Owner	Pose
Michael Demiurgos	The day has finally arrived. Michael's exile had sent him and his army from Manhanttan, but that did not restrict him from travelling to realms outside the material. That Lady Death had opened up this pocket of Hell (her own pocket, of course) and brought it closer to Manhattan was a concession he was going to take. The assult on Winterhaven is soemthing out of a war film.     Massive bodies of soldiers clash in a cacophony of sound and fury outside the main gate. Demons and the dead press against masses of angellic forces and neither gives ground even as hundreds fall with each connection.     But this is all decoy, and those in control know this.     The real force hangs high in the air above the castle, looking down on the violence with equal parts serenity and displeasure. "Today we end this. And in doing so rid ourselves of a thorn that has been in our side since my arrival to this world." Michael says solemnly to his compnaions.     At his right is Uriel. The Archangel of Light wears burnished gold armor, and a sword of polished blue-steel is held in one hand. It's a slender weapon, and -noteably- not the one that he was given by the Presence. He knows better than to draw the sword of flame that marks his station against foes of this nature.     At Michael's left Johphiel, the Angel of Battle. Her golden armor has been repaired since her encounter with the vampiress Lydia and a sword of molten red flame withers and shifts in her hand. Where Michael and Uriel are serenity and resignation, her eyes burn with contentment at the violence that is to be wrought. "It is good that you have given us permission to use every advantage, Lord Michael" she says to her commander, her polished golden armor gleaming and a second blade, extending from the armoring covering her entire left arm. Armed with the pair of blades she flares out her raven feathered wings. "We are ready. At your order."     Behind the trio are three Seraphs, their burning bodies and eyes that allow the power of the Source itself to seep from behind the wings covering their eyes glow with the full force of Heaven behind their very existence. Michael extends a hand and the sextet soar down upon the castle walls itself with impossible speed.     The barrier of Hell meets them even as they seek to pass intangibly through the barrier encasing the Castle and those looking to the sky on the East side of the island are treated to a show of light that rivals the Aurora Borealis and Aurora Australis in intensity and awe.     At a wave, more lesser angels hammer into the barrier, and are destroyed. But the true meaning of their sacrifice is evident even as they fall, the barrier weakens a little more and more with each angelic fall. Soon enough it is weakened enough for the six elite to pass through into the inner sanctum of Lady Death's stronghold.     "We have come Hope, and with us comes an end to your reign in this sepulchur of fetidness!" bellows the General of the Hosts, his voice carrying with unearthly volume across the inner sanctum. He conjures a blade forged from the heart of the cosmos in one hand and with the other he casually draws Aubade, the Sword of the Dawn. The Sword of his station, gifted to him by God Itself. With a flare of his wings--both are absolutely pristine and unmarred an adorned with golden white feathers--his armor, polished platinum for this occasion, -changes- slightly. Blue-black energy surrounds him in a aura of that which -should- -not- -be-. The General of the Angels has even drawn on the power that would unmake him if it touched his flesh as protection.
Hope Svelgate	There was always a line from which Lady Death would never draw back her forces, a point she would never concede and that was the Sanctuary of the Earthbound Spirits, the place where she has made her temporary home while walking on the Earth. Always half in this world and half in the next, it is not a place so easily warded from those who can step beyond. The news that it held strategic value to Michael was just another reason to hold the line there to the last. So it is that the Hell Lord has been preparing, preparing since before Michael actually began his invasion both the ritual that would open the Hellmouth and bring Castle Winterhaven into the space of the Sanctuary in a demi-space between the Endless Graveyard and Hell's Kitchen, half in one world and half in the next, and the Netheranium weapons her armies now wield, armed to the last with implements of destruction antithetical to the oncoming armies. In the air around Winterhaven, flights of winged demons clash with Michael's oncoming forces. While lower down the tops of buildings have been turned into weapons emplacements, demonic artillery pieces raining Hellfire down upon the battlefield and the coming host. At ground level buildings and streets for several blocks have been converted into barricades and trenches, as it would seem the White Lady intends to fight to the last and make the Angels pay for every inch of ground with bullets of Hell's deepest corruption itself. Amidst the forces on the ground stands Cremator, a veritable mountain of muscle Hellborn warrior, armed with more weapons than a single individual could ever use. The Master of Hellfire marshalls demon and dead alike against the Hosts barking commands and unleashing waves of his namesake power as he seeks worthy foes to cut down. Deeper in, standing before Lady Death's throne, the Sorceress Satasha, Lady Death's own teacher in the mystic arts, aglow and wreathed in power marshals the castle's magical defenses and weaponry. When Michael shouts his challenge, a keening is heard from on high, the very highest of the castle's gothic spires and there, astride a massive great Wyrm of skeletal bones, Hellfire, and Energy Arcane coursing through it, is the Queen of All That is Dead and Dying herself, Lady Death. The Chaos-Forged blade Apocalypse and her gleaming scythe Scynister are both raised in defiant challenge aglow with deathly power. "Welcome Michael, to DEATH! Oh how I have waited for this, the chance to cut you all down, to make you burn as I burned!" She throws back her head with insane glee and spurs the massive creature beneath her forward. "Now come! And PERISH!"
Jonathan Sims	Jon's been preparing for this day ever since he first came to the Endless Graveyard and Lady Death told him about his impending death. And while he doesn't know for /sure/ that he's dying today, where /else/ makes sense than in this place so tied to Death's power? He's figured out how to come back form death, gotten people to join him down in Duat, made sure there's a plan in place for keeping the Archive from going to his daughter. He's had his potential last meal, said goodbye to his husband and daughter, staying behind in the Triskelion. He didn't say goodbye to Cael, but they shared a moment before coming here. No goodbyes were said, there. See you soon, I'll have your back, I promise I'm coming back. And a kiss for luck.     He's wearing SHIELD tac gear again, the useless right arm of the black turtleneck tied off so it doesn't get in the way. He left his weapons at home--he can hardly wield a staff with one arm, and guns would be useless here. He'll rely on magic, and first of all the magic he's using to perform the spell to cast a protective seal over the Wellspring of Death inside the Sanctum. That's the whole point of this battle, at least for Jon--if Michael's forces can get just one Seraphim to die within range of the wellspring, they claim its power and weaken the rest of the spells.     It's surprisingly easy for him to channel the power he needs, brown and gold light weaving into seven rings that he lays in the air. But even as he tosses the last bit of soil from Grand Central Station over the center of the hexafoil he's created, the spell refuses to solidify as others have done. It doesn't threaten to fall apart--he could turn his back on the thing entirely and it would sit there, waiting, for whatever it needs to finish the spell. But it does not snap into place, no beams of light shoot out to cross Manhattan. The spellwork just hovers in the air, almost mocking Jon.     For a moment, as the archangels arrive in the sanctum, Jon just stares at the spell in dismay. /What/ is the problem? Every other seal worked perfectly. Is it just the weirdness of being not-quite in the material plane? Is it the power he gave back to Gaea?     No. Jon knows damn well what's keeping the spell from finishing off. After all, he might understand death intellectually, might feel grief and loss from the deaths of his loved ones, might feel terror at his own impending death. But he does not, /cannot/ truly understand death in the way he must in order to finish this spell, because he hasn't yet died.     Well... shit.     He turns away from the spell and raises his hand into the air, pulling up a barrier around the perimeter of the wellspring. It will only keep out the armies of the Host, a stop-gap measure to protect the wellspring and the spellwork during the battle. "Looks like this one's going to come down to the wire," he calls to the others who've gathered there to help Lady Death's forces defend her sanctum.     He turns to look to Satasha, tone respectful rather than commanding. "Keep the angels out of this perimeter. If any of them die within range, we might win the battle but lose the war." He sounds more confident than he is; his eyes widen as he takes in Michael, and particularly Aubade. He tamps down his fear. They have work to do.
Phoebe Beacon	An archivist with a tightening noose A girl who speaks Latin in Scouse A Robin of Red, a Gal of the Dead, and Cael whose hugs face disuse.     In an isolated section of the redoubt, Phoebe is finishing up her preparations on her 'volunteer'. She has diagrams laid out, papers and notes carefully copied from her originals. She breathes out in nervous little puffs. Her left hand is shaking as her right, forced to steadiness, traces the last markings onto Tim Drake's pale forearm, India Ink mixed with ashes of angel's wing feather and fetid demon's blood -- 'borrowed' from a certain house, drying on the inside, stretching down elbow to wrist in swirling patterns, demotic text and Heiroglyphics, esoteric symbols reflecting on aspects of protection, meant to hide Tim from both Demonic and Angelic detection.     She just hoped it was strong enough. She whispers as she works, mixing Latin and Khemet, switching between the two with surprising ease as she works.      "Per tres sanguines et atramentum tenet nemo te videat qui non te portat in corde suo. Nemo te videat qui tuam perniciem significet." she whispers and then ties a length of linen around Tim's arm, to keep sweat -- or other things -- from reaching the ink.     "I have a failsafe in case we run out of time." she states, and she looks up at Tim, dark eyes meeting blue.     "If anything happens to me because of it, Idu should have a spare collar at the manor, and there's an insurance policy, it has Caroline Beacon, Ben Reilly and Geraldine Chandler's information on it." she gives a grim smile to the one she's carrying in her heart at this moment. "And one for the LARPing group. You're executor over that one. Jayjay needs a new van." she jokes quietly.     And she gives a nervous swallow, and opens her mouth to say something else, and then pulls her hood oer her head.     "Go time."     She rises, and looking over her shoulder to Red Robin as she pulls on her own domino, and with a swipe of her red glove backwards her copied notes and research goes up in flames, the ashes following her.     " -- Jon, why isn't the working done? Is it the Spring?" she asks, looking to the other leader of the Justice League Dark.
