Owner	Pose
Stephen Strange	So close to the crater that was Mutant Town, the veil between the mystic and the mundane is especially tortured. They are the sort of minor oddities that the normal residents simply ignore, their minds choosing not to see that which is too bizarre to quantify. So, they move around amidst the strangeness, not noticing yet still making space to accommodate it. A young man on his smart phone casually takes a step to the right to avoid a man in 19th century garb distributing flyers supporting the women's suffrage movement. A Prius pauses at an intersection to allow a Model T to trundle past, the antique automobile rolling off down the street before it simply fades out of view. The white and gold edifice of St. Barbara's Church exists on the very boundary of the crater that was Mutant Town. Many are declaring it a miracle that the old Spanish Baroque Revival church is still standing when mere steps from its boundary the ground gives way to a deep and forbidding crater. A makeshift memorial to those lost has been built against the walls and the wrought iron gates that border the churchyard, photographs of loved ones along with flowers and candles all lit in memory of those stolen by the fiend from the outer dark. This is the place that calls to those practitioners of the mystic arts. The place where a great aethereal tether stretches up from the Earth itself, wending away into the distance as though grasping at something far away. And beyond it, in the place where Mutant Town once stood, is a great darkness. A pitch blackness that smothers any and all light escaping from the crater. Around it eldritch symbols of substantial light float in the air, a shield around the crater erected by some powerful, magical force.
Sera	It's just over there, Bushwick. Just a few neighbourhoods over. Why not walk? And so Sera, completely and utterly misinterpreting distances on her Starkphone walks out the front door of her Brownstone and began the trek by foot to the church in question. It turns out Cobble Hill is a good hour and a bit of a walk to Bushwick. The walk, however, is good. Fresh air and people quietly sipping coffee. It feels good, as well as people assuming her culture is Earth based, offering her fist bumps and 'Hey' as she wanders down the street. She doesn't mind this, Heven's culture was never so friendly. The closer she gets to the old church though, the weird things start to feel. She knows enough about Earth to recognise those things that are out of place, the horse drawn buggy taxi service filled with people wearing trousers held with suspenders is a bit of a give away even for her. She's done a good job of being inconspicuous so far, just another New Yorker walking the streets of Brooklyn. She's in jeans and a dark blue t-shirt with a yellow 70s font saying "Angelar Momentum" with an arrow pointing up.
Elektra Natchios	For someone that had been dealing Death for so long like Elektra had been she knew something was wrong with this. Not exactly death, nor life.. Something in between. Very much as she felt her life to be sometimes. And while her senses were not attuned to magic and their flows she notes the subtle shifts ...., and a model T, that makes her lift a finely trimmed brow.. "I was expecting robes and wizard hats. This is beating it." A murmur to herself while she approaches the Church, hands inside the pockets of her leather coat. She was dressed very much similarly as she had been when she met them on the subway before. Dark jeans, shirt, the visible lines of some kind of light armor underneath it all. And those Sais nicely hidden away and waiting for use. A few more tricks? Maybe, but a ninja never showed all she could do. Much like an illusionist, funny that. She notes at least one face that had been down there so she starts nearing Sera. "I suppose this isn't any of your work..., or of your book club." she gestures vaguely about with one elegant hand.
Ariah Olivie	It's here, again, that Ariah has arrived. Called to duty, called to help. She stands near the gates of the church, staring off into the sky. Passersby give her glances occasionally, some cursing under their breath as they step around her, being too caught up in a phone or text conversation to own up to the fact that they're not paying attention to where they're going in the first place. Again she carries a small satchel with what looks to be chiseling tools, strapped over her shoulders. Again she carries her staff, held in both hands, thumbs rubbing over the Norse-like runes.     It's almost a nervous tic, almost a self-comforting act. Reflex and rote, knowing which ones will be the first to channel energy should she need it. And skyward, she stares all the while, eyes on the tether, cool, dark-painted lips curved into a ghost of a frown. She waits, knowing others will be there soon.     Footsteps and voices that bear some familiarity turn the frown into a more neutral expression, but still the stares, waiting.
Lara Croft	It's an odd thing when you're out at lunch with an old friend, and you get a phone call from your landlord telling you that 'something in your apartment is glowing so bright that the neighbors are complaining', bht that's what happened to Lara Croft. She'd rushed home to her loft in Greenwich to find the crack beneath her front door shining light out from underneath it-- and upon entering, the brilliant bright light was coming straight from the Crystal Skull that she'd acquired the last time she'd delved into the mystic arts of New York City. Lara pulled the climbing helmet off of the top of the skull that she'd rested over it, then realized that the light was pointing at the windows with a fiercely bright beam... Piecing it together, Lara's Jeep pulls up not far from the church, she steps out of the vehicle and sees that the skull's beaming light is aimed right toward it. Quickly placing the skull inside of a black bag, Lara grabs her jacket and raises her sunglasses up to her forehead as she starts to walk toward the Church.
Jason Blood	A man somewhat apart from time himself, Jason Blood is actually a little -less- sensitive to such temporal oddities, despite whatever mystic proclivities he may entertain: after all, he once owned a Model T himself! It is not that this blending goes unnoticed, particularly after their prior encounter with the height of Manhattan sleaze and greed circa the 1980s. It is just that it doesn't exactly give him pause. Half the time, he feels like these apparations must, himself. Blood's attention is more immediately on the mystic phenomena that make themselves known in the area. From the bottom of the church steps, he examines first the aethereal ribbon, before his attention more properly turns to its other half, the gaping black void. Indeed, it would seem he arrived well ahead of the group and has perhaps spent the majority of that time since his arrival gazing out into the abyss. What do they say about that? Should anyone be worried? Fortunately, he still seems to have his wits, turning about when Sera arrives. "Ah hello, good to see you again, miss. Is your exile still treating you well, I hope?" He approaches from the Church, coming nearer to the edge of the crater as everyone gathers. "I would imagine it has at least a little something to do with the recent attack, at least... in a roundabout fashion."
