9446/A Question of Blood

A Question of Blood
Date of Scene:	04 January 2022
Location:	Shadowcrest Manor - Bristol Township
Synopsis:	Delivered unto Atrun-Rai, Michael's blood is to be used to severely damage the divine protection the angelic forces enjoy. The playing field is to be greatly leveled....
Cast of Characters:	Atrun Rai, Jonathan Sims
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

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Atrun Rai has posed:
    Not long since they returned, Atrun-Rai calls Jon once more - a whisper in his mind, cast over distance, for him to return and meet with the Atlantean wizard once he's done with whatever business that he's up to. Upon his return, Jon will find him in a sitting room, poring over a book of sorts, with hexagonal pages of bronzelike metal between black metal covers bound with silver rings. The characters on the cover are large and bold, scripted as if with a pen - the language, of course, is Old Atlantean, its meaning mysterious to the viewer. Save for the reader, of course.

    He reads, his face set in a thoughtful expression, lips set in a line. Waiting, as a cup of tea curls steam from its surface, and a fire blazes away illuminating him as if some Hadean priest from a long-forgotten vase.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon was heading home, on the Hyperloop, which is always a fraught concern for him of late. The faint whisper in his mind gets a frown, and then he texts his husband that he'll be home a bit late and gets off at the next stop and turns around. Not Atrun's fault in the slightest, it's just that Jon is trying to spend what he presumes to be his last couple of days of freedom at home, now that he's... girded. As it were.

    He comes to the sitting room with a curious expression, however. It's not every day you get a mental summons from an Atlantean sorceror. "I should apologize," he says as he steps in. "I think I was a bit... curt, in the Garden. Didn't mean to be. I never do." He frowns. "Anyway... how can I help?"

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "That is not why I called you." If there's any insult, it certainly does not pass. "I probe you because I wish to know you - crisis and observation is the way of my people. I do not feel poorly toward you at all." The book is closed, set upon his lap, and the dusky man considers Jonathan with those dark eyes taking on a penetrating character.

    He stares at Jonathan for a long moment, until it is almost uncomfortable. Almost. Finally, then, he says: "I understand that you have a considerable volume of Mikha'el's blood in storage."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon has stood under scrutinizing stares before, though never one quite like this. There's not much underlying hostility in this one, at least. He frowns slightly, shifts in place. He's about to open his mouth to make a crack to break the tension when Atrun speaks.

    He blinks at the man. Slowly. "I... /do/, yes. I... well. When I cleaned Chas up, after I hurt his wing, it seemed... prudent, to..."

    A long hesitation. Then, "For one, it seemed prudent not to let it fall into the wrong hands, and part of what I do is... ensure that such things do not fall into the wrong hands. I had proof enough, by then, of what importance Michael had to the universe as a whole. For two... it seemed like it may prove useful in the future."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    No hostility - it is a thinking stare, a dark thing, but thoughtful. "I would like to have it," he says. "If you have you current plans. With it, I can destroy the magical protections of the coming Legion through their connection to Mikha'el. The rule of contagion, if you know it. The rule of correspondence. Like a plague, I can rob them of much of their divine protection; they will be far more mortal than we were. Instead of wolves among sheep, the wolves will be trapped - and we will be on a far more equal footing."

    Amazing where one's thoughts go when one has come home from Heaven.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's breath catches in his throat. "That's..."

    He hesitates for a long, long moment.

    "An Amazon told me, yesterday, that we should not be so quick to fight them. That... we're just playing into their hands, if we do. You're asking me to hand over something that means that more of these beings /die/."

    He's clearly conflicted. He looks away, toward the fire. "But what does that even... /mean/? Does death mean anything to them the way it does to us? Troia is working in a milieu wherein even her gods have some measure of... mortal foibles. Are angels even /people/ or are they... automatons? Gods." He lets out a long breath.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "A bit of both," he replies. "It depends on their ranking. When killed, unless utterly destroyed, they go back and are eventually recycled. Back into reality. And yes, I'm asking you to let me make it easier to kill them, Jonathan. Because they will kill us if we do not." A deep sigh escapes him. It is truly necessary for him to breathe? Only he knows. "My hope is that descending to earth and finding themselves stripped of the majority of their defenses will drive them back without a fight. But if they insist..."

