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    Rhome Del Santo

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    (Set Up to OFL Arc concerning the rise of a "hidden threat" as discussed in "Theoretically Cordial".)

     

    1-19-19

    New York, St. Patrick's Cathedral

    Evening

     

     

     

    It felt, good… as if he belonged there, having showered in hot water and shed a life he had lived for over a year.  Maybe he'd always been meant for something nobody wanted.  Being a ghost.  After fleeing the unfortunate clusterfuck not of his own making, he’d put pings out all over the city, making sure he’d been seen at each and every one of his private one room holds he’d never divulged to ARMA.  Half dozen, never decommissioned for the normal life in “chains”.  It was almost as if he knew they didn’t give a shit about him, that it was pointless, and he was just going through the motions to be someone nobody would ever trust.  His break and sudden display of power that wasn’t supposed to exist at the cathedral downriver would draw attention, his quick public as possible sightings in crowds would keep them guessing, busy, and out of the only real place they could not dare go without starting a shitstorm their PR couldn’t recover from; a mage priest helping the poor and needy dragged out by ARMA?  Not likely.  The stone and colored glass around him were sworn to protect anyone that requested sanctuary- leave it to the strongest religion on the planet to survive the end of it.  Like cockroaches.

     

    Unfortunately the further from the recent confrontation he’d gone, the more his skin grew cold… apparent the antagonist had some sort of phase and interference… or the power to break his bindings and shove them back in place at a whim.  Binding took spells, he’d never met someone with the ability to completely wipe and redeem powers with a snap of fingers.  Negating binding, or the power to break spells was the only explanation.

     

    But why him?

     

    Sniffle soft, he finished and turned off the water, drawing the fresh rivulets over a neatly groomed chin of scruff.  Fingers ran through the newly dyed shock of darkened hair, premature gray pepper gone with the quick change he was so good at.  Dried.  Nimble fingers buttoned up the black shirt, paper collar slid into its nest, shrugging on his meticulously tailored jacket.  Warm and easy line cook, now impeccable and quiet priest.

     

    He already missed it, talking to people, smiling at jokes he heard every day from the same old regulars that hoovered his coffee with bottomless stomachs and endless time.  It wasn't meant to be. He knew that from the beginning.

     

    Bitter..  this building made him so incredibly bitter and hostile…  it seemed to seethe from his pores, changed the way he stood, the expressions on his face.  Forcing his mind to quiet, dark eyes passed over the room they kept for him, but not the one he was choosing to stay in.  The pile of books had grown higher since he’d been here last…  He stepped toward the pile, running his finger along the spines of the books before sliding one carefully from the stack.  It was tossed on the bed.  Several more followed, gathered up and tucked under his arm before stepping out and making his way back down the stairs.

     

    One last place, his final stop as he figured his world out... he’d been avoiding, it made his stomach tight to think of using it as his home for now.  Unsure really of why, but necessary.  The flicker of the final light of the day was streaming through the line of stained glass windows on his left, the hallway seeming to go on forever.  Taking a slow breath, he pushed the door open to the stairwell of colored windows, and stopped.

     

    His feet didn’t want to move.  Colored light streamed above his head as the sun made its final swing around, piercing the windows in the stairwell with stunning brilliance.  It filtered all the way to the bottom and looked, innocent.. ethereal.  It was actually the path to his hiding space. An evil needing to hide.

     

    Beautifully carved doors lined both sides of the stairwell, elaborate sconces arching out of the walls.  The doors at each landing held immense locks.  No punches left unfilled. The world was different now, hence the reason he was descending into the darkness below the massive building.  Feet stepped off the bottom into a door that smelled of bones and dust when opened.  The further he walked, the darker the hall became, soon the tiny flicker of a wane light behind him from the stairwell became the only guide until the hall ended at a tremendous door.  Fingers traveled over the massive steel door handle, pushing slightly, the hinges screaming at his presence.  He winced, pushing further.

     

    Back stiffened, pulling the scent of the room through his mouth instead of his nostrils as he sucked in a tremendous breath.  It was so strong, every Cathedral of stone and earth smelled the same, even here in the states; reminding him of a home turned prison that sent a shockwave through his body.  Shoulders moved slightly, then squared..  forcing himself to truly see what was in front of him.  It was innocent looking- sunlight just fading from the slit of a window on the far wall, purple touching the edges as the sky changed from light to darkness.  It cast the room in silhouette, stone walls shadowed, a small desk in the corner with a simple chair.  Piles of books lay scattered around it.  A bed was on the far wall under the window, a tiny table in the other corner.  Flicking the light on, the single bulb overhead did little to clearly illuminate anything.

     

    He watched the sun disappear through the ceiling high slit window with bars on the other side to keep anyone from the sidewalk from breaking in, knowing that as soon as the light died without the backlight the bulb would illuminate the rest.  After several moments, it did just that.

     

    The smell, the stone, the basic provisions.

     

    He was in hell again.  All that was missing were the small scraps of fabric that he’d kept under a hidden stone in the corner.  He had torn them from the bottom of his meager shirt to tuck the thin fabric between his flesh and the iron bonds..  to stop the pain festering on broken skin from being shackled.  Missing were the chains anchored into the wall, Vatican handlers still unsure as to the magnitude of the flames he could or could not control, or his loyalties.  The bed blanket missed the distinct pattern to match the bloody wounds now light scars on his back.  Flaying to atone for sins.  He stepped in, turning to close the door behind him.  Missing was the back of the massive, ornate door completely scorched to the nails, burned over and over and over again by frantic uncontrolled bursts as he burned.  The wall around it, the stone had not fared much better.  This room however, was pristine.

     

    This was a similar duplicate of a place where sheer horror had transpired.  Catacomb room.  Where he’d been broken as a man, then put back together as a weapon in a world that spoke nothing but his native tongue, a decade ago.  An incredibly serene face stared silently at the chair in the corner, dark side of his world still hovering beneath the light side of his existence making it impossible to erase the horror of his pain.

     

    He picked up a folded army wool blanket that had been left out for him, setting the books on the table and unfurling it over the bed he was to lie in.

     

    The quiver of air, unmistakable.

     

    He didn’t even have to turn, stoically silent as she stood next to him several feet away.

     

    She didn’t phase, not as he understood it anyway. She was a chameleon, healed.  Either she had the ability, or she knew people that did and there were more that were helping her antagonize him.  OFL?

     

    *npc*  “..pain can do horrible things..  especially when you don’t understand why you’re being punished…  the chains, the shackles..”

     

    OFL.  Old OFL.  Someone who knew him, knew what he went through.  He didn’t personally know any more like him, but he knew there were.  His muscles were hairtriggered.  Letting her say her peace before he cut her throat.  He now knew how to watch her move.

     

    *npc*  “that’s when it started…  that’s when you lost control...  You lost control of yourself.  You were owned.  You are still owned. Order, now ARMA."

     

    He drew in a breath, picking up one of the books he’d just set down..

     

    *npc*  “..it’s time to go home.. really home.  Not this bullshit you’ve been chasing and doing.  ARMA. OFL.  Archaic bullshit.  You’re better than this.”

     

    He looked at her through the corner of his eyes for the first time.

     

    *npc”  “There you are.  But first..”

     

    He moved before she’d even swung, book open and thrust at her face in a flutter of flickering pages.  Knife was out, she would not survive this encounter.  There was a distortion to her, movement that proceeded her that his eyes could catch.  As a mage, he was unstoppable.  As a man, he was better; lightning fast movement that didn’t go for her throat, they cut tendon when she overextended, backs of knees, wrists,  She fought back, but  she wasn’t trying to hurt him, taking his abuse to wait for an opening, flicker of his brow brief at the realization before she slapped a palm on his forehead and slammed his skull into the stone wall with inhuman force.

     

    It hurt.

     

    Hurt more than he could fathom, bleach scouring through every nerve, every vein.  Pulsing to rip the fires of hell from the core of his soul.  This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be happening.  Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. Muscles rigid.

     

    If felt like…

     

    Consciousness was lost in the drown of blue flame coating the inside of his lungs, swallowing him whole into complete oblivion. 

     

    Floating, for an eternity.

     

    Finally feeling his body again as it released.

     

    Everything throbbed, pulsing light even under his closed eyelashes.  He was on the floor.  Head lifted slightly, lashes parting with much trouble, surveying the disheveled, empty room.  She was gone.  Skull touched back down softly.  Taste of blood was thick, breath incredibly slow.  Blood was caked to his eyelashes, dried under his nose, dried on his jaw as it had dripped from the corner of his lip… his back on the floor, a cold stone floor, bright with the scent of dust and old world as it warmed.  Warmed from his contact with it.

     

    The floor was unusually hot, and so was his skin.

     

    Lashes blinked again, the world in his vision rimmed with a familiar iridescent halo as light refracted off the mercurial colored irises before entering his pupils.

     

    Breath oozed out in a long sigh, Latin on his lips.  Dangerous words, for smoldering anger.

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    2010

    Italy

     

    Flared nostrils kept lungs heaving, footsteps heavy, livid..  almost, enjoying the prospect of causing severe pain, death..  torture.  He was confused at the feelings, the thoughts.  Angry..  incredibly and insatiably heated anger burned under his skin.  Where had this come from?  The world was ending.  A blank glare had slithered across his features, set, focused on forgetting his things and getting to her.  The town was small, the sky indescribable, everything was chaos. Good god, it was the end of the world… having to criss-cross and backtrack through debris as the sky seemed to rain down fire.  He was a powerful man, ignored by most for the gentle soul he was.  Something was seriously wrong with him, sick. He felt sick, temples beading with sweat and slicking hair into wet curls at his temples.  There was no other goal here but getting her to safety… heel kicking the door.

     

    “Lisette!”  voice panicked but commanding.   Room after room.  Empty.

     

    “You!”

     

    Rhome was slammed to the floor, back cracking on the edge of the kitchen table.  How far had he been thrown?  Where he was disoriented and confused, this man was becoming something beyond belief.  Inhuman.  Vicious.  He drew air thickly into his lungs to get up and continue his mission...  growl snapped sharp from the distorted man, guttural in his throat as he glared at the priest on the floor.  Voice had echoed through the house… warning..  irritated..

     

    The priest scrambled to his feet, a drip of blood at his brow.

     

    “Where’s Lisette?”  he demanded to something he could no longer recognize.  The world was splitting apart at the seams.

     

    No answer.

     

    Pounding echoed from a locked door behind him.

     

    “Get out!  Rhome, get out!”  it was muffled from behind.

     

    He tugged at the handle..  snarl behind him growing in intensity.. tugging again.  The growl was sharp, Rhome’s dodge backward immediate as a fist slammed the door where his head just was, the wood buckling.  Lisette was sobbing behind the door, the sound of a baby crying.  They had barricaded themselves behind it.  This thing, this man…  used to be her husband, and the beast’s ire now pinpointed on the priest.

     

    Another clawed fist, another dodge. The strength of strikes were explosive.  Bone-crushing, one finally landing in the holy man’s ribs.  Crunched.  So many ribs broken.  Gasp sucking in breath where none would come. Punctured.  Lisette screamed, she’d come out, holding the baby girl to her chest to attempt to reason with what was once her husband.

     

    Bifurcated pupils ripped back and forth between the two, barrage of garbled words slithering over their ears.  The thing had become single minded, intent on getting to the antagonist that had been out of his grasp for sake of decorum when the world was still normal.  Now, increasingly enraged, watching the woman put the baby in its rocker carefully.  She was trying to divert attention, trying not to antagonize the thing… stepping away to put distance between them, drawing it away from them so Rhome could take the child and go.

     

    The priest was deathly still.  This was not happening! He couldn’t breathe, blood in his throat, lying on his side behind the couch, cradling ribs that were shattered.  Lisette was still, the world finally still… her eyes.  He’d never forget the look in her eyes.  Knowing. Sorrow.  Glancing at the baby, their baby… she didn’t have to tell him.  He knew.  The thing knew, was brutally angry. Whatever this was, whatever was happening to the world, to him, had pulled the most vicious wants from the depths of the monster’s core.  The thing wanted to kill her for her lies. 

     

    Her eyes went back to the dove gray priest’s. She knew what she'd done. 

     

    The beast went for her.

     

    The holy man was too slow. 

     

    In a moment, the world sped past him.  Horrors, sins, death, torture, an eternal history and future of death and destruction.  His body was too slow, he was powerless, and that lack of power killed her.

     

    She’d tried to scream, a reflex to pain that seemed pointless. Throat mauled, gasping as the thing threw her against the buckled door.  His knees hit the floor next to her, black suit hiding the blood already soaking it.  Motionless in recoil of the thing, lids blinking slowly, eyes changing direction and reopening to glare at the silhouette shadow hanging in the doorway and daring him to act.

     

    It was true. All of it.  The world came to a halt in times of terror, pain.

     

    “Rhome,”  name was slithered with a dark chuckle, the suave smile sliding across gristled teeth… “Father Rhome.”

     

    Rhome picked her up, jacket snapped off to press to her throat.

     

    “Don’t talk,”  he whispered through his own pain to the dying woman in his arms as she attempted to speak to him.

     

    “Rhome... let me tell you about him Lisette,”  the beast's voice hummed, monotone..  low in his chest as he knelt, one set of fingertips on the floor.

     

    “…he belongs in a room with no windows... he belongs in chains…”

     

    Eyes in sleep fluttered the haze of a dream colliding with a consciousness still firmly planted in reality.

     

    The powerful figure stood, closing the gap between them with slow strides.  Dark eyes were black in the growing darkness, the sky outside embroiled in chaos.  Canines were snapped together with vicious force, imagining the harm he could do…. the growl seeming to grow in intensity then silence, lower canines jutting slightly forward.

     

    “…because he’s a killer…”

     

    Face flinched in reality, lids fluttering sharply as the first attempt at a consciousness tried to pull the man from sleep.

     

    The force was blistering, the speed enough to snap someone’s neck as he shoved the priest from Lisette into the door, splintering it as the mortal fell through onto the broken shards.  The beast was killing him, slowly, the human unable to get his hands on the thing that was now a pinpoint of the anger he’d felt before.  Magnetic, infuriating..  pain, blood, sorrow, fear.  The roar incredible, bones buckling under the beast’s blows.  The floor jumped as he slammed the broken man into it, body thrown through another door to splinter that as well, head cracking against a porcelain sink.

     

    Through the pain, it was only tears…  unable to breath, unsure what parts of his body were broken and which were not.  Fingers curled softly upon themselves, deep and drowning darkness continued to wash over him, lapping at his cheeks until it began to recede.  Voices whispered, licked, ghostly fingers drawing over his flesh in long caresses, comforting, cool.  He was dying.

     

    Eyes closed, staring into a sea of blue... blue that quivered and licked like flame.

     

    “Rhome.”

     

    The one word was feminine.

     

    “Don’t kill him,”  it was a plea.  Barely there.

     

    Consciousness swam up from the deep, realizing he’d been pulled up by his shirt to the  thing’s face.  Lashes cracked, still life in blank eyes.

     

    The memory poured out of his nightmares, hot, scalding, confused and drenched in emotion.... the brilliant mind able to function through the complete stripping of his sanity.  Don’t kill him.

     

    [santo]Cass.[/santo] it slipped from unconsciousness.

     

    The obsessive compulsion to repeat it over and over did nothing to quell the nightmare that wouldn’t let him go, the one word trying to drown out the voices that were screaming in his head... repeating it, the movement of his lips obsessive until there was finally nothing at all..