Illyana Rasputina	St. Barbara's Church shines in bright relief due to recent restoration efforts, removing the besmirched pollution from countless cars streaming in front of it on streets no longer connected to a whole neighbourhood. The ragged, round hole plunging into the Long Island bedrock interrupts the regular gridwork pattern formed by the streets, witnessed by impersonal drones, helicopters, and the Demon Queen of Limbo floating a thousand feet in the air. Not that anyone is bound to notice, a pair of veils shrouding from general interest, the better to inhibit any stray attention. It's hot enough that shimmering distortions burn around the twin verdigris pinnacles, rounded caps in soft white on goldenrod bricks. Contrary perhaps to popular belief, even Hell Lords can land on consecrated ground. Maybe a dispensation for the relic at her back, currently wrapped in a midnight-blue ribbon to keep the glowing blade from further terrorizing people. Nonetheless, faith and the mystic entwine in so many affairs, and one of those plumes pulls her down as she allows the draw of prayers and thoughts to reach her audibly. Floating in a meditative lotus over churches tends to upset the parishioners or passing angels, after all. Mutant Town stands like a profound wound at the tips of her boots, a bloody reminder, blackened nightmare faced by a far-fallen sorceress. She drops like a stone after relinquishing one of the spells holding her aloft, plunging down to land on a patch of sidewalk unoccupied by anyone for a moment. A crouch, a bounce, the illusions drop and she's simply there at ground level. "At least it hasn't grown," that Russian voice lilts behind Lara.
Stephen Strange	The encounter in the forgotten subway station marked these people. Whatever it was lurking in the void, the Wound that was Mutant Town, has seen them and knows them. There is an electricity in the air that sets hairs on end, and a tension like a dog curling back its lips to snarl in warning at unwanted interlopers. A man in a high top hat stands with an archaic version of the American flag bound about his waist like a sash. He crosses his thick forearms with a frown, and where he seemed like nothing more than a fleeting afterimage mere moments ago, he now seems all too solid. The skull in Lara's bag continues to glow. So fiercely now that the light of it still manages to pass through the thick black fabric of her bag. What straining strands of it escape dance over the façade of the church like fingertips, and where they touch seems to take on a younger and less worn-down-by-the-world appearance. For a moment they pass across a woman dressed in dark, modern attire laying prone upon the stairs. Her face is pale, and though the light only reveals her for an instant the bright contrast of blood pooling through her fingers as she clutches her stomach is clear to see. The darkness of the crater - the Wound - howls again. The shield that is visible to those mystic initiates begins to thrum and strain as something heavy and unseen heaves itself against the eldritch boundary.
Sera	Sera smiles to Elektra, "I suppose that depends on your point of view. Dr. Strange did ask us to come talk to the spirit here, awaken it from its slumber. Warned it'd be more dangerous than the last. Over drinks - he did not partake, something a bit odd with that man." She offers her hand to Elektra, "I'm Sera," in case somehow someone could forget the glowing wings which are not currently visible. "It occurs to me," she says looking over the faces she recognises, "That we probably could have organised this by Stark phone instead of just assuming people would make their way here on their own. On the other hand, people have made their way here on their own.. which also assumes that the problem is getting much worse." She grins at Jason Blood and says, "An escape is not an exile. But yes, Earth is treating me..," she pauses and steps out of the way of a woman walking down the street in a well fitted victorian era dress as she apparently wasn't interested in stepping around Sera, "...well?" This close to potential danger her eyes lose their clear brown orbs and become glowing white with magic. Sera motions to the church, "Well, this seems about as bad a time as any. Who wants to go first?"
Elektra Natchios	A glance is given down at the offered hand. But fine. Handshakes. Elektra can do those. She shakes the offered hand and inclines her head just so. "Elektra." then her eyes turning to watch the rest of the approaching figures. All familiar faces, good. She hated surprises. "You keep your new best friend inside your bag now?" a mix of amusement and snark on her tone when she looks towards the glow coming out of Lara's bag. Yet with everyone now having gathered up she looks at the Church again and begins to walk towards it. She is fine in going in first. What's the worse that could happen, afterall?!
Ariah Olivie	"We were all called..." Ariah's voice comes, soft and cool, her eyes narrowing as the Wound howls. She finally turns around, taking in the individuals gathered. All familiar faces. Even the demon and the angel. She nods to them all in one motion and returns to staring as the light from the Skull illuminates the past. There's a small motion as she seems to exhale, and falls into step behind Elektra.     "I hope we are able to see our duty done swiftly.... something does not wish us to be here. I harbor doubt that our quarry will wish to leave quickly, but we must try..." she says quickly, words stringing together elegantly in her French accent.
Lara Croft	Lara spares a glance back behind her toward the very memorable figure of Illyana, she nods once to her before she looks ahead again and stops when she comes closer to the others. A glance is given to the bag with the skull -- that's still brightly shining right at that figure on the stairs -- to which Lara looks now toward. "I'm glad I didn't check this in at work." She mutters. "I might not have had any idea this was going on at all--" She pauses then and roams her eyes over the others with her. "What /is/ going on?" She then asks. A glance is given to the 'crater' that is unsettlingly close, then she looks back onto the church. When Sera asks who goes first, Lara looks to see Elektra on the way... she moves to walk with her. As she moves she slips her jacket on one arm, then unslings the bag down to starts to pull the skull back out of the bag. "Might as well get Boney out of hiding, now that he seems to have a mission here." She adds as she walks on toward the church's stairs and front, eyeing what lies ahead as her hands pull 'Boney' out once again.
