were set.

    A direct sending of this magnitude wouldn't work for the flesh--at least not for Nettie's magical skills (impressive though they be), but the mind is an altogether different manner. If direct assault cannot be achieved, at least a scouting mission will give them ideas for how to approach the coming storm.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "I can send people across the world. I can summon my familiar or my favorite order from my favorite restaurant in Boston." Nettie states, and she looks around the group, and she taps herself over, and pulls a cloth pouch out.

    "In all my books, in all my years I've not come across anyone who's tried something so stupid as what we're doing tonight. Here, we have teleportation -- astral projection -- tracing through blood magic." the white-haired witch explains.

    "Atrun-Rai, my friend, if you would take East. Zee, be his opposite in the West. Jon, North. Sara, if you wouldn't mind taking south." she states, and takes stock.

    "Mr. Blaze, Lydia, Miss Weiss -- how do you do? Old friend of Chas's, Nettie Crowe at your service. If you wouldn't mind coming into the center, with me? she asks, coming int othe center of the circle.

    She waits for everyone to get in.

    "Now, I would like eveyone to concentrate on the gentleman who is in the pictures. Francis Chandler -- we all know him as Chas. Devoted Father, defender and friend. Picture yourselves standing next to him -- wearing your clothes, mind you. If you picture yourself WITHOUT clothing, you'll be naked. Mr. Blaze, Detective Pezzini, your 'guests' may not be able to travel with you. Jon, you may lose connection. I'm not sure. This bullshite hasn't been done before."

    She lights her hand-rolled cigarette, the sweet smell of tobaccoo circling her, and she takes a deep breath, a long drag off it, and then expells it through her nose.

    Eight people. Eight minds to send. This would be hard normally, but is even worse without her familiar at full power yet.

    Fullan waegn dreor thone as uppan min seath theah-hwaethere incofa, betreppan me scrift min langung. Doth swat the onufan and min stiell theah-hwaethere hiertan, user pinn pinth tha windan furthor further waegn rand un-laed dith seolfor burhscir toward duguth laerig orgilde! This is my will!

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna's sapphire eyes glitter in the candlelight as she rises to place herself at the designated point on the circle. She looks across at the bearded man so recently arrived, the planes of his face sharpened in high relief in the golden light.

Eyes closed, she remembers Chas smiling at Phoebe one evening in the bar, amber scotch glinting in the bottle he was pouring for her. She transfers the warmth of that memory to the photo, imagining herself standing next to him, a portrait of a solemn but solidly knit family. Then, with the concentration borne of years of practicing magic, she forms the image and fixes it firmly with a soft word.

Her hand traces an arc in the air to touch two fingers to the center of her forehead. An aura of black magic surrounds the sorceress, Nettie, as the astral plane opens to Zatanna's sight.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon takes a deep breath, fiddles with the bracer on his left wrist a moment, then leaves it. No need for it, really, for this. If he needs the bracer to channel the energy this probably won't work. So he steps to the north point of the circle and takes his place.

    "The Archive's in the Astral Plane, Nettie," he says softly. "It's /easier/ to access without my body in the way. If we're getting that far from even the Astral..." He shrugs. They're trying it regardless.

    He looks around at them all. "Try not to alert anything," he says. "I know we want Chas back, but we don't want to risk losing any more of us to Heaven's wrath. That said, if we /do/ alert anything..." A heavy sigh. "/Maybe/ my magic will work out there, outside my body. Maybe." It's a very, VERY big maybe. "Just... be careful." Gods above and below, this is madness. He doesn't say it, but it's there in his eyes, his words. Nonetheless, he sets himself and prepares. Nods to Nettie.

    He thinks of Chas. Of meeting him years ago in Liverpool, the two of them commiserating over what a hassle John Constantine was to deal with. Why'd they put up with the guy? For friendship, for love. Philia, brotherly love. For the spark of goodness and kindness buried beneath Constantine's rumpled exterior. He thinks of pints shared, of concerts attended with Chas in the audience or as roadie, of bar fights Jon got into with scathing words his gangly frame could not back up, Chas always ready to defend his friends and keep them from winding up in the hospital.

    He thinks of coming back after a decade gone, meeting Chas again. The bastion of kindness and comfort in a world gone mad and cold. Sleeping on his couch under a Care Bear blanket, meeting his daughter while she sang old songs from Jon's college band. Arguing and fighting over loyalty. Promising to keep an eye on Phoebe if anything happened to him.

    He'd promised that they'd save Chas. And they would. Somehow.

    Soft, warm light gathers about him, nothing black or dark here. The warmth of the slowly reviving sun, the warmth of friendship and kindness, love and compassion. Hopefully it will be enough to carry them to the edge of creation.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
With a nod to Nettie, Sara moves herself to the south, taking note of how and where the others stand so she ensures she is in the right place. The idea that Witchblade might not make the trip with her plays through her head for a moment. It had been two years since she was alone, and it had taken most of that time to get used to him always being there. He was not exactly thrilled by the idea of being separated from his wielder either, even if it was merely an astral separation. Thrilled or not, he would do his part.

Pushing everything out of her mind she let her thoughts find and focus on Chas. Closing her eyes she returned to the day she met him and the kindness he had shown. The way he was attentive to those in the Laughing Magician, the smile on his tired face. She didn't know him as well as the other did, but it didn't matter because she remembered the sound of his voice while imagining herself standing beside him.

Concentrating, Sara is only vaguely aware of the silver bracelet spreading out as spikey metal tendrils that wrap up her arm and form the gauntlet of The Witchblade. The large red stone shimmers and begins to swirl with a glowing red-orangish smoke that looks a lot like an eye. He may not get to make the trip, that was unknown at this time, but he would help them make it.