Caitlin Fairchild	Caitlin's still looking fairly piqued. The loss of that angelic glory, that power, left great gaping wounds in her soul. It /hurt/ as profoundly as any pain she's ever had. It leaves her skin looking dull, hair listless and faded. Like the color has been blotted away from her fair features. But she's armed and armored-- no longer wearing Michael's heraldry, but instead falling back on the Amazon armor she had been gifted. Gold glitters at her wrists where the gauntlets expose the adamant bracelets of Themyscira. She turns a palm up and looks down at the rosary in her hand. Old and worn, made with care by peasant hands for another holy warrior woman who was born and died six centuries ago. Her lips press into a resolute line and she tucks it into a well-protected belt pouch to keep it safe. One hand adjusts the tight fighting coil of her hair at the base of her neck, and with the other she drops a heavy-browed helmet onto her crown. It hoods her eyes and gives her a ready, dangerous mien. In her hands is a longbow as tall as she is, an amalgamation of modern technology and alloys combined with Amazon bowmaking techniques honed over three millennia. She puts herself squarely between Jon and the oncoming angels, planting her heavy two-handed maul head-down near her feet so it is ready for her to use it. "They're gonna have to get past me first," Caitlin assures Jon. She waits a few beats with an arrow nocked on the string, ignoring the milling masses of lesser angels pushing themselves mindlessly into the burning wall. The moment one of the First Triad makes a target of itself she lifts the bow and draws it smoothly back to her cheekbone. The air *cracks* as the arrow breaks the speed of sound, delivering a quarter-kilogram of explosive-backed hardened penetrator with all the precision of a laser beam. And each tip bears a drop of Caitlin's own blood, consecrated with her remorse and piety and a fervent prayer for swift and steady hands.
Cael Becker	Cael has positioned herself on the walls of the castle, able to look down to where Jon is casting his spell, and prepared to intercept any angelic forces that threaten him and his work. More than anything, she would like to protect him. To prove that whatever Uriel has planned does //not// need to come to pass - that they can find another way... Even as she fears that might not be the case.     She's armored in her blueish silver chestplate again - with her bracers covering and protecting the leather cuff she wears on her left wrist, and greaves over her shins. Black metallic wings sprout from her back - and almost seem to echo the weapons she holds in her hand. It's an even darker black, forged of Netheranium - a two-handed bastard sword with a wavy, flame-like design and feels almost uncomfortably warm in her hands, as she stares up at Michael with an angry gaze. "Come at us again, fucker," she mutters under her breath. They'll just beat him again - as they have time and time before.
Tim Drake	For the few moments that Tim and Phoebe have together, alone in the sanctum, the fighting feels very far away. It's not his war, not any more--not now, when it is waged on planes and with powers beyond his ken--but there is very little that Tim wouldn't do to help even now, when asked.     His arm extends out, steady, palm held upwards as if in supplication. While Phoebe casts, Tim watches on silently.     Even though he understands the words--some more than others--the meaning, the weight that Phoebe packs behind them, are far outside the realm of his understanding.     "You're not dying here today, Phoebe." Tim's mouth opens again after as if he means to say more, but then it snaps closed like the slam of a door, and he only shakes his head no. He rises to his feet from where he's been standing and puts both his hands on her shoulders, leaning down so that their foreheads press together.     The bonds that tie them together are many. Teammate. Friend. Confidant. The beginnings of a familial connection, planted long ago and now given sunlight and water by the exchance of a piece of paper and a hand offered by the man Tim respects more than anyone else in the world. Whatever happens here, Tim will make sure the Heavenly Host isn't given the chance to sever those ties.     He lets his head slip to the side so that they're cheek-to-cheek in a proper hug. And maybe he squeezes a little too tight, but their armor is well-equipped to protect from blunt damage. When Tim finally pulls back, long after the moment has grown awkward, he presses his domino mask into place. The white of the lenses now look down at Phoebe.     As she leaves, Red Robin is a shadow that lingers behind her, never too far away. "I've got eyes on your six, Balm," is the last thing he says before Tim disappears into the shadows.     Present, aware, watching, but keeping himself hidden. Though he's burdened with the same armaments of war as he had been in Central Park, now is not the time for him to paint a target upon his back.     Or, perhaps, not the time to make it any larger than he already had in his encounter with Metatron. That the Voice of God does not seem to be among the trio of Archangels that dot the skies above the Eternal Graveyard is perhaps a lucky stroke.     Only time will tell if that's true, though.
Michael Demiurgos	Michael looks up at his true target and a smile spreads over his features. "Marvelous. I would not expect less from you, Mistress of Demise" he says just as the arrow loosed from Cait hits the aura around him. There is a scream that tears through the air as the negative energy surrounding him consumes the consecrated blood and wants it not and the explosive payload erupts around him.     As the smoke and fire fade Micahel looks down at Caitlin, pity in his features. "Dispose of her as you see fit, she has served her purpose and is of no use any longer. Dispose of them all. I will see that this is over quickly," he says before shooting upwards to meet the Lady in combat atop her draconic mount. Even as he moves up, blasts of light drawn from the Source of all things fire from the tip of the star bound sword. Aubade is held low, more a defensive force than a striking tool... for the moment.     Uriel and Jophiel nod and descend upon the forces below along with the trio of Seraphs. The Seraphs move forward toward a calling force of their kin within a mortal coil: Balm is their target, they slowly descend before her and one of them speaks. "You hold our bretheren captive by means of blasphemy. We will see them set free and your blood spilt in this land of death." Swords wreathed in flame appear in their hands and they move forward to engage the woman (and likely her unseen partner.)     Jophiel drops near to Caitlin and smiles at the woman. "It's been quite some time since I've engaged an Amazon... Antiope was a formidable pupil. Let us see if mortal science can even think to match her skill," she says before swinging the blade of molten flame at the leader of the Gen 13.     Uriel drops before Cael, his own sword held in a relaxed stance. "You know what must happen, Cael" he says, using the name she has given herself rather than her birth name. "Tell your beloved to come and face his end." He shrugs. "It if pleases you, I can face you both. Either way, he must come forth. It is required. Even his own working calls for him to die. Better it be done in combat with the one who influenced his path to this point than the General of the Hosts, wouldn't you agree?" Without warning his moves forward on the woman, blue-steel sword wreathing itself in absolute light as he engages his opponent.     Even with his first strikes, the difference between Uriel and Michael is clear. Michael's strength lends him credence and authority but Uriel relies on skill to fight and it outpaces even the Leader of the Hosts by leagues. The true sight that Cael's artefact gives her tells her that without assistance she will surely be outclassed by the Light of God in short order.
Hope Svelgate	The Dracolich rears back as Michael comes, a point of darkness appearing in its mouth. The dot of utter blackness pulses and grows in size getting larger and larger. Massive wings flap carrying the beast higher as blasts divine light break bones from its wings but still it stays aloft corkscrewing upward with the Lady on its back. At the zenith of its ascent, silhouetted against the full moon behind it, the undead draconic creature flings its wings wide again and roars! <<Sink into the Abyss shining one!>> and proceeds to vomit a torrent of black oblivion down at Michael as he comes. Meanwhile Lady Death leans back and leads herself fall backward from the beast's back like an inverted swan dive, point her sword towards the blackened skies above as she falls. <<Sann Dod Fran Himlen!>> (True Death From the Heavens) A pulse of Hellish Soul Light rises up above the clouds before bright circles begin appearing all across the sky and meteors of Hellfire start raining down towards the Angels.
Jonathan Sims	"It's me," Jon replies to Phoebe, grimly, as he starts for the doors that lead out to the balcony. "I have never come close enough to death to properly finish this off." There's an implication, there, that he doesn't like. That the wellspring will only be properly protected with his death. But he's not rushing off to get himself impaled on any angelic swords. He still holds out some fragile, thin hope that that won't be neccessary. That Phoebe's spellwork won't be needed at all. Foolish hope, maybe, but this /is/ Hope's castle, after all.     Caitlin's placement surprises Jon, but he doesn't protest. "Sorry we didn't get a chance to talk," he calls to her as she fires off her arrow. "I'm not avoiding you--I just have this little setback to get used to." He gestures to his missing right arm, smirking briefly.     Then he focuses on Uriel. "I'm here," he says, "but I'm not making this easy." He summons his own wings, gold and teal and blue feathers shining in the light of the Hellfire meteors. "Come on, let's pull this away from the wellspring, shall we? You don't /actually/ want Michael's plan to succeed, after all."     As he launches himself off the balcony and into the sky, he turns and points at Uriel. Thorny vines begin to wrap themselves around the archangel, trying to hold down his sword arm, slow him down, give Cael more of a chance in their battle.
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe had held onto Tim. She had squeezed against his armor, and she had whispered to him 'You are the strongest, most dedicated friend I have ever known. I am so stupid lucky to be your sister.' Their foreheads pressed together before they parted, with Phoebe having to sink back into Balm like it was a comfortable pair of jeans. Her mark on Tim let her track him; she could feel the pull at the back of her mind -- a bit like that little voice that says you should drop a baby when you're holding it.     "I have, I've litterally been there -- how's it fini-- *DAMNIT* -- JON!"     And she feels too the pull of the captured essences inside of her as the Seraphs descend to face her.     "What, I have a birthday and suddenly there's three of you? to face me?" she asks, and she reaches up with her right hand, and activates the seal on her left shoulder. It slowly fills with sickish yellow light. Her head cants to the side in her hood as she regards the three who have come to face her.     The roar of the Dracolich above rings through the air as the dark-eyed Gothamite breathes out, and she summons her staff, the brilliance of its light filling the area with the ringing of ears and the scent of roses and black pepper, her own aura unbinds to give Red Robin more to hide behind as she sweeps her other arm forward, black ink from her ink pen sputtering out at the Seraphs.     "I've fought the greatest of your number. And any that fall I will consume them and return them when the work is complete. We shall save this world -- I cannot accept failure! Omnia ante me luce ure!" (All before me will burn!)     And she looks to light up the angels with fire!