Jason Blood	"I do not need to make appointments to show up on time," Blood answers Sera's suggestion about better organizing their little club. This /may/ also be a bit of a cover for the fact he does not even own a Stark phone, being nearly as archaic in his personal habits as the spirits bleeding through the veil. Though a little debate on the woman's unusual history does seem to interest him. "If you returned, would you be welcomed? That seems like it would be the defining question. In any case, I agree there is little purpose in milling about on the threshold." Turning back toward the Church, he finally spots the form revealed by the skull's winding energy. Despite this, he does not stop for the fallen woman, walking past her up the stairs. Nor does he volunteer for the vanguard: as a mere human he is considerably less imposing the remainder of his company. Even Lara is no doubt in better shape! More than that, it seems he's in no rush to let his worse half out to regale them with tortured verse. The Church itself may play some role in this hesitation, as he looks up at the impressive facade as they mount the steps. "If had to wager as to what is occuring," Jason echoes Lara. "It would be that various attacks, and the deaths they've caused, have created or opened the way to certain negative forces. In the past, wards were raised against such things," and he gestures behind them. "Perhaps they are maintained by the spirits of these important locations. But it would seem the spirits themselves may come under assault, requiring both our aid against whatever foes the dark has spawned and perhaps our own energy to help mend and strengthen their barriers." A pause. "That's just a rough guess, as I said."
Illyana Rasputina	No wizard hats, no boy wonders, no Round Table: how ever does New York survive? The trundling vehicles headed down streets arbitrary turned cobblestone or wood-plank and back to pockmarked cement might strike a less aware pedestrian, though Illyana remains slightly out of reach for any further horse-drawn carts or land-yachts from the Seventies by angling behind Lara still. Fell light pulsating through the SHIELD agent's black bag narrows her pupils to pinpoints, eyes a hazy shade of winter blue that lacks an actual tone. Faces from the subway station veer away from the reckoning attendant in shapes huddled against the church, the ichorous nightfall sealing off the dreadful wound carved into her adoptive city. "Not better at all. We need to work efficiently." Not faster, a difference, stained by the laconic Slavic undertones common enough in Brighton Beach and other points around Brooklyn. "Remember what wards serve as may be to keep them us as much as us out," she adds for greeting. A nod for Sera and Elektra, and the latter heading to the church has her following soon enough. A teleporter at your back can be beneficial, can't it? "Wise to keep magical artifacts securely in a cardboard box out of the way. Less trouble." The extent of trouble being defined as a roll of the shoulder to the crater. "You cannot rip people and parts of a city away without damage. Imagine someone tore out your spleen. Your body will break down." Perhaps it's comforting to imagine the church offers shelter, but her hand slides back to feel the hilt of the sword. Rather obviously a sword, which ought to get her in trouble with the authorities. "The Doctor has set such things down on a broader scale in the past."
Stephen Strange	As Lara produces the brightly shining skull from her bag, the street is suddenly illuminated. Though the streetlights did an admirable job of it, the bright light from the skull seems to wash away the veneer of years. The street itself looks like an awkward mishmash of the City throughout the ages. A man in a fedora and neat suit strides down the street, bustling past men in blood-stained aprons with thick moustaches. Music from all eras suddenly fills the air, merging together into an uncomfortable and disharmonious caterwaul. In the midst of it all is a great chain of aethereal light, stretching from the ground and upwards. Under the gaze of 'Boney', it seems choked with rust. The men in their bloody aprons turn quickly with eyes full of a malicious glow, their bloody hatchets drawn as they move right for the chain with looks of grim intent. As the light strikes the staircase, the bloodied woman takes a more solidified form. The stench of the blood on her clothes now fills the air, and she clutches a wound in her stomach with pain writ across her pale face. She is dressed almost like an archetypal Brooklyn hipster, down to the wood-grain headphones that hang about her neck connected to what looks like a Walkman at her hip. She grasps at Jason's leg as he passes but misses and slumps onto the stairs with a sigh. It's then that, rather than speak, she begins to run her fingertip across the surface of the stone stairs. Painting with her own blood. Painting an image of six figures, standing beneath light emanating from a skull-shaped sun ... "How's your poor feet! You'd best get out of here, cat," the man in the top hat shouts suddenly, turning about to stride aggressively towards Elektra, "Honor bright, I'll anoint ya!" His accent, his choice of slang, his mode of dress - all of it seems antiquated and strange, yet at the same time a visceral part of the city. As though he were an echo of its colorful past made flesh. As he moves, one hand is suddenly clutching what looks to be an old and notched butcher's cleaver. He raises it over his head, offering no more warning nor giving Elektra time to heed it before he swings the blade at her!
Elektra Natchios	There goes the stealth! Elektra knew there was a reason she doesn't really like magickal artifacts.., unless they are pointy.., or otherwise help in killing, like certain SOULSWORDS. But in this case Boney is being a lousy friend, illuminating the group in all their glory. Not that it stops her from opening her jacket to the side and drawing out one of her Sais, holding it on a reverse grip against her forearm so it isn't too visible. "Efficient work is music to my ears.." says the assassin. But then there are figures approaching. The promise of violence.. One does not need to read the magic flows to understand what is about to happen... And then someone offers to anoint her. "No thanks, I already-" her quip is cut (Quite literally!) by the strike coming her way. All those instincts come to the fore and she attempts to roll to one side, springing her other Sai out and she lashes out like a serpent. No mercy. She attempts to skewer this spirit with her blades.
Ariah Olivie	The light washing over everything makes Ariah blink, her eyes and mind needing to get accustomed to the new sights. "Photographic collage of ages..." she murmurs, tracing around everywhere with her gaze. It settles on some elements that... bother her, though. The rusted chain. The men in bloody clothes moving with a purpose towards the chain, the stairs, and to her. She frowns, "They are going to weaken the binding... there's more to do here than recover a specter..." she speaks, voice likely overshadowed by the shouting of the Man in the Hat.     She does, of course, seem a little reluctant to enter the church proper, and halts her forward progress on the steps. "If I may request protection while I work," she asks of any of the group nearby, the runes beneath the flesh of one arm starting to fill with light as she draws energy into her palm. Small motes of blue-white spiral around her fingers before racing towards one of the hatchetmen in a triple-helix of light and heat. "Once we are away with these men."