Asariel has posed:
Asariel was lost in thought for a moment, but gives a look to Nettie when she's spoken to and there's a dip of her head, "Of course." the woman comments as she steps into the circle. "It's nice to meet you, Miss Crowe, I wish it were under better circumstances. Thank you for doing this for Chas." she tells her. "If there is anything that we can assist with please just let us know." she adds. Then she quiets and prepares for what they are about to do, or as much as she can. This was new territory.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    To the Eastern position does the man in black go, nodding once without word in response to Nettie's instruction; as he does so, his eyes close, and his hands form gestures that might find themselves along the mudras. His beard, oiled and groomed, flickers with motes of light fron the candles, the building power that wreathes the circle that he has been asked to anchor. And so he does.

    He envisions a land that none remember, save for the divine. Green hills covered with the forefathers of olive trees, structures made of white marble painted with a riot of gorgeous colors, trimmed in gold or other, stranger metals. He imagines a palace on a hill, its towers made of mortared diamond bricks, sparkling with the dying rays of the fading sun. He sees himself there - and there is Chas, though Chas could never have been there. But Chas is everywhere, currently. In every time, every plane of existence. Ridden by the engineer of reality. So does he see that face, given to him through dimensions dark and blasted, placed in a context that his mind may best process.

    Power begins to flood from him, strange and dark and slippery. Unknowable, ancient power from the foundations of humanity's love affair with the arcane - and yet energizing the sending-engine that Nettie has begun.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia nods and steps up to take her place. She hasn't been to the Astral Realm since she'd been turned. While, true, they aren't really /going/ there, the principle is the same. She has no idea how she'll manifest.

She bows her head and thinks of Chas, the kind caretaker of the now ruined pub. The loving father who would do everything for his adopted daughter, and has done so to the best of his abilities. She keeps these in the forefront of her mind as the rest cast the spell.

Johnny Blaze has posed:
"Nettie." Johnny greets her with a friendly smile as he puts his hand on his Hellfire shotgun, cocking it and putting it on his back. He's ready for this to be a fight. He's prepared for the power to emerge from him as his flesh starts to sting. Zarathos wants Michael. But Johnny is keeping the spirit back until of if the time comes for it. Johnny has never once met Chas, but it's the right thing to do. That's all that matters.

Vengeance is coming, even if it's the avenged that must be saved.

"Can't come with a guest? Then might have to find my own way there. Either way, we're a package deal...he's part of my soul." It's not like the Witchblade...the Rider is fused with his being. But either way, his hands start to ignite with Hellfire. Zarathos will assist this spell, it would appear.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The transformation from the magic shop to the astral is different than it should be. They *all* go, connections and all with them. Perhaps the circle was that damn good, perhaps the destination was just that bizarre of a place, or perhaps the myriad of energies involved was enough to cause the change; whatever the case may be the shop simply fades away. Leaving them all to travel in darkness.

    It's definitely the astral realm--those who know it can feel it--but there are no lingering spirits here. No ghosts of the past. No ectoplasm to draw on in this place. They continue to travel the only sound the soft rush of phantom wind as their minds travel the space between physical and mental.

    Suddenly motes of light sparkle and pulse around them. Even those versed in the realm of the spirits may never see these motes. Ghost echoes of stars. The memories of things that had existed for billions of years, their fleeting colors a testament to their origins. Here a red giant, here a yellow dwarf, here a pulsar. They twinkle as if the group travels through a night's sky.

    As they go, more lights linger in the darkness. Bigger lights. Now they see the memories of galaxies that have littered the universal landscape beyond their own. Beneath them a pulsing vibrant force blooms into existence. The Milky Way comes into spectral view as they get further and further away from it. On the horizon Andromeda can be seen as well as nearby nebulas. Their gases swirling in colors that defy definition.

    Further and further they go. The criss cross patern of the cosmic web eventually starts to form, dark matter swirling with unknown possibility fills the voids between the network of galaxies that form the building block of the cosmos. This is likely farther than any present have travelled before. Where the only things that give validity to the existence is theory--and now the memory of those present as they view it.

    Eventually, even that falls away a tiny spec in their passage. Emptiness lingers. Not Nullspace. There is still that pulse of existence in the dark but the universe has no presence in this area. No echo to give those who travel its depths. Suddenly, there on the horizon another light blooms. This one shining with warmth and vibrance unearthly in intensity. It shines as a beacon to all, a paradise even at its gates. The Silver City is more than simply silver. It is gold. It is platinum. It is diamond. It is sapphire. It is ruby. It is all the colors of majesty and luxury that exist and even more besides. The gathered viewers are massed far enough away to escape notice but the situation still floods their minds. Details of note spring forth as if given directly by some unknown force or by their very will alone.

    The walls of the city are greater than the imagination can give form. Even Minas Tirith of Tolkien's imagination pales in comparisson to the truth of the Silver City. They rise up and up and up and even so glimpses of paradise beyond sparkle shine into form through the haze of ethereal light.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    But the walls are nothing compared to the Gate. A gleaming set of doors made of some material that defies definiton. Is it wood? Is it metal? Is it stone? Is it something in between? Regardless of the make, something *on* the door cataches their attention. A man in a ragged loincloth of undyed linen hangs there. His long hair hangs around his face in a tangled mass. The tattoo marring his shoulder, chest, and neck on the right side swirls in its constantly changing pattern of obfuscation.

    But Chas is not just on the door. He is a *part* of the door. His own wrists and ankles merge into the undefinable material of which the Gate is made, hiding his hands a feet within. He looks as if he is sleeping but he his head turns and shakes as if whatever dreams within the realm of this dream he has are troubling and restless.