     

    Chin had lowered to the point where it was almost resting on his chest, the crush of broken bone had already done its damage.  There was nothing but silence until a slight groan in the broken wood and glass broke the ghostly quiet...

     

    “...kill me..”  Lisette’s voice was so quiet.  “Leave… him…be”  the words were whispered.

     

    Eyes fluttered again.  He couldn’t breathe.

     

    “..kill me..”

     

    Tears, there were tears pooling at the outsides of his eyes.  They were both going to die.

     

    Again the silence until an eerie creak of the walls, a crackle of the very fabric of  the air.  Muscles in his neck twitched.

     

    Then the crying.  The baby started to cry again.

     

    The thing was going to kill their daughter too.

     

    Anger echoed, the crescendo like a freight train, the air straining, screaming in his ears, propelling the last moments of time he had on this earth into frenzy.  He burned.  His skin, his eyes, even the breath that suddenly lit his chest. 

     

    It stopped suddenly, pupils to pinpoints, eyes burst open as the black flared out wide.  Irises fractured and bled through white.  Embers like spattered blood sparked bright and melted into the mercurial sheen- a universe beyond the world rushed in through them, an iridescent inferno, snapping back to intense round orbs that birthed a new sight.

     

    Again...  the room was silent.  The baby cried from the kitchen.

     

    Beast that held him flinched slightly, the electric fray buzzing over his skin heated.  Dark lashes fluttered, virulent anger, the rip in the sky passing him off to the only thing that could heal wounds that no one could see.  Nothing and everything made sense at the same time.  The silence was heavy, broken by popping and shifting of wood that was beginning to burn, small whooshes to settle and billow the embered heat near him.  It furled higher, the thing bewildered for a moment. 

     

    Fire.

     

    It was suddenly everywhere.  Exploding outward from the very air.  Licking up the walls, bursting over the ceiling, so hot it burned brilliant blue…over his skin, his very breath.  The monster screeched and fled, the world burning hellfire down around them.  He went after him with what strength he had left, never once thinking he was now beyond his mortal body.  Never once imagining… the smoke thick, burning hotter.  Burning his clothing, but his skin- his skin unscathed, fingers just missing the shraps of what was once a shirt on the thing before it picked up the baby and disappeared into the smoke.  He, still in the conscious throes of being a man, could go no further.  Body kneejerked it’s default pain, coughing, unable to breathe where he now truly could.  He couldn't leave her, he couldn't save anyone.

     

    “Lisette,” he said quietly, oddly calm in the moment of pure horror, knees hitting the floor and pulling her into his lap as the world burned down around them.  She was gone.  The last moment of her life watching the child stolen from her, pleading for his life to be spared.

     

    No sound had ever been made from him before that could compare.  Sorrow, grief, pain, confusion… helplessness.  Sobs pained and horrible.  He wasn’t fast enough.  He wasn’t strong enough.  Death would come for him too.

     

    But it didn’t.

     

    *npc*  Rhome.  It’s time for Mass.

     

    He didn’t flail, or move, unconsciousness that was so fiercely trying to pull his mind out of the nightmare had simply released him into consciousness.  Eyes opened,  there were tears at the corners, burned off quickly with a surge of heat to hide the glossy sheen.  The Vicar was standing near his desk with a tray.

     

    *npc*  haven’t seen you since yesterday, thought you might be hungry.

     

    He sat up, having just tried for a nap, checking the clock on the desk.  Hours.  He’d been asleep for hours.  Fingers ran through the unusually long curls.

     

    [santo]Thank you father.[/santo]

     

    *npc*  A few new people today in confession.  Interesting conversations.  I think someone’s looking for you, or at the very least ruling out whether or not you are here.  There is something on the horizon, and I’m afraid you might be in the middle of it.

     

    Eyes moved to him quietly, checking his collar and putting on his suitcoat.  The Vicar really had no idea.

     

    *npc*  I don’t know what you’ve done… that’s not my place to ask.  Perhaps you should come to confession yourself.  It’s heavy on you… you talk in your sleep.

     

    The white haired man was quiet a moment.

     

    *npc* I’m pretty sure you did not say Mass, but my ears are old so what do I know...

     

    The mage silently picked up the bowl and tried the soup, looking up at the Vicar.  The thought stung something in his chest that was tight.

     

    *npc*  I could use some help upstairs when you’re done. My old hands find it a bit difficult to light the candles.

     

    Smile was soft as he nodded, his eyes did not reciprocate.  Skin was still painfully throbbing from the forced memories.  He'd never hidden what he was from the man, he must have felt like a blast furnace to him at that moment.

     

    The Vicar excused himself, stopping at the door briefly before leaving.

     

    *npc*  Everyone is forgiven Rhome.  Even you.  When you get the call for it, will you be there to receive it?

     

    Gray hair wisped slightly in a final nod before disappearing down the long hallway.

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    Strange.

     

    ...clearly in front of people and respected for what he appeared to be.

     

    Being hated otherwise.

     

    ...watched by a congregation that saw him as a beacon of stability and hope in a world that had split at the seams.

     

    Being hunted otherwise.

     

    ...part of something bigger that would protect him in their own way.

     

    Being a criminal otherwise.

     

    The duality was clearly not lost on him.  Neither was the fact he was seated as an ordained priest when he had indiscriminately broken his original vows repeatedly.  Before the Event- it was purely human weakness.  After, it was different, fed lies, half truths. He thought he was doing the right thing, paying penance for his unforgivable actions prior to becoming the monster that he was.  There was a time when he considered himself an abomination in itself, given the power to wipe all others from the face of what was left of the earth… sliding well into Vanguard territory.  It became evident over the last year he was nothing but a weapon.  A lie.  Something to be discarded after the damage was done.  It was still in him, all the power in the world to do so much damage.  Venom in a viper that could strike at a moment’s notice.

     

    Yet he sat, as a representative of something supposedly greater.  Skin still throbbing from nightmares that wouldn't leave him alone.  A woman that tormented him with violence and lies.  Licking wounds from closing a chapter he'd hoped would go beyond awkward but gentle encounters.  Biding his time, a plan, a decision.  If the woman appeared again, would he follow her?  Find out if she was lying?  Kill her if she was?  What if she wasn’t… take his daughter and what?  Run, turn them both into fugitives?  What if she herself was a weapon?  Brainwashed?  If she wasn’t, what then?

     

    ARMA was something to be avoided.  The OFL?  Something to be hated.

     

    Indecision and stress buzzed just inside his skin, distracted, feeling anger anchor in his gut.   Lashes blinked slowly, looking toward the lector that silently beckoned him while the congregation began to kneel.  He had been given duties, hiding in plain sight he’d agreed would be the best way to put up a wall between him and threats from the outside. Of course, without an audience he was in danger… always… always the risk of powers that could get anyone close to him.  But… the gloves were off and his threats, no… promises were laid bare the moment he broke from that room and left Cass to her own devices.  He would kill whoever took his daughter.  He would kill whoever got in the way, and whoever tried to put him behind bars.  It felt like the whole damn world was on his hit list.  In a way, they were, and he was still a dangerously unstable part of it.  Anger kept snowballing, skin heated, fierce, tight in his throat, caught in a quick blink as the priest next to him glanced at him.

     

    The magus priest should have been ashamed of the thoughts rampaging through his head while inside the building that was harboring him.  He wasn’t, even as he got up and aided in Communion; ringing the bells at the appropriate moments, returning and standing near to assist.  Even the gods had wrath.  If he was that agent, he would be so proudly.  Again.

     

    Every face was met as they approached, so many.  He wished somewhere inside he missed this, he didn’t.  The pomp and circumstance was never why he did it.  It was when he rolled up his sleeves outside the church that he found his niche.  Being visible was fine, but he found it a huge weight off his shoulders he did not lead anything for once.  His responsibilities were nil, at least to him.  Keep the place clean, tend to the candles and make sure things were ready for whatever services necessary.

     

    The more faces came past, the more his thoughts wandered again, lost to frustration even after the last person had left the giant empty room and he began to put things away.  Eyes swept over the lit shadows, small flickers snuffing out as he did so.

     

    *npc*  Amazing what has come of the world.

     

    Brows rose slightly, eyes to the side at the Vicar as he continued to put things away into the sacristy.

     

    [santo]If it bothers you, I can do it by hand.[/santo]

     

    The older man chuckled, helping him.

     

    *npc*  That is ‘by hand’ for you.  We just all have different ways of doing it now.  Some of us, not so interesting ways.

     

    A rare genuine smile glimmered from the normally melancholy magus as he worked.

     

    [santo]I noticed the side yard is sanctioned off.[/santo]

     

    White wispy hair nodded,  *npc*  After the Resonance, part of the roof caved on that side.  Debris, haven’t managed to take care of it yet.  Building is fixed, everything ended up there.  Poor sculptures, everything was broken.  Are you asking me permission to start to clear it?

     

    The magus nodded slightly.  It would keep him sane while he decided what his next step was.

     

    *npc*  It’s all yours.  A few other cathedrals in the area are no longer functioning, perhaps there are things there that can replace ours.  I wouldn’t advise going yourself.  I would hope you’re here for more reasons than sanctuary, but you need to remember the main reason you’re here.

     

    Last box was closed and he inclined his head.

     

    *npc*  I’d also like to ask… if you would do confessions this week.

     

    Silver eyes looked up at the man.

     

    [santo]You know I’m no longer…[/santo]

     

    The man’s puckered face dismissed him, *npc*  The world is no longer.  You’re needed, no matter what you’ve done.  Did you not hear anything that was said today?

     

    The magus clearly flinched, expression unreadable, mouth opening to explain but deciding against it.  Nod was slight.

     

    *npc*  Go.  Go work on your project. Do not leave our walls.

     

    Smile tipped up, and he took his leave.  Down the stairs and out the side door.  The side yard was surrounded by at least a twelve foot stone wall, topped in wrought iron.  Heat furled from his skin to counteract the cold, wary eyes surveying every building that rose above him in all directions.  Noting… everything.  He was for the world to see, even within the church’s walls.  It was a risk.  He hadn’t been outside since he’d sprinted across the city.  Hadn’t been back to work, to the meager apartment where his “life” had been.  There were things there he wanted, was given.  He’d never see them again.

     

    Sigh was soft, sliding off his suitcoat and hanging it on the antique doorknob that led back into the church.  Black cuffs were unbuttoned, rolled up to his elbows, hands on his hips a moment as he surveyed the mess.  Glass.  Slate.  Broken beams.  Shattered fountains and statues.  Twisted wrought iron.  Heavy, hard labor.  It was going to burn off the anger that was pouring out of him. Frustration.  Betrayal.  There was so much.  It was going to take a while. 

     

    He had a while.

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    A few days, and a front section of the side yard had been cleared.  Pedestrians could now walk by on the street and see through the ornate wrought iron gate that something was stirring in the battered cathedral.  Out of most in the city, probably around the world, this had sustained the least of damage that he’d seen.  Of course it had its share of boarded up windows and slapdash stone repair, but it was still standing, and the roof didn’t leak.  That counted for something.

     

    The magus had been up before the light, fixed a few leaky pipes in the kitchen then dressed down a bit for the labor he knew he would subject himself to over the course of the day.  Still, the white pop of the paper collar stood out against the black shirt he wore, sleeves rolled up to his elbows despite the chill outside as he worked.  He was by far the youngest living in the church, and they treated him with such reverence it was as if they saw him as some kind of savior to their dying routines.  Or, just a good handyman to do the things they couldn’t or couldn’t afford to pay someone to do.  The Vicar and a few others knew he had sought sanctuary and some finite details, but nothing of the true nature of heavy reality.  They thought he was a fugitive from his faith because he was a magus most likely.  Being around the world in the end times gave him a focused view that some who still followed the faith thought powers and beasts signaled the fall to Hell.  When he wore what he was free to wear here in outlying parts of the world, he’d always been overtly careful to give no signs of his skills.  Interesting how the world thought anything out of the ordinary within a faith was a sure sign of the devil, but killing someone in the name of the faith was seen as heroic. 

     

    The world was truly backwards.

     

    Days had not given him any guidance as to what to do. At the moment he was inertly dangerous.  One of the most well trained magus in the world, aligned with his physical training and other covert education he was truly a ticking time bomb.  He’d felt the stress years ago.  Brain growing more mature and out of the blind following of a faith he’d poured himself into.  The shame at what he’d done was rising exponentially.  His gleaning actions of the last twelve years were becoming heavier on his shoulders than the broken pieces of concrete he was moving.  He’d retreated from life when Lisette had been expected to marry another.  Retreated from life when he lost her.  Retreated from life when he thought Abrielle was dead.  He could have fought, but never seemed to be strong enough, fast enough.

     

    He was now.

     

    He’d walked into ARMA for what?  Over a year of being cold and treated like a child.  He’d done it again.  Retreated from life again because he felt ashamed of what he’d done.  And again when he ran from them days ago.

     

    Hand had found itself in a fist when he dropped a broken piece of concrete onto a pile he was creating on the fenced in back parking lot.  Nobody really drove anymore anyway to fill it, so he sectioned a piece off for debris until he could find someone with a truck to take it.  Silver eyes were focused so tightly on the pile of broken stone they blurred, the world in his chest seething.  Anger beyond grief, pain…. thoughts spinning forward in a heated furl.  Hand rose suddenly to the unrecognizable rubble and twisted metal, the pulse from deep in the center of his hand so hot the metal rang like distant bells as it flared to orange and twisted in upon itself limply. Chest was heaving, increasing the heat until the stone itself began to complain and blister to powder, crackling.  Breath sucked in, pulling his hand back into a fist next his face like he’d fired one shot from a dueling pistol.  Essentially, he had.  It fell back to his side, feeling the mana surge slither away from his skin. 

     

    He was NOT helpless.

     

    He shouldn’t have done that. 

     

    Features winced, immediately regretting his temper tantrum.  Breath was full and hard, chin lowering toward his chest as he breathed slowly… in through his nose, out through his mouth. 

     

    Fuck that.  Fuck that!  Uncharacteristic language ripped through his thoughts, bringing the eyes back up to the buildings around him.

     

    He was NOT helpless, and it was becoming apparent his choices were very few.  ARMA had a reputation to uphold.  They were caught dead heat in the political bureaucracy of staying the good face of the altered so people would ask them for help, and being aggressive enough to take care of things that shouldn’t exist while staying within the law.  Always at odds with the Order.   

     

    The Order should not exist.  Shouldn’t.

     

    He didn’t have to play by ARMA’s rules.

     

    He didn’t have to play by anybody’s rules.

     

    Thoughts were unthinkable.  It would be a complete firestorm.  It would blow open the dirtiest, darkest vaults in the world, catapulting the former ragtag group of mages into a superior position.  And he?  Absolute peace with it.  Of course, the Prince of New York was still on his shit list… but the fire magus would take the fall for this alone.

     

    Feet had taken him back to the front of the side yard to pull more debris, brain ticking faster than it had in months.  Did he walk in Order’s front door?  Walk in ARMA’s again and demand to be heard this time?  He needed to take a step back from the anger and get a clear plan.  A kid sitting by the gate caught his attention, taking a break from what was obviously not a job he should have had at his age.  The kid was maybe, ten?  Overly skinny muscles were hauling a bulked torn messenger bag while wearing barely a coat to keep him warm.  Paper route, to make ends meet?