Caitlin Fairchild	"I'm sorry too," Caitlin tells Jon, and turns to look at him. She nods once, encouragingly. "I'm gonna do what I can to make it right." Caitlin looks up as the General addresses her. She grits her teeth at Michael's condescension. He's winging off too fast to follow, so Caitlin targets other angels moving towards Jon and fires off more arrows with that same superhuman precision, each one carrying as much force as a siege ballistae. She's smart, too, ignoring the lesser angels and aiming for the Seraphs and other command-types that keep the angelic ranks in their neat ranks, hitting them fast and hard in their most vulnerable locations. She fights until Jophiel launches at her and threatens her space. The longbow is tossed aside to free her hands up and Caitlin hoists her maul with no exertion. The molten blade glances off the Amazon-forged steel, scorching the metal black and leaving a thumbnail-deep gouge in the side of the maul head. "Funny, Jophiel. Antiope never once mentioned you," she tells Jophiel. Blows are exchanged, the redhead fighting very defensively and maneuvering around to keep Jophiel from committing to more than fast, darting attacks. All her body language suggests someone being thoroughly overwhelmed by a better warrior. She makes willing use of her armor to catch and deflect the blade as it lashes towards her, the metal ringing with heat that prompts sweat to trickle down Caitlin's brow and back. There's no convicing the body that fire isn't dangerous, even if Caitlin can hold coals in her palms with no injury. And that sword *burns* like the embodiment of flame. They clash again and Caitlin comes away stumbling backwards, losing her maul. Jophiel lunges forward with an eager attack as the mortal woman loses her footing. The stumble is a feint; she grips Jophiel's sword arm and wrist and twists it into in a standing armlock, bracing the angel's arm against the back of her pauldron. She flashes a tight grin. "You're on candid camera," she informs the angel-- whose features are reflected in the black eye of a microcamera on her helmet, aimed at the celestial. In that moment, dozens of cheap drones leap skywards in a coordinated movement. Drones and webcams, bought in bulk from the electronic's store. Some of them even on discount! From there, those dozens of streams are fed into an array of networked virtual intelligences that scramble and modify each image at the speed of computation. The Titan's Tower AI blasts the webstreams into the void of the internet, on thousands of fake social media accounts and news sites. Wikipedia entries and blog posts are hacked and overwritten. In moments, hundreds of thousands of people across the globe tune into the streams simultaneously. Each image redacted, altered, or edited into something which renders the angelic images into irreconcilable depictions. Cait's grin spreads, fierce and fast, as Project Gozer goes global. And in that moment she sets her feet, sinks the grip into Jophiel's arm, and twists it in all the ways that arms are not meant to articulate. The sword falls out of Jophiel's broken wrist; Caitlin catches it with one hand, completes the judo throw with the other, and swings the burning blade at Jophiel's wings with a skilled flick of her wrists. "How's that for science?!" she demands, voice ringing.
Cael Becker	"Fuck you," Cael counters coldly, as she ignores the meteors of Hellfire falling around them. She may be over-matched - she may be completely aware of that fact - but she refuses to buckle. She refuses to simply hand Jon over to be slaughtered. She brings her sword up to block Uriel's swing barely in time, even as red flames begin to lick over the blade, tinged with orange, making the Netheranium bastard sword all the more uncomfortable to hold as she shoves the angel back.     "I'm not handing him over to die. He's not some fucking lamb - some fucking chess piece in your sick fucking game!"     As Jon's vines begin to wrap around Uriel, Cael shoves the Archangel off her blade, and swings it around hastily trying to take advantage of the moment to get a hit in on the angel's sword arm, to disable him. Her hair shifts with the force of her swing, revealing hints of golden yellow, teal, and blue to echo the colors of Jon's wings - dyed into the bottom layers of her blonde hair. "I've got this, Sims," she bold-faced lies. "Hold the wellspring - I'll hold him back." Please, please let her be strong enough to hold him back...     She really doesn't want to eat a scarab.
Tim Drake	The mark that links Phoebe to Tim proves his words true: as she stands before the Seraphs he is a distant presence at her back, remaining on watch for any attempts to flank her.     Still, he knows the importance of his remaining unseen, and there's no point putting Phoebe's spellwork to the test right now when there isn't a demonstrable need for him to do so.     Not to say Tim doesn't trust it to do the job. But for now he's a silent shadow in Winterhaven. Even the occasional rustle of cape is quieted, the length of it bunched in his fist as he stalks the darkened corners of the place. He observes from one of the castle's balistraria, angled just so to keep him out of view, as the building shakes from the thundering roar of the dracolich up above.     It's there, sheltered in the gloom of some forgotten corner, that an alert pops up in the corner of Red Robin's vision. His eyes flick towarsd it in his HUD, prompting a larger window to open. And Caitlin's masterful manipulation of Project GOZER begins to spread its effects across the world wide web.     Tim would whistle if he wasn't, you know, trying to remain hidden.     Though he does pause to send a notification over to Phoebe regarding it. Low urgency, something to be acknowledged when she's not facing down a trio of Seraphs.     Phoebe hears it first: the whistle of a projectile through the air, the very distinctive sound that only a batarang makes as it cleaves the air in two as it flies. It whizzes past her shoulder on the right, well away from the staff of Light she wields in her left hand. The fuze inside it activates as it reaches the predetermined distance away from Red Robin's locator beacon, calculated to be no more than a few inches from the leading Seraph based on his estimate of the space in-between them.     The acetylenic compound held stable under lower pressure is suddenly compressed and its thermal instability shoots upwards as it enters the area of effect of Phoebe's conjured flames.     In laymen's terms: big boom.
Michael Demiurgos	The Meteors rain down and more angels die, letting the press of the dead and demons force them back further. Isolating the interveneing force from any outside help if they end up needing it. The dragonfire belching down on Michael is interposed by Aubade coming forth to lead his way, the blade--a literal piece of God made manifest--cuts a V shaped path with enough space for him to pierce the destruction being given to him with only minor inconvenience. "Poor tortured relic" he says, pushing the last of the black flame from his path. Smoke rises from his form, showing evidence that the dragonfire was effective to a point. He did not escape unscathed, but even so he is undeterred. "I give my mercy to you and the rest of your dead race. Go and join them in legend," he says, cosmic blade firing off another barrage of pulsars toward the beast. Even as he launches volley after volley his eyes watch the Hell Lord in her meteoric rain and his hand clenches further on the hilt of the Sword of Dawn.     Uriel smiles as the vines wrap around him and hinder his ability to move. "I will do what I must to ensure a beneficial outcome" the Angel of Light says. But beneficial to whom is th true question. The strike at his vine encumbered sword arm makes him release the blade, but in a surprise move he grabs the Netheranium greatsword, smoke and the scene of burning flesh fill the air around them as he holds the Hell-forged blade with a grimace on his face. "Wise to employ blades that hurt us by sheer contact" he says to Cael. "But not enough even here." His other hand breaks free of the vines and he punches the woman in the chest. The blow hurts. Force enough to move heavenly bodies is carried in the punch, and even through the armor there is a definite compression of the woman's ribs. She is protected enough to prevent breakage but she'll be bruised not long after the fight is over. "Your working is safe even here..." he calls to Jon, tuning his attention to the man. With a pulling gesture he gathers the very air currents to his aid, hope to draw the Champion of Gaea into range... of what is anyone's guess.     Jophiel screams as the flame cuts into her black wings and she is thrown. The clatter of her landing is thunderous. As she draws herself to her feet once more she is smiling. Even as her wings are cosumed by the fires of Heaven and continue to burn she smiles. "Good, very good. I had hoped that Michael hadn't chosen you just for you looks." She holds her broken arm close to her body and even as she speaks bones can be heard wrenching and cracking back into place. The immutable power of the Archangels are weakened by Gozer in the immediate but not for long as the ever constant war between science and dogma draw to a stalemate in their powerful presence. You're good. I give you that. But I think I'm better." And Jophiel moves in again to engage Caitlin in hand to hand, her own punches backed with the power of Purpose built on combat through the ages. There is no one form used in the onslaught of Jophiel, but a blending of all forms. Aikido, flows into karate, into taekwondo, into kung fu, into jujitsu, and even then into muay thai.     The eruption of the compound in the explosive batarang is near to volcanic in intensity and light bursts from the upper rampart. The power of the Seraph's death is enough to be drawn into the woman before it filling her reserves to the brim with light and power. The two others don't hesitate even as their lead falls and is consumed, instead the move forward, each attacking with speed and agility that only the most inhuman can match, their flaming swords blur the air around them as they dark and crackle agains the glowing staff of light that is Balm's weapon of choice. The engagement could only be made more cinematic with a score from John Williams being played as accompaniment.