    What is even more noticable than Chas is the multitude of beings before the Walls. Scores of beings are massed in formation. There could be millions, even billions in that throng. There are distinct differences in a number of the beings. Some are smaller, some have human forms. Some are simply myriads of rings spinning around a singular point. Others are geometric configurations of crystaline forms. Even others are amorphous globular thigns that pulse and shift with lights within. And at the forefront of their number is the Commander.

    Michael looks much like he did before he departed. His gleaming gold armor covering him from neck to toe. Spear in one hand, sheathed sword at his left hip. His right wing is absolute brilliance incarnate, feathers with their own sun captured within. The left is mess a bloodied stubs on the form of a wing. An opposite mockery of the wing on the right. He raises his spear, utters no word, but the gathered Hosts stop their motion and sound ceases, leaving only his voice to carry. "We stand on the eve of what must be done! We know the risks! We know the price that must be paid! Even as it breaks out heart, we will go forth and do what we were made for! We will destroy the idea that was given form by my hand under the instruction of Our Father on High!"

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Worry not, poppet. Chas is a good friend of mine... I owe him." is all Nettie answers back to the Nephelim before their brains, their minds, their souls and all that is tied to them is sent through the unending darkness of the Astral beyond.

    Nettie was familiar with the emptiness, but the last time she traveled thus -- at the tender age of fourteen -- it wasn't gentle winds. It was the screaming of the Damned she heard. Necromancers and sorcerers don't get into these gates after all.

    And for a moment she is breathless, looking over the city. She is visibly stunned by its beauty, feeling her heart yearn for it.

    ... but what heart doesn't yearn for what it cannot have?

    "Stay close. The wards I placed aren't strong to avoid His eyes forever." she breathes out, and her eyes look over the city again, trying to avoid looking too long at any of the angels as she went slowly through, and made her way, tracing the trail of blood, a thin thread of her bindings and magic, pulling on it slowly.

    Hold on, Chas. We are coming.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The memory of Chas's warm smile buoys Zatanna as she steps across the luminous stars of the universe. Galaxies spin out their shining existence around her as they approach the glorious City.

Nettie's voice cautions through the void.

She gasps at the sight of Chas - imprisoned in the gate. It is a desecration, dimming the City's beauty that the army is massed in front of. Mentally the magician pulls into herself, making herself a mote, unwilling to be caught in Michael's gaze or to challenge him yet.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The travel seems to take forever and yet only an instant. Every part of the trip is stored in the Archive now, to be passed down to Jon's successors for generations to come--not the whole of Creation, but enough of it to outshine nearly any other memory that's been put in the Archive in the thousands of years since it was created.

    And then they're before the Silver City, and Jon can see the beauty of it. The /truth/ of it. The pure, shining beauty of it. He gasps, as he appears beside Nettie, edging himself behind her to be well behind her wards. He's deliberately holding himself to look like /Jon/ and not the Archivist, here, but little bits of the transformation try to bleed through--most notably, the crown of Ma'at upon his brow, here bearing a true ostrich feather, shimmering with an echo of the divine light from the City.

    "This can't be right," he breathes. "Do you feel it? The... pulse of the divine?" He gestures toward the City. "Michael, he... he's connected to something in there. Something /deep/ inside. It... it's..." He gasps again, tears coming to his eyes. "Oldest of the old, Highest of the High. The Creator. Ptah? Yahweh? Brahman. The Truth that is the beginning and end of all things."

    He swallows, and whispers, "If Michael is Fallen, then so is the highest being of the universe. But, no, he is still pure and ordered. There's... something else here. Something deeper." He frowns, and the feather on his brow pulses.

    He shakes his head and focuses his attention toward Chas. What is going on there, then?

Sara Pezzini has posed:
This was a completely new experience for Sara. In her life she has experienced nothing like this span of passing time and images, the emptiness, all of it was unlike anything she'd known, and she found herself hoping it never happened again. In whatever form it was that she found herself, a memory of herself, a hazy image, perhaps a ghostly image, she didn't know, but she stayed close to Nettie through the entire journey.

As the Silver City came into view a sense of awe and amazement washes over her, while at the same time inside her mind Witchblade makes himself known in the form of his usual anger. She knew that somewhere in all of this, amongst all those points of lights indicating the armies of heaven preparing for war, Chas was a prisoner. The idea that 'heaven' would have prisoners sounded completely foreign to her, but it was also Witchblade's thinking bleeding into her own. His anger was over the mere idea that an entity of 'light' would bind a human being as a prisoner for its own purposes infuriated him.

Upon seeing Chas, Sara's anger joins Witchblade's. He was /in/ the gate, he was the gate, that was... there were no words, neither could find a way to describe the sheer level of fury and disgust. It was taking a great deal of her will to remain herself, to /be/ just Sara as she stands behind Nettie. He wanted out, he wanted to rage and vent and free Chas, but she kept him locked inside and focused on Chas, the good that the man was.

Asariel has posed:
Asariel listens to the warnings, but nothing could prepare her for what she sees. She's clothed in her same clothes that she was in the circle, just her coat is a sapphire blue in the astral. Her wings are visible here as well...which might be a shock to some that don't know her. Her gaze finds where Chas is part of the door and her hands come up to cover her mouth so that she doesn't shout. Then her gaze turns to Michael and the others that are gathered, her heart feeling heavy as she sees her extended family.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Heaven's legions are vast. This, Atrun-Rai knew. The whispering monstrosities that have made him their agent have well prepared him for the apocalyptic tableau stretching out before them as they manifest, and so the shock of it is minimal. His astral form is slightly younger, the beard shorter, dressed in a plain tunic of rich blue fabric and a broad belt of glittering golden scales, short boots and bracers of dark leather - a thin golden band about his head, a red stone at his brow. Strange, really; he seems lighter this way. Even in the face of the martial assembly before the glorious city's walls.

