9381/Path of Glory: An Audience with the Commander

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Path of Glory: An Audience with the Commander
Date of Scene: 30 December 2021
Location: A Quiet Place (Manhattan)
Synopsis: Atrun-Rai calls the Archangel Michael for a dialogue and, surprisingly, gets a response in the form of revelations about the nature of the plight that the universe is in and what steps might be taken to save it from reclamation by the invading army of Hosts.
Cast of Characters: Atrun Rai, Chas Chandler, Michael Demiurgos
Tinyplot: Path of Glory


Atrun Rai has posed:
    He likes cemetaries.

    Quiet. Peaceful. Deserted, usually, especially at night - and tonight he goes to such a place, an empty little burial yard in a town upstate called Kill Van Alden. For the creek that runs through the valley not far from the town, of course, not the act. Having emerged from the Pyramid hours ago, he sits quietly in the grass, far enough from silent, centuries-old graves that will not be missed, nor visited. The land is sanctified, which gives him that much more peace from the monsters that whisper orders in his head. It is...respectful.

    Quietly he sits, drinking hot mulled wine from a fired clay kantharos conjured from the aether. Strongly spiced, so he can taste it. So it isn't just ashes in his mouth. The flesh of the void needs a strong flavor to penetrate its nigh-dead palate. One swallow, then another; he lets the heat bloom through him, enjoying its warmth. And then...

    He opens his mind. No spells, no rituals, no summons. Just a good old-fashioned prayer, the psychic call for communion that so many have given, thinking it an act of religion. And of course, to him, it isn't. Magic is science, and Michael, for all his awesome power, one more creature in the universe. A person. And he has something he needs to say.

    /Lord Mikha'el, Highest Of Hosts, Creator Of The Living Universe, I greet you. As the battle draws near, and soon we meet in a clash of arms, I, Atrun-Rai of Lantalla, wish to treat with you in honest station. To pass on to you a message, one that should have been offered long ago. It would quiet my soul to say it to you, without trickery or malice.../

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The answer he recieves might not be as explosive as Michael has given in the past but then the call from the prayer wasn't the most flashy of calls. There is a puslse of bright light and suddenly the Archangel Michael was there. Or at least a vision of him is.

    He is clad much as he was when he was given release from the form of Chas Chandler and much as he was at the Gates of the Silver City where Atrun-Rai had last seen him. Golden full plate covering him from toe to neck. A spear in one hand, his sword sheathed at his left hip. His hair is free, cascading in a golden wave down his back and his wings, one brilliant and shimmering the other damaged and rotted flare out before tucking behind him.

    His height, allows him to tower over most even when not hovering above the ground as he is.

    He regards Atrun-Rai with a curious gaze of vibrant blue eyes. "The Atlantean" he says, his voice resonant and commanding respect. "I was wondering when you would get around to calling for me. Your people did so love using us for information fountains in the earliest days of their kingdom. What has forced your hand to call on me now, so close to the eve of our conflict?"

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Death is there before him, blue-eyed and golden-haired. The Master of the physical universe, able to sunder him in a moment. Very Aryan, or what modern humans would consider it. Which would be wrong.

    But Atrun-Rai has known death. And does not fear it. Quietly he rises, the cup in his hand. He gestures, and another appears in his other hand - just wine, spiced as close as he can manage in the ancient style, in its plain clay cup with flared, looping handles. "A conversation, my lord." He offers the towering vision the cup. "Will you do me the honor of drinking with me? You know how my people are - we drink with friends, always, upon greeting."

    No birds in the trees. No insects. Nothing. The Void drives off all these things. They are truly, utterly, alone. Man - such as he is, now - and divinity. As it was that first night in the Garden, when the earth was new and the stars flared unnumbered in the heavens.

    Minus one, of course.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael regards Atrun-Rai for a moment longer before reaching out to take the cup. "That is fair. You will forgive me if I do not drink. Such things are beyond my kind as you know. But I am not against accepting hospitality." He lowers himself to the ground, his armor settling on him without sound.