Lara Croft	Lara's working her other jacket sleeve up her right arm now while adjusting the crystal skull from one hand to the other, her eyes go back to Jason and Illyana. "Any guesses to figure out this... situation, is plenty helpful to me." She says to Jason directly before her brown eyes flicker to Illyana. "Does cardboard have a particular special connection toward the storing of magical items?" She asks the Demon Queen, since it was an intriguingly specific way that Illy had phrased that. But all the activityt hat lies ahead of them, draws Lara's eyes forward. "Whatever is going on here, it's quite.. remarkable. If not more than a little sinisterly unsettling." Her eyes are roaming over the 'sight' of it all, just as the cleaver is raised toward Elektra. "Look out!" Lara shouts to her, as if she didn't already see it coming! She shifts the skull into her left hand, and dips her right in to her jacket to pull her handgun out... as if it'll do a lot against ghosts, right? She glances to Ariah and her request for protection. "As much as I'm able." She replies.
Jason Blood	Even if the woman on the step fails to snare him, the attempt does take Jason's notice. Witness to (and occasional participant in) countless slaughters and attrocities, a body alone is not something to give him pause. But an alternately grabby and artistically-inclined one is worth a little more attention. So he stops one step further, turns back about, and watches as she paints in her blood. Can he not? It's kind of in the name. "Not much of a likeness," the man decides. "Though a respectable effort, given less than ideal circumstances. So, a warning or a prophetic instruction?" Maybe he's asking her, on the odd chance she might answer. Maybe he's talking to himself. In the meantime, there are ghosts with cleavers, intent on various chopping. Rather than speak the words, he reaches into his coat. Evidently, he and Illyana share something in common as regards observation of laws on fixed blade lengths in NYC. Sword in hand, he moves to intercept the rest of the angry butchers, whispering some simple incantation against spirits as he strides, symbols writing themselves down the length of the blade. "I will help attend these creatures; the Church is not my favored venue, and if things grow difficult without, the Demon shall no doubt serve." But for the time being, he goes at it like a proper Medieval knight, striking forward with his blade.
Illyana Rasputina	"Protect the woman. She is linked to the chain." Blood on the ground employed as the primary medium for mystical transmission snaps Illyana around, swiveling in a sudden burst of efficient motion far from the norm for cosmopolitan young people not named Elektra Natchios. "The rest are ours." Night already breaks into splendiferous day thanks to Boney. Not for nothing does she sing: "In her eyes was a flaming glow. Most people look at her with terror and with fear, But to New York chicks, She was such a lovely dear." Yes, those are exactly the lyrics of a certain namesake song. An enchantment crackles across the beribboned sword pulled from her back to render it capable of striking through the veil, if only to make it the equal to the relic any spirit can probably hear keening their names. Pun might be applicable for anyone else, but humour barely applies where the youngest Rasputina is involved. "Keep your demon within, you shall be guarded plenty well," she calls back to Jason, as though daring him. "Come, dance." Her luminous gaze trains upon the butchers and there, for a moment, the faintest crook of a smile shows. They were warned: the granddaughter of the greatest shaman Russia ever produced plunges into the waltz. Metal plating tumbles down her arm as the Soulsword, brilliant as a star, sweeps up to collide with incorporeal essence in all its holy wrath. Both blades move with brutal efficiency; she doesn't care about looking pretty. This is mute, purposeful entropy riding the bleeding edge of creation to clear out the detritus.
Blake Riviere	A cold evening in NYC isn't exactly abnormal these days, especially in the confines of a church. Ghostly spectres themselves were well known for casting a chilling echo into the air...yet the mist that forms behind the gathering of those 'called' wasn't one born of nature, but nor was it of the spirits that threatened and now struck out towards Elektra. Instead it swirled as if propelled by some unseen wind, coalescing in shape until it formed the silhouette of a feminine figure. The mist itself seemed to offer one last chill before the silhouette became a solid and ghostly white gave way to a similarly pale woman dressed in black that was mirrored by the long locks spilling over her shoulders and eyes a deep red in color. She'd easily enough be taken for a villain, and indeed she had been one in the past...but her reason for being there was pretty apparent immediately. A foe would attack, not immediate move towards Ariah with concern plain on her face. Accented tones of her own speak up as only a glance is spared towards the others at first even as they launch into combat. "Ariah, what is this? I've not felt you so...concerned for a long time."
Stephen Strange	The bloody woman on the stairs does not speak in response. Instead she simply slumps forward over her painting, scribbling more details with the blood-soaked tip of her finger. The group in the picture now surround a chain, accosted on all side by faceless figures brandishing knives. She lets out a sigh, slumping forward and letting her eyes close. Just a moment. Just a brief nap. The man in the top hat is easily struck by Elektra, his form more about slow power than lightning reflexes. He grunts as the sai digs into his side, a black ichor spilling free from the wound and running in chilling rivulets down the steel and onto the pavement. Those few droplets that touch Elektra herself are freezing cold, like water taken from the midnight depths of the Alantic. But Top Hat continues to fight, grunting and turning about to slash at Elektra with the blade once more. "A Hugger-Mugger trick," he grunts, "But I'm one rumbumptious rusty guts, cat." The butchers moving towards the chain take pause when the armed defenders come between them. They look to one another for a moment and then press forward, not seeking to attack but instead seeking to fling themselves past and get at the chain. One flings a notched cleaver in the direction of the chain, clattering against it and causing a sudden pulse of sparking energy to emanate from within. On the stairs, the bloody woman lets out a cry of agony in her sleep and clutches the wound at her side which seems to grow more grievous.