    But in his eyes, there is no love for this place, no wistfulness. The words of the archangel ring in his ears, and he knows them well. In the mouths of the abusive husband, the ambitious king turned despot. No need for the trappings of heaven - these are earthly words, earthly sentiments. In the eyes of the ancient sorceror, Michael is quite in danger of the Fall quite already, and does not seem to even realize it. Which is how these things tend to go.

    And then the last: 'under the instruction of Our Father on High'. Even he knows that he stands against the plan of his creator. This isn't righteousness, it's arrogance, just as he had told Jon. And that makes it evil. In that moment, any pity he might have had for Michael or any of the troops that march with the archangel evaporates. The whole city should be cast down, and its defenders with it.

    Strangely enough, he feels little for the poor man melded with the city's gates. He does not know Chas, has no experience of him as a person; he is a victim, unfortunate but hardly rare. These are the fates that befall mortals in these situations, usually against their will, and while hopefully they can extract him it is hardly the priority for him in the moment. And so does Atrun-Rai keep himself small, a spark of darkness, floating along with the rest. Until Jon speaks, and the sorceror senses the tether, the leash that leads from the throat of the ancient angel and into the divine metropolis's core. He has a sense of that energy, what it means. The magician's brows knit, and the expression ages him. "Be wary," he proclaims, tone grave. "I sense it. The Presence. The echo of the Creator, down there in the city. Perhaps it even sees us now."

    God, apparently, is in the proverbial house.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Once shoved into the astral realm, Lydia's body become clothed in a simple white linen dress, her pale alabaster skin softly glowing the the remnants of the power that her faith once held. Her head, however, is different. From one angle, she looks as human as she ever does. From another, her head is that of a great black wolf with glowing red eyes, and yet from another a raven, each reflecting one of the animal spirits she has awakened within herself.

She finds herself holding her breath as they travel upward, forever upward, as they pass through the universe and indeed all of Creation, her eyes wide in wonder. It's all so /beautiful/. How could Michael look upon this and think it all a /mistake?/.

Then comes the Silver City itself. A sight she never expected to see in her lifetime, nor, was she certain, she would ever see after her final death. If she had to breathe it would be taken away at the majesty of it all.

Then she spies Chas, and she nearly weeps. "How? How could something like this be so /cruel/?" And when she hears Michael speak, and feel the authority that backs his words, her heart falls into despair. Once again she finds herself asking how. How could the Creator let this happen? How could They /condone/ this?

And then Nettie is moving. She's nearly left behind, so she hurries to keep up. The shattering of her faith can wait until they can all get safely back. As for now, she's got work to do.

Johnny Blaze has posed:
The Silver City.

"Not gonna lie, never thought I'd end up here, dead or alive." Johnnysays as he gazes across the shining, golden plains. He puts a hand over his chest. "Hopefully, one day." Better this than hell...but does this change his final destination? Who knows? Who could say?

Yet he sees Chas and he frowns. "This your friend?" He questions the others even if he can see it on their faces. He turns his eyes to Sims. "What are you talking about?" Then he hears Michael speak. His skin starts to sizzle and he holds his chest. He starts breathing out smoke. "Can't let him out. Be noticed immediately, likely suicide if Michael is involved." Johnny narrows his eyes. "Is there a way to get him out?" He notices the Host.

"...holy shit. I knew it was big, but not //that// big."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Their steps are cautious as they wind through the massive army before the Silver City, if any take notice of them the alarm is not risen. Perhaps their state gives them some form of protection or perhaps they are but mortals (or semi-mortals) waltzing through billions of immortals and thus beyond notice.

    Regardless of their trek, Michael's speech goes on. "Already the vanguard is on their way. The Blessing of Our Father marking their path to arrive at the appointed time" he calls to the silent gathering. "We will go once they have established our forward camp. I know that many of you wish to join our battle, but the Silver City is ever endanger and so a number of you will stay behind." There is a sense of unease rather than any sound of it among the billions. "Be at peace! There is no dishonor in a rear guard. The Gate must stand fast and I will be among your number even as I am among those in the field."

    Chas truly is part of the Gate. He is the door and the door is him. His skin even shimmers with the essence of what the door is made of, a patina of divine material, making his transformation all but complete. There is a stretching of some sort at his wrists and ankles. A mosaic pixelation at the binding points of his connection with the Gate.

    Even as they look on, a man in simple clothes steps up beside their number. He wears a simple tee shirt of black, loose fitting jeans, and sneakers. His features are all rather unassuming. In fact, he may be the most unassuming individual any of the group have ever seen. "Come to see what lies in store huh?" he asks, softly. There is an almost conspiratorial smirk in his words and expression as he looks at the gathering inside Nettie's moving circle.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    And her, without her decks, only her blood magic to rely on. Nettie is cautious about making her way to Chas, but she stays to the side of the group, ever protective of those who are under her care -- and here, in her spellwork, are they ever under her care.

    Nevermind the warnings she had given. As she is seen, it is only ever wreathed in smoke and the transient symbols crossing her skin.

    However, the white-haired witch gives a smile, and she folds her hands down a moment.

    "Well, I'm more of a tourist. They don't let my sort in no matter how altruistic we become in our old age." she smiles, steepling her fingers a moment, forming a rough triangle with her thumbs at the bottom.

    "Don't suppose you've got a coffin nail and a light, Mister...?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna makes an agonized sound deep in her chest as she looks up at Chas crucified to the Gate of heaven, beautiful desecration. She is no longer in black, but all in white, a photo negative of her clothing in the earthly realm.