     

    He approached quietly, tapping on the wrought iron next to his head before he knelt on the other side of his “cage” down to the boy’s level.

     

    [santo]You come by here every day?[/santo]

     

    Voice was gentle, it always had been.

     

    Kid was a bit startled, but he nodded, trying to warm his hands.

     

    [santo]Wait here.[/santo]

     

    Strides were quick, almost a jog, slipping through the side door and down to his room at the far end of the building.  On the back of his door, a coat..  scarf, gloves in the pocket.  He’d been wearing it when he’d fled the world.  They had been given to him. Pause was… poignant, moving back out quickly with them in hand.

     

    The kid was getting up when he came back out, dusting himself off to get going.

     

    [santo]If you bring me a paper every day, I’ll give you these, plus what the papers cost.  Every day.[/santo]

     

    The kid looked up at him, then to the nice coat and scarf the magus held through the gate.  Quizzical a moment, reassured by the silver eyes that smiled at him.

     

    [santo]But it has to be every day.[/santo]

     

    Small shiver from the frame made the decision for him, taking the coat that was quite big on him and wrapping the scarf around his neck.  He settled into it, the heat the magus had infused it with before handing it over a welcome comfort for the kid that had hours more to do out in the elements.

     

    *npc*  Thanks!

     

    [santo]You’ll grow into it.  Gloves in the pocket too.  You’ll probably have to grow into those. You know the news better than anyone, you see anything unusual, you bring that to me to.[/santo]

     

    The boy nodded.

     

    *npc*  Don’t get out much?

     

    The magus shook his head, playing into the kid’s curiosity.

     

    [santo]Not much time to.  So much to do here, want to stay updated with the world.  None of us get out much.[/santo]

     

    The boy nodded, handing him one through the gate before making off to the rest of his drops.  Silver eyes watched him leave, hairtriggered muscles in his forearms flicking slightly before tucking the paper under his arm and moving to take a break for lunch and pore over every inch of the paper.  New York wasn’t ready for what he was planning.  Hell, the world wasn’t ready for what he was planning.  He had been trained for this.  Trained to watch, learn, to wage war silently against the enemy that was pointed out to him until the right moment. 

     

    It was time for himself to decide who the enemy was, and gods help them if they crossed into his path.

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    Reading, staring at a wall, his days were spent in seclusion other than leaving for short periods to complete his duties.  He loved to read, the sudden silence of his tumultuous world giving him an awful chance to ponder what he really would have done with his life.  Been a father.  It fell over him again without restraint.  Fury.  Unbelievable, blistering fury.  Fingers to fists, teeth clenching in the isolation of his room came the tears.  He was trying to believe words that were spoken in such haste, to trust them.  She would be protected.  Be patient.  Gather information.  See a bigger picture.  He was known for his patience and eternal unbending calm.  This distress was a new experience, building for years.  He’d kept his heart during his time of mental incarceration, protected, always for the unfortunate and anyone he served.  It hid tightly locked in a place nobody could touch and break, surrounded by the fire of indifference for those that were unlucky enough to be identified through a call.  That tiny place had cracked, was bleeding into the rigid training, and he was at a complete loss how to deal with it.

     

    He was going to go crazy here.

     

    Be calm.  Gather information.  Trust.  Wait until the right time.

     

    Heels of his hands came to press against his eye sockets to stave the flow of frustration.  Have faith.  Have faith she was alive.  If she was not…

     

    He couldn’t even get his mind to push through that veiled train of thought.

     

    He didn’t sleep that night, reading the same page over and over.  The sleepless nights were starting to string together, dressed and out before the sun again; it was so easy to fall back into a routine he felt comfortable in.  It stabilized the indignation; unfortunately the lack of sleep was wearing away at his patience. 

     

    The magus completed a few tasks around the building, changing out of candles, releasing him at his leisure to finish his continuing project.  He was now pulling things off the ground, most of which were frozen to it, alternating between doing it the old fashion way and warming the things up themselves- mana was always ebbing and flowing, being cautious not to upset the balance and raise red flags. 

     

    The first few days of the paperboy’s deliveries, the priest was the first one out to check the gate as he continued to clean the side yard.  The boy would saunter up in his new coat and pass him the newspaper like an official messenger.  Jeff was his name, and the magus now seemed to be officially in Jeff’s trust zone.  Mature beyond his age, the kid had to have been a baby at the time of the Resonance, or born smack in the middle of the chaos.  The parallels were closer to his thoughts than he wanted to admit, riling the sensation of panic growing thicker with the lack of sleep.  Cass’ last words to him had stuck with him, even though he’d shed things from his room that reminded of the year before, it seemed impossible to stop thinking about it.

     

    Prove yourself.

     

    Tangled before those words was the belief he had to redeem himself for all he’d done to them.  A plan to do just that was already in motion, Jeff the paperboy an innocuous cog in the machine he was building.

     

    Prove himself.

     

    No.

     

    He had to redeem himself, for himself.  He couldn’t meet anyone in the eye until he did that, and the heaviness of the promise to protect his blood wasn’t taken lightly either.  It was probably the only reason he wasn’t tearing apart the city.  He had to be smart about this.  Bide his time, watch.  Hope he could lure in the antagonist mage again and in the meantime move on his own plan.  He would redeem himself, and tear a hole in the shadows that were trying to be swept under the rug.  He needed his full capacity to do that.  ARMA would never have let him.  Never.

     

    The kid was waiting for him this time.

     

    Jeff’s eager features watched him emerge from the side door, ready to hand him two papers, anxiously proud to do so.  It was time to give him more responsibilities; the faux priest had been waiting for his eagerness about the job.  He pulled an envelope from his back pocket as he took the papers through the bars of the gate.  Funds were getting low.  He’d always carried all his cash on him from working at the café, and there wasn’t much left.

     

    [santo]Payment for next week in there, and a bit extra if you’d run an errand for me.[/santo]

     

    *npc*  Sure Father.

     

    [santo]There’s an address on that envelope.  I just need you to walk by the place.  Someone I used to know lived there.  I need to know if they are still there, or if the place has been cleaned out.  Maybe I’ll go visit if they still live there.[/santo]

     

    The blond eyebrows scrunched up at him  *npc* You want me to knock and see who’s there?

     

    He shook his head.  [santo]No. Just if anyone is there.  Just give me a run down when you stop by tomorrow, no rush.[/santo]

     

    He cringed inwardly.  There most definitely was a rush. 

     

    Be patient.

     

    The kid smiled and stuffed the envelope in his worn messenger bag.  *npc* See you tomorrow!

     

    Smile was pale, but genuine.  Deep breaths, and the magus was back to his work in his side yard.  The place was starting to actually look like it had before the building rained down debris into it.  Heavy labor was also keeping his growing anxiety from spiraling out of control.  Nothing helped though with confessions.  The Vicar had asked him to do it again, and today they were difficult to sit through.  Not because the confessions were atrocious horrors, it was because they weren’t.  Kids not minding parents, being angry at neighbors that were now altered, lustful thoughts about coworkers.  He dreaded the moment the Vicar or any of the others asked him to do so for them.  Would he lie?

     

    Yes, and no.  He always said just enough for it to be truth.

     

    *npc*  Father?

     

    Thoughts had wandered, it was late evening.  He definitely was listening to the woman… but silent long after she’d finished talking.  He was looking at his hands while he sat in shadow on the other side of the confessional.  Skin was scuffed up a bit from the work in the courtyard, he’d let himself go a little bit.  His dress was impeccable, but the man… was running himself ragged.

     

    [santo]I was thinking about what you said.[/santo]

     

    *npc*  Oh.  I mean, I’ve tried to make ends meet… but there are so many things I can’t do.  I can’t make money appear, I don’t have magic or special abilities.  What am I supposed to do??  It’s just me.  I’m trying to just… get back to normal.  I gave the money back, I apologized. I offered to work for free to make up for anything I might have caused.

     

    He was silent again.

     

    [santo]I think you’ve been blessed with tremendous strength.[/santo]

     

    It was her turn to be quiet.

     

    [santo]You’ve not given into fear in such a fearful world.  Thank you for reminding me that we can all face such incredible odds and still understand the difference between good and evil.[/santo]

     

    He looked up from the shadows through the screen, not really able to see her, but she was still pondering his words.

     

    [santo]Leave your guilt with me, you don’t need to carry this anymore.[/santo]

     

    *npc*  Thank you

     

    Her voice was so quiet, he barely heard it. 

     

    *npc*  What is my penance?  she whispered.

     

    [santo]You’ve already lived through it.  Continue to be strong, go in peace.  You carry this burden no longer.[/santo]

     

    She seemed to reflect, then left just as quietly.  He waited.  There was no one else.  This was his penance, it was clear to him at that moment, everything he said to people was advice he should be heeding himself.  The Vicar was a bit on the sly side, the slight smile conceding defeat at the wisdom.  He sat in the silence for a long time, stationed there until they had to lock the doors, listening to the shuffle of quiet churchgoers as they left until there was nothing.  Soft sigh preceded his getting up to step out, locking the beautifully ornate doors.  Necessary, unfortunately.  Candles had burned down, the building growing dark even with lights on, the rest of the meager ‘staff’ had returned to their own rooms for the night.  He would at least change the candles out before retreating to his space.

     

    *npc*  Nice speeches.

     

    It was from the shadows.  Someone hadn’t left.  Hands fell quietly to his sides as he turned slightly from the doors to acknowledge him, then went to retrieve the chains.  About damn time.  It wasn’t the woman.  More powerful most likely since he’d almost singed her to ash.

     

    *npc*  Are you going to stay in here forever and listen to that bullshit or are you going to do what you were really meant to do?

     

    [santo]What exactly would that be?[/santo]  he looped the chain through the antique door handles.

     

    *npc* Enough with this crap.  You're a fucking leashed dog.  We took the chain off.  We gave you back what they took from you.  You gotta make a choice.

     

    Unorthodox approach from what he assumed was Order.  He wanted to slit the man’s throat back to his spine, he was wearing his knife sheath.  Be patient.  Padlock clicked shut on the chains.  He wasn’t letting the man out.

     

    [santo]So you’re Order.[/santo]

     

    The man just scoffed.  Fire magus walked slightly under the overhang into the intruder’s shadows.  They were moving.  Shadow mage?  Light tricks?  That’s why he hadn’t been seen. 

     

    Void.

     

    This was serious.  Order.  This was his execution... 

     

    Something did not feel right.

     

    *npc*  There’s Order.  ARMA.  Then everyone else.  The ones that don’t want to deal with the rest of their shit.  Some afraid to do anything. But you.  You know.  You’ve seen things.  Done things.  We need you.

     

    He was moving toward the man slowly, trying to make out features.  Mind was rolling over it.  Not Order.  Not ARMA.  Someone else.  Who?  The former Vatican assassin was pulling too much mana in anticipation of having to defend himself and the church.  Was he capable of focusing this much if he was truly dealing with a Void mage?

     

    [santo]If I say no?[/santo]

     

    He stopped moving. Instincts.  Trap?

     

    *npc*  Are you saying no then?

     

    Something was wrong.  He couldn’t get a face, or even a solid view of this guy.  Only shadow.  Voice seemed to be coming from several places, it sounded like there was someone else. 

     

    Patience buckled.  That fray.  The one he was trying to choke down into the center of his gut to allow for calm snarled at the edges.  Brows moved down over the striking eyes in uncharacteristic anger, words spat out before he could stop them.

     

    [santo]I could answer with telling you to go fuck yourself but that wouldn’t be very priestly of me would it?[/santo]  he snapped, words articulated.

     

    Something was very wrong, breath sucked from his lungs, cold chill over his skin.

     

    Human senses flared out wide, the garrote unseen until the last minute, hand barely making it to the side of his neck before it was ripped tight against him.  Wire sliced through flesh, the trained magus thrusting himself back into the stone wall to crush the offending party against it to get him to let go.  Turning his palm outward, heat sputtered then flared, cutting through the wire instantly but it was already pulling away from him, sheared fist slapping into the other palm to deliver a devastating elbow backward into a set of ribs.  They both hit the ground violently, blood from his hand slick, fingers touched the side of his neck on instinct.  Cut.

     

    Were they were trying to cut him?  Or kill him?

     

    He had no healing abilities.

     

    Reflexes were immediate. Assessing.  No more shadow.  A form as solid as the pews was up and running full tilt toward one of the tower doors, the mage suddenly on his heels.  Door slammed open and up they went.  No mana.  It kept pounding at the back of his skull.  What mage could do that? Nothing and then suck everything at once?  Is that what had really happened?  What had just happened?!

     

    They kept running upward, his powerful frame erupting upward at the chase.  He couldn’t get a line of sight to send off any kind of offense, the wrapping staircase making it impossible.  Draw was immense.  The man would be fried to the bone when they hit the bell tower landing, he had to know that.

     

    So why up?

     

    He stopped on a dime.  It was weird.  THIS was weird, jerking to lean over the railing and look down.  He was being followed, skin flared to life, too easily for other mages to be present and defending themselves against him.  Going after a mage like him and being that lackadaisical?  Why hadn't he FELT them sooner??

     

    Singe was smelled immediately, pulling his hands off the rail.  He was smack in the middle of an enclosed tower of kindling.  Snap of a chambering round echoed under him.  His pursuer had stopped a level underneath and could take the shot through the brittle wood if he knew exactly where he was standing.  The magus stepped silently close to the wall.  Eyes flicked upward, the other was still climbing, likely readying a weapon to do the same thing at the top.  He was trapped, literally.  They had confined him in a giant stone furnace filled with fuel, with no firepower, one blade, and his fire.  Get shot or burn the place down.  They’d used his abilities and his sympathies against him to what?  Kill him if he didn’t join their party? 

     

    Why weren’t they using magic?  One had downstairs.

     

    Eyes blinked.

     

    They weren’t mages.  Empowered?  Why after him?

     

    He would have to figure that out later… he wasn’t going to die here.

     

    Teeth seethed together, this plan was asinine; if he missed it would be a four story free fall.  Frame vaulted from the wall to jump over the railing, grabbing it and pivoting downward to curve his momentum, tumbling rather ungracefully onto the landing beneath him as the pistol snapped to the magus’ face.  This he could handle.  He’d never stopped moving, disarming, pulling the mag and snapping the bullet from the chamber.  He tossed it to the side, jerking backward from a blade multiple times.  Eyes narrowed, irises had turned mercurial.  Enough!  Movements were almost precognitive, forcing the blade out of the man’s hand and tossing it to his other in one smooth motion.  He’d gotten his wish, to the spine in his rage, gushing blood always a horrible sound as they choked on it.  There was no comforting, no cross, no quiet prayer over the dead this time.

     

    [santo]You forgot I’m not just a mage,[/santo]  he hissed.

     

    Leaving him where he lay, he tossed the blade and launched up the stairs again.  He should have gone down.  Down and called for help.

     

    ….second chances…don’t mess up the one you’ve been given, Matty.

     

    It rang in his head clear as day; muscles felt perpetual, almost slow motion as he cleared the top of the stairs to the sound of a shotgun pump.  He was ready the second wood gave way to stone, heat bursting forth from his hands, singeing the shotgun, containing the shells as they exploded.  Reflective metal in the right bell tower lit up like a beacon in the dark city for a split second before fading.  The guy who'd cut him had fallen on his ass to keep from getting fried, scuttling backwards from him and his melted shotgun.  Where was his magic now?!  He continued to advance, reaching to snap the blade from its wrist sheath… deciding against it.