    "Before we being, let me clear one thing out the way to save time: my attack will not be forestalled for any reason. Should that be your intent with our coversation, you should save yourself breath..." He pauses. "Metaphorically speaking... and not bother. Otherwise, we can discuss whatever it is you wish to discuss. Please, go ahead and say your piece."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Of course, my lord." The sorceror takes a seat in the grass once more, opposite where Michael stands; he gestures in welcome for the Lord of the Material Universe to meet it with his rump. Nothing like meeting the ground you created, after all. Cross-legged now, the cup in hand, he takes a sip from his cup, studying the angel's face as it if were the last thing he might ever see. Which it might. Certainly, it is among he finest.

    But now he speaks. "Tonight," he says, "A friend asked me what contact that we in Atalyente - in the Atlantean League, as you know - had with the Highest Host. I told him as you say, that you and your fellows were incredibly helpful in giving us knowledge, and offered it freely. And sitting there, it came to me that all that I have, my magic, my family, all these things, are because of your work. Through the light of the Presence, filtered through your substance as the sun shines through a topaz window." His free hand strokes his beard, now.

    "And so first," he begins, "And I say this, entirely without design, thank you. For your good works. For this, the universe we live in, and fight for. Thank you, truly."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    There is a sigh and Michael kneels further adding his own merit of conversation with the man before him. "You are welcome, though if we are being wholly honest here the nature of it was only half by my hand and entirely by the will of Our Father."

    He pauses as if considering something than then nods. "And it is my belief, at least in part, that the other hand involved in its shaping is the reason that this universe has become what it has a cancer to the whole that is My Father... and must be returned to the Source. And unfortunate development, indeed."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Yes," says Atrun-Rai with a nod. "I have heard of the nature of this univese, how it apparently leaches off the others to keep itself alive." A tight smile, then, which fades to honest question. "The Morningstar, my lord? But surely, if all other realms which he helped shape are healthy on their own, why would this realm be carnivorous?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "You exceed the credit I am due" Michael says with a shake of his head. "My brother and I are the Architects of *this* universe. Not all others. It stands to reason that his involvement *here* is what caused its cancerous and parasitic nature. Architect of Gluttony and Greed as that he is." He makes a face of disappointment.

    "I cannot attest to the creation of other realms. Whether a mirror of him had a hand in their shaping or not. The endless possibilities that form the body of My Father are just that: endless. We are not given knowledge beyond what we can see of it in Him." A pause and more consideration. He is gaguing his responses to the Atlantean sorcerer. "For all I know, all other manifestations of my Fallen brother did not come to end that he did. It may be that the hubris of his Fall here is what set your universe on the path that has forced our hand. It could be that somehting else in this universe is holding his influence at bay and thus makes it sustainable... in it's own way."

    Another shake of his head. "What I *do* know is that we are called to action to save what must be saved and so we move as we must."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Mmmmm." Atrun-Rai sips at his wine as he considers this, his expression grave. "I see the conflict now, truly." Now he, too, is thinking, sober-faced, sober-minded. He looks back to Michael then. "Before I speak to that further, my lord, I wish to say the other thing that I intended to pass on to you - not just thanks, though they are, certainly, in order. No...to you, who had always been so eager to help my people, ever faithful, ever gracious..." He sighs. Puts aside his cup. Fixes the angel with a dark-eyed stare.

    "My lord," he says, "I am, as far as I am aware, the last of my people still living, short of the great Merlyn. And with that being so, let me please offer you my apology. For the abuses of your hospitality and friendship, of their arrogance in thinking they could bind you. You speak, often, of arrogance among the creatures of the earth - I know, indeed, that in part began in Atalyente. So, let me offer you this, my deepest apology, and my condolences, for the breach of trust."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael's gaze is soft and full of compassion. He smiles a sad smile and inclines his head graciously. "Your apology is not necessary, Child of Atalyente. But it is accepted." He shakes his head in a gesture that is full of sympathy. "I cannot fully blame you for the sins of your people against me. Last of your kind or not. What those who lived in Atlantis did to my kind was... unfortunate, but I believe they paid the price for their misdeeds well enough."