Michael's voice beguiles and she wonders why no one in the host can hear the hiss under the words. Though not a Christian an obscure biblical verse comes to mind : 'The voice thereof shall go like a serpent; for they shall march with an army, and come against her with axes, as hewers of wood.'

Zatanna follows the dear old crone toward the gate, the man's question ringing in her mind. Just as she passes him, the magician turns to glance back, "Come for someone," she replies quietly, no thundering righteousness, only sorrow for the man and for the terror that Michael will bring on the earth. Dare she say more? "Come to stop this."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "God," Jon says to Johnny. "Your God. He--They--are there." He points toward the city they're approaching. "I think I'd call Them Brahman, myself, but there are many names for the ultimate reality, the Creator of all. And They're connected to Michael. That's where Michael's power is coming from."

    He's staring at Chas as they go, though, and the pain in him is almost palpable, here. The guilt. No matter how much he tells himself this isn't his fault, he still feels like he's failed Chas, somehow, that his friend was driven to this.

    The man that suddenly approaches makes him jump and blink and then narrow his eyes. "Who--or what--are you?" he demands, much more rudely than Nettie. The weight of a judge of immortals and servant of Truth demanding answers, here, can be felt, but it's doubtful he's strong enough to compel an answer out of the unassuming man.

    He glances to the door. "We're here for him. But we can't get him down yet, can we?" His hands clench into fists and he glares at the man. "Your /Father/ condones this..." he casts about for a word, and settles on, "this /isfet/." The word encompasses injustice, chaos, violence, disharmony, untruth. The counterpart to ma'at; neither can exist without the other, but he serves Ma'at the goddess and concept both. He may need Isfet, but he need not like it.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
If not for the anger that seethed through Sara's entire being, being in the presence of the heavenly host, standing at the gates to the Silver City, it would all be so overwhelming that she might lose herself in it. She had been raised Catholic, that is to say that her Aunt took her to church on Sundays while her father worked for the force. As a child she had never truly believed in a God or heaven and hell, it made no sense to her that one being could create everything and then be so cruel as to ignore his creation. As an adult, she knew better. Even as she looked upon Chas, it was just a dark reminder that the ideals of good and bad walked the edge of blade, one could act with the thinking of good and end up doing bad.

The voice near then causes her to turn quickly and stare at the man. She had expected... more. T-shirt, jeans and sneakers, really? She listens to the response of the others then something Jon says starts echoing in her mind. God condones this? Never once in all this had she considered that the Christian God was actually aware and accepting if all this. Though it echoes over and over in her mind, she says nothing about it.

"This," she gestures to the armies of heaven. "Is not called for. It is an abuse of power, the corruption of an ideal. We're here to stop it and to get Chas back."

Asariel has posed:
Asariel's attention is drawn away from the Silver City as she hears another voice join them and she almost crawls out of her skin, "Who the fuck are you?" she hisses in a whisper as her wings flare open more. Apparently she was distressed. Seeing your other half as a door in heaven while angels talk of a war will do that! She keeps herself in the bubble, not like her wings can hit anyone thankfully.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Muscular beneath the belted tunic, Atrun-Rai looks more like a workman or a soldier without any real vestments of sorcery; he certainly looks as though he's prepared to lift a sledge and set off down the silver streets to demolish something. Stony, he keeps his vision set upon this most unassuming of creatures, the dark kohl about his eyes making them look like spikes of crystallized coffee as his stare is set upon this new man.

    It is all too strange, too...divided. Michael is in apparent revolt, but the Presence is tied to him still. Is it a test for the angel? To see if he is still worthy of the power put on his shoulders? Because he's failing that one very hard right now, as far as the magician is concerned. Still, though. Rarely are things as they seem, and he is, at least for the moment, content to keep silent.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia tries not to listen to Michael. She tries not to feel the anticipation of the Host. Each word breaks a little something in her heard, kills a little bit more of her once unshakeable faith. A hand clutches at a heart that no longer beats, feeling a deep, deep pain.

She turns her human/wolf/raven eyes to the newcomer, almost pleadingly. She doesn't have the magical senses that the other have, not anymore, but she can still feel... something... from him. "What lies in store is nothing but tragedy," she manages to say, trying to keep from tasting her bitter words.

Johnny Blaze has posed:
"Makes sense, we're in a realm of His creation." Johnny tells Sims, though he tilts his head at the term Brahman. "I'll just stick to God." he tells him then. "But connected to Michael, that I understand. He's mentioned multiple times in the Bible. But...seeing him in the flesh..." Johnny feels his skin flare again. "Makes me want to tear him apart. What he's doing is wrong." Johnny frowns then, holding his arms.

But there is poison still in Michael's words. They sound more like the venom of a snake, akin to the one found in the Garden. Johnny senses the darkness, but he cannot see it. His target is Michael himself. The near-omnipotent Archangel. Though his eyes turn to the stranger, sensing the geat power there, and seems almost on the defensive. "Who are you?"

He's tempted to draw the shotgun, but he's uncertain how magic is sensed here. He doesn't want to tip off Michael and get them all killed. "Because you...you don't look like the others here. You look like...I don't know, something else. You -feel- like something else."

Johnny doens't know whats happening, though he turns his attention to Chas, maybe something can get him out of there. Though he looks to the old man. "Is this the fate for us all if Michael wins?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The unassuming man casually waves a hand and a cigarette appears in between his fingers. He flicks it toward Nettie with casual grace and shakes his head. "A little soon for that isn't it?" he says to Zatanna. "It's barely started and you want to stop it? Seems a bit... premature in my opinion. Then again, I'm just an Observer" he says shifting his gaze to Jon. "Some might call me a Watcher. Or *The* Watcher, even."