     

    Second chances.

     

    [santo]Who are you!  Who are you with?![/santo]

     

    The enraged magus was truly terrifying, exposed skin a wicked glaze of blue.  The tower was starting to hum, orange had given way to an eerie blue glow from the top of the spire.  The man’s hands were in surrender, half in front of the guys face as he retreated, the heat incredible.  In his pain, the man still thrust something at him.  It was a fine puff of what looked like dust, and it screamed through the mage's lungs like bleach.

     

    Silver blinked, breath sucked out of his chest as a wash of cold air chilled his skin.

     

    ..and then the cowering man was gone.

     

    His body shivered once, weak, dizzy, flame went out with a soft ‘twpt’ and the tower went dark, melted shotgun still glowing to illuminate the world slightly.  What had just happened?  He couldn't catch his breath.  Eyes scanned everything, senses wide, afraid to move in case something came at him from any side.

     

    Gone?

     

    Chest heaved, air finally pulling into his lungs. Gone.

     

    Gone, and he felt...odd.  Fingers snapped twice... nothing.

     

    [santo]..misericordia ignes..[/santo]

     

    Latin whispered from his lips, the need to do so extremely rare, skin flushing in heat once more.  It felt like they'd stalled his car, trying to get his bearings.  The twinkling lights of the city beyond were quiet in the gentle updraft that rifled his hair and released the heat into the world.  So much tension, adrenaline, panic, anger, violence.  Confusion.

     

    It all throbbed against the sudden silence.

     

    Soft thump of blood to the floor from his sliced hand brought him back to reality.  He reached up to touch his neck. It was deep, but not life threatening.  An inch over and it would have been arterial.  So close to death.

     

    So close.

     

    Eyes scanned the tower again, then cast back over the city.  There was a creeping panic in the still heated orbs.  Now three times, someone had gotten the drop on a trained killer?

     

    That simply wasn’t possible.

     

    It had still happened.

     

    Foot clinked against something, burnt feather flitting over his shoe from the updraft.  A twist of the ball of his foot was grainy, then smooth as it slid over something on the floor.  Toe touched the tiny glass bottle again.  Sucked breath slapped his bleeding hand to his chest to stave the flow.  Panic, from the depths of memories that hadn't reached his consciousness yet.  Other palm lit gently, illuminating the odd lines in the darkness.  It was sprawling, covered with bits and bobs of the oddest things.  A drawing.  On the floor.  In his bell tower.

     

    No...  no no no!

     

    He was standing smack in the middle of something large scrawled everywhere.  Chest tightened, uncharacteristic fear, taking two quick steps backward out of it.  If it was what he thought it was...

     

    This was not possible.

     

    ..he had to tell someone.  He couldn't.  It was in his bell tower.  He was a fugitive.  They would blame him.

     

    Breath had stopped in his chest, he had to snuff it out of existence... along with the dead body halfway down the stairs... and he had to do it fast.

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    NOTE- small edit concerning the package.

    +++++++++

    Hand continued to press on the door of the old coal furnace deep in the guts of the building. It was still freezing outside, a mixture of modern furnace, steam and old school boilers lacing the entirety of a section in the deep vaults beneath the nearly two hundred year old goliath. Newer steam radiant heating was doing its normal work about twenty feet from him, but there was no way it could do what he needed the old coal cast iron thing for. They didn’t make them like this anymore, or strong enough for him to do what he was doing.

    His other hand was wrapped tightly, blood just starting to seep through the bandage wrapped around it. Neck wasn’t the greatest concern, collar of his shirt buttoned up and keeping the make-shift bandage in place for now. Hand would need stitches. In the entirety of the building, he could find nothing to stitch it up with, unable of course to check with the rest of the occupants that were still snug in their beds. The magus would have to go out, which he would not have done unless deemed absolutely necessary.

    It was now absolutely necessary.

    He needed to get patched up, and deliver what he was holding in his hand. He was not used to being injured. He was used to smuggling..

    Thumb was scrolling through photos he’d taken with the disconnected cell. There was a possibility of the thing being tracked if he turned it on, but the risk was greater if he didn’t. Pictures of the man’s face that was now inside the furnace spun past on the screen as he swiped. He looked up at the only remaining intact stack that vented outside, the groan dismissed as cranky metal. Pictures of the knife lit up and moved past –like the man’s face, sparing the gory details of how he’d been killed. The magus had searched the guy’s pockets, looked for anything that could be used to figure out exactly what had just happened. A cell phone. He would keep that for now until he knew exactly what was on it. A folded weekly schedule of the church- which would have given both of them access to when the fire mage would be at generally all times. It also gave them an idea when to be able to access the tower. There simply weren’t enough people in the building to watch everything at every minute. A small bag of the same powder that had been thrown at him was also on the one he'd killed. Another bag contained chalk. The faux priest collected all of the odd little bits, tiny bottles, stones, even the singed feathers and put them in a plastic bag he found in the kitchen. Stone floor made burning chalk to ash easy and it was scrubbed with a broom. Blood singed on the landing. He couldn’t get rid of it, but he could at least make it look like a black stain of some kind.

    That had taken a bit of fine skill not to set it on fire. Nobody went up there anyway.

    He was left with the worst evidence, hand pulling back from the iron as he opened the ridiculously hot metal door, tossing in the church schedule to burn it, then reaching in. Talisman of Archangel Uriel hummed against the inside of his right wrist- it was testing the very limits of its boundaries, and so was he. The heat needed to do this was skirting the limits of the old beast. Control needed to keep it perfect... taxing. Attention broke from the pictures on the phone in his bandaged hand, silver eyes looking into the inferno, other fist smashing the smoldering bone to innocuous and unrecognizable chunks and then crumbs.

    He was putting out too much of a signature.

    Expression darkened as he paused, small flits of embers glittering from the furnace door before snuffing to ash. The two moments he’d felt powerless… drained. Something had happened with one of the men at that moment. That's when they threw magic; shadow play the first time, his disappearance the second time. He'd collected parts of spells. Were both "magic time fun clubs" employing arcane magic now? Recruiting humans?

    Shit.

    Order maybe.

    He finished smashing with more gusto, releasing the flame to a dying heat and closing the door- putting the padlock back on it. Burner phone with pictures went into his back pocket, dusting his tailored jacket arm off as he vaulted up the stairs two at a time to divert into the section of his church his room was in.

    The spell throwing bastard had sent out two pulses within minutes of each other, the fire magus' incredible burn part of the second, a bright flash in the world of mana sensitives. Might have well been Morse code for anyone looking to monitor anomalies in the city. What he'd just necessarily done? A sustained burn. He had no choice, throat cut? Clean, efficient... if he had any ties to the Order it was a finger pointed at him.

    He needed to get out, and get out now. Close to dawn. Close to the opening of the church. He wasn't the one that opened the church in the mornings, he wouldn’t be missed until just before noon. In his room he put everything together, phone with pictures of the man from the stairs, knife, drawings on the floor, along with the chalk, bag of dust and little strange bits were wrapped in brown butcher paper he’d found in the kitchen and tied off with string. It was truly anonymous. He wrote nothing on it at first, a twinge of anger as he picked up a pencil and undid the string....

    Your version of trust?

    ...written on the inside before closing it back up.

    Cryptic, but incredibly telling if it fell into the right hands. It also was clear someone had gone after him with this arcane bullshit. If it wasn't ARMA, it would give them an idea what the Order was up to, or another tail to chase. Would he benefit from their gumshoe work to figure this out? No. He'd have to do his own looking. It was clear now the Order having Abrielle could be a complete lie. There was another threat to find.

    Writing a note for only the Vicar, he changed quickly. Dark pants, the unbelievably comfortable well-worn Frye boots he’d worn over the last year laced up. Heather gray tee shirt and his zip up black hoodie were donned quickly, paper parcel barely fitting into the pocket. He stashed the man’s phone in his room under the mattress. Note in hand, he slid it under the Vicar’s door and trotted toward the back of the building and out his side door.

    I have reason to believe I need to stay out of sight for a day. I will return.

    Simple. The Vicar would not question it.

    In his side yard, he bee-lined for the cement pile, jumping to catch the edge of the back stone wall and hanging from the other side to let go and land lightly in the grass on the other. Coming back, he’d have to go through the front door. That was a conundrum. Trees were weaved in and out of, breath curling in white wisps as he emerged on the side walk the block behind the church. Hands were shoved in his pockets, head down in the shadow of the black hood, on the way to the nearest hospital. He was lucky, it was a quiet night.

    Noting the cameras, head was turned slightly away each time to hide as much of his face as possible. There was no wincing as they put in the stitches, older nurse trying to get the hood down. He shivered slightly, the cordial complaining that he was cold eventually led to her leaving it alone. Palm could only be glued, the webbing between his thumb and forefinger was one hell of a slice. Stitches galore.

    [santo]Wrong end of a fight,[/santo] he said quietly with a pale smile.

    *npc* You might want some ice for that shiner too, she touched the edge of his cheek after snapping off her latex gloves, grabbing another pair when she spied his neck. This time she pulled down the hood. *npc* Let me look at your neck. One heck of a fight.

    Eyes scanned for any cameras, changing position slightly on the bed away from the edge of the curtain, not happy about the hood as she glued the side of his neck and put a fresh bandage on it. Brow quirked. He hadn’t even bothered to look at his face. Somehow taking care of a dead body was more important. She held up a mirror for him, the absolutely painful looking blossoming bruise on his cheekbone just in front of his ear had escaped his attention. When they’d hit the floor. Skin smacking into stone was never a good thing.

    *npc* That’s far enough back toward your temple I might ask the doctor to take a look at you, light was shined in both eyes.

    The magus winced, [santo]No, no. I’m fine.[/santo]

    *npc* Okay then, she gestured toward the discharge window.

    It was almost the rest of his money. Damn.

    Now light outside, the clock had been watched carefully. He would walk the front sidewalk of the church just as his gopher was arriving, move to a secure place and pass off the information. Then, library for the day. It was easy to hide in the stacks, and evade in the stacks if necessary. He also needed to do some research.

    Jeff was surprised to see him outside, and oddly dressed.

    [santo]I’m skipping school,[/santo] the smile was light, keeping the shiner in the shadow of his hood. [santo]Going to study somewhere, the books here aren’t the greatest.[/santo]

    *npc* Hey, there’s nobody at that place you wanted me to look at. I even peeked in a window. Place looks empty. A few dishes on the counter. Nothing else I saw.

    He’d forgotten, frowning slightly as he nodded. His things were still there. Taunting him, or expecting him to return. He needed one of his books.

    [santo]They’re no longer there then. Hey, I have one super important errand today. I just need you to go back and drop this off in the mailbox of the apartment address I gave you, then take the address and drop it off at ARMA headquarters.[/santo] He pulled out the paper parcel, money tucked in the string for Jeff. [santo]Super important.[/santo] he repeated.

    Jeff looked perplexed moment, then up at the magus with widened eyes.

    *npc*…are you? …are you one of those ARMA guys? Can you do stuff?

    Rhome's expression was dark, nodding a bit. [santo]You could say that… but you can’t tell anyone who or where you got this. Just drop it off and go, drop off the address and go...don’t stick around.[/santo]

    A certain mentalist was in his thoughts. Jeff had to drop it off and get out of there STAT. Kids were quick, and the boy had to jet before anyone had the chance to ask any questions. A great deal of trust was being placed in an organization that would rather have killed him than listened to him. They didn’t hurt children. Neither did he. He was going to hold them to that, if they detained the kid- he had leverage. If they hurt the kid, he had reason to hurt them.

    *npc* You're like a spy too?

    He nodded, [santo]and now you’re helping me do good things and keeping people safe.. tell them it will help them. Can you handle that?[/santo]

    Good things. It felt, strange... saying it.

    Jeff nodded vigorously and was off at a faster pace than he’d ever seen him move. Paper route would go lightning fast today he suspected. His mole safely away he turned and cut in the other direction, strides purposeful, eyes watching everything under the hood, and off to the library to search for answers.

    Within a few hours, Jeff was standing at ARMA’s doorstep… well known address in hand on the slip of paper he'd given him the day before, ready to skip away with a 'thank you'.

    *npc* Excuse me… I need to give this to someone in ARMA, this will help you with something. To keep people safe.

     

    +++++++++++

     

    NOTE- small edit concerning the package.

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    He stopped at a particularly busy corner.  The day was warming up oddly, pulling the frost off everything.  He should have dressed warmer, heels of his hands rubbing at tired eyes, he was fucking freezing… also hadn’t slept in over twenty four hours.  He didn’t feel safe anywhere..  hell, he wasn’t.  The magus could turn himself in, but he didn’t feel safe there either.  With everything he’d been told, people that tried to help him, horrible memories he’d attempted –unsuccessfully- to share over the last year…  trying to come to terms with it, being a defector seeking help should have been enough to make him feel safe.  It wasn’t.

     

    He trusted no one. Even now.  He was trying.

     

    Sure, there were times that his personality was allowed to peek out, to laugh, to heal in slow baby steps.  It didn’t erase anything, and true to form the man fell back into the horrible pattern of guilt, and the utter reality he was alone and adrift… and had been that way for over a decade.

     

    He was trying.

     

    Not at one moment did he ever feel as if he wasn’t being judged as a monster.  Whispered behind his back what an awful thing he was.  Thing.  THING.  He was seen as nothing more than a thing; a perfectly sculpted and unleashed weapon.  He knew others had been forgiven for despicable things they’d done.  Not him.  Why not him?  Because he should have said more. He should have opened his mouth and shared more.  He was a fucking priest, trained as one at least, for God’s sake.  The faithful trusted him, looked to him for guidance and to ease their souls.  They were in pain, blindly trusting him to take it away, and he did…  empathized, didn’t criticize, knew exactly what they needed the second they opened their mouths.  Why the FUCK couldn’t he apply that to himself?! 

     

    He was a hypocrite of the highest level. 

     

    He hadn’t confessed to anything other than killing in the name of the Order.  As if that alone was an admission worthy of complete clemency.  He had to do more than that; he had to admit what they had done to him in return.  What he’d allowed the Order to do to him.  That meant more shame- that things were so horrible nobody could forgive him.

     

    She made him feel ashamed of himself. 

     

    …and he’d just lashed out with four simple cryptic words written on a piece of paper.

     

    Exactly what he’d promised he would never do.  Why?  Why the hell had he done that?  Mentally, the magus was kicking himself over and over.  Back to square one again!  He was that dog at the pound nobody wanted.  The one that looked threatening enough for families to skip over; ignored because of puppies and more vocal fluffy eagerness.  Snubbed, and as a result of his quiet, stoic patience he finally resorted to sitting in the corner of his cage, back turned to the world, biting the hand that fed him until someone decided to end his suffering.   He was in a self-destructive spiral downward because he was attempting to be unbreakable.

     

    Then why had he fought so hard last night to live?  All the training, pulled together in a single moment of self-preservation.  Survival had never been on his agenda until recently.  Dying was an accepted outcome of every situation.  When had he decided to fight back, for himself?

     

    Swallow was tight.  He had things to live for now.  People to live for.

     

    The gravity of the realization was enough to take his attention off his surroundings, hands tight in his pockets as he stepped back from the crosswalk and his destination, leaning against the corner of the building.  Silver eyes watched the world bustle by, unaware of the war going on inside someone just a few feet away.