Hope Svelgate	Lady Death's reverse swan dive continues plunging downward, leaving the dragon to face Michael, or at least so it would seem. The Hellfire meteors continue to rain down upon the Archangels and their lieutenants as Lady Death too falls to the Earth.     Bones crack, ribs break away, a leg is sundered, as the Pulsars from Michael's blade tear through the greay Wyrm. <<You know nothing of the Lady or the honor she does to the souls in her care!>> The draconic voice comes again. <<You know only Pride, the same Pride that caused the fall of my kind and so it shall for you as well!>> Straining forward with summoning up what might remains within it, the great beast attempts to make Michael vanish within it's Oblivion filled jaws.     With a great crash Lady Death lands on her feet next to Caitlin, nearly splitting the Earth beneath them from the impact. Rising to her full height, she reaches out a hand and the telekinetic power of the Energy Arcane surround Caitlin's lost maul and yank it back to Lady Death's waiting hand. Her eyes become black like the Abyss as she clutches the hilt of Apocalypse, summoning Entropic Chaos from the Ends of Infinity Lady Death channels the power into the weapon before throwing it back to Caitlin. <<Show the strength of Human spirit. Teach him the cost of betraying those who would have faith! Take your retribution with your own hands!>> <<I have unfinished business of my own, with her!>> Apocalypse is pointed at Jophiel. <<You alone should not be here, you alone would weep, would atone. You alone I did spare! Leave and I will cut down any who even think to chase you, stay and be cut down with the rest!>> Blackened eyes glare at Jophiel and yet in their depths there is also unfathomable pain, scars festered for centuries into who she is now.     Within the Keep Satasha throws her arms high, red light radiating outward from her as a shimmering shield of mystic might surrounds the Keep of Winterhaven. At the apex of the various spires malevolent Eyes of Hellfire manifest and begin blasting intense beams of laser-like Hellfire at any angels who draw too close.
Jonathan Sims	"I'm not cowering in there while you're out here fighting, Becker!" Jon shouts, flinging a bolt of energy at Uriel as he punches Cael and then holds her in place with the blade. The energy bolt misses, but it's enough to distract the archangel so that Jon can dodge the air flows that try to draw him in. He dodges /up/, pulling Uriel away from the throne room, lets his wings spread to hover in the air for a long moment.     "We both know you're not the one that's going to kill me, Saint Uriel," he says. "That's not how the story goes. But if you really want to play..." He raises his arm, and summons forth darkness. Pure darkness, the Astral ideal of the dark. He throws it like he's bowling cricket, the ball of darkness aimed right at the Light of God.     "Nut says hello," he quips. "We got awfully familiar, during all that time your brother had me in the desert. Travel by night, avoid the heat of the day. He really did me a favor, you know."     Despite the banter, he's taking the chance to glance at the others--at Caitlin, battling Jophiel, at Phoebe facing the Seraphim. At Lady Death, joining Caitlin and tossing her a maul infused with Entropic Chaos. He frowns, briefly. This fight with Uriel is a waste of time, playacting staged for Michael's benefit.     "Why are you keeping up this charade?" he asks the archangel, sadly. It's getting harder and harder for him to lie, or to participate in deception. "Michael deserves to know what you're doing. What you've done." A beat. "I'll gladly face off with you. Test our mutual mettle. But I won't pretend for you. Cut it out."
Phoebe Beacon	The ashes fall around her, her mixed notes and studies and prayers to the ever-silent gods of her ancestors, to Sandalphon who had come at the behest of her adopted father, and rainments of angels. Her eyes glow rose-gold behind her domino mask, the light leaking in an aurora around the edges. Her head is slightly bowed, the explosion having pushed the hood of her outfit back. Patches of her skin have become nearly metallic with her magic, glowing and warm rose-gold, her cheek, running down her neck, her finger across her face as she opens herself more to The Light, that spark burning, smouldering, threatening to become flame, a brilliant force of Light and Life in a fortress of Death and Hellscape.     Channel it so it hurts. Phoebe's excess energy is channeled outwards, her wings manifesting, iridescent rose-gold feathers of glass and flecks of rich red orichlium, the feathery tips flicking like flames as she readies herself for their onslaught.     "I will *gladly* return what I have not had to use." she hisses out. Her sanctified blood drips from two fingers on her left hand. She's trying to adjust on the fly as she fights, taking to the defensive. Lock, block parry, a flap of her wings and she's in the air, gracefully using the blow from one Sereph to rbing her ove rand turn their backs to Red Robin.
Caitlin Fairchild	Jophiel's burning blade sears Caitlin's palms and she is forced to discard it before the angel launches her attack. Skin reddens and blisters, even Caitlin's flesh unable to resist the heat that pours in sympathy from the blade and Jophiel's burning wings. She goes entirely on defense; there's simply no dueling Jophiel. Not like this. The angel's attacks are fast and flawness, full of power and grace. Technical precision that few humans could match, married to the great strength of the Celestials. Lady Death intervenes and Caitlin reacts to her arrival automatically; another ally on the field. She covers Hope's back, even as Hope moves to interdict Jophiel. The redhead grips her maul near the haft to keep the balance tight. She starts running, bouncing over the broken terrain to build up momentum. She makes the approach on Michael's blind side while he exchanges threats with Jon, and with one last step on a heavy metal girder, Caitlin flings herself skywards in a mighty vault. It's far from the best blow she can deliver, but she gives it all she has. She twists in midair to somersault and add momentum to the heavy warhammer crawling with the entropic power Hope has granted it-- and hitting the archangel with all the strength the superhuman girl has, and all the furious scorn and anger boiling in her gut at how he used and discarded her.
Cael Becker	The air whooshes out of Cael's lungs from the force of the punch, her feet sliding back while her grip on her sword holds her in place. She lets out a fit of painful coughing as she sucks air back into her lungs. "You cocksucking prick," she grits out - struggling for a moment to free her blade from the man's grip. When he doesn't relent she holds the bastard sword with only her left hand, while the heat of the fire it produces increases to show hints of yellow and green in the flame, and holds her right hand aloft, ignoring the slowly increasing pain of the hand still gripping the black blade's hilt.     Her axe appears in her right hand, and without hesitation, she brings it down swift and hard on the arm trying still to hold her Netheranium blade restrained.     "Stay the fuck away from Sims," she spits at him - literally spits, and she's relieved, and a little surprised that it isn't flicked with red. "He's right, you know," she insists - as she wrenches her axe up with one hand hand, and swings it again. "Why continue the damned charade?"
Tim Drake	As he moves, Tim's footfalls are light. The speed at which he's moving, not a run but a steady clip, means he's not strictly speaking silent. But there's the ring of explosions and combat all around, from both within the castle and surrounding it, so he does his best to time the loudest of his steps to the cacophony of the war being fought outside.     Phoebe's on the defensive but also keeping the attention of the remaining two Seraphs on her. She'll feel Red Robin adjusting his position to match the moves she makes, keeping the line of fire open.     He doesn't stay in the same place long. Batarangs fly past Phoebe, one concussive grenade aimed to push a Seraph back rather than let it strike at her, another tossed out to explode as the other Seraph nears a wall to coat it in rapidly-expanding foam that will stick it in place like adhesive.     If Phoebe's tanking, then Tim's on support.
Michael Demiurgos	Michael lets the dragon consume him, simply shaking his head as the great jaws close around him. His voice comes from the beast's maw. "Oblivion is not for my kind, Great Wyrm. Only those who live can have that silence" there is a sound of tearing air and an inhalation as the bones of the great beast simply vanish from sight, revealing Michael holding Aubade aloft. The Sword erradicated the beast. There is a trickle of dark blood at his brow, fighting the creature had not come without its own price.     He lowers the blade only to have the might of Caitlin with a entropic imbued hammer strike him. Void meets void as the aura around him takes away the power of absolute destruction, leaving only the abject force of the blow with compounded scorn and anger. Even so it sends him reeling with a grunt of discomfort as he shatters through the wall of a nearby parapet, destroying stonework that has existed since time immemorial. He rises from the rubble and his eyes burn with anger. "Worthless abomination. Human pride incarnate. A faulted attempt at man to play at that which was ordained by God himself." There is a physical tug to the locking power in his gaze, drawing his former Champion to him by sheer force of will. "I made you and I can destroy you with just as much ease.     The axe comes down on Uriel's arm knocking it free with a spray of blood and fire. He rises up into the air away from the now dual-weilding warrior and moves toward Jon, "There is no charade, Jonathan. I intend to dispatch you both as commanded." He waves his left hand and another blade of Light-bound metal appears in his off hand, even as the right works to mend itself against the damage done. "I cannot disobey a direct order... even one I moved to take on myself." He raises the wounded hand and a flare of brilliant light engulfs Jon. There is no true energy to the attack, the brilliance of the sunlight directly into the eyes of his opponent. Even so the ball of darkness rolls through the light and hammers into him, turning him away from pursuit of Jon and forcing him to turn his attention to the persistent press of Cael and her mystically imbued weapons, meeting them with as much ease in his off hand as he managed with his dominant. But it's clear, he's on the defensive now.
Michael Demiurgos	The Seraphs engage Phoebe directly focusing on her and not her unseen companion. The effects that Tim's grenades and tricks provide are not enough to truly hurt them, but that's clearly not his intent. Instead, they pull attention away and move the Seraphim into freeing themselves... allowing the Light imbued sorceress to move into offense. It's a dangerouns game, but one the Outsider pair are clearly winning for the moment. Fire erupts from the foam bound creature, a wash of heat and light that even manages to push against the veil of Phoebe. "There! Call the second, Seraphim. Obfuscation of the blood. Your parlor tricks will do you no good, young Light we will dispatch your companion with as much ease as any other." It turns and starts to move toward the form of Red Robin, even as the shadows coalesce and fall around him once more, leaving her an opening for attack.     Jophiel looks as Caitlin bounds off and faces Lady Death. "I am unable to depart, Queen of the Dead. You should understand that much, given your history. Even if I wanted to, my Purpose does not allow me to flee." She waves a hand and the sword of molten flame flies into her healed hand. "My message to you still stands. You turned away from your true purpose. The only recourse you have is to be sent directly to the one who commands you and made anew in that form." The shorter blade slides from the guantlet covering her left arm, and the echo of the Presence pulses from the simple short sword. "If I must, I will be the one to send you to them, with my regards." She spreads her burning black wings and gestrues for Lady Death to engage her. "Come, let us finish what was threatened a month and some change ago amidst this field of falling stars." As if to punctuate her words a meteor detonates between them, illuminating their forms in the stark relief of flame.