Elektra Natchios	Protect Ariah..., then protect the woman on the ground.. And not to say all the 'ghosts' going at the chains. Elektra is a lot better at killing than protecting! So that's the best way of doing it for her. Kill her way past these ... Though they are proving tougher than was previously expected because like many here she likes efficiency, and that was a killing blow to most human adversaries she has faced in the past. So a kick is delivered to the ghost's front, sending it sprawling back so she recovers position a bit, and takes a moment to survey the field. A nod is given to Lara and her gun, "Better not try to save on those bullets." she warns about their toughness, gaze then sweeping to the other magelings sporting blades. Good, some that could defend themselves.. But the last that gets her attention is the approaching Blake, one Sai is levelled in her direction but when she notes she appears more friend than foe she shifts her attention back to her top hat adversary. She moves in, meeting the cleaver with both her Sais in a stalemate for a moment. "You should had stayed dead like your choice of attire has been for the last couple of centuries."
Ariah Olivie	"Mother..." Ariah, usually so unflappable, gives pause when the red-wreathed woman seems to simply materialize. Her eyes linger on Blake, even as her glowing, rune-etched arm remains outstretched. The spiraling bolts of energy slam into one of the butchers, staggering the man as the concussive force leaves a gaping, miasmatic hole in his chest that's not enough to actually keep him down. She withdraws her arm, runes extinguishing as others rush forward in her stead. "Please, see to these villains, I will attend to the chain and the steward..."     For the soldier to eschew combat might seem odd to Blake at the least, but she pulls herself further back to the stairs, the chain, and the now-resting woman. "Merci," she says, taking staff in hand and... pulling it apart? She draws a long blade from within the confines of the runed rod, though the handle itself is marked with the same sigils. Power courses through them, her arms alighting again, and she drives the tip of the saber into the steps between the chain and the butchers. A gust of wind tugs at hair and clothing from the impact point and a translucent shell of blue-white energy expands to protect the immediate area, though the rippling energies around make it flicker.     "This won't hold for long and I must..." she pauses for a momoment, "...work efficiently."
Lara Croft	Lara rolls the crystal skull in her left hand down into the bag at her hip that was hanging via a silver climbing clip. With the glowing skull dropped into said bag, Lara's gaze goes up to the arrival of Blake, who seems to know Ariah... so Croft turns her stare toward Elektra. A nod is given to the woman's words about her ammo, and her left hand moves to her SIG sidearm, chambering a bullet into the gun. "Shouldn't be a problem." She replies, seeing that Elektra's sais were effective against the ... spirit? "Apologies for the noise though--" Lara says as she raises her gun up and waits for the first of the aggressive ghosts to focus their spiritual ire upon her. When they raise their melee weapon and come straight for her she fires her gun twice, right into the ghost's chest, two quick shots that pop off quite loudly! Lara starts to sweep herself away from the others to try to draw any attention possible she can toward her, and off of Ariah while she works efficiently! Two more shots leave the SHIELD Agent's gun, the first was a headshot that dropped one of the ghosts rushing her, the second was a confirmations hot that went into it's corporeal chest cavity! Lara shuffles forward now, raising her gun up again and staring down it's sights as the glowing skull sways in the black bag against her right thigh!
Jason Blood	In his human form, Jason proves a servicable, even skillful swordsman, although no more than that. Given that his foes seem less concerned with properly defending themselves and more with a suicidal rush toward the chain, this seems at first like it might prove good enough: the very first of the butchers he strikes as it passes, moving without any attempt to defend itself, his longsword cutting into the side of its torso a good six inches before he jerks it back. That means a LOT of black blood. "I am hardly one to get squeamish about such things, but I'm no fan of this," he remarks, wiping a bit from his face. But with his vision cleared, Jason sees that even that blow, easily mortal to... well, a mortal, has not really slowed the butcher much. It continues past him, and Jason is forced after it, first lunging to impale it from behind, maybe simply to stop it, before pulling his blade free and taking another swing to sever it at one knee. That at least drops it, leaving it, at best, to awkardly crawl toward its goal. Having done this, the man whirls back, but finds the amount of time he's spent dispatching just one of the men has allowed several more to overtake him. "Zounds, I don't remember it being quite this much work." The man's no whirlwind, and wields his old sword as it was designed, with a certain brute intent. At the very least, his blade's a good deal longer than the cleavers: while the spirits seem intent on pushing past, that doesn't keep them from hacking and slashing wildly in the space before them, and it is with the care of one -not- immune to being gutted or skewered that he chooses his distance for each cut, either going high to behead them cleanly or low to drop them as the first. Yet for each felled there seems two more to replace it, and he's not really keeping pace. With each kill he cedes ground, and on occasion, blood of his own, biting back a curse as a butcher /not even paying attention to him/ wings his shoulder with its flailing blade as it rushes past. "Do you have this?" he wonders, maybe of the young woman taunting him, or generally of the others, before muttering something beneath his breath.