    Michael continues on. "So with our combined might, let us see whether or not Creation can be restored to a level that He will be content with, or if the Experiement is truly over and must be wiped clean! Ever onward, Host of Heaven!" At his last words a sizable portion of the army moves taking to the skies in a multitude of wings, bells, and horns. The remaining force that lingers at the gate is perhaps a few million in number. Far too many to take on without some other means of distraction or disposal.

    "I'm also a General of his troops. But I got time" the man says looking at Sara. "Is it though? I mean, the man made a deal" he says, giving Chas a sympathetic look. "A bad deal, but a deal of his own choosing. What the Commander did is only a reaction to that deal." He jerks at Asariel's words. "I'm not sure that sort of language is necessary here. But I like your enthusiasm. It shows that you're more human than your father would like to think. You can call me Uriel. And I'm one of your uncles."

    His gaze trails to the Atlantean sorcerer. "Your views... are not entirely sound" he says, as if reading the man's thoughts. "My brother is many things... but Fallen he is not. I don't think he can ever *be* Fallen for in doing so he would doom reality to the realm of your Master. It is not there, so perhaps your vision needs to be changed, caretaker of the Void." He makes a face as if he tasted something he doesn't like and then moves his attention off of Atrun-Rai.

    He looks at Lydia. "Not tragedy. A trial. For you. For all of existence." He looks to Johnny and his question gets a shake of the man's head. "No. This is simply Francis' end of the bargain he made. What lies in store if you fail is that you return to the embrace of My Father and once Michael remakes reality, the cycle will start anew. His alterations are... not the best, in my opinion. But I am not The Builder. I am The Watcher."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Thanks, son." Nettie agreeably takes the cigarette, and she looks as the Host takes to the air.

    "Well, lads and lasses, it appears we are *proper* fucked. They're never going to understand your side of it, bein' absolutely inhuman and lackin' the myopticness of humanity, and we'll never comprehend theirs. It's like... asking a hammer to explain what a blacksmith is." she states, and she lifts a hand to her smoke, and then looks down and realizes she's not wearing anything that would have allowed for a light. This she just siiighs, and moves to stick the cigarette behind her ear as she regards the Watcher with a breezy sort of curiosity.

    "I suppose we can assume the Grand Marshal up there does know we're here, since you came to greet us?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Nettie gets a curious look from Zatanna. Cigarettes.

The homo magi stops and stalks back toward the unassuming 'man', "Let me ask you this? How many deaths will it take for 'too soon' to become a tragedy of proportions on par with the World War II? Do /not/ say we brought this on ourselves? What does the Creator have to say about this?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's eyes widen at 'Uriel' and then narrow. "Uriel. Auriel. Oriel. Found nowhere in the Bible but attested to in the Apocrypha, particularly the Book of Enoch. The Catholics don't venerate you, but many other traditions do. The Eastern variants of Christianity, Rabbinic Judaism... Anglicanism. The motto of Oxford is /Dominus illuminato mea./ The Lord is my light. Which is what your name means." His jaw shifts. "I always rather liked the stained glass depiction of you as regent of the sun at Chester Cathedral."

    He shakes his head. "How much of this has been... setup? So many bloody coincidences. I just /happen/ to be made Archivist, Chas just /happens/ to be the one who summons Michael, Lucifer just /happens/ to walk through my door just in time to give me the water I needed to get his name..." He gestures around. "We all just /happen/ to meet in time to face this threat... how much? How /long/? How far back--"

    And then his eyes widen. "You... you created the Archive." It rings True, here, the thing he's realized. "Or you inspired the Great Mother to do so. And for /what/? To set this all up thousands of years down the line? How many of them did you do the same thing to?" He gestures around. "How many nudges, coincidences, to puts /these/ people here at /this/ time? How many people have suffered, sacrificed, died, for your plots?"

    He looks to Nettie. "Didn't you hear? A /trial/. This is a /trial/, for all reality." He laughs, bitterly. "And we've all got parts to play, I'm certain."

    He hesitates a moment and then shakes his head. "No. I refuse. Whatever part you have for me to play? Whatever... puppet strings you've been dancing us all on? I won't do it. Fuck off." He actually flips Uriel the bird and turns away, folding his arms across his chest to glower over at Chas' form hanging on the door.

Asariel has posed:
Asariel gives a look to the man as he jerks, but his words make her stop, ~Pretty sure whoever up here created me doesn't get the title of 'my father' until he's brought himself to speak to me. Actual father wise, not God.~ she tells the Archangel in their own tongue. ~I didn't think I had any family left...and now I realize that all of you...~ she motions with a pale hand to the angels down with Michael, ~Are my relatives.~ she breathes out.

~Can I trade places with him?~ she points to the door. ~He has children and others that need him. He didn't know what he was getting into when he called on Michael.~ she grits out.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
A trial. That was not what Sara expected to hear. Uriel's words to her regarding Chas only raise the level of anger already seething through her, make it even more difficult to conceal that anger. Her eyes narrow, her stance shifting slightly, but still she manages to keep The Witchblade from just losing his shit all over the heavenly host that remains. It didn't matter that the words the being said were true, Chas had freely made an agreement, but just like all beings of power, the full truths were never revealed until too late. The man was being used, it was that simple, and the truth of it was that he didn't /need/ to be there.

"/WE/ don't dance to the music of your masters," she bites out at Uriel, clenching and relaxing her hands into fists and then straight fingered again. "If you've been planning and manipulating and coercing these events for as long as it seems, then you realize that we are a wild card to your plans, and trust me when we say, we /will/ take full advantage of that."