     

    He should have shared more… spilled his guts in the mandatory counseling. Instead, his tightlipped nods and the shaking of his head in regards to questions kept everything sterile.  He’d killed people, and he was sticking to his story.  No progress had been made, none, only a bitter pill starting to poison the entirety of the man that was clearly coming apart.  Defensive.  Justifying his actions as the wants of another. Why say more than that?  It was wrong and shouldn’t be spoken of again. Why explain the pain that had preceded his first life taken?  It would only make himself ashamed even more.  Looked at as more of a monster by all of them.

     

    He was a FUCKING PRIEST.

     

    He couldn’t heal, when he couldn’t speak of what he’d done.

     

    …everyone deserves forgiveness Rhome, even you…

     

    Vicar’s words stung.  Isn’t that what he’d been taught?  Learned, lived, and practiced before the Resonance?

     

    He’d spent more time living before the world ended,  than in the last nine years- but the wounds from those nine years were crippling him.  He was finally finding himself; the last year… bitterness wasn’t a part of his soul- it never had been.  Regret though… He’d hurt people because he was so viciously hurting.  Had been manipulated… the full extent of which was yet to be seen, bits and pieces starting to weave together like some sort of tapestry fit for Revelations.  Maybe someday he’d trust someone to help tell him what exactly was in his head over the last nine years.. maybe never. It would either crush him completely, or set him free.

     

    Those few words he’d spoken in a windowsill ripped his guts out, and even in the turmoil of figuring out what to do… in that aspect he was clear headed.  He’d confessed, the world didn’t end, and he’d been absolved with a promise, not a condemnation. 

     

    Make it right.  Make the deaths you caused mean more than sorrow.  Manipulate any ground gained like you were taught.  Take their training..  use it against them. 

     

    If this was going to kill him, he would not die doing the wrong thing.

     

    Kick off the building was powerful, hoping he hadn’t fucked this up already.

     

    Swiftly across the city, he was a ghost.  A freezing, grumbling and inwardly bitching about the cold ghost…  but one nonetheless.  Apartment was watched, then from another angle, then another.  He could see the package in the small duplex house’s mailbox.  He wasn’t going to miss that place, his neighbors upstairs were… annoying.

     

    Fast.

     

    He had to do this fast, and accept if he couldn’t.  Seconds, if not less.  No magic.  Nothing.

     

    Strides broke into the street, moving across the porch and snatching the package from the old black metal box emblazoned with reflective numbers.  Off the porch, around the back, knife pulled from his wrist to slam into the lock he knew wasn’t secured well, twisting it to pop, slip in, and closing the door quietly behind him.  He could feel it, peppering around him, resisting the urge to try and identify.   Something… wards maybe.

     

    Seconds.

     

    His bag perched on the kitchen table like cheese in a mousetrap.  Too late now.  Pawing out a Sharpie, he tore open the package, stuffing the string and brown paper in his pocket, writing furiously on the light colored Formica countertop and laying the contents out as he wrote.  Urgency was woefully apparent in his printing.

     

    Prickles became more pressing, the urge to push back staved with more effort.

     

    Seconds, it only took seconds to lay everything out.

     

    The phone.

     

    Less than elegant baggie of weird arcane shit.

     

    Chalk.

     

    The bag of whatever was starting to tickle his nose again, the horrific powder he’d breathed in.

     

    Too long.  Damn it if he hadn’t had stitches in his dominant hand.  It was bleeding through the bandage onto the Sharpie as he wrote.  Damn it.  This was placing a lot of faith that ARMA was not the culprit.  He was trying to trust them, even though they clearly didn't trust him.

     

    Two.  No warning. Was wounded.  Neither were magus.  Pics on phone.  One killed, one escaped with use of bag contents.  Tracking.

     

    Dropping the Sharpie, he tore through the duplex to his room.  One book.  He needed just one, snatching it on his way out.  He couldn’t breathe; feeling like the air...  shit.  His "ankle bracelet" had been tripped for wandering too far away.  Pressure in from all sides.  He’d put his pilot light out, but… he was still a magus.  Was it reacting to mana?  Flaring up would not help- it would lock him into a spiderweb.  Getting to the back door was like trying to run in water…like hands grabbing at all his limbs… dragging the door shut behind him, it suddenly released, the powerful magus skidding backward down the steps at the cessation of the pull.  Sound of him hitting flat on his back could have been humorous if it wasn’t so painful, lying there a moment in the yellowed grass of the overgrown alley behind the house.

     

    Groan was soft.

     

    [santo]..fuck..[/santo]

     

    The kneejerk -less than priestly- reaction from his lips even more amusing…

     

    It had either knocked the wind out of him, or something on the house was meant to hold, or even kill him… he had shit to do.  Rolling up to disappear, he winced, another groan as he took off into the tangle of buildings.

     

    This good guy shit was kicking his ass.

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    Post-Backdraft Events

     

    The church was a mess where the damage had occurred. Clean-up was going a little slower than would've been preferred, but at least the investigation was moving along at a decent pace. As yet the story that'd been told by Cassandra Greene, Knight Division Sergeant, was adding up with the stories from the witnesses that'd remained watching from a distance. Togar was pleased by this too. He liked the Sergeant even if irked by her actions, and didn't want to see her on suspension long. He was irritated — with himself — though as some of the rest of ARMA searched for Rhome, and others investigated the apartment the Sergeant had been picked up from, while he investigated the church. A self-instituted penance for having not questioned the oddity of the shift change and her being on it. Rhome was usually his target, but he shouldn't be helping track him right now. That was not his place as an Operative especially after having slipped up. He needed to improve himself.

     

    Of course, that didn't necessarily mean that him being there would've prevented any of what had occurred. As he went over the notes, Togar shook his head at some of the unusual details. They'd found a few witnesses on the street that had also seen the first encounter with this 'phasing magus' as Cassandra had called the woman in her report. It aligned as well with the description given in the witness reports of the brief glimpse of the woman who'd attacked Rhome and Cassandra inside the church. Tucking away the notepad in the back pocket of his jeans, he now turned his attention to the cleaning. A couple of the benches and the carpet had sustained some smoke damage. While it wasn't much, he didn't want to see the church have to pay out money to clean-up the damages. Already their coffers were strained. Donations were low in a post-Resonance world.

     

    Crouching, arms stretched out and downward at his sides, he pointed one hand palm toward the carpet and the other palm toward the benches he was between. After a moment he inhaled, feeling the mana course through his veins as smoke started to be pulled from the carpet and slowly into him to be filtered until it was gone. He would repeat this process a few more times before he departed; offering some of his own money to the donation box to help them repair the benches.

     

    ------------

     

    Returning to ARMA headquarters, he was in the process of heading inside when he head the voice.

     

    *npc* Excuse me… I need to give this to someone in ARMA, this will help you with something. To keep people safe.

     

    "Uh, sure, I can take it, kid. Do you need-"

     

    Before he could say more the kid hurried off and he was left with a note with something clear to him: an address. An address that he recognized. Between the words of the kid and the address of the man they were seeking in hand, Togar felt the hair on the back of his neck stand-up. He looked around rapidly for the kid, but there wasn't any sign of him. Grumbling, he headed inside and walked to the front desk.

     

    "Send that to Tower, let them know that it's the address of Rhome del Santo." He paused, thinking on it a minute, "See it put in the hands of Lieutenant Walker."

     

    Tower Division would have Rhome's place under magical surveillance. And there wasn't anyone more qualified to handle figuring out if a team should be sent to investigate, and to check the surveillance of the place, than Alec Walker. Little did Togar know that as the note made it's way to the Lieutenant there'd be an alarm going off in Tower at that very same address.

     

    He was off to type up the notes on his investigation so far.

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    • 3 weeks later...

    His presence in New York was under the radar. He had been off with Vacily and radio silent long enough that even the Vanguard were cranky with the Cavalier, demanding he come in and report.

     

    He had no intention of going in.

     

    Bike slid up the alley on the left side of the massive cathedral, tucking in close to the architectural columns to hide the ride from the street before his leg slid off the seat. As Enoch hopped off the duffel, the hazel eyes trailed up the modern monstrosity that the old world had allowed to be built right beside the church that had worked so hard to look like something very old. St John's had not broken ground until 1892. They did not complete it until sometime in the 1940's. Barely even a child compared to the Basilica or Kolner Dom, but they had tried to pay homage to the true artistry that a church could be. There were Masons involved in the early days which kept the church on the Cavalier's radar. It was unlikely relics were stored there, but then again, there had been rumors that the crown jewels of Great Britian were hidden away there in World War II to keep them safe. So there was always a possibility.

     

    But that wasn’t why he was here. Their enemy still eluded him, one step ahead of both he and Vacily, even with their extensive resources. But he was getting closer every time. This time, he was only perhaps a day behind. A mage attack in a church was something that caught his attention. Drawing him from his investigation in Ohio at a hidden lab that seemed to have been experimenting on zombies. Seemed to have been because it was hard to tell through the debris. Someone had been there and destroyed much of the lab and all the creatures that had been there.

     

    Worn duffel was released from the back before being slung over his shoulder. The warrior monk had great respect for churches and cemeteries, but that didn’t mean he would walk in without his weapons close at hand. Soft cluck had the feral canine glued to the side of his leg as he trotted up the front steps. It was early, a couple hours before Sunday mass. The good thing with churches… they were rarely locked.

     

    The massive wood door creaked softly as he pushed it open, careful to close it behind him. Hardly looked like a mage battle had occurred here. But this was the front of the church, and it was a large building. He didn’t move from the door, Enoch sitting with a haunch touching him. Hazel eyes slowly slid over every wall and up to the ceilings before descending once more to watch the Vicar at the front of the alter and another lighting candles and putting out bibles while a few knelt at their pews and seemed to pray. They sure didn’t act like a dark war had happened in the hallowed grounds in the last 36 hours.

     

    Duffle adjusted lightly over his shoulder. With the threadbare jeans, the well worn leather bomber jacket, beat up duffle and a feral looking animal by his side; he had all the appearances of a homeless vagrant in need of some salvation. But the hazel eyes held a quiet calm that was both dangerous and at home in the spiritual house.

     

    First thing first. He needed to see if he could find where on the grounds the fighting had occurred. Clearly, it had not been here.

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    Explaining was not something he did well.  Before he’d dropped himself back into the world of the living, his methods were beyond contestation.  People died, cleanly, quietly, he reported in and received a new assignment.  Sometimes he couriered information back to the Vatican.  He was merely a face in the crowd of the large organization.  Another mage.  Reporting to no one other than people most rarely saw or knew names for.  No friends. No acquaintances.  He was a ghost walking amongst others that thought they had power.  The real power was being a nobody in a world of arrogant entitled somebodies.  Contemplating that thought was something foreign.  Normally he didn’t care.  The longer he stayed out of a disciplined existence, the hotter his anger smoldered.  The Vicar seemed to sense it, and hit it head on with the hard questions and reflection.

     

    It was then understandably uncomfortable when the Vicar that had promised him sanctuary first laid eyes on his shiner.  Hand had been the next question, neck.  He’d discovered there were limits to the man’s “tolerance” of being kept in the dark.  He was protective of the fallen mage, and it was starting to concern him.  At least he’d been dismissed from his duties until it healed.  Confessional for him for as long as it took.  Shadowed behind a screen they couldn’t see secrets he didn’t want to divulge.  Considering the latest events it was the best place for him.

     

    He finished the bibles in the first four rows.  That was being optimistic.  The place was enormous, and attendees so few.  He would finish the candles and then retreat out of sight.  With the rare ones that came early to pray, it was easy to keep in shadow, and mull over anger that floated right under his skin.  Jeff had been early with his morning glut of papers to keep the mage informed of the city’s happenings and new face of the organization that he loathed, and he’d made a plan to canvas every local arcane shop.  They were getting things from somewhere.  With the influx of real magic in the world, at least known to the public, the flood of odd and questionably safe items were flowing.  He had to identify where the stuff had come from, and that would be nearly impossible.

     

    Again, the frustration took his mind off his surroundings until he felt the fluctuation of temperature and pressure from one of the doors, a creak to follow.  Senses never turned off.  They were like a bad dream that noticed every breath, every blink and shift of eyes.  Tiny flames he was so in tune with fluttered slightly, a minute amount of urge from his own power refusing to allow them to go out. he was uncomfortable using his own skill to outright light them.  After the other night, it was too dangerous.  Getting caught and staying under the radar were primary concerns.  To save Abriele, to bring down the world around their ears.  If she was a hoax, or they had killed her, it would be a painful… slow torture.

     

    Eyes quietly slid to the side at the figures that hadn’t strayed from their position after entering, watching the Vicar move to greet the man and his pet.  To the layman, they seemed like someone needing a place to stay.

     

    Like him.

     

    Like him… he blew out the long wick match he was using and began a determined trek to cut the older man off at the pass.  Where most would panic, his world became calm.  Determined, terrifying how quickly the priest inwardly shed the inkling of humanity that he was fighting to gain back from the tortured time with the Order.  Every footstep forward became more silent, the refining of a predator ready to pounce for a kill.  Air heavy, movements oiled and silent.  He was armed, his chosen method.  He could kill a man in seconds with his bare hands.  Weapons were a luxury, his powers were to rip apart the world.  They were God’s vengeance.  In reality he would destroy anyone to protect those that had here given him a second chance.  The man and his pet were not harmless.  He knew what a killer’s eyes looked like; he stared at them in a mirror every day.

     

    Vicar jumped slightly as the mage gently touched his arm, the older man hadn’t heard him approach.

     

    [santo]I got this, you finish up.[/santo]

     

    The elderly man’s eyes looked up at him quietly, crinkling at the corners.  He was concerned.

     

    [santo]It’s okay.[/santo]

     

    The fallen priest's words were oddly gentle.

     

    There was a terse pause, the Vicar realizing there was a point when his power could no longer protect the man.  The time perhaps had come.  He nodded, a long glance before returning to his set-up.  The mage closed the distance, a soft smile down at the animal.  He knew them, and knew how dangerous they could be.

     

    [santo]I can get your friend here some water if you like, otherwise, welcome.  Let me know if you require anything.  Mass begins in two hours.  Feel free to pray.[/santo]

     

    Words were easy, but the weight in his eyes was not.

     

    [santo]Father Del Santo, if you need anything.[/santo]

     

    Nod was small, casting a glance to make sure the Vicar was safely back in his spot... eyes back on the man to memorize every detail. Order, possibly.

     

    [santo]If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish the candles.[/santo]

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    Hazel purposefully watched the vicar before moving to inspect the building, trailing over all the doors that led to places such as the directory, the quarters, the baptismal chapel and cloisters. The quarters was likely the best place to start investigating. Weight was just about to shift when the vicar was spotted paying too much attention to him. Neither the man nor the beast moved from their "seat" at the front entry as the old man made his way towards the new "ward". The movements were watched carefully behind calm eyes. The Cavalier was typically a good judge of an enemy and this vicar did not move like one. His age was showing and his approach carried the worldly concern of a man of cloth, not the blade.

     

    The second, however, did not have the same genteel, neutral demeanor. This one moved like a man of the blade, he moved like the Cavalier. Like the Egyptian, the man must have recognized what the surface did not show the rest of the world. He approached to intercept the vicar far too quickly. He planned to confront the Cavalier himself.

     

    The man and beast continued their calm vigil near the door, patiently awaiting their inspection. Had the Egyptian not seen it already from a distance, the approaching gait gave the man away. The prowl betrayed lethal potential intent. And still the Cavalier did not tense a muscle. He had the calm of one touched by divine, a weapon for a higher cause. Hazel that never dilated with vicious intent reviewed every inch, the wounds betraying what he was looking for. Turned out he didn’t need to go sneaking around through doors on his own.