Illyana Rasputina	Protection brought in an ineffable dance of retribution and wrath is not so alien a concept, better understood in ancient cultures and the Subcontinent than modern times, but witnessed how Elektra leaps into the fray with cleaver-wielding butchers more intent on ruining the chain than facing trouble. "We'll survive," she warns Lara before the woman fires. Will they? The spirits might have that in question. Pity for them, if their backs are turned and arms rising and falling, for the same hacking tidal pace they use on the soulbound links draws Illyana inevitably closer. Dropping between both could give the spiritual butchers an advantage of two upon one, especially with the pressure being used to spill ice-cold blood. A double-weapon fighting style has its drawbacks but a longer reach and skewring strike useful at best. For her, no reason to retreat strategically but push her agility to its limits, sweeping in and cleaving with the full force of her augmented strength downward to dismember a spiritual arm at the shoulder. Fire rages against the ichorous spill of blood, and should that spirit not cease, the strikes need to continue apace. Butchery in blood lands with another enchanted slash across the back to the second as she efficiently turns, keeping herself protected somewhat but pushing the advantage of the Soulsword's incandescent edges in lashing out at them. Jason isn't forgotten as she stays largely to his side, lending protection such as she can. That relic doesn't just pierce incorporeal flesh: struck beings tend to incinerate and implode at in the same instant, devoured down to their very substance by the luminescent blade. "/We/ have this," a course correction. Taunting? Not intentionally. "Til they are no more." The other choice isn't named or conceded as she flows with the torrential currents of death, eddying in the sway of time.
Blake Riviere	There were probably questions between the women, things the one who'd been called 'Mother' despite perhaps looking younger than Ariah herself could and by rights should be asking. Blake Riviere was no arcanist, sorceress or occultist herself. She knew of the strangeness and the monsters of the world because she was one of them. As the gunfire rings out and the blades flash between the butchers, the newcomer seems to take only a moment to consider the urgency of Ariah's request. It didn't matter that these other people were strangers to her, she would help, and she would ask her questions later. There was no sword in the hands of the woman in the black dress, no gun or weapon of any other sort...yet she moved towards the incoming butchers that engage Illyana and Jason, trying to push their way through. Delicate fingers and manicured nails are raised as those faintly luminescent eyes glow a deeper, resounding red, then she's moving forwards with a slash of those very same nails in a rush of speed that leaves a faint after-image in her wake. Black ichor coating her hand, Blake's fangs were bared as she moves up, perhaps an unsettling ally for her appearance. "None will reach her," the Vampiress speaks up. Introductions beyond that could wait.
Stephen Strange	"Saw your timber, cat," Top Hat growls, several stab wounds now pouring forth with that black blood, "Oh ... that ... that was a floorer." The man slumps to the ground, crawling a few more inches towards Elektra before whatever force is empowering him leaves as quickly as it came. The blood spilled seems to evaporate into a haze of cold mist, and his body takes a more incorporeal look before it drains away into the darkness. The butchers that first charged towards the chain are dealt with in short order. Though they seem extremely tough, they are no indestructible and enough blows and bullets seem to render them inert before they begin to fade away. But they were not the only ones, the barrier around the Wound beginning to groan and strain as Ariah works her magic on the Chain. The spirits of the City's past pour forth. Men clad in baseball uniforms of the Dead Ball Era. Fashions from every era of the City's culture. They pour out from around corners, out from narrow alleyways, up from the sewers themselves. All moving towards the chain, all bleeding that same cold, black ichor. On the steps, the bleeding woman lies still now and pale now.
Elektra Natchios	Chilling black blood is now on Elektra's clothing and skin. It makes her grit her teeth, but then that blood begins to evaporate... Oh if only she could do that to all her targets.."Good night." her farewell to her foe. But no time for wishful thinking now. She focuses on this new wave coming out. "More incoming." she calls out and then jumps onto the fray, remaining not far from the steps so as to keep the others protected as needed. Her motions are precise now as she gets into the flow of battle, the call for bloodshed, weaving between the baseball uniformed ones and delivering crippling blows to legs and arms. Maybe not enough to have them fall, but perhaps enough to slow them down. Stabs through the head, chest, arms. It all becomes a blur for Elektra as she dances between enemies. A dance that gets it's interruptions with some cuts and bruises she is already sporting. "Should anyone tend to the woman on the stairs?" she then asks loudly. Not Elektra though! She is no healer.
Ariah Olivie	More incoming. More assailants. And a pale woman laying in her own spectral blood. "She is tied to the chain," Ariah calls back to Elektra, absently, recalling the reaction she'd had when the cleaver smashed against the link. Her own barrier, temporary though it may be, should at the least hold further thrown projectiles at bay. Should. There's a shiver that runs through her, a resonance from Blake's actions and the elder vampiress' boiling blood. Invigorating. "Merci..." she murmurs again, voice soft, for the efforts of those around her to keep the tide of the damned at bay.     And so she works. Her satchel is nearly ripped open, nubs of white chalk, small pouches of silver dust. Taken in hand and while the melee rises from all around, she sits at the eye of the storm, drawing. Symbols comes into being, runes similar to those on her staff. The silver dust glows faintly as the energy in her infuses it. Her motions are practiced, a magic seal to draw further power from the city's leyline here to focus on this point. It's already a beacon to the lost, so it won't shine any brighter, right? Though, the diminutive humanoid is now blazing just as bright on the astral as she, too, draws on the same power.     Visibly, she glows. Symbols in her bones burning that blue-white to anyone with eyeballs now as she takes her tools to the rusted chain. Every strike of the hammer brings a bright blue spark, every etched symbol taking on a light of its own.
Lara Croft	Lara's eyes take in the sights of her companions - and thei impressive skillsets and weaponry - which helps give her confidence in that this spectral assault may infact not be where her story ends. But as more spectres of New York's past pour fourth, she's having to back up as she fires off four more rounds from her handgun! A swing from an old wooden baseball bat is seen out of the corner of her peripheral vision, and Lara ducks forward to let the bat whoosh over head, sweeping it's way through her ponytail and avoiding her body! But she's soon run into by a large man in a vintage UMPIRE uniform! He tries to get his arm around Lara's neck to hoist her up and get her into position for the man with the bat, but she bites down on his wrist, causing the masked-man to scream in pain and release her! Lara's gun comes up, she fires one into the batter's nose, and then turns to fire another into the middle of the Umpire's mask who has HUGE EYES as he faces his last moments before said trigger is pulled! "Where is Doctor Strange?!" Lara calls out to the others, because seriously, where is he?!