One step back from Uriel, to keep the gauntlet on her right hand a gauntlet, to keep herself from just attacking. Nettie was right, they would never understand humanity, and humanity would never understand them. As for Witchblade, his thinking was his own on the matter but he knew it was time to reach out to Gaea and Chthlon, his parents, to find out what plans they might have regarding all this.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Atrun-Rai is silent for a long moment. Those dark eyes fix upon the archangel's face, committing every line of existence that he can perceive to memory. "Perhaps," he offers to Uriel. "But I have a responsibility to preserve reality. And the words he uses, your brother, have entropy's taste in a way you may not be expecting. I only urge you caution, Lord Uriel. These things have gotten out of hand before, after all, in hands human or celestial."

    Advising caution of angels. Well, at least he isn't flipping them off.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia just laughs bitterly at Zatanna. "Oh, God loves Their trials," she says to her. "Ever heard of Job? Abraham? God tests us again and /again/ to see if we're worthy, to see if our faith will survive." She turns and gestures expansively towards the retreating Host. "And this is what we get. Another trial. And after this? Another. And another. And another. When will it be enough? Will it ever be enough?"

"At what point does it stop being a test and start being abuse?" she demands of the angel, tears... real tears... starting to fall. "We were taught that God loves us." She shakes her head. "God doesn't love us. I think They're incapable of love. Or hate. Or any other kind of emotion. That's the crux of it, isn't it? God just doesn't /care/. What does this reality matter to Them? They can just make another."

"How many times have They done this, Uriel?" she asks, the deep hurt in her hear spilling out in her words. "How many universes have They created and summarily destroyed? What are They looking for?" She shakes her head knowing that she'll never get any real answers out of him. After all, he just watches.

Johnny Blaze has posed:
Others express their doubts. Others express their anger and their pain towards this subject that Uriel seems to be somewhat honest in explaining. Johnny feels no doubt coming from Uriel, even as each word from Michael's booming voice in his rally to the troops makes Johnny's skin burn. The Rider wants out. He -needs- to get out. But Johnny is currently winning the battle of wills, but for how long?

Johnny listens to Uriel. The words of CHas Chandler are binding and unkind. But he made his bed, the only question then is how do they help him escape his fate. Though he approaches this 'Uriel' and he bows his head to him. "Uriel. I am His servant, by way of faith. Even if my..." he gestures to himself. "Predicament doesn't quite show it. But you haven't ratted our presence here out, unless everyone already knows we're here."

He ponders then for a moment. He doesn't curse like Jon or spit anger like Sara. Instead, he keeps his eyes ever forrward. "How do we save the world? Because even if we're doomed, we have to try." Johnny doesn't care how many times this has happened in the past. He doesn't care how many times they've all been through this, just different realities or versions of the same pieces put in the same places. Johnny runs on faith.

Without faith...being the Ghost Rider would have no meaning.

He looks Uriel in the eyes. "How can we save all of this? Or are you our enemy, and you are here as a trial that we have to overcome?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Uriel's gaze doesn't falter at any of their words. He answers them in kind. "Michael has no idea you're here. He does not notice you any more than he would notice specks of dust among a football pitch." He looks to the light brimming at the edge of the Gates. "Our Father recognized you and pointed out your presence to me. I decided to intervene."

    His gaze falls to Zatanna and he says with no maliciousness. "As many as it takes for the trial to be complete. Our Father gave us leave to do as we please in this matter. His involvement is... more limited than most would care to believe. He loves all things but allows us, his caretakers, to do as we are instructed."

    Jon words draw the Archangel's eyes to him and he gives the man a wan smile. "Quite a bit. Though, not as direct as you may think. There were and still are countless variables in this particular... endeavor. Your position was created in order to bear a level of responsibility, yes. But the same can be said for the advancement of Homo Superior. Or even Homo Magi. The rise and fall of Atlantis was also to ensure such things occured that led to a goal." The insult only gets a soft snort and a shake of his head. "You all have a part in this, but it is dictated by the choices you make."

    "The Warrior's part in this is as it ever has been" he says to Sara. "To ensure that Gaea's children... human-kind is preserved against outside forces. While it may not be a match for The Commander himself, against others, perhaps even myself, it can prove quite formidable." He nods to the guantleted NYPD officer. "Please. Do use your wild card status as an advantage. I expect nothing less from the ingenuity of mortals and near-mortals."

    He looks at Asariel and inhales pleasantly as the language of his people wash over him. "Child, your father is on Earth. As one of the Sons of Man--daughter in your case--you possess so much potential. But taking his place is not your task in this. His salvation may ultimately fall to you in time enough, but now is not that time."

    To the Atlantean out of Time he nods. "I know you may fear my brother's bravado, but I assure you his goal is simply a return to source and is--as he believes--his duty. It is as your esteemed guide says," he gestures to the Light beyond the Gates, "blacksmith," then to the gathering before him, "hammer."

    The Archangel Uriel moves forward and leans down to speak beneath a whisper, his words are for her ears only and he steps back, fixing her with a steady gaze. "Peace and patience, Daughter of Abraham" he says with a nod and then moves to look to the host of Zarathos. "Trust me, Bearer of Vengeance. Your place in this is set as much as theirs. You and your more violent tendancies will have their time. I cannot give you the answer you seek. I can only give you seven words that you must take to heart. 'Struggle is important, because it gives meaning.'"

    He inhales and takes in the group as a whole. "Now, I think your time here--this time--is coming to a close. You may refuse to fight in this trial, but I don't think you will. I think you will fight and you will win because the faith put in you, is greater than the faith put in your opposition. I have my own part to play as well. I am a Watcher, but as an Archangel, I too must command." He steps back and a pair of brilliant wings, similar to Michael's (at least the good one) form on his back. "You know the way home. I will see that it is more swift than the trip here. Most things like this are, after all."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Aye, a trial, and recall I've lived through two world wars and now can't sleep for shite remembering what I had to do in a third." Nettie counters to Jon with a frown. She really wants to smoke that cigarette, but she crosses her arms in thought, an unusually pensive silence.