     

    Cavalier also did not miss the gentle protection of the vicar. The old man officially crossed off any list. He was ignorant of the dark war that had likely occurred in his own hallowed halls. Interesting. So the other was the magus seeking to destroy and learn secrets? Or the one attacked?

     

    Enoch yawned as the other man approached, as if trying to prove just how relaxed he was, how oblivious to the threat. It was an odd behavior the feral had started long ago to warn of danger. Or perhaps to confirm danger as he picked up on the lethal calm of his companion.

     

    Hazel blinked calmly as he was "politely" approached, told his "friend" could have water and that mass was in two hours. The unspoken words clear. "Get out of my house."

     

    [santo]Father Del Santo, if you need anything.[/santo]

     

    Masquerading as Father? Or really a man of cloth? Interesting. He waited until the man excused himself to light candles. As the shoulder shifted away from him the soft words escaped.

     

    [rami] Quod nigrum est oculum habes, Pater.[/rami]

     

    Language was spoken with intimate accuracy but the accent was neither Latin nor any semblance of North American. The Middle-Eastern heritage tinged the ripple of sounds as he calmly remained standing right where he had started.

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    Rhome wasn’t sure what was in his gaze.  Sorrow?  Guilt?  Regret… watching after him quietly as the older man wandered back to his duties before the flow of people coming to find answers to a truly disgruntled world came trickling in.  Always seemingly watching people walk away after he reaffirmed how dangerous his existence was, hell, how dangerous he was to simply be around.  When he’d sought sanctuary here, he’d made a vital promise to himself that those who fed him, housed him, and clothed him would never be harmed because of what or who he was.  It’d always been that way, even when he was carrying out the demands of the Order.  No collateral damage.

     

    No collateral damage.

     

    What an odd thought at that particular moment.  There subconsciously, never consciously in the forefront of his brain until now.  It made him wonder how deeply entrenched his focus had been until over a year ago, and truly ponder what exactly transpired during his training.  He remembered pain, agony so traumatic the panic had started to bleed through the cracks of his normally even keel. Dams were leaking.  That’s what had set him off over a year ago, the series of events and run-ins leading to questions, leading to this.  If he hadn’t such finite control over every nuance of his abilities, he would truly fear for the existence of everyone around him.  Even though he had that control, he was afraid of what it could allow him to do if he asked all the right questions… those ticks in the back of his brain that had become a swarm of angry bees.

     

    What did he want?

     

    To have grown old like the Vicar, Armando Stroscio.

     

    To still be human.

     

    They’d grown close over the last several weeks, and this was stinging as the beginning of a goodbye.  This stranger and his pet were heralding his end here.  Anger again crept along his skin; he didn’t like it.  It threw the emotionally sentient former priest into a quagmire he’d given up a long time ago.  He was purified in flame, and was for all intents and purposes the flames of wrath.  He wasn’t supposed to feel anger, he was a hand that wielded the Sword of the Spirit, and was given the serenity to carry out judgement like an executioner.  He didn’t get to choose.

     

    But… the Order wasn’t a deity.

     

    So what was he then?

     

    Now he couldn’t help but question the choice, and be horrified how his mind and body slipped back into his conditioning like a worn glove, dismayed how easy it was for him to be so calm in the face of a confrontation that could turn apocalyptic on the breath of a whisper.  He could feel it intimately, in the yawn of the visitor’s companion, the calm eyes of his owner.  In doing absolutely nothing to the naked eye, the undoubted ruthless training himself and the other had already given away everything that each needed to know.

     

    Except of course, a name- which he felt no shame at this point in giving.  No reason to lie. If ARMA was worth their salt, they already knew where he was.  The Order wouldn’t be far behind.  He would defend those in this building with the hell he was capable of raining down on this earth. Somehow though, it didn’t seem… 

     

    ...logical? 

     

    All the thoughts and contemplation had taken place in his mind during the short time it took to close the distance.  It was disquieting how he could talk and move like a rehearsed puppet.  Instilling the utmost calm to the unknowing, and still be able to think such violent thoughts.  How to get out, how to hurt those intent on hurting, the right words to say to a stranger.  Even as he turned to leave the man to his peace he’d already memorized the inked crosses across his neck, every detail of what he was wearing, and how he held his weight.

     

    rami_zpsfiz27dqq.png " Quod nigrum est oculum habes, Pater."

     

    He stopped.

     

    A test.

     

    A soft breath of air escaped his lungs.  Not a sigh… an expression of burden as lids partially closed.  He hadn’t forgotten he was marked, merely hoped- wished it would be overlooked and left to what it was.  The man's accent was... from another world and time he no longer lived in.  In the back of his memories he’d heard it before.  Similar to his, but different.  All from the same stock, yet so far apart.

    Fingertips touched lightly on the back of the pew as he turned back to the man, the feel of his right uninjured fingertips on the smooth, worn wood unconsciously fond.  His stance was relaxed, but no meek priest.  Mercurial irises finally really looked at the man, not through the lenses of someone listening in a confessional or a welcome wagon of faith.  They were what they were, what HE was, save for the dismissive indifference they held for someone who was about to die.  They were white-hot, yet calm, almost somehow managing to be kind.

     

    Cut hand had closed into a soft fist, his well-tailored cuffs prohibiting it from completely disappearing from sight.  Regardless, it still prevented any further inspection. He knew his collar and suitcoat covered his neck, to a point.  His shiner, where skin had been crushed so sharply between bone and the stone floor under the weight of both himself and his attacker, was angry.  Top of his cheek, side of his eye socket, even his brow… they now throbbed at him with the heat that was starting to roll off him like a low fog.

     

    Intentional.

     

    If this was another attack, this man would not leave alive.  There was nothing to hide here, he would also not let this man harm anyone.  If he’d sensed he wasn’t a normal priest, this would affirm he would not back down quietly.  If the man was Order, he would make his last stand here.

     

    For now, he would play this word game.

     

    [santo]Sacerdotes videtur, infirmum.[/santo]

     

    It was strange.  So strange, his brain engaging without a second thought.  Words were fluid, easy.  He was completely conversational, evident within the first syllable.  Most “American” priests were not.  They knew the words, the phrases… but to speak it like a primary language was rare.  It betrayed a lot; hell… his accent before Latin broke into their resolved conversation had given up much more. Even though his grasp of English was pristine, it wasn’t his first, and with it came small details someone keen could pick up.  This man, was that type.  Rhome was Italian, and the Vatican lived there.

     

    [santo]Alii volunt nostra.[/santo]  Blink was slow, breath sighing quietly as his calm remained eerily sound.    [santo]Et prohibuit eam.[/santo]

     

    It was a broad brushed statement, brooding with truth in every word.  On the surface, a plain explanation, underneath the cryptic words it was stark and dangerous actuality.

     

    [santo]Quis es?[/santo]

     

    What the man answered next would most certainly change the course of events to catastrophic clarity.

     

    ++++

     

    Translation.

    Priests are seen as weak.  Others want what they think we have. I stopped them from hurting others.  And you are?

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    The southern European accent told him much, but the instant halt of motion, told him much more about the "Father". The Cavalier was still attempting to determine if this was the man attacked or who had performed the attack but he started to have a hunch it was the former. The way the cold eyes warmed and softened at the vicar betrayed emotions that were absent in the enemy he had been hunting.

     

    In the "indifferent" calm the hazel eyes absorbed every facet of the man. The wounds, the attire, the stance that betrayed a predator-not a saint, the attempt to hide wounds from further scrutiny, even the way the hair fell on the man's head was drunk in with the precision of one trained to observe everything, and miss nothing.

     

    It was the first breath of a spoken word that betrayed Del Santo. He had been the one attacked. Few in the world spoke the dead language as though it were meant for colloquial dalliances, and not one of them would be the kind to plan the use of infected to take over the world. The religious were historically fanatical, but even that was beyond what they were willing to resort to.

     

    Interesting. So. Why were they after this Father?

     

    They were a frightening pair across from eachother. The quiet stillness, to the ignorant, seemed genteel. To a trained killer, there was potentially catastrophic power in the air. Hazel matched the slow blink. The man's words said more than what was spoken. He was….misleading? This church was masonic but held none of the old secret treasures. It was doubtful the mages that attacked were seeking artifacts as they did in other hallowed places.

     

    Which left the man himself they were after.

     

    The intrigue got thicker and thicker.

     

    The last question was the Father's test. How the Cavalier answered would determine how the predator reacted. Head tilted ever so slightly studying the man. The infinite calm still bleeding from every pore.

     

    [rami] Ego sum ........ [/rami]

     

    The hazel eyes held a hypnotizing quiet.

     

    [rami]…et spiritus.[/rami]

     

    Enoch's ear flicked, the wet nose faintly lifting to sniff the air. Something was catching the feral hound's attention. Only three things typically did, blood, death and magic. More and more interesting.

     

    [rami]Et ignorare videre sacerdotibus infirmis infirmus ut infirmos, Pater.[/rami]

     

    The first statement was clearly not a fluke. The language still held the weight of his Arabic heritage but it was spoken as one that could hold natural conversations in the dead language.

     

    [rami]... et utique non haberet. In Ecclesia non est masculini.[/rami]

     

    Hazel shifted ever so slightly, the vicar was paying too much attention. Concerned for the Father it seemed, he had spent far too much time with the vagrant from the street. Words continued quietly as the eyes calmly returned to Rhome's.

     

    [rami]Quod ignorantia sola probat.[/rami]

     

     

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Translations:

    I am….

    ….a ghost.

    It is the ignorant that see priests as weak, Father.

    …and of course you do not have it. This church is not old enough.

    That alone proves their ignorance.

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    Everything slowed in his senses, the breath from the canine companion, the minute movements of the man as he himself breathed. Weakness, timing, blinks, it was all taken in as the two lethal “animals” held the eye contact of a potentially disastrous silent challenge. A game of chicken, neither stepping aside. He knew neither would. A world so calm but still echoing with a silent battle, breathing in sync, slow lowering of lashes mirrored each other.

     

    The priest was unmoving, even as the Cavalier tilted his head.

     

    " Ego sum ........ "

     

    He felt it building behind his eyes first; a cracking trickled of power that had been shored back with chains of a conscience. Serene. The Italian exuded such a serenity it was unnerving.

     

    "…et spiritus."

     

    He too, had been called a ghost, in truth he no longer existed but was sought with a vengeance. This man was not a mage, but he felt the power around him enough to know there was an altered presence there. He had not trained with altered, he’d been broken with mages. So who was he then? The next wave up of an army that had so messily botched their plan several nights earlier?

     

    Unlikely.

     

    So who was he?

     

    Rhome was incredibly still, the convection from his warmed skin causing a breeze to roll under the pews, a heralding storm that had not yet shown on the horizon. His animal companion knew, sniffed it in the air, could sense it even if the man could not. Hellfire.

     

    "Et ignorare videre sacerdotibus infirmis infirmus ut infirmos, Pater.... et utique non haberet. In Ecclesia non est masculini."

     

    It had nothing to do with the church. It wasn’t a thing, or an artifact. It was standing right in front of the Cavalier. In plain sight, not hidden in a vault or a tomb. Those hacks had come for him, for his blood, for his hate, for his loyalty, for his knowledge, for his leadership? Was this man two steps behind the perpetrators that might be his companions? Or two steps behind the offenders?

     

    Trickles behind his eyes had built a steady pressure on the inside of his entire body. His complete stillness finally moved ever so slightly, lashes simply lowered, watching the man’s eyes on Vicar Stroscio. Fingers fell from the pew to his side, taking a small step to his left to shift his weight and completely come between the Vicar and this man. Rhome could hear the Vicar finish, the final snap of cloth as it settled and metal was placed upon it. He was worried for the mage, masking it in a final attempt to approach and remind the young priest he had candles to light.

     

    Injured fingers opened slightly to indicate to Stroscio that he was fine. The elderly man paused, then reluctantly retreated to the sacristy to dress. Prayers reached the mage’s ears, the few in the church with bowed heads and closed eyes rubbing their thumbs over beads at the candle walls off to the sides. They would not see this…

     

    "Quod ignorantia sola probat."

     

    They were not ignorant. They were underprepared. So was this man if he was the second wave. He would burn the flesh from bones this time.

     

    [santo]Non indoctus[/santo] ((Not ignorant fools))

     

    Injured fingers again closed. No motion, no movement, no words, no turn to achieve a line of sight, no athame, only a fractal shift of the already dove gray irises to an iridescent silver as he held the man’s gaze.

     

    [santo]Non est paratum[/santo] ((Unprepared))

     

    The rest of the candelabras on the front altar lit up in a gentle wave from left to right behind the magus, the large cathedral basking slowly into a glow of golden reflected illumination.

     

    [santo]Venit sanguine, alioquin interficiam te,[/santo] pause was calm, too calm, too comfortable with the threat of death. [santo]sicut altera.[/santo] ((You come for my blood again, I will kill you like the others))

     

    His voice was so low it could almost be missed, slipping into a silently percussive native tongue calmly after threatening to kill the man if he so much as lifted a finger in this church. It screamed of so many cryptic answers, yet burst forth so many questions. Two ships passing in the night, looking for the same enemy.

     

    [santo]Una volta che sono stato chiamato un fantasma. Io non esistono più.[/santo] ((I was once called a ghost, I no longer exist)) he couldn’t stop the silent onslaught of anger bleeding into his words. Pews near him groaned, complaining from the fluctuation of temperature [santo]Altro venire. Più moriranno. Troverò chi ti ha mandato. Io schiacciare la magia bastardo, e l'Ordine.[/santo] ((If more come. More will die. I will find who sent you. I will crush your bastard magic, and the Order.))

     

    He was out of control, so close to a disastrous crack that would bubble forth a volcano. Blink finally flipped the switch back off, regaining the reins. He was clearly a cataclysmic force, blood so potent it would spark a nightmarish outbreak of rampant bastard magic, anger so hair-triggered it could lead an army of the bastards.

     

    [santo]Non sono più il vostro cane. Dite loro il fuoco dell'inferno è in arrivo per loro.[/santo] ((I am no longer their dog. Tell them their hellfire is coming for them.))

     

    Attention was caught suddenly, breaking the intensity of his near silent voice, eyes flicking to the side as the clink and roll of glass was so faint he almost didn’t catch it. The Vicar? No. The others hadn’t moved either. It had come from the rear confessional. Mana released instantly as he felt the buzz of something odd, eyes flaring back to the Cavalier. Accusing. He’d felt the same odd sensation, two days ago.

     

    When he'd bled on the thing in the tower...

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    He watched the silence rage behind the eyes. A mirror to his own hazel orbs. They breathed in a dangerous unison, as though a pure vacuum had engulfed them both. Acute awareness did not miss the furl of warm air that rippled low along the ground.

     

    This one was powering up. Interesting. The Cavalier made no sign of awareness, not so much as a muscle tensed as he spoke of ignorance and old churches. He was watching for reactions.

     

    He got it when gaze strategically moved to the vicar. He had been correct. This man was protective of the vicar, he was willing to start an apocalypse over the flick of attention the Cavalier had paid the old man.

     

    [santo]Non indoctus…..non est paratum.[/santo]

     

    [rami] Imparatum venire, quia sanguis est ... stulti ignorantes.[/rami] (coming for blood unprepared…is foolish ignorance.)