Jason Blood	Blood likes to boast of seeing the future. True or not, those hordes of ageless New Yorkers grow larger, and the man clearly has a sense of the numbers soon growing overwhelming. Or perhaps, a sense of something even worse. In either case, it's soon obvious what was muttered under his breath, as he finishes the spell in a voice simultaneously his own and not: "Etrigan." "Ah, good eve, zdravstvuyte, aloha! Good tidings, tashi delek, shalom!" declares the gleeful demon in an apparently spontaneous bout of multiculturalism. "It seems Jason's fled this bloody polka... But this is a church, not a funeral home!" That one was really pushing it. Etrigan don't care! More importantly, his summons is for a purpose, and that purpose is not tending the bleeding woman, nor offering spirits odd deals as in his last appearance. With an army streaming toward the church and an impending sense of some greater doom beyond, Etrigan is really only here for one thing. With a great leap (he does like his leaping), the caped creature soars from the steps and toward the encroaching hoard. As he reaches his downward trajetory, the demon looks beneath him and exhales, releasing a great bout of hellfire that washes over the crowd and outward around his would-be landing zone. And no sooner than he touches the ground, claws lash out into the crowds, each swipe heaving an apparation's body in several pieces, as if fed through some hellish vegetable grater. He does not mind the blood, black or otherwise. "Is this all? I sense a greater dread. Hordes quickly fall, Etrigan makes them dead, dead, dead!"
Illyana Rasputina	The Soulsword brought into a defensive guard leaves a seething tremor of radiance in its wake, glowing the hotter and more defiant the more of the spirits it consumes. Illyana might be suffering not a little from the pops and bangs of the firearm, but her hearing will survive. Noise is noise, after all, through the flurry of spirits pouring around them both. "Probably fighting the topside of this," she calls back to the question about the good Doctor's location. Which inexplicably gives rise to her dropping out of existence through one of her flame-rimmed stepping disks, giving a temporary glimpse of a seared landscape in dulcet violet-streaked shadows poured down the striated vermillion and satsuma rocks twisted into torturous heights. For an instant gone, the blonde re-emerges upon the steps not so far from where Ariah conducts her spellcraft. The horizontal portal blossoms apart far enough for Illyana to strike ground next to the pallid hipster, Walkman centimeters from the toe of the Demon Queen's boot. And queen she is, black coronet slicing back from above her ears like proverbial horns, blade in hand as she descends to a knee. "Ms. Croft, I need your help. All of us need to restoring her by lending their creativity to the mending ritual or a sense of order." She dips her fingertips into the stained blood, and scribes the shape of a section mark, the backbone of the legal code: "Section 10-106 of the New York Administrative Code makes it illegal to keep more than ten dollars found in the street. The six hundred thirty two dollars we found we took to the 83rd Precinct on Bleecker within ten days in accordance with the law," she murmurs over the bleeding woman's prostrate form. "Just as we were told to do, we have never held a puppet show in our windows in Bushwick or Brighton or Flatbush." Every word has its place, a shared experience plucked from a jealously-guarded trove. "Do you remember? We went to Prospect Park instead, where we could gallivant around." Which she speaks, her fingers curl and twist through the augmented positioning that forms linear patterns to those with arcane sight: mystic lines infused with the dimensional overlaid glow from Limbo with her own innate wellspring of power from here, rooted in the earth and stone and skyscrapers, the rowhouses and tenements and shops crammed under lofts. "Or reading with the angels in Green-Wood Cemetery, the literary club that formed outside its gates.
Blake Riviere	In days now long past at the scale of a mortal life, Blake had tended the wounded of war. Another name, but she'd walked and worked as a nurse to tend those injured and dying in battle. This chained woman's injuries however? They were something else, far beyond the scope of the mundane healing the woman who looked far more like a hissing murderous monster than a tender of the ill. Ariah would have to tend to the mystic concerns, but the former bride herself could focus on the more mundane task of dispatching the rising spectres as anachronistic as herself. Maybe in another circumstance, such sights would be almost nostalgic! Weaving out of the way of a baseball bat swing, her form twists, warping like a drink of the light before she appears behind the batter, a sharp twist of her hands turning the creature's head a half-rotation by sheer force. "They do not seem to be running out as of yet!" she speaks up, only to pause in a moment of startled suprise at the emergence of Etigan. The rhyming demon certainly made an entrance, and certainly helped to make -her- look a little less sinister by comparison!
Stephen Strange	Etrigan's assault on the horde seems enough to briefly halt them. The gout of hellfire ignites their ranks in a blazing inferno, ghostly voices crying out before they evaporate in that same unusually cold mist. It seems as though their numbers are beginning to thin, though dozens still press forward in a throng. Every rune etched into chain seems to strengthen it. Every dram of magical energy infused cause those chunks of rust to fall away as dust, leaving the silvery metal shining bright beneath. In moments, excruciatingly long though they may feel, it is repaired. It once more glows bright, wending away into the sky. The specters recoil for a moment but press on regardless - lashing out with baseball bat, blade, and bare fist. "The barrier," the voice of Doctor Strange echoes, strained as though wrestling with some great weight, "take the Spirit! Get out - " It is then that a deep, resounding boom like the glacially slow beating of the planet's own heart is heard. It echoes through Brooklyn, and at once the barrier surrounding the Wound comes down. From within the darkness something uncoils itself, and where the crater begins shadowy shapes begin to emerge. They have no likeness like the specters, instead they move like turbulent shadows across the buildings. An on-rushing tide that, once it meets the Chain, recoils as though unable to approach it.