Hope Svelgate	Lady Death regards Jophiel with deadly seriousness. This is not the insane battle lust that so often characterizes her but a grim resolution. Perhaps she has finally found a fight that she will not enjoy. "So be it. In Death you will be free of the chains that bind you."     In this moment the rest of the battle is forgotten, Michael the fixation of so much of her rage, the Face of the Host, is forgotten. She stands there facing off with Jophiel as flaming rocks of Hellfire rain from the sky all around, flame spreads, and atomized ash blows on the wind. For the pair of combatants a single moment stretches into eternity as time loses all meaning and then in a blur the Death Goddess lunges forward. Steel sings and sparks fly as a battle unfolds too fast for most eyes to follow. There is no quarter asked and none given. Within the influence of her own Domain, at her full power, she who has been called the Queen of All That is Dead and Dying is holding nothing back as she seeks nothing less than the destruction of the Archangel opposite her.     Elsewhere on the battlefield, Cremator continues to marshal the forces of Lady Death leaving her free to act, though the sight of her and Jophiel squaring off draws the attention of the Master of Hellfire. Something about their confrontation is different and the man who has guided her since her time cast adrift in Hell's Wastes will bear witness to it.     Satasha too, even as she rallies the stronghold's mystical defenses and directs the beams of Hellfire from the Spires towards Michael crashed upon the parapets, she too moves to one of the windows as if drawn there, bearing silent witness to her mistress' battle with Jophiel.
Jonathan Sims	Jon hesitates for a moment, almost blinded by the flare of light in his eyes. He still hasn't fully adjusted back to daylight, to sleeping at night, and he shies away from that brilliance. And yet, it doesn't hurt him at all. Uriel's playing games, buying time. Buying time for what? Whatever his plan is? 'Dispatch' doesn't imply death. So what /is/ the plan?     As the flaring brilliance fades, he can see Michael and Caitlin facing off, over the ramparts of the castle. Michael, the actual enemy. He calls Caitlin 'abomination,' and something twists in Jon's gut. Was that was he always thought of her? What game was /Michael/ playing with Caitlin, this whole time?     "Fuck this," Jon spits. "Cael, handle him."     And then with a great flap of his wings he turns and flies across the rooftops of the castle toward where Michael is drawing Caitlin in. As he goes, he summons up a lance made of brilliant orange light, takes aim at Michael. He throws the lance, but it's liable to miss; he's off-balance with only one arm.     Still, he shouts at Michael, "Oi, shithead! Haven't you done enough to her? Get over here and let me kick your ass again!"
Phoebe Beacon	In the shadows of the hellfire growing and roaring, in the burning and new ashes of the foam, Balm, with her golden light hanging about her watches as the Seraph goes for Red Robin.     In that instant, her light staff shifts, breaking apart, and she gives an inhuman roar, teeth bared, her skin beginning to break down on her fingers as she bull rushes the seraph going after Tim. She brings her parted staff, now broken in two three-foot sections and takes to the air to bring her weapon down, through the wings of the Seraph, trying to rob them of bodily stability and introducing bodily stabbitity!     "Your kind have done ENOUGH. TO. MY. FAMILY." she roars, her voice filling with rage and reverbing through the redoubt, the rage coming of of her in a palpable wave as she begins to lose control of her connection, and attempts to pummel the Seraph who had tried to go after Red Robin into the floor of the redoubt.     For Tim. And Chas. And Jon. For manipulating Cait and hurting Cael and all those who lay dead from angel attacks.     She'd sort out who was responsible for all of it, sometime, maybe -- but for now, Phoebe rages. Tears in red tracing down her cheeks.
Caitlin Fairchild	Caitlin freezes in place as Michael locks eyes with her. The words hurt, hurt her -deeply-. Incisive, cruel barbs aimed at the woman who is, in some ways, still a fragile adolescent finding her way in the world. "Noooo... No, no no!!" Caitlin chokes. One foot lurches forward. Then another. Step by step she is dragged, knees bending as if under some unimaginable weight. Forward she goes, tears pouring down her face. It gives her time to watch the battle unfolding out the corner of her eyes, her gaze fixed by Michael's. Lady Death, holding her own against the wounded Jophiel. But how long can she last? How long can Phoebe channel that deep rage-- how many gadgets does Dick's brother have to use? Cael, Jon, both fighting for their lives despite being woefully outclassed by the angels facing them, and doing so fearlessly. And yet for all that courage, Caitlin cannot break her path away from him. The Archangel, Heaven's General, compels her to crawl to him. "Abomination," Michael tells Caitlin. "A monster. The hubris of mankind will be your downfall. To create such an atrocity as you, to use a mockery of God's gift as a *weapon*. Rest assured: you served me well, little weapon," Michael pronounces. He stoops and grips Caitlin's wrists, hauling her up until she dangles with her arms overhead and feet kicking in midair. "Perhaps the prophecy will make sense with proper context." He releases one of Caitlin's wrists and grips her chin to face him. "Matthew, 24," he pronounces. "Oh no. No, no," Caitlin whimpers. Tears cloud her eyes. "'For false prophets will arise and perform great signs and wonders, so as to lead astray, if possible, even the elect.'" Michael grips Caitlin's wrists again. His fingers curl into the adamant metal, imbued with the grace of the Theoii of Themyscira. "And Corinthians 19-- Paul's last works, we kept those from you as well. 'One will walk among them, a craven thing of cloth and hay. It speaks honeyed words, and compels the servants of God to make war upon each other, and before it, many knelt and paid homage'." Michael's fingers clench and the bracelets *shatter*. An explosion of force and fury, fire and light bursting like bombs around Caitlin's hands. She screams in raw, pained agony again, fighting helplessly against his grip and making no progress for it. "I relieve you of these craven decorations," he tells Caitlin. "And I will scour your soul of the filth that pollutes it." Caitlin hits the ground, hard, shoulders shaking. Michael holds his blade aside and kneels down, reaching for Caitlin's chin to lift her eyes to his. "This will be swifter than the touch of that demon," he assures her. "Even monsters deserve some mercy." Caitlin's face lifts. Her jaw is set, teeth clenched. Shoulders heave up and down. Last, her eyes open, and her clear green-eyed gaze focuses on Michael. It is not doom that she shoulders-- it is rage. Raw, bleeding rage, and her entire body shakes with it. "rrraaaaaGGGHHHH!" she shrieks, and launches herself at Michael with a full-body uppercut-- no better blow could she deliver, and she launches a follow-up attack while he's reeling in mid-air. "RAAAAAGH!" she shrieks again, and grabs the Archangel by his armor. There is no room to stand and fight so she clings to him as they fly backwards, and hammers her helmet into his face over and over, until the steel is sundered by the raw force of it. There is little grace or technique present. Just an endless well of a survivor's rage.
Cael Becker	As soon as the sword is released, Cael drops her axe, letting it disappear as both of her hands go to the hilt of the bastard sword instead. She rises to meet Uriel - trying to interpose herself between Jon and the Archangel, just before she hears the man's words, and sees him headed towards Michael in her periphery. "Sims..." But there's no stopping him. She can hear, and see from the corner of her eye, Caitlin's desperate situation. Nothing can be done for it, though, as she focuses on her own opponent.     There's an ache, and a fear in her heart that she doesn't have the time to acknowledge or deal with - and as much as she would like to follow him, to continue to give him cover and support - she's been given an order. And to turn her back on Uriel left her and Jon too exposed.     Ay, Oruguita, don't you hold on too tight...     "Why?" she asks desperately - funneling her fear and pain into anger instead. It's a safer emotion, and it's useful, as her increasing rage fuels the flames of the bastard sword. They continue to grow hotter - the red and orange completely gone now, as the flames lick in blue, green, and yellow - with occasional flickers of violet. "Why isn't there another way?" she asks as she swings the sword again, and again, trying to force Uriel to stay on the defensive - trying to keep him off-balance, even as Jon flies off to face Michael, instead. Every swing hurts, as it pulls at muscles bruised by the force of Uriel's earlier blow - but she ignores the pain, trying not to let it slow down her movements. "All your power, your age, your wisdom - and the only solution you have means sacrificing a good man. Your whole religion is fucked, you know that? What is //with// your need to kill good men?!"