    He tilts his head at the wizard and asks. "Surely your calling to me was not simply to offer your thanks and apology... that could have been given in simple prayer. What is it you truly wanted from me in this? There is curiousity in his voice and perhaps a bit of confusion that someone as powerful as Atrun-Rai would think to *summon* his presence to give over what attributed to mere pleanantries.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Indeed, it /would/ be strange, but the man seems to have only that in mind. At least, at the start. "My lord," says Atrun-Rai, "We are warriors, and among my people when two warriors meet in battle - especially when one has resigned himself to die for his cause, if need be, which as you know I have already done once - it is important that these sentiments are given to one another where the may see each other." He gestures to his face. "To look into each other's eyes. I said that we drink with friends; and, my lord, you have been a friend to us. To my people. I honor that, as I honor you, even as I know that we will meet on the field."

    One more sip of wine, then, and his expression firms. "My lord," he says, "There is...one thing that troubles me. Now that you have brought it up. You continue to refer to our reality as a cancer, one that has spread into the other universes - and while I understand that it is our duty to stabilize our universe, that this is part of our trial, I..." He pauses, now, looking into the empty bowl of his cup. Up to the face of the radiant slayer, whose face is now so warm. Sympathy, which Atrun-Rai shares. "...if it is so, that this is a cancer that has spread, is it not the nature of a cancer to kill the patient if it is cut out? Or if survived, does the cancer not return unless it is rooted out of every piece of tissue that has been affected?" He frowns once more at the angel, expression thoughtful. "Is it not a risk that this may doom more than one universe in the doing?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael takes a breath--or at least it may seems based on his body language (he doesn't truly breathe)--and lets it out. His expression sours some. "My words may be... misleading. I am attempting to couch the situation in metaphors that are not my own. Metaphors my bretheren have used for others without as much experience as yourself. It would be easier, and more in line with my nature, to show you what it is that happens and for you--wise as you are--to make an assessment yourself."

    He rises to his feet and offers a gauntleted hand to the magus. "I propose, given the nature of this meeting, to give you an exchange of knowledge for your hospitality." He smiles beatifically and adds, "As a gesture of respect, in the nature of what I gave to your people in the earliest days of their growth."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "I understand, my lord." His curiosity sated, Atrun-Rai is about to let the archangel go about his business - but then Michael offers his hand, and the magus, with some trepidation due to his voidmade nature, slips on a glove himself before taking that gauntleted hand. Steeling himself against the shock of what might come, the sorceror looks into the angel's eyes. "I am prepared as best I can be."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    While the transition from Earth to the precipice of the multiverse for the other that had seen it was slow and smooth--Michael was not a creature of relief. The shift was abrupt and without warning. The moment Atrun's hand fell into Michael's the Earth jerked away and they stood overlooking a vast field of color. Twinkling motes of color swam in the vast expanse.

    Michael's voice intones in such a way that makes it sound as if it isn't coming from directly beside the wizard. "Behold! That which your kind calls the multiverse. All of the possibilities ever envisioned given a set quantity of power and matter in system. This..." There is a flurry of motion and the pair find themselves hovering near a perfect sphere dominated by the colors blue, red, and purple. Michael gestures "A stable universe appears as this one does. Elegant in form. Self contained. Holding and continuing as it should on its own."

    Another flurry and they find themselves before a grey mass, trickles of the mass fall from it and dissappear moments after. "A failed universe in the final stages of reclamation. Whatever power was tasked to enforce such activity has done its job and the mass will be reabsorbed into the Presence and the Source and recast anew. Better."