    The Atlantean reaches for his teacup. "They will give us no quarter, Jonathan, when they fight us. We must meet that force such that it gives them pause. Violence will not win the day, but it /will/ contain it. We must try and suppress fatalities as best we can." Ruthless, he is revealed to be. Terribly. But at least his mind is still on keeping humanity alive.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's hands clench into fists. "I know. I /know/! I... well. You want to know the measure of me, and this is it--I /hate/ this whole business. I hate death being a thing people jump to so quickly--their own or another's. I am /intimately/ involved in the mechanisms of death. I know for a /fact/ there is a potential afterlife--but it's not what this is, here." He stamps a foot on the ground. "If I go to live forever with Ra, that's not living on Earth. If I'm reborn, I'm no longer myself. And all the people I leave behind..." He shakes his head.

    "But you're right." He starts pacing, hands clenching and unclenching. "You're right. There are people that will die if we don't do this. Perhaps it would even force them to flee--though I very much doubt that. I just..." He reaches up to run his hands through his hair. Irritated, frustrated.

    "How would it work?" he asks, sharply. "Rule of contagion--can you strip /Michael's/ protections, or just theirs?"

Atrun Rai has posed:
    He shakes his head. "I would not seek to harm Michael," says Atrun-Rai. "If he dies, Creation goes with him. But utilizing certain rites using his blood, I can spread throughout the coming Vanguard this affliction, and later, if need be, the Legions that approach behind them. And if need be..." Atrun-Rai frowns at Jonathan from over the rim of his cup. "If we needed to exert influence over the Highest, then we could. But only on the field, face to face. By then, we would likely have lost already - though...we will see."

    He takes a deep sip of tea. "I do not know all the effects his blood may have on him. Not yet. And it will not affect the other archangels. But as for the lesser angels, the ones that we will face, we will be much more closely matched."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon keeps pacing, back and forth. Considering this. Are angel's lives worth more than mortals? How do you weigh that, in the balance? /Can/ you weigh that in the balance?

    Then again, they started this.

    He sighs. "How much would you need?" It's not relenting. Not quite yet. "I have... well. Perhaps enough. Perhaps more than enough. Perhaps not enough at all. I provided one flask to John already, for all the good that did. Not his fault, really; we should've thought through what 'exorcising' an archangel meant."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "All of it," he says. "At least at first. Understand, Jonathan, this rite will be a tremendous work on my part. It will affect nearly /all/ of them, from the lowest angel to the Thrones themslves. It is my hope that such a work of sorcery will destroy their morale such that they withdraw, if only for now. I can secret the remainder in a warded oubliette, through which they would have to enter Nullspace to recover - more dangers for the Legion, as that land is inimical to their very being. Assuming there /is/ a remainder." He gives Jon a faint smile, there. "It is a ruthless work. But ruthlessness will be required before such power. Meanwhile, it may buy us time to find the solution we need. Certainly it will save lives."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon stops pacing, finally, putting his hands in his hair and gripping, hard. Stares at the fire. Then he drops his hands. "Did healers in your time take an oath?" There's only a beat before he goes on, without waiting for an answer, "Columbia still uses a version of the Hippocratic Oath. I don't know if you know it; people claim it starts 'first, do no harm' but... it does not. It's... sometimes you have to figure out what it means. 'That into whatever house I shall enter, it shall be for the good of the sick, to the utmost of my power.' But when is the 'good of the sick' to let someone die with dignity and when is it to exhaust all options. For a psychiatrist... when do we medicate hallucinations, and when do we listen and... /believe/ the patient?"

    He shakes his head. "'That I will lead my life and practice in uprightness and honor.' What honor is there in using magic to ensure an enemy may die?"

    He frowns. "But... what honor is there in letting my home burn? If Michael is the patient, perhaps this is the cure--to strip him of his legions so we can talk sense into him. If nothing else... perhaps it saves lives."