Tim Drake	What the Seraphim see when their holy fire pierces the veil of Balm's spellwork for that singular moment is no more than the vague shape of a figure, half-concealed behind a stone pillar. Magic obfuscation is not necessary for Red Robin to keep himself hidden in the shadows; the Dark Knight of Gotham himself would have never let Tim out of the Batcave if that were the case.     In point of fact, what they see is a snapshot. The still image glimpsed in the flash of a strobe light. One of them rushes towards it, the fading afterimage of Red Robin with his arm extended, mid-throw in the dark, and Phoebe follows after with her Light staff splintered into two deadly pieces of her Will made manifest.     What they don't see is the empty space Red Robin has long since left behind. Phoebe will feel it, of course, through her link to the inkwork laid down on Tim's forearm that feels like the warm weight of her touch against his skin, beneath his armor.     She'll feel him moving, circling around, the weight of his words from earlier driving him into a sprint: I've got eyes on your six.     And then with no more than a whisper of footfall and the sharp snap of his cape caught in the whistling wind behind him, Tim appears, leaping from above, up on the battlements. Because moving, for a Bat, never means on just the xy plane.     Gotham, after all, is a city of verticality.     Tall skyscrapers, rolling hills made from the varying heights of rooftops, long drops off ledges towards the freezing waters below. Phoebe would have been able to sense the rapid vertical acceleration of a grapple gun pulling Tim along, and the quarter-second of pause where he had looked out at the open space where she remained, her flank now exposed to the remaining of the two Seraphim, the one not pursuing him.     The quarter-second where Tim calculated the angle and speed he'd need to achieve to make the jump.     Like before in his fight with Metatron, it isn't until Red Robin nears the unopposed Seraph that the sliver of the True Cross hidden in his gauntlet burns an imprint of his figure into the space surrounding him, as if he's backlit by the white-hot mass of a dwarf star. It'd been one of the key reasons why they had agreed it was best for Tim to remain as far away from the thick of combat for as long as possible, because the power imbued in that tiny splinter of wood burns through the shadow cast by Phoebe's spellwork.     It's as if he's shined a spotlight on himself.     If only for that brief moment as he flies through the air. This time around Tim is ready for the searing heat against his wrist from the cross. His aim is true, the calculations upon which he'd based his momentum accurate. Red Robin brings his Holy-empowered fist down towards the Seraph's head and only then does he scream with the effort of it, an echo that follows behind Phoebe's own.     Metatron had been attempting to stop the ritual, there in Central Park. Then, it had been for the good of all the people of Earth (and beyond) that Tim had intervened, pummeling the Archangel with enough strength and fury that the ligaments in his shoulder had torn and required healing, after. Now, the Seraph has an opening in which they might strike Phoebe.     The Heavenly Host is about to learn that no Bat is more motivated to reap vengeance than when it gets personal.
Michael Demiurgos	Uriel continues to spar with Cael. His true motivation served. He needed Jon to be near to Michael. To do what must be done when the time comes. "Our religion?" he asks, parrying aside one blow with his sword and stepping aside from an axe blow. "You forget, religion is the tool of mortals. A set of rules intended to place boundaries on that they cannot fully understand. We are not bound by any rules except those which are laid by our Father. To be true to our Purpose." Another parry. "To uphold our place in reality so that it does not fall." And anther. "And to ensure that the creation designed by His instruction is able to succeed without intervention." And another though with this one he slides into a locked pose. "I do what I must to see that last is not broken." He pushes her away and dodges again, his job in this fight is over, just a little longer.     The Seraph did not expect the rage of Balm to overflow so readily and so it cannot avoid the attack from the being of Light made manifest. It fall and burning blood stains the stones of the redoubt where Phoebe mercilessly stabs the being over and over and over. It doesn't go quickly though, even as it bleeds it tries to sear and burn the woman atop it. Hoping in vain that the fires of Heaven could cool her own fires of Love and Compassion stoked by the flames of agony within.     Tim's stike lands and the sliver of the Cross flashes brighter than any other light in the darkness of Hell. The fist connects and there is a rush of air being sucked -in- as the Seraph no longer has a head. It falls, crumpling to the ground in a heap as its flames extinguish all that is left is a husk of a form, no light. No life. No animate power to imbue it. With a single punch, Red Robin has laid low one of the strongest of the third tier of Heaven.
Michael Demiurgos	The uppercut from Caitlin is more than enough to stagger Michael, he reels back as blow after blow after blow send him further and further down the row of stones of the bailey. Jon's lance is taken in the arm, the citrine impaling him and adding more pain to the Archangel. Blood is pouring from multiple wounds on his usually perfect form. Then with a bellow that comes from somewhere within the Archangel instead of from his thoat he cries out: "ENOUGH!"     The force of the word is enough to throw the raging Amazon from his form. Anger present on his face he regards Jon before waltizng forth and delivering a hammer blow of his own to the red-haired Amazon. He looms over her and continues to quote scripture to her: 'Now when the thousand years have expired, Satan will be released from his prison and will go out to deceive the nations which are in the four corners of the earth, Gog and Magog, to gather them together to battle, whose number is as the sand of the sea.'" He kicks her then, sending her out further down the stones. "'They went up on the breadth of the earth and surrounded the camp of the saints and the beloved city. And fire came down from God out of heaven and devoured them. The devil, who deceived them, was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone where the beast and the false prophet are. And they will be tormented day and night forever and ever.'" All this time the Sword of Dawn has remained clenched in his hand. And he rolls the beaten Amazon onto her back, and raises the blade. "I will not toss you into the lake of fire. But neither will I tolerate your presence any longer. Goodbye. False. Prophet." And he brings the sword down.     Even as Michael and Caitlin destroy the parapets of the castle Lady Death and Johphiel fight. The two women are all but evenly matched, going blow for blow for blow against one another. Johpiel parries a blow and in doing so loses a greater portion of her left wing for it. She screams and locks Lady Death into a sword bind. They press for advantage and struggle against each other before Jophiel laughs. "I look forward to seeing you do your work Hope. I truly do. But now... we end it." The sword on her gauntlet glows with ethereal fire and with a scream of power she swings it and Apocalypse cracks under the blow, allowing the blade to slide free and into the chest of the Queen of All that is Dead and Dying. There is a sound as if the very foundations of the realm cry out as it feels Lady Death's power shudder under the blade of the Archangel of War. "And now, go to your great master and give them my regards." Jophiel says, twisting the blade bestowed to her by God in the chest of Hope and tearing it free, letting the body fall to the stones at her feet.
Hope Svelgate	Jophiel blade comes down, a blade equal to Michael's own as the Angel of War invokes the power of the Almighty itself to splinter the blade of Apocalypse forged from the Chaotic mess before Order was brought to creation. From the weapon's cracks, red and orange light escapes in all directions before the blade breaks and the Archangel strikes true. For the one who has endured centuries of countless battle, who has crushed and driven her foes before her, who overcame Hell itself, her face is frozen in that moment of shock before spasming several times she coughs up black ichorous blood that begins to flow down her chin. Still clutching the broken bladed sword she staggers as Jophiel's weapon is withdrawn. "I'm not done yet." She staggers a few steps closer and as she does she begins to glow with Holy Light, even as it sears away at her own flesh. "I said I would set you free!" For a moment it seems like her stark white hair flickers blonde, as she makes one final attempt to stab the shattered remnants of her blade into Jophiel, before collapsing upon the stones at her feet     Do demons cry? Whatever the demonologists of the world might argue, perhaps it is his own mortal origins, but Cremator sheds a tear as his Lady falls. In the castle too, Satasha screams as the castle's artillery flairs to life and goes into overdrive cutting swaths through the field, already hammered as it is by the shower of fallen stars and Hellborn Artillery. <<FOR OUR LADY!>> Bellows Cremator. <<SUFFER NOT ONE OF THEM TO LEAVE THIS FIELD!>> A resounding shout echoes across the field as the Armies of the Dead and Damned renew their efforts tenfold, driven to a frenzy by despair and the thirst for vengeance. The Hellmouth itself shudders and the castle flickers as the Lady's magics are no longer present to sustain it within this realm. From beyond the Endless Graveyard itself seems to let out a keening wail and begin to buckle and shake the very Earth without any overseer's Will to control it. For in stranger aeons even Death may die. And so falls Lady Death.
Jonathan Sims	Every word Michael speaks hammers into Jon, and just fuels inarticulate rage. How /dare/ he? He dare he use one of Earth's greatest heroes in this way, trick her, twist her faith? How dare he betray her as soon as she's no longer useful?     The realm cries out as Lady Death dies. As Hope dies. Jon knows he can't survive this. But maybe Caitlin can. And anyway, he's too furious now, to care what happens to him. He's not going to let Michael get away with killing Caitlin, too.     "SHUT. UP!" Jon's voice rings out over the battlefield, as he dive-bombs at Michael, slamming into the rampart between him and Caitlin. He intercepts the sword blow with a shield of citrine energy, bearing the outline of a great tree upon its surface. His wings flare out to cover the Titan, and he braces himself with every ounce of strength he has, to hold Michael back from his Champion. He won't hold long--but maybe long enough to keep her alive. Maybe long enough to get through to Michael, finally.     "O glorious Archangel Saint Michael, Prince of the heavenly host, defend us in battle, and in the struggle which is ours against the principalities and Powers, against the rulers of this world of darkness, against spirits of evil in high places." He's crying, as he struggles to hold back Aubade from reaching Caitlin. "That's what she called to you. To protect us from Lucifer's demons. She /prayed/ to you. She /believed/ in you. She /trusted/ you! Do what you like to me, to my friends, to the world, but this? This is /wrong/, Saint Michael. This is not your Purpose."     He lifts his chin, glaring at the archangel. "You don't get to decide what life deserves to exist. Gaea does--and She loves Caitlin Fairchild. You keep quoting the New Testament, but forgetting the most important words. 'Jesus said, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself.' On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets."     He begins to sweat with the effort of holding up the shield, as the castle shakes around them. "Matthew 22, 37-40. The core of the whole thing. Love. I saw God through your eyes, Michael. And I know you know this is not what They want."     Dark eyes lock with Michael's. "If you want her," he says firmly, "you're going to have to go through me."