     

    Eyes did not shift but in the periphery they watched the fingers open and close. The corner of his vision not missing the candelabras lighting on their own. This one controlled fire….heat. Controlled it and threatened his life in the same moment. Mistaking the Cavalier for coming after him. Brow quirked upward ever so slightly in amusement as the onslaught continued. He could interrupt now, advise that he wasn’t after the priest at all. But he found that letting people have their tirade they often betrayed much about themselves. The priest didn’t disappoint, slipping into what the Cavalier could assume was his natural language. People with strong emotions lapsed into what was familiar. The Egyptian didn’t speak Italian, but he did speak both Latin and French…romantic languages that echoed the priests home tongue. He understood the words well enough.

     

    A ghost as well….and still threatening him. Order? Now there was an interesting jump. So… was this man hunted by the Order then? For what reason? Former Order member? Former enemy?

     

    The groans of old wood protesting against unnatural heat said the priest was on the brink of lost control… or attack. But the Cavalier suspected it was the former as a poignant blink from the priest seemed to bring calm to the swelling warmth. He had pulled back in his control.

     

    So what exactly did this magus have to do with the enemy the Cavalier had been tracking? He had already ruled out the Order as the source of the enemy. The enemy had operatives in the Order, not just the Order…the Vanguard and law enforcement. If he wasn’t mistaken they even were embedded within Pharos. But none of these factions was the headquarters of the enemy he hunted. It kept its secrets, much like his own sect.

     

    [santo] Non sono più il vostro cane. Dite loro il fuoco dell'inferno è in arrivo per loro.[/santo]

     

    [rami] Pulsatus canum cum primum periculosissima sunt verae libertatis.[/rami] (Beaten dogs are most dangerous at their first taste of freedom.)

     

    As the quiet words finished, Enoch suddenly shook his head in exaggerated motions that flopped his dark ears, letting the Cavalier know a sound was irritating him. A second later he heard glass falling and became aware of the hum himself. Interesting.

     

    By the time the priests gaze went to the confessional and returned to the Cavalier, the hazel eyes were no longer his to capture. Orbs were fixated on the last confessional, brow offering a faintly interested quirk. Air sucked through his teeth and instantly the feral dog was off, slinking around the column, around the priest and towards the offending confessional and the sound that had its ears laying flat on its head.

     

    [rami] Pater. Non ego te hic, nec vicarii. De venatione mea, ut ego suspicor, venerunt ad te.[/rami] (Father. I am nor here for you, nor your vicar. I hunt the shadows that I suspect came for you.)

     

    With that the duffle strap was adjusted slightly on his shoulder, two strides closing the distance between them but heading for the confessional not the priest. He paused when his shoulder was nearly against the other man's.

     

    [rami]…. nisi fallor, non reliquissent tibi gratia periculosa Pater.[/rami] (…if I am not mistaken, they have left you a dangerous gift Father.)

     

    With that the heavily booted strides fell in absolute silence on the holy floors, confident as they followed the feral animal that now crouched in front of the door with ears flat and all teeth bared, tongue slicking between the white weapons obsessively as saliva slipped from his jowls to the floor. Whatever it was… it was very…. very dangerous.

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    " Imparatum venire, quia sanguis est ... stulti ignorantes." (coming for blood unprepared…is foolish ignorance.)

    [santo]Nihil.  Id est mortis.[/santo] (No, it is certain death.)

     

    It was not a mistake, or ballsy, or even ignorant. It was a death sentence.  Coming after a killer, THIS killer, was to die.  He didn’t make mistakes, he killed… absolutely uncaring who this man was, this was his church, these were his charges for taking him in.  The man would die if he made a move.

    " Pulsatus canum cum primum periculosissima sunt verae libertatis." (Beaten dogs are most dangerous at their first taste of freedom.)
     

    [santo]Ego semper periculosum.[/santo] (I am always dangerous)  consonants were percussive, the dead calm settling across his gaze again.

     

    He saw the movements of the canine, heard the motion of glass…a vibration, a hum that had rattled something from its nest at the first sign of the magus powering up.  It had responded to him, felt him, fed on the mana he’d surrounded himself with.  Like a battery. It knew him.  Even though he’d put the upsurge into check, he could still feel it like the afterglow of a bright light in a retina.  It echoed even as the dog was sent on his way to investigate.

     

    " Pater. Non ego te hic, nec vicarii. De venatione mea, ut ego suspicor, venerunt ad te." (Father. I am nor here for you, nor your vicar. I hunt the shadows that I suspect came for you.)

     

    [santo]Ego vos non creditis. Vos sunt armati et non celebretur nomen eius.[/santo] (I don’t trust those that come armed with no name.)

    He didn’t indicate as to what weapons the “vagrant” had, unmoving as the Cavalier stopped at his shoulder.  Dove eyes remained level at the back of the church where the man was just standing.  He didn’t need his powers at this proximity to kill someone.  He didn’t even need his blade, or eye contact.

     

    "…. nisi fallor, non reliquissent tibi gratia periculosa Pater." (…if I am not mistaken, they have left you a dangerous gift Father.)

    This was not a stranger’s battle to fight in his church.

     

    It all fell together in the second it took for him to turn and follow in complete silence, the weight of his presence vicious.  He had given ARMA what it needed to help them, not to send someone to do the job… or the Order to have gotten their hands on it.  The magus increased his gate to stop him.  The animal did not make him pause, nor did the Cavalier as he strode past the man and put himself between the stranger and the door of the unused small rooms.  Fingers lifted inches from his chest to halt him, others barely a whisper away from the polished door, looking down at the beast that could easily lunge for him… and he could just as easily fry in a heartbeat.

     

    He had to think, eyes flicking to the others in the massive room that were only vaguely aware of what was happening.  The men that had attacked him were merciless.  Intent on death.  Gaze went back to the man that could now see the puzzle of wounds on the fire magus as if the planets had aligned.  Hand, to neck, to eye. Injured hand closed and indicated for the Cavalier to give him a moment, other hand lowering near the door with open fingers to power up a fraction of what he’d just mustered merely moments before in defense of the people at his church.  The hum began again, such a fine vibration… dismissing when he dismissed the mana.

     

    He knew what was on the other side of that door.  They never expected him to make it to the tower, they’d planned for it just in case, but it was intended to end here… with the magus bleeding out inside this confessional.  For what?  …and for who?

     

    Question was, who was this man?  Was he here to finish the job?  Why hadn’t the man that had fled in the tower come back for this?  Perhaps they HAD sent the Cavalier instead- to finish the job.  Hairtriggered muscles didn’t need mana to be ready for a fight.  The Cavalier may also think it was he who’d done it. Arma. Order.  One way or another, until he explained himself, he would not be getting into that confessional.

     

    Eyes slid back to him.

     

    [santo]Haec est enim vestra pugna.[/santo] (This is not your fight.)

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    In the shade of her cowl, Dacia’s ice blue eyes rolled as elegant features swayed side to side at the bantering in dead tongue. [dacia]Boys, boys.[/dacia] The soft Italian tongue chided.

    The dark shroud fell, revealing the beautiful visage of the Overseer standing before the two men.

    She really had to compliment Trystan. The seer had out done himself. The inverted Hierophant and the Knight of Swords locked in a battle of words. Her interpretation. His was far less dramatic but Dacia had always loved the tarot and had provided her own romanticized version of the prophet’s illustrations. How else would she have known where to find the ‘Ashen Priest’? Know to cloak her mana so he couldn’t discern her presence. Not that premature discovery would have been a problem the way these two went on.

    [dacia]Still in love with the sound of your own voice Del Santo.[/dacia] She taunted, champagne lips bubbling into a sly grin, [dacia]Never thought you’d meet your match.[/dacia] Eyes flicked to the Cavalier.

    Her tone was purposefully low, aware of the danger that lurked behind her, but the ‘ice queen’s’ features did not betray the quake in her belly.

    [dacia]I believe we all must fight.[/dacia]

    If they were to survive…

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    The Cavalier did not flinch at the sudden barrier the man of the cloth presented, the beast at the floor seemed unfazed as well, his gargoylesque pointed stance unmoved.

     

    He was clearly agitated at the thought that the Egyptian would try to enter the confessional. Interesting. The good Father apparently knew there was something in there and was eager for no one else discover it.

     

    This investigation was getting more and more interesting.

     

    He remained still, hazel simply meeting the Father's eyes and waiting. There was an infinite calm patience behind the green glimmer as the magus and his wounds were studied. It was quite the battle it seemed. The silence lingered between them. Father Del Santo was trying to figure out if the Cavalier was friend or foe, that much was apparent.

     

    [santo]Haec est enim vestra pugna.[/santo] (This is not your fight.)

     

    Enoch had shifted his haunch just barely, the tail swishing to the side in agitation. The behavior was a warning. Enoch had sensed a second danger and was flagging it for his partner. The monk remained still and indifferent but awareness spread outward seeking the source of the feral hounds agitation.

     

    [rami] Numquid non hoc est deduci ante omnia certamen…. [/rami] (Have you not already deduced this is all our fight….)

     

    The statement was ominous. The enemy had become enormous with just the few softly spoken words. But the eyes betrayed calm and awareness. They had slid to the corner in response to the shifted tail from Enoch. They had an eavesdropper.

     

    [rami]….. videtur nobis animadversa, Pater [/rami] (….seems we have attracted attention, Father.)

     

    Even as the soft words left his lips the chiding tone of the woman whispered over his senses. A soft thundering growl in Enoch's chest was silenced by air sifting between his front teeth in command. Order Overseer. He might be nothing but a distant dream of a legend to the world but he was not ignorant of those struggling for power within it. He would be curious of the good Director's take on the Order's involvement at this level.

     

    They were running scared. No different than the Vanguard…. and every other established faction who had taken notice of the growing shadow that was swallowing the world.

     

    Calling the Father by name told him much about the woman. Lack of respect for the "cloth" was trivial among them. That the man before him had snarled the Order's name at him said he saw them as enemy which meant there was a history here. A history with the one at the top was….. intriguing.

     

    [dacia]…Never thought you'd meet your match.[/dacia]

     

    The hazel eyes met hers with the same calm indifference that had pervaded his presence since he had arrived at the church.

     

    [dacia]I believe we all must fight.[/dacia]

     

    Her words were an echo of his own, but the warrior monk doubted she had as noble sentiment behind her engagement in this growing battle. He didn’t respond to the woman, instead the hazel shifted to the Father, deferring to the one who clearly had a deep seeded hatred for the Order.

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    " Numquid non hoc est deduci ante omnia certamen…. " (Have you not already deduced this is all our fight….)

     

    He was met with silence, the 'urge to protect' sliding away.

     

    At first it was an itch to the agitation already there, then calm. The fierce calm. World slid away, muscles resolved to silent lucidity and senses that were beyond the training of a normal mortal grew wider until the entirety of his surroundings were absorbed in their subtleties for a second time. Something had changed. It was the most dangerous realm for his existence to slip into, the calm before a raging tornado would appear and tear apart a mile’s wide path of destruction.

     

    Premonition perhaps, or just the sense of being watched in a terse moment before the voice and visage broke the silence and confirmed every suspicion in the trained stillness of his bones.

     

    The wall of candles just over her shoulder became the focus of his gaze, a trained soldier listening… not responding, normally waiting for orders before a nod of compliance. Instead it was the ooze of ultimate controlled rage before all hell broke loose, and the world would suffer for it.

     

    " Still in love with the sound of your own voice Del Santo. Never thought you’d meet your match."

     

    Her first sentence was a quandary to him, producing an itch in the back of his skull where it seemed he couldn’t reach beyond. The second however…

     

    [santo]I still haven’t.[/santo]

     

    Eyes moved to her finally. Nobody knew what he was truly capable of... he'd moved so far beyond the realm of control he was a danger even to himself. He didn’t know her from Adam. Hell, he didn’t know half the time which High Arch was calling him to give orders unless he was specifically at the Vatican with them. Her voice though, was not one he recognized. The fire magus knew WHO she was, he just didn’t care. He couldn’t care at the moment, or the world would burn.

     

    " I believe we all must fight."

     

    Her words echoed the stranger’s. So this was it? Tortured, ordered to kill for on command, then shunned by everyone including those he sought help from, and then valuable enough to ask for help? This was no accident. The Cavalier here, maybe… he was a hunter; the magus knew the fight several nights earlier would undoubtedly attract attention. But she? She was an opportunist. Arma was scared, whomever this man represented was scared, and apparently the Order also seemed scared enough to ask for help, a truce.

     

    What was the old saying… ‘the enemy of my enemy, is my friend’?

     

    No.

     

    It was their turn to feel fear.

     

    [santo]There is no we.[/santo]

     

    Both hands had lowered some time ago from their once ‘protective of the stranger’ position. He knew so much he could tell them, but he wouldn’t. If Arma wanted to, that was their prerogative.

     

    [santo]You can find your chicken scratch and cryptic nonsense left behind by a nameless threat, but once you’ve thoroughly found even more questions than answers, you can get the hell out of my church and live with the consequences you deserve.[/santo]

     

    The hand startled him, calm on his forearm, pulling him from the cruel yet composed tirade.

     

    Damn him. Damn him!

     

    *npc* Rhome. Tell them what you know.

     

    Lashes flickered a moment, the gentle Vicar’s hand refusing to allow him to retreat and leave the two to their fates. The older man always did have an ulterior motive, one… finding out what exactly had happened to the priest even though he refused to share it. Two, heal him. He may have sought sanctuary, but the magus had found out quickly that it came with a price. He’d tolerated it to this point, even took it to heart…but this seemed beyond the Vicar’s reach. It was a horrible place where he didn’t want to go.

     

    Still, the magus didn’t move until the older man gently urged him back away from the confessional door to allow the other two access.

     

    …yet, he didn't retreat to leave them to find the horrors he'd experienced first hand. With the Vicar’s soft pull he stepped backward away from the door, eyes on the wall of candles, waiting patiently for the two to rummage through the archaic harbinger of the end of their world.

     

    ...and maybe, just maybe answer their questions.

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    Her stare settled upon the taller of the two, jagged ice softening as falling snow in response to their shared conclusion. ‘An ally? She pondered where he fit into all of this. ‘Vanguard? No. He was no scarecrow, rigid and stuffed with good intentions, there was more to this one. Much more.

    Moving to the cavalier’s side, the overseer cast a look over her shoulder toward the fallen priest. He didn’t know her, but she knew him. Once a member of that small circle in Rome she had stood on the other side of forbidden doors, walked the esoteric halls of the Vatican and added her words to the fate of the Order on several occasions. She knew WHAT he was, and what he had done.

    It would seem that the ‘Knight’ was attempting to unite their efforts in a common cause. She had sought out the ‘priest’ for a similar reason but thanks to her seer’s vision had been graced with the potential of a second ally in her fight against the unseen infiltrators of the Order.

    ‘What was he doing here?’ She wondered. He was NO priest. Not like any she’d ever known. ‘Nameless threat?’ What did he know of it? Needless to say she was all at once intrigued but unfortunately there were more pressing matters at hand, namely the ‘knight’s’ four-legged companion.

    Something was setting the beast off. [dacia]You know who I am?[/dacia], she did not await an acknowledgment before diverting his attention to the dog and the door, [dacia]What’s behind there?[/dacia]

    Attention momentarily shifted to the Vicar’s suggestion. ‘What? What did he know? Del Santo knew something about what lurked on the other side of the portal? One to err on the side of caution she was inclined to hear the magus out.