Ariah Olivie	So many symbols, so many runes. Redundant words of power, looping and twining and bolstering the great chain. But even as the rust falls and the chain burns with radiance, the small witch falters. An arm shields her eyes from the resplendent glory of the renewed anchor. A shake hand, fingertips stained with silver dust and chalk, hurriedly stows her implements. Eyes heavy with fatigue momentarily fall upon the various forms of her allies and the still-prone form of the spirit they'd come to retrieve.     The shine in her own limbs has faded, the efforts of charging what she could having drained her. Even the sword-staff's bubble flickers as the last rune in the grip goes out. She pulls it free with a jerk and barely has the strength to re-sheathe it inside of the staff. WIth the 'click' of it locking in place, she nearly tumbles down the steps, caught only by the trembling hold on that length of metal.     She emits, briefly, a soft laugh, nodding to Illyana over the fallen woman, reciting words from legal codexes that sound even more arcane than the tongue the runes she'd etched had been written in. Legal sorcery at its finest. But someone else will have to grab the ghost and take her out. Ariah is going to need a ride of her own. "...Mére..." she exhales, pulling at Blake's thoughts, like a child tugging on an apron.
Lara Croft	Lara's pistol is emptied after twelve full shots, and after the last rings out she hears illyana's called-out request. When the Demon Queen lands on a knee, Lara is striding over to her side -- glowing skull in bag still swaying at her thigh -- "I'm ready to help, however i can." Croft says to the Soulsword carrier. Her gun's magazine is popped out, and a fresh slid inside in it's place. She looks to the spirit, as Strange's voice booms out. "This is madness." Lara mutters, exhales the words. She spies the dark shadowy spirits. "It's time to go, I think!" She turns to leave back the way they'd come.
Jason Blood	"A hundred, a thousand? More, more!" Etrigan roars, laughing. "I, hell's accountant, claim a bloody score." If they let him, Etrigan might fight like this for hours, days- who knows. The violence is absurd, so much so as to be comical, when it is not horrifical grotesque. A pile of them swarm the demon, and he answers by biting one's face and then incinerating it point blank. The others stab at the demon, hack and beat at him with their cleavers and bats, but this seems to amuse or even -excite- him more than anything. "Pain's a blessing, that kink I'll share. A lover's caressing... it hardly can compare!" Yet, even if it's true that the apparently sado-masochistic demon could fight these things forever, somewhere after the first few dozen, hundred, however many throw themselves into the claws and flames, a new threat presents itself. Is Etrigan cowed? No. He seems eager for round two, turning to face the rift... yet Strange's voice gives pause. "Mere shadows? Ha! I fear not the darkness... But what do I know? Bah. Strange fears you'll harm us." With a sudden POOF of sulphur-laden smoke, he vanishes from the midst of the melee, and appears again besides the others. "Come then, friends, we're to away. Shadows, fiends, its no time to stay."
Illyana Rasputina	Mana spindles under Illyana's fingers, pulled up and threaded through the permutations of orderly array. Her oldest magic, the first naturally understood and practiced, demands a toll from her body in blood running over her lips and pain setting into her flesh. But still she works, weaving out the ancient traditions of mysticism learned from the slow turns of the Earth and natural order. Feeding what strength she can through that primordial link falls to the opposite of the blackest magics burned into her soul and body, inextricably linked to the fractured shards of her soul. It hurts, in short, to work this way, but work she does with a hastened speed. Spectral entities ignored except the woman, she pours out a current of power tinted by glimmering emotions not her own, memories intact but impressions borrowed by laughing friends, dancing strangers at festivals, and compatriots fighting for a common good. Things spun in languages that stray back and forth from English to Russian to Czech to German, the patois of the modern world with an occasional splintering into Latin and Sanskrit and something so old it's a proto-root of the Indo-European linguistic tree. Time to take the pretty lady out and into the night, which is fine by Illyana. She leaves Lara to do that while Etrigan is... hell's accountant. Note to self: do not like that guy's humour quite so much. "Let's begone, quickly then. Lest we find ourselves inside the shadow, where I care not to find out what remains yet."
Blake Riviere	Blood, ichor, arcane energy, all of it whirls through the air as Blake blurs, slashes and weaves through the tied of undead creatures. Fearsome as she is, the 'Draculina' couldn't hope to maul down the unending legions of undead spectres that spilled forth. Some things are completely beyond even her afer all. But that didn't mean she wasn't going to try! Or she would, stubborn as she was, she'd likely keep fighting till the rise of the sun itself....but then she felt it. That falter, that call... Ariah. It wasn't an attractive dark-haired pale woman that rushed through the crowd, nor was it a bat or a wolf, or even mist that surged toward the fallen mage. It was a sheer shadowy force of will. The tide surges forwards, enveloping Ariah and carrying her up and away into the night, both vampiress far from the wound that threatened to overwhelm those who stayed behind.
Stephen Strange	The shadows begin to encroach, pouring out of the Wound. But the light from the Chain, bolstered as it is by Ariah's runes, holds them at bay. The formless shadow creatures throw themselves at it bodily but do nothing more than recoil. The magic holds them at bay, though they still spill out into Brooklyn proper. The mundane people of the world, those unable to perceive the mystic and not before touched by it, moved about as though nothing were wrong. Though their hearts feel heavier, and their moods darker. It is then that a burning wheel of flying sparks takes shape in the air, spinning and widening until the way is open. There stands Doctor Strange, his features bloodied and his vestments (save for the cloak he wears) torn and singed. Behind him stands an inner room of the Sanctum Sanctorum, a stately Victorian sitting room adorned with antiques from distant places and epochs. "Come," he demands, waving them through while giving obvious preference to Illyana and the wounded lady they had gone there to save, "Quickly!" Behind them, the shadows encroach. Spilling out of the Wound until only the narrow ring of light around the Chain is free of them. A tight fit for the gathered heroes with the sparking portal taking up so much room. The Sorcerer Supreme's brow furrows as the two vampires are suddenly whisked away by darkness. But there's no time to worry about it now. The Soul of the City is at stake!