Phoebe Beacon	Agony begins to describe it. The once Believer who found the bright spots in Gotham, the gentle soul who had been broken down, beaten, abused and rescued. Lost and found. Her heroes keep getting robbed from her. One by one by one.     She shunts it all to the back of her head, leaving the injured Seraph there, and she turns to Red Robin, taking a step back and letting her weapon fade.     " -- it's time." she whispers to him, and she looks to the sky, her wings spreading.     She used to think of Purpose. Everything that they had wanted so badly has been ripped from her, and she draws herself up.     "We have to be there when he dies, or what we did is going to mess up everything." she states with exhaustion and defeat in her voice.
Cael Becker	"You're not fighting me. You're just keeping me here, away from- JON!" Feeling certain that Uriel won't actually harm her, she risks a glance towards the man she loves, to spot his desperate position pinned beneath Michael's blade by the thin margin of the shield he holds up against him. No, no, no, no, no...     "There has to be another way!" she says desperately, trying to shove Uriel back, so she can dart around him and pursue Jon. If she can catch Michael by surprise-! Get him while he's focused on Jon and Caitlin...     But no matter what she tries, no matter how she dives, she finds Uriel in her way, his blade flashing, force her to defend herself, keeping her engaged while the man she loves willingly stares down his death. "Fuck you!" she shouts in Uriel's face. "Let me go to him! Jon!" Orders be damned, she needs to go to him! The flames around her sword flare in green, blue, and violet - the heat coming off it incredible, though Cael barely seems to notice, or to notice the shudders of the Endless Graveyard, as Lady Death falls, so focused is she on her continued struggle to free herself from Uriel's interference.
Tim Drake	The Seraph falls and Tim follows just behind, entering the space where the angelic being once stood with his momentum propelling him down into a roll that ends just at Phoebe's feet.     Which means he's ready when she reaches out for him.     "Just this one more thing," Tim says, his voice gone quiet. He holds out his hand to slot it into hers. "Just this one more thing and we're going to go home."
Michael Demiurgos	The redoubled forces of the Lady Death begin to slaughter without mercy the angelic forces. It would seem Cremator and Satasha's efforts to exact vengeance are more than effective as scores and multitudes of the angelic army are torn asunder by the fiendish assault.     Jophiel stands there looking down at Lady Death. The shatterd shard of Apocalypse protrudes from her throat, spitting blood hot blood as the Archangel of war staggers back a step. "It is done..." she breathes out tearing the hilt free, tossing it at Lady Death's side, and pressing a hand at the pouring wound. "My part. My purpose in this fight is over." She looks around at stones of the castle and says to no one in particular. "I leave her for you." Then with a great leap the Archangel takes to the sky, only narrowly evading the hellfire blasts from the demonic artillery set up.     Uriel interposes himself at each attempt of Cael to get past him. "I cannot do that, Cael. And I apologize for that. But this is the way it must be. You will endure and he will continue."     Michael presses against Jon's shield, his eyes hard and direct. "You do not get to declare what I am meant to do based on the words of man, Jonathan" growls Michael in anger. At Jon's ultimatum he breathes out a sigh. "So be it." There is a twist of the Sword of Dawn and a strike with the flat of the blade, knocking the shield to the side, in one smooth motion the blade slides into Jon's torso, and through, spraying the Archivist's blood over the prone form of Caitlin. "Goodbye, Champion of Gaea." Michael says, pulling the blade free from Jon's body with the sound of wet flesh being torn.     There is suddenly a lurch as if all Creation simply stops for a frame and Aubade vanishes from Michael's hand. Surprise and fear register on the Archangel's face and he shakes his head as if suddenly afraid. Uriel holding Cael in place, finally spins to a side and allows the woman to go to her fallen beloved. "And so it has begun."
Hope Svelgate	Lady Death's body lays still on the ground, dark ichorous blood pouring from her wound and other orifices. The thick gooey substance pools beneath her. Even as the War Angel, Jophiel, flies away another appears standing over Lady Death's fallen form. None other than Cremator. Raising up his arms he becomes surrounded with the white hot brilliance of the heart of a forge or even the core of a star as the Master of Hellfire unleashes his power to burn a wide swath in all directions. Once any interlopers have been deterred or atomized, he kneels and for the second time lifts the body of his Mistress in his arms. There is a gentleness to it, almost like a father might, as a quiet rage seethes beneath the surface. Only this time she is not simply unconcious, this time he carries her lifeless body towards Castle Winterhaven. Within the Endless Graveyard itself mausoleums collapse and cenotaphs crumble, as massive fissures belching Hellfire open across the landscape as the Iron Fist that has held it in her grasp for four centuries loosens. Castle Winterhaven, too, shudders and its spires begin to fall. Within the throneroom, even with the castle collapsing around her Satasha refuses to flee, intent to fight to the last inking out a massive ritual circle in her own blood. It is only Cremator's timely appearance that saves her, knocking her out of the way of a particularly massive piece of falling stone with his shoulder. <<Satasha, rage burns within me as well. But for now we must tend to our Lady and have faith in her. Remember who she is. This is not the end.>> He tells her, tone paternal, as he rests hand on her shoulder. Satasha bites her lower lip until it bleeds. <<You're right.>> She says taking a breath. <<Everything is prepared.>> And with that she lays her hands on his shoulders. Invoking a very different spell the three of them vanish as Satasha takes herself, Cremator, and the fallen Lady Death away to points unknown far beyond the ensuing destruction. So does Castle Winterhaven crumble and fall, so does the Endless Graveyard face its End.
Jonathan Sims	Jon stiffens as the sword cuts into him. Not in surprise, not really. He's been expecting this for weeks, subconsciously bracing for it with every blow aimed at him through every battle. /Pain/ is what makes him freeze, eyes widening in shock. Oh dear gods, that /hurts/.     The shield disappears, the wings disappear. Jon stumbles back into Caitlin behind him, the poor Titan sprayed with his blood.     The leaf, my Champion. Remember the leaf.     The oak leaf he picked up off the floor of Rockefeller State Park Preserve, after his first vision of Gaea. The leaf he's carried with him everywhere, tucked into a little vial, even kept in the pockets of his pajama pants. The leaf he tried to give back to Gaea, that she insisted he keep. It's been everywhere with him, to every wellspring, to the Astral Plane through Michael's torture. It's important, for some reason. Desperately important.     He fumbles in his tac vest, grateful that Michael's sword missed the pocket where he's been keeping the vial. He pulls it out, and presses it into Caitlin's hand. "B-bring this... to... Duat," he manages. "Whole universe... depends..."     For once, the Archivist can't finish the sentence. The words trail off, as blood loss mounts and his heart stops beating.     Down below them, the wellspring spell solidifies. Brown light flashes out from the throne room, across 45th Street, to connect to the soil beneath Grand Central Station. Golden light flashes back, and for a moment, at least in the Astral Plane, there's a shining golden hexafoil suspended over Manhattan. The seals are complete. The wellsprings are safe.     Jonathan Sims is dead.     His body does not remain. Things destroyed by Aubade are /destroyed/. The physical being of Jonathan Sims, his body, his /khet/, dissolves into ethereal wisps, leaving behind his empty clothing. His soul, at least for a moment, returns to the Presence. How he's going to get to Duat without a body, with his soul sent straight back to the Presence and not to the Egyptian afterlife, is anyone's guess. Maybe God will be kind, and go along with his scheme.     All the living can do is proceed as planned, and hope everything works out.
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe picks up Tim. A strange reversal of how it's usually run.     "I'm so, so sorry that I ever got you wrapped up in this." she whispers to him.     One more thing, and Tim's part in this is done. He can rest, and Phoebe will continue to be apologetic.     Shelling and artillery continues. Every blast causes her to shudder and her eyes beneath the domino mask to twitch.     Sandalphon's gift was holding, otherwise she might have had such a worse reaction to the smell of blood and the feeling of Death.     She could hear that annoying voice in the back of her head remind her that she's on the clock now. She drops Tim, and her wings disappear in an instant, coming to rest at Jon's side.     She focuses. There's maybe screaming. There's wailing, certainly, and she's working through, pushing herself to the limits.     "Tim--" she states, not bothering with codenames, and she takes his left hand in her right. She holds John's right hand in her left.     And she remembers the first two rules of Magic: Any cunt can do it... and it always costs.     The stored light within her, robbed of angelic host she trades for it to work.     Beneath her, her own magical circle grows. Light and Life, the other half of the eternal cycle, and her lips move. Complex spellwork, blending smatterings of Hebrew, Latin, Demotic Egyptian, Coptic -- all of the work that was prepared for This Moment.     Overlay Tim with a framework.     Overlay Tim with the keys to work     Like building up a SQL table to read through, and she feels bile rise in her throat.     Transfer the access to the ARchives to Drake, Timothy J.