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    • 2 weeks later...

    Where the Father tensed at the presence of the woman, the Cavalier relaxed dangerously. It was deceptive. He was silent as the woman taunted the other man. Another might have found insult in the fact that he was dismissed as equal so easily by the Father but the Cavalier didn’t suffer pride. Instead he waited for the cat and mouse to proceed. He was sure the woman thought herself the cat. The Cavalier was not so sure as the hooded expression of the Father reminded him of a building storm.

     

    [santo]There is no we.[/santo]

     

    The Cavalier was not so different. "Partners"…"allies"…. all were handicaps the Cavalier chose not to burden himself with. On the occasion he would align such as with the Director, but it was a rare and unusual case. Pupils slid to the corner as the woman moved near his side like she was claiming sides. She would find the Cavalier was a poor choice.

     

    Brow lifted gently as he remained still watching the exchange. The Father's words hardly holy as the woman was told to look at what she wanted and then to get the "hell" out of his church. More fighter than holy man.

     

    Hazel flicked to the side as they were approached, the weight of age was in the light touch on the Father.

     

    Rhome…. the name was etched to memory as he observed the effect the Vicar had on the fire that was threatening to boil over. Impressive that what the Cavalier read as a mere human could quell the rage in a magus, particularly a magus who was harboring such a clearly dark past. Hazel watched the step away from the door with calculated calm. Enoch continued to point, nose nearly against the old wood as the tongue continued to snake obsessively out of his lips, jowls sneered back to let the salivation drip from white knives. The animal's reaction and the way the Father had protected it before the woman interrupted told the Cavalier much. It wasn’t the first magic trap he had come across in his investigations. If he was right, and he usually was, the trap would trip if a magic user, particularly a magus dared open the door.

     

    The woman asked if he knew who she was but her attention was fixated on Enoch's concentration on the door.

     

    [dacia]What's behind there?[/dacia]

     

    It wasn’t common, but a dangerous wit could at times worm its way into the deadpan calm of the warrior monk. Head tilted slightly to the side to look at her, a brow lifting a bit over the amber flecked hazel.

     

    [rami]You are most welcome to look for yourself, Dacia Setgrave. Far be it for me to keep you from your answers.[/rami]

     

    Soft "sss" slid between his teeth and instantly the feral canine slunk backwards from the door until it was crouched against the side of his calf, the dark eyes still glued on the door it wanted to attack while his master's hazel remained softly watching the woman that commanded the arm of the Order. Curious if the over-confidence she had exuded in exposing herself to them also left her easily baited.

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    The Vicar’s hand was grounding, a simple human’s touch keeping the monster of a magus from going after the Order with pure fury.  Catastrophic.  The touch was cool even through his immaculate suitcoat; he couldn’t imagine how warm he felt to the older man.  The man knew when the fire magus asked for sanctuary there was a history to follow, a potentially dangerous one.  He’d said yes anyway, out of duty… but in this new world he could just have easily turned him away.

     

    When the Order bitch moved to the Cavaliers’s side, his fate in the Italian’s crosshairs was sealed as well.

     

    The normally “gentle” and reserved assassin was spiraling out of control, in the larger sense.  Even his thoughts were becoming more and more violent.  His words callus.  His actions reflex and unyielding.  The influx of information was overwhelming; from the attack several nights ago, to the gathering of information from his mole and leaving information where ARMA could gather it, to now two seemingly different factions converging at the same moment to investigate an altercation he’d not shared with anyone but ARMA.  This was a spin outward that was close to being unstoppable.  Why did he care?  His only goal was to find his daughter, if she even was still alive… and to split the order open and expose the rotted viscera for what it was.  What happened to him after that was inconsequential, his will would be done.

     

    You know who I am?"

     

    He also knew exactly who she was…

     

    What’s behind there?"

    …and what was behind the door.

     

    The second her eyes moved to the Vicar, a muscle flicked in his neck under the collar, under the bandages…  Protectiveness.  He would keep his mouth shut and let the woman find out for herself even though someone he respected urged him to help.  He would not help.  Features calm, eyes shifted to simply stare at the light beginning to stream through a colored window into the haze from the candles.  One might see the zipped lips as a petulant child; but he was pulling into himself.  Silence before the storm.  Every sense on alert.  Every spell to the ready with a flick of his lashes in any direction.  It was in that moment to a trained eye he was truly dangerous.  Aloof and distant, the calm settled around him and he simply waited… a nagging thought glimmering in the back of his skull.

     

    *npc* Rhome.

     

    His head lowered as if in prayer.  He would not, could not, answer.

     

    "You are most welcome to look for yourself, Dacia Setgrave. Far be it for me to keep you from your answers."

    The edges of his eyes narrowed slightly as the stranger invited the face of the Order to see for herself.  Curious.  Seems there were three sides on this issue… ARMA made four, and the fire magus was the only one that had seen it firsthand. 

     

    The garrote, the nagging itch had become a word.

     

    Where was the garrote?  What had happened to the thing?

     

    The man that had nearly killed him for THIS sigil was covered in his blood, never dropped it as he fled up the tower.  The magus had burnt through the wire enough to free himself, but the handles, the rest… he’d never found.  Not only had he bled on the one upstairs, which was scrubbed and burned from existence by his own hand… but they had his blood as well.  Water he’d used to clean his flood of lifeblood on the stones here… hell, it could have reformed, been collected.  Who knew what spells they already had access to?  He had bled, a lot.  The ass that tried to kill him was also covered in it and had escaped because he had the mage’s blood to power his spell.

     

    He could not be here every moment the cathedral was open, he could not feel his enemies.  Even the trained senses could not track the constant movement in a building this big, and he’d been gone a great deal the last few days.  He didn’t know about this sigil until now.  Were they stupid enough to come back and try again?  Of course they were, they had enough to jumpstart the car.  Now they were trying to drive the car into the crusher.

     

    The humming, was not because of the tower, it was because… he was so still, eyes on the door, the thoughts raging through his skull a million miles an hour.

     

    …it didn’t matter which car.

     

    He could start the war here.  Stay silent, stay still, let the woman tangle in her own fate.  Let the unseen bastards get what they wanted.  Watch them pummel the Order, and potentially ARMA to the ground.  It would serve one purpose, but not another.  He could demand to know where his daughter was in exchange for help… but that would give the Order the upper hand, a chance to crowbar him, an opportunity to force him back into the folds and kill him to cover his existence.  ARMA could potentially get the pointy end of the stick, and nothing would change.

     

    Eyes lifted slightly to the Cavalier.  He was the wild card, two and two put together. 

     

    Vanguard.

     

    He felt the Vicar’s hand squeeze his arm gently, the man had felt his tension… the heat radiating from the magus that causing the hidden sigils to thrum back from behind the door like an echo.

     

    He had to make a decision.

     

    [santo]This house is a sanctuary.  There will be no violence here,[/santo] words were calm as terms were laid out. It was obvious, at least to the two that if he came across either of them outside the walls, there would be no mercy.  The father’s hand let go of the magus, he seemingly approved.  Rhome reached up and pulled the paper from his collar, unbuttoning it slightly to allow the bandage to be fully seen.  It was a jugular cut, the reason for the injury to his hand obvious at that point.  [santo]They came to kill me two nights ago.  Garrote.[/santo]

     

    Collar was put back into place without effort.  The Cavalier had doubts, he could sense that.  Before he was a magus.. a killer, he really had been a man of faith.  He still was, though words he believed before, were merely a form of ritual comfort now.

     

    [santo]No warning.  No familiar sign of magic.  Forced me to the tower,[/santo]  the magus did not have to be forced into anything, but they didn’t need to know that.  [santo]It had already been covered in sigils.  They disappeared there.  I broke the sigils in the tower.[/santo]

     

    It was mostly true.  They didn’t need to know the ash in the furnace was one of them, they didn’t need to know he collected everything and gave it to ARMA.

     

    [santo]It seems that’s why there were two of them.  One above,[/santo]  he paused, fingers opened slightly, the low burn of blue hovering above his palm allowing whatever was in the confessional to reverberate stronger.  [santo]One below.[/santo]

     

    Palm closed and the polished wood fell silent.  Their intent was clear.  They wanted everything and had made a back-up, not just to get enough to power an engine… but to completely make him 'good to the last drop'.  How many before him had fallen into this trap before they became powerful enough to make the Order take them seriously?

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    High heeled steps fluidly glided toward the door, the stone facade of her porcelain features betraying no hint of her disappointment in the Vanguard; nor fear of what lied beyond. She had hoped the Vanguard to have been more than just a common ‘crusader’, and of Del Santo, she had expected no less of the broken man. Still, she had faith in those pieces that remained, as she ever moved closer to her doom, extended hand inching dangerously close to the door. Then the fallen priest spoke. Delicate fingers danced about the brass knob in rhythm with the deep echoing tones, eyes twinkling within the shade of her cowl as the forbearing words rolled off his tongue.

    The lengthy light fabric of her pale coat twirled about her supple frame as the tall woman turned to face the magus. The hood falling to her shoulders, silvery blonde tresses spilling across a shoulder. There was no surprise to her cold stare as the magus divulged the happenings that had a part in her seeking him out.

    Papers were produced, the kind of heavy weight medium used by artists, passed into the hand of the Cavalier. [dacia]The likes of you keep me from nothing.[/dacia] She contemptuously snapped.

    They were pencil sketches, the first an incredibly detailed portrait of Rhome and Rami engaged in conversation while in the church. Right down to the detail of the wound across the magus’ throat. The second was of what lied beyond the door. She had known the entire time.

    Moving closer to Rhome, she didn’t wasted time with trivial explanations of ‘seers’. Both the magus and trooper were no doubt well aware of the Order’s methods and the prophet’s in their service. In this case, however, Trystan was an exceptional example of those powers but they didn’t need to know that.

    [dacia]But I don’t have all the answers.[/dacia] She said directly to Rhome. Otherwise why would she be there at all?

    [dacia]The blood of our kind is potent and more will spill. You’ve learned this.[/dacia] Dacia solemnly stated. [dacia]It’s why I’ve sought you out. Both of you.[/dacia] She added with a reluctant glance to the Cavalier. Dacia had no love for the Vanguard but Trystan and ‘seen’ him for a reason. The legionnaire had a role to play in all of this and the Overseer was not about to short-change herself. They were going to need every possible resource granted to them to defeat this enemy.

    [dacia]You’ve seen first hand what they can do and believe me they’ll stop at nothing to destroy the Order, ARMA, and the Vanguard.[/dacia] An icy stare momentarily fell upon Rami, [dacia]He is a devout member of his order and will do whatever is necessary but you Del Santo you have no allegiance to the First Light, to anyone, so I’ll ask; what would it take for you to help me fight this menace?[/dacia]

    It was the last question Dacia wanted to offer the man. She knew with the history between Del Santos and the Order that there was little they could do to rectify it. Both would no doubt have many questions of their own which she was prepared to answer to her best ability.

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    • 3 weeks later...

    The Cavalier did not miss the effect the touch of the vicar had on the Father. It was an effect the Cavalier could understand. That some could find great solace in the touch of the faithful was something a Knight of the old world could understand.

     

    The shift of the woman to be near the Cavalier was met with cool indifference in the hazel eyes. But the vicious flick of muscle in the Father's neck when the woman glanced to the Vicar was rewarded with a faint uptick of the warrior monk's brow. She played on the edge of a fire branded sword. The putrid hatred this Rhome had for the Order, and more specifically her, was palpable.

     

    Interesting.

     

    As the Cavalier invited the head of the New York Order to see for herself he was almost amused at the shift in the air. The Father found it a curious response…. the woman….

     

    [dacia] The likes of you keep me from nothing.[/dacia]

     

    The snap in her voice almost drew an upturn to the indifferent warrior monk's lips. So much for the ice queen. It seemed Ms Setgrave was as easy as any other Magus to agitate. He held his tongue, the temptation to mention her claws were showing itching at the back of his throat. But he was not here to be bothered with the Order, nor the church for that matter. He was here to ensure the artifacts were still intact, that the shadows that had been growing across the world were not getting closer to finding them.

     

    [santo]This house is a sanctuary. There will be no violence here.[/santo]

     

    Spoken like a true Father of the Faith. Left hand was still casually holding the strap of the worn duffle, the right still hidden calmly in the pocket of his jeans. Hazel continued their calm appraisal of the man. He was an interesting Magus. Tightly controlled and yet on the verge of no control. Power was like that. The Cavalier had seen it eat a man alive too many times to count.

     

    He listened in silence. The slice to the throat had been betrayed already when the collar had dipped and shown the edge of the bandage. No one else was likely to have noticed but hazel eyes were trained and rarely missed a thing.

     

    The pupils flicked to the tower as the man unraveled the tale of what had gone down. He would want to get a look up there as well with Enoch. The animal could find things, magic things, that not even Magus could find. That damn wet nose he found too often pushed against his hand could trace the untraceable. As if on cue the hackles lifted a moment before the Magus used his magic to set the reverberation off in the confessional. Low guttural snarl now rumbling just under the level of hearing in the beasts chest.

     

    The woman seemed intent to show up that she knew just as much as the Father. What she had put to paper saying more about herself than those she sought to expose. Odd duck. While the Father tried to hide himself away and all that he knew, she sought her own self glorification. Opposites in a world that didn’t take kindly to two sided coins. Magic was a fickle lover the Cavalier had found.

     

    [dacia]But I do not have all the answers.[/dacia]

     

    The Cavalier's gaze had returned to the tower. Brain churning on the artifacts he knew were in New York, hidden from all factions even his own. The quiet words held no arrogance or spite, yet were likely to rankle the recipient none the less.

     

    [rami]… I actually doubt you have any of them.[/rami]

     

    Such a high powered individual seeking direct contact with what he could only assume the Order saw as a Rogue said much more about what she did not know than what she knew. They were as in the dark of what was going on as ARMA…. as the Vanguard. She was there to rip forth answers, one way… or another.

     

    Though he seemed to have disengaged from the conversation, he did not miss a word as she spoke of potent blood and seeking them out. There was mild amusement once more as he was flagged as devout to the Vanguard. Funny how so many assumed that of the Cavalier….even the good Director Vacilly seemed to take time to realize the warrior monk answered to no order that this world any longer recognized as significant.

     

    As she finished by asking the Father for his allegiance the Cavalier had stepped away from the small party, faint nod of respect to the Vicar as eyes and mind that mapped ancient ways stared still at the ceiling and the stairs to the tower. When the living danger sat in the confessional and the tower was supposedly now "clean" it was odd the monk seemed so interested in the latter.

     

    There was a shadow that had his attention. One missed in the dancing of candle lights so far below it. Several soft clucks had Enoch tilting his head and looking up at the Cavalier before slinking around the Vicar and heading up the stairs.

     

    Hazel met the concerned eyes of the Vicar as a faint but genuine smile slid his lips.

     

    [rami]…a precaution only… to be sure the devil has not left his mark in the house he is unwelcome within.[/rami]

     

    If anything lingered… Enoch would find it. For now.

     

    Hazel moved to the Father once more, tilt of his head betraying consideration before words were chosen with care.

     

    [rami]…allies…. in this time…. can be as dangerous as your enemies….[/rami]

     

    This time the calm hazel met the woman's instead, nod faint.

     

    [rami]… I caution any…. to have either….[/rami]

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