    Once again they move and find themselves in front of a green and blue amorphous... thing. It moves through the vastness like an amoeba, not spherical but not bleeding either. "This is your universe. It is neither destabilzed to the point of destruction nor is it self-sustaining... look!" He gestures and the amoeba like universe brushes a "foot" against a nearby sphere. The effect is instantaneous. The sphere starts to loose its color and falls apart, destabilized to the point of destruction while the amoeba looks revitalized, stronger.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Even steeled, the void-hardened will of the sorceror shudders as Michael tears his perception from the tininess of the cemetary to the looming enormity of the greater cosmos. The vast and extragalactic gulfs of space, then the great darkness between universes; this he beholds as Michael bids him, unable to look away from its terrible majesty. With every step, his mind wishes to recoil, bids him to flee, but he masters himself - and, by the time he has leave to catch his 'breath', to witness his own reality as a crawling amoeba, breaking the soap-bubble perfection of other continuums to keep stable its own.

    "I see it," he states, his voice a troubled whisper. The parallels between the hungry nature of the universe-thing and the beasts that whisper in his mind are not lost upon him. "Tell me, my lord, do you know what would cause the shell to be so liquid? So amorphous? Were I to find the Morningstar today,  what could he do to aid in restoring matters?" He is not certain that he /could/, of course, but if the disharmony witnessed here is indeed a product of Lucifer's own past nonsense, well...

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael shakes his head, his voice echoing in the enormity of it. "My brother has no solution for this problem. He has discarded his Purpose and as thus has discarded all he is with it. What is causing the fluidity of the universe is an imbalance of power. Too much power contained in one system. It is rather simple despite the enormity of its damage."

    He waves a hand and the landscape shifts once more. No longer are they on the precipice of Eternity. They instead stand in the midst of a Garden. The most lush and beautiful Garden that Atrun-Rai has ever seen. Far in the distance stands a Tree of immense proportions. It is likely the most vibrant and powerful looking tree ever. "Countless years ago. My silent brother spoke with The Great Mother..."

    Two figures emerge from the mists surrounding the tree. One is an young man who, despite the power pouring from him, still seems... rather plain in his bearing. The Archangel Uriel. The Silent Watcher. The woman at his side, by contrast, exudes beauty, grace, power, and fertility in magnitudes that mark her apart from the the mightest of angels. While Michael can *create* none of his kind can Give Life. This creature that walks beside Uriel is created for the sole purpose of Life and she glows with that power. Her thin gown, green as fresh growth, hangs from her sun-tanned skin and her hair, the color of fertile soil cascades down her back, held away from her face back a circlet of stones and crystals. The woman and the archangel seem to be in deep cousel with one another.

    Michael speaks again. "Their conversation was simple. They knew of the instability of the universe and they knew it must be rectified. The Great Mother asked for help from the Hosts. She wanted to give Mortality the power to fix the universe themselves, without needing to reclaim all of it. So Uriel--in his way--proposed a game. The Great Mother would choose a champion: a single individual of mortality and imbue them with power, knowledge, and strength to stand opposite the force of The Presence--to stand opposite of me. The game would be simple... either her Champion would find a way for the denizens of Creation to stabilize the universe themselves without requiring external assistance. Or I--as the force of the Presence--would do as I am bound and reclaim the universe for repurposing by the Will of My Father."

    The woman walking with Uriel stops and looks at the Archangel agast. Michael continues. "She was reluctant. For placing her precious children on the balance of a Game. Placing so much power on the shoulders of one individual... it was too great a burden. Too great a risk. But The Light of God, is a very convincing and very stubborn individual. Eventually..." the woman looks at Uriel and, clearly unhappy with the circumstances, nods. ...she relented."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    He has always loved stories, has Atrun-Rai. Atlantis was indeed full of them - but no theater or sensorium could hold the visions which he beholds now. Here, in real time. The doom of the world, held in a contest. A game. "I see the truth of it," says the Atlantean, his expression set in a mask. "And this contest. Has it happened before, my lord? Or is this the first time the balance has been so tested?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael waves a hand and the vision of the Garden fades, and they find themselves back in the cemetary. "Your question is a direct one. The journey of a hero and his allies against seemingly unsurmountable foes has occured countless times throughout legend. But never has one of this scale been put forth. My brother, the Watcher, has played his hand rather well. While I don't begrudge his choosing this stage, I believe that his pressure on The Great Mother was uneccessarily harsh and pushed her to make a decision on her choice in error."