Caitlin Fairchild	It is no mean kick Michael delivers to lay Caitlin out. Michael hits her so hard that the ground shakes underfoot. The Earth trembles with the impact. The blows the archangel levels shake the air like explosions, shattering stone and earth underfoot. When he kicks her down a flight of stairs, the gesture is more contempt than force. But Caitlin never stops fighting. Never stops moving. One shoulder visibly dislocated, blood pouring from two different wounds on her scalp. She pushes herself up with one hand, wrists struggling to pull themselves together after the ruin the exploding bracers made. Those will leave deep scars, for sure. But every time she is struck down, she rises, slowly but inevitably, face full of implacable rage. Even if she struggles across the stones like a worm for want of a functioning arm. It is not until Jon is stabbed that her eyes flicker in fresh focus, and disbelief is written large across her face as he is impaled by Aubade. Caitlin's seen enough wounds to know a killing blow. In some distant part of her brain she even estimates the blood loss from the perforation, calculating for the size of the wound and Jon's blood pressure. But in the moment, she catches him when he falls, with a grip as gentle as a mother's. The redhead cannot stand. She can do little but gape at him and hug the fallen Archivist with whatever reassurance such contact offers. "I'm-- I'm sorry," she tells him. "I'm so, so sorry." She hugs him close. What else can she do? The Titan, who has traded blows with gods and angels, who has seen the depths of Tartarus and fought monsters that laid waste to whole worlds-- she can do nothing but sit back on her heels, cradling Jon as his lifeblood darkens the battered parapets. Caitlin whispers over him, quietly and insistently. She is no priest. There is no confession, no Eucharist, no litany that would accompany his Last Rites (were Jon even to welcome them). But all the same she prays over his still form. And then he is dust. There is nothing left. No corpse to inter, no body over which they can lament. Just an oak leaf, which Caitlin reverently tucks into the same pouch as her rosary. The redhead turns to Michael and rises, limping on broken bones. She stalks towards the Archangel. Her step is slow and implacable, eyes locked on his face. Michael's brow darkens and thunder crashes overhead in response to his anger. It rolls through the sky in counter-time to the thundering death of Castle Winterhaven. "Nothing has changed," he spits at Caitlin. "And I can at least rid the world of you before I withdraw." He hauls back a fist and drives a straight cross at her. It would be a blow that could shatter steel; yet when it flies, Caitlin reflexively catches it in her palm. The impact seems to have failed to rattle her. "Looks like someone doesn't have your back," she suggests, and hauls a straight cross aimed right for Michael's throat. The angel is stunned to the point of inaction, and Caitlin takes full advantage of it. She wades into him like a boxer, cutting past his defenses and ducking his retalitory blows with a grim, tidy efficiency. Her fists dent his holy armor and her feet smash into his knees and vulnerable joints. Michael's armor is ripped away, his arms broken, his remaining wing smashed. He falls to his knees in stunned shock, and Caitlin steps behind the archangel. One hand grabs his brow and pulls it back to expose his throat; in the other, she rips a piece of golden aegis-shard that is embedded in her wrist, and puts the infinitely sharp metal spike against Michael's throat. There is a lengthy pause while Caitlin hammers her instincts into submission. The merciless fury in her green eyes fades to something less savagely amoral. She leans down to whisper in Michael's ear: "You are not mine to judge. May God grant you mercy-- if it is right that he should do so."
Caitlin Fairchild	Caitlin grabs Michael by the hair and tilts his head back. The edge of the Aegis shard cuts into the left side of his immaculate jawline, and she drags the shard upwards over his cheek, through his eye, and up to his browline. Michael screams in inchoate rage, flailing and fighting, but-- in the moment, in THIS moment, reality is what Caitlin dictates. And she dictates the angel endures the punishment she delivers. Job done, she kicks him between the shoulderblades and sends the Archangel tumbling to the ground. The aegis shard is held between thumb and forefinger like a thumb knife, and she directs her cold green-eyed gaze to the other angels. "If any of you primitive screwheads want some of this, come get it," she says, flatly. "Else, leave. And never come back."
Cael Becker	Looking away from Uriel again, she watches as Michael's sword drives into Jon's body. "JON!" she shrieks again, as he falls back against Caitlin. As he pulls out the leaf, as Phoebe and Red Robin rush to his side - and his form is obliterated. "Jon..."     For a moment, it seems like the flames on the sword she carries might go out - but then they brighten again, before a shift in its hue makes it dim to mortal eyes. The blue fades, and shift simply violet with occassional flickers of white, the flames all but invisible as the majority of the light the hellfire puts out shifts to the ultraviolet spectrum. Cael's cry of pain is both born of emotion now and of physical pain, as the heat of the blade blisters and burns away her skin, yet her grip never falters.     "You. It's as much your fault, as his," she hisses out, turning back to Uriel, even as he stands aside to let her pass, with one grief-maddened swing after another. If not for the influence of the amulet over her, there would be no finesse at all in her movements - but as it was, it was still more brute force and desperation than anything else. "Moving him around like a fucking chess piece. Like he doesn't matter. Like our pain doesn't matter! FUCK YOU! Fuck off and //die//!" she screams furiously in the archangel's face.     "I should have killed you in the station! I should have- Fucking die!" Even stones crumbles and fall around them, even as the castle collapses, she flies at Uriel, delivering swing after desperate swing, seemingly oblivious to the rather cathartic beating being delivered to another Archangel - not that far away.
Tim Drake	Flying isn't all that uncommon a sensation, for Tim. There's a handful of flyers in the Outsiders already, and no doubt each one of them has had occasion to scoop up their wily (though unpowered) leader.     It'd always felt a little wondrous, then. The wind whistling past his ears, through his hair. A magical experience, even when he was bruised and bleeding and had been desperatedly in need of rescue.     Now it just feels grim, despite the kaleidoscope of warm-hued light from Phoebe's wings that bathe Tim.     "Don't be ridiculous," he's saying as they rise into the air. "Who'd watch your back if I wasn't here?"     His fingers lock with hers, and then they're off.     There's no emotional reaction from Red Robin, when they land and see the state of things. Jon's body laying there, cradled. When he's wearing the costume, it's almost too easy to shift everything behind the mask, tuck it all into neat, orderly rows to be examined and processed later, when the adrenaline has ceased to flow and the immediacy of it all has lessened.     The rub's really in just how infrequently those things are actually returned to for said processing.     He strips out of his gauntlet with practised ease and unties the linen wrap covering the inkwork. Even through the fabric, its glow had been apparent, and the geometric lines of it stand out starkly against his pale skin. Mute, he holds his arm out for Phoebe and allows her to do her work, because as long as there's a job to do, Tim can focus on that.     It's some moments later, Jon's body long since gone, that Tim asks with an uncertain note of hesitation in his voice, "...Did it work?"     By all rights, he feels no different than before. But maybe that's how it's supposed to feel.
Michael Demiurgos	Michael bleeds and screams in agony and he stumbles back. It's more than pain that tears out of him. More than anger. It's confusion. This... shouldn't be. Something isn't right. Something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. But what could it be?     Uriel doesn't engage Cael, instead he dodges over and over and over. He has to parry once and the blade he conjured is shattered by the force of the blow and he feels his arm shatter with it. "I did what was necessary!" he breathes as he continues to avoid abject destruction. He finally has to use something he knows gives him an unfair advantage: translocation. One moment he is there, the next, he is not. He looks up as lightning crackles over the sky and nods.     There is a sudden weight over Tim, a burden placed on him that wasn't there before. But one that is all to noticable. It worked. It worked very well. Tim can feel it all. The ages of knowledge inside him. He could do so much with the power he has now. Things he could only imagine. Answers about his past. What his father was doing. The nature of magic. All of it is open to the mind of Tim Drake, all he has to do is ask and he could have the answers. But at what cost? The power isn't his. He is a custodian of it, a regent to a mantle that must be returned when the time was right. Responsibiity is often a heavier weight than power even could hope to be.     Michael's answer comes with words that shake the foundations of the fabric of reality. "TOO LONG HAVE I LET THINGS CONTINUE. TOO LONG HAVE I ALLOWED MY FIRST BORN TO CONTROL. NO MORE. NO MORE WILL ANY OF THIS BE PERMITTED. NO MORE WILL I GIVE POWER TO THOSE WHO CANNOT RELEASE IT WHEN THEY ARE FINISHED. COME MY CHILDREN. ALL WHO BEAR MY POWER. COME TO ME." There is another flash of lightning and thunder that shakes over the world and all realms in between and suddenly Michael and Uriel are no longer in the crumbling Hellscape.     The rest of the angelic forces... are another matter. There, in the Endless Graveyard's mirror in Hell's Kitchen, the largest loss by the Heavenly Host is recorded. Catastrophic failure would be an understandment for the remaining angels left, as not a single one escapes the brutal destruction from the denizens of the Endless Graveyard.
Cael Becker	"No!" Cael screams as Uriel disappears from her path. She whirls in place, seeking him out - flying towards him. Even as a voice beyond all comprehension rings out, she continues forwards - flying with all the furious speed she can muster- only to have Uriel vanish again, this time completely. "NO!" she shrieks impotently. "FUCKING DIE!" she shouts to the heavens - before she lets herself fall, landing heavily near Caitlin, Tim, and Phoebe. The blade drops from her hands, clattering heavily to the floor - leaving her hands blistered, cracked, and badly burned.     She doesn't seem to notice as she sinks to the floor, picking up Jon's empty tactical gear, and pulling it to her chest, as tears start streaking down her cheeks. "We- we need to get Lydia, so we can go after him. We just need Ly-"     She cuts off as a few, important realizations sink in. That presence in her chest is... gone. The castle, the graves, gone. And looking around- "Where's Lady Death? She- ...left? She can't die, she-" Can Death die? "Shit. //Fuck//."     Tears begin to flow freely down Cael's cheek. If Lady Death is gone... then how do they save Jon?
Phoebe Beacon	The transfer worked. Phoebe rises up, and gently pats Tim's shoulder. "Take a minute, make sure you're not dizzy. You just got access to a lot of information." she states quietly.     And she rises up. She looks around at the ruined Church, and then she tilts her head back a moment.     She steps to Cael.     Wordlessly, she sinks down next to Cael, and she takes off her domino, showing blood and grime as t he light fades from her eyes, and she offers her arms out.     "I'm making you the same promise I made to Geraldine and Agnes." she whispers, and then holds just one hand out, pinky extended.     "We Shall Bring Them Back."
Cael Becker	Cael looks at the open arms - a wary expression immediately sliding into place as she shifts away from the woman. The offered finger is accepted, however, as one badly burned digit reaches out to lightly touch Phoebe's in return.     "We fucking better," she answers softly, her voice cracking.     But how?