    He shakes his head. "You can have the blood. All of it, and I wash my hands of that. But it sits heavy on my heart." He places a hand there, to his chest. "Gods, and I was /just/ starting to feel that maybe when I go back to Duat I won't risk Ammit eating it up."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "I do this for humanity," he says latly. "And my hope is that, should they realize the work that has been laid upon them, they will step back. I do not do this just for the sake of bloodshed." Atrun-Rai frowns. "I realize, it is a terrible work of sorcery. But. Any advantage that we may wrest..."

    At this the Atlantean spreads his hands in a gesture of resignation. "May this be the measure needed to stop the war."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon shakes his head. "No I don't... I understand. I do. This is my own..." He turns to look at Atrun. "If I hand this over to you, then I'm responsible for the consequences. I had to be sure that I can accept that, for my own... ethics."

    He frowns. "I pray, too, that they will step back. Gods, do I pray that. And if not... then we'll have a better chance. An even playing field, or closer to." The frown turns to a smile, then. "Balance. Part of the point, hmm?"

    He looks around. "I've six vials in a medical storage bin in the Archive; I got seven, which felt significant, but as I said I gave John one. Where should I bring them to?"

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "You have my word," says the sorceror, "That the blood will be used only to weaken and otherwise defeat these angels and help achieve our goal. This will allow the greater part of humanity to stand forward, if need be. Nothing unites us like an external threat, in all manner of ways."

    That said, Atrun-Rai clucks his tongue. "Here," he says. "Bring them here. I must do the rite in my own sanctum, but best to make the delivery to this neutral location. I will begin the work immediately."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon ponders for a moment. Then he nods and pulls out his phone. "How fast do you need it?" He quirks a brow, thumbing through the phone and inputting a request for a car for rapid pickup. "I can have it here within a couple of hours by car, but I could /probably/ scramble a jet if it needs to be here faster." He frowns. "...Probably. Car's easier."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    He just blinks at the man. "Can you not step between spaces? I can send you, if you wish."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glowers down at his phone and then looks up. "No, I cannot. And I haven't been able to begin to fathom /how/ to do so with my magic. I get the feeling the Archivist... doesn't. Portal about, I mean. Probably too easy to miss all the chance connections one makes in between." He sighs and rolls his eyes.

    "But if you can do so and get me back easily? Certainly."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "And I do not have the same great collection of lore as you," Atrun-Rai points out, chuckling as he gets to his feet. "Even with all my learning. We all have our strengths, eh? Here."

    He does not do it as he would himself. Instead of traversing the Void, the Atlantean reaches out with his mind, his senses; searching out the strands of corresponding space connecting the Archivist with the places he has been, the places rich with the astral scents of knowledge and mystery. Tracing them back to their location. He perceives the location, a collection of grand buildings that make up S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Triskelion. This known, then, he focuses his will, murmuring ancient words of invocation, of connection. Syllables redolent with power long since lost. The walls of reality shudder, and then...a tear opens in space behind the Archivist, a smooth wound melted through as if a hot wire passed through plastic wrap. Beyond, the Triskelion and its grand lawn awaits.

    "I will be waiting," says Atrun-Rai, lit with the sodium glow of the streetlights casting their haloes through the gap in space. "Come back to this spot on the other side once more, and call. I will be watching, and will reopen the passage."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks at the portal. "How...?" Well, magic. He nods, and steps through the portal, and heads inside, to go down and give his biometrics to a vault within WAND. In a little while, he'll come back with a medical cooler carrying six vials of blood that /still/ boils within its flasks, the cooler and flasks all inscribed with hieroglyphs and the Eye of Horus in silver Sharpie, infused with magic and small amounts of Jon's own blood. Warding spells, neatly done, and probably more powerful than he realizes. Enough to seal away the blood of an archangel, at least.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Magic, indeed. Of an ancient kind.

    Eventually, with Jonathan's return, the Atlantean awaits him with his grim expression having softened. "I thank you," Atrun-Rai says to Jonathan as the cooler is passed to him, bowing his head and taking the insulated vessel in his hand - and, gesturing anew, seals that wound in space without issue. Cleanly healed. This is what years and years of formal schooling gets you.

    "Now," says the sorceror, bowing again. "I go forth to my work."