    "He's right. Sau your goodbyes to Uriel, children, at the moment we don't matter" she finally pipes up. "If we ever did."

    And she brings both hands up, and appears to give a 'push', as if she were getting up from the floor. She begins the incantation to bring everyone back.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna feels the wind at her back, just a speck in the eyes of the angel Michael, beneath notice. Anger keeps her rooted in place, anger filled with more sorrow than she thinks she is capable of holding.

Futile as she knows the words to be, she can't stop herself from saying, "But the children. No child deserves to be caught in a war of anyone's making. It is our worst failing and you are going to visit it on us."

Then obeying the old crone's imperative, she feels herself lift from that beautiful and terrible plane of existence.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon turns back to look at Uriel as the wings unfold. "Ma'at's Judge will come around, Child of Light." The voice that speaks through Jon's mouth is not his own. Higher in pitch, feminine sounding, and his eyes glow a deep green like moss or algae. "They always refuse at first. You know that. I have faith in him. I have faith in all of them. They will succeed in your trial. But sometime soon, we will have words about you using my children in your games. This has to stop."

    He smiles at Uriel. "I have faith that they will surprise you, too. You really didn't need to go to all this trouble. They would have stepped up regardless. But you do love your games."

    Then he shudders and sways, blinking rapidly. The glow in his eyes disappears and he looks like he might be sick. "Games," he mutters. "Pieces on a board. And for /what/?"

    That's the million dollar question, isn't it? What's the point of all this?

    He looks to Zatanna. "Children always suffer in war. Children /suffer/. That's the way of the world. Maybe it's better..." He shakes his head. Trails off.

    "Let's go home, Nettie," he says, shoulders slumping, voice resigned. He hadn't noticed that she was starting the incantation while a Goddess decided to hijack his voice.

    "We've got a war to fight, after all."

Sara Pezzini has posed:
No, they didn't matter, they never did to those who dwell here. Uriel might claim that God loves, but the lack of involvement, the hands off all this, letting the angels choose when and where and how, it sounded a lie to Sara's ears.

She had no further words for Uriel, he was the messenger and though he appeared ready to follow Michael, it was Michael who gained her ire and hatred. She offered him a nod, acknowledgement for the information offered then her eyes swing back to Chas. The Witchblade was still wanted retribution, he wanted to slaw everything between where they stood and Chas, a human who had been used. In his desperation against the darkness, he ended up used.

Then Jon speaks and the astral image of Sara changes. Normally the armor would expand from the gauntlet, but in this situation the armor just appears on her body. Her right hand moves to be level with her heart in front her, the back of the gauntlet aimed toward Uriel and Jon. The Witchblade knew that voice, knew that presence, knew that power and responded to it. Sara had been willing, this wasn't about the anger or the desire for retribution, this was about recognizing the voice of his mother, and offering up herself so that he could present his readiness to Her.

"We're ready," she says with a new conviction, no anger in her voice that sounds a touch deeper than it had before. "We will not fail you."

Asariel has posed:
Asariel admittedly looks heartbroken when Uriel tells her that she cannot take Chas' place and there is a nod of her head. Though mention of another angel on earth makes her quirk an eyebrow, though she doesn't ask the question that goes with it. Exactly who was her father? They'd find out eventually. "It was...interesting meeting you, Uncle Uriel. Hopefully next time will be as peaceful." she states as she steps back, preparing to go back home with the rest of the crowd.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    And along with the rest, Atrun-Rai is ready to depart. Much to consider, much to report. Silent, hands behind his back, he is a grim statue on the way back to his living form.

    Such as it is.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia bows her head as Uriel whispers to her, the eyebrows of her human face pulling together. The message she receives is cryptic at best, though she received something similar from the archangel Michael. She lets out a very human sounding sigh and shakes her head. If the message was to give her hope it had failed.

Still. She'll do as he says. It seems there's a part for her to play still. Just another pawn in the game of cosmic fifth dimensional chess. "Let's go home," she says, sounding empty, hollow.

Johnny Blaze has posed:
Johnny hears Uriel's words that ring out to him.

'Struggle is important, because it gives meaning'.

Perhaps an insight, or a comfort, into his tormented life. And that his place in this is equal to the others, and he will have his time in the sun...if that is even something that should happen. Johnny wouldn't want anyone to meet the Rider, except maybe his worst enemies, but leads to bitterness. And Bitterness is a poison unlike any other.

But Uriel gives his parting words. "I hope to prove the Host wrong about us. We are going to live on. We're going to survive. Even if we have to fight tooth and nail to make sure that the world spins for one more day." Johnny states then. He doesn't lose heart, doesn't resign himself to a dark fate or defeat. He's survived this long.

Damned is he going to let a delusional Archangel get the better of him - or them for that matter.

Though what surprises him is another presence, one that seems to take Johnny's attention from Uriel, and towards what seems to be something else inhabiting Jon. "For a task that only we can try and win." Johnny tells Jon. Though with Zatanna expresses concern over the children, Johnny's eyes narrow. "I lost mine. I won't let any other Children be lost to forces above their own understanding. Ever." Johnny tells her, though his eyes turn to Jon. "Then we win this one for the kids."

Then its time to go, and Johnny enter sthe circle. "We'll be back for you CHas. Keep rooting for us. Hell, we might all die." He tells him with grim humor, even if his eyes turn to Uriel.

"If I die, hope I end up here."

He takes a deep breath then. "Time for war."