    He shakes his head, "The Watcher or as he calls himself in this Age, The Archivist, is a suitable warrior for battle against some of my kind, but he is of no match against the Purpose that I was made for. His trial will end with his defeat and once displaced, the true reclamation project can begin without interference from such matters." He looks at Atrun-Rai with a penetrating gaze. "I suspect that you will use your..." his mouth twists in distaste, "...connections to bar my path. Is this an accurate assessment of your plan?"

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "We will fight you to the end," says Atrun-Rai, looking to the towering vision once more now that the clarity of revelation fades away and reality returns to the fore. "But if you mean that which brought me back to life, no. Our relationship is not what you assume." It is with a chuckle that the Atlantean draws his handa way from Michael's. "This is a task for mortals, which I - however augmented - remain. I have no trouble dying for this cause, my lord, you know that I have died before to maintain reality. It is, I think, why that which killed me in the past decanted me anew. But..."

    Atrun-Rai gestures over his cup, and with a whispered word it disappears into vapor. "It is my hope that this will not be necessary. I would prefer if we might find a way to restore the balance before you arrive, so that we need not fight at all. As I said, I see you as a friend, and should like to keep it that way. Perhaps one day we might share a cup for real together, and not under this warrior's tent. One more thing..." He looks between the angel and the ancient, sprawling graves, their markers overgrown and obliterated. "I would ask something of you. Something very important."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael nods implacable and immovable as a mountain. "I expect nothing less of Mortal Kind. Fight, though it be futile in the end. Your kind must fight in order there to be any chance at your success. Perhaps I will be surprised and your route will be sufficient to buy time and Gaea will succeed in her play. But I doubt it."

    He regards the disappearance of the cups with only minor notice as his hand returns to his side. "Make your request. I may see fit to grant it, but I cannot know unless it is given texture."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    He lets out a soft sigh. "Humans. Noncombatants. They will be terrified, especially those of the Abrahamic religions. I make no assumptions as to your plans, and I mean no offense, but..." Atrun-Rai takes a deep breath. "They will be assuming slaughter. I am certain that many will take up arms to defend reality, but as for the rest - will you please refrain from culling them, unless that was already your plan? Allow them free passage from the field until such time as the contest is ultimately decided?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Micahel snorts, a rather strange action given the beatific face that it comes from. "The Archivist has had ample time to see the field cleared of those he does not wish to fall in this conflict. If he has not done so already, then their blood will be on his hands."

    He shakes his head in a morose fashion. "I will say that those not marked as Warrior by The Prophet will be given safe haven as those faithful to the cause of Reclamation. As to the rest of your request, I cannot grant it. The time is set for our arrival and it cannot be postponed. We will be when we will be."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "The Archivist is not a government," replies the Atlantean, but he nods. "I will ensure that he knows of this, if he has not already put things in motion - however, my lord, I thank you for your clemency. It means a great deal to me."

    And with this, he takes another breath, frost issuing from his lips, and he steps back and execute a deep bow. "I thank you again, my lord, and beg pardon for my request for this meeting - but it is most appreciated, and my heart can go forward now clear of reservation. I hope that, in future, we might resolve this peacefully - but if not, I look forward to meeting you honorably on the field of battle. Until then, my lord, I wish you peace."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Michael inclines his head in respectful acknowledgement. "Likewise wise magus. I do hope that your time from battle has not dimished your skill in combat. Ready yourself and those with whom you will fight aside. We will see each other soon enough."

    Then his wings flare out as he flexes them. One is brilliant and shines as bright as the sun, the other is bloody but sheds light no less. The armor clad archangel vanishes without even a stirring of the air, leaving the silence of the cemetary to return as it was before his arrival.