Duel of the Shadows [Battle]

(closed RP)

In the twilight of the setting sun, the city of shanties grew quiet, as the sound of a blast rang through the empty streets. And, as a figure fell from the skies, crashing in the humble gutter of a smoky backalley, the Baron appeared. Tall and slim, in black jeans and an open shirt of flashy red and purple designs, the bushy haired man stalked the now-crawling being with paced steps. As the heat of his presence exhaled into steaming breath, Baron Xango watched his bounty. “Ejazamec. He who purpose is to Watch! Yuh been doin’ much more dan watchin’, eh?”, the deadly hunter read the bounty paper, hanging in one hand, as he steadied the paper with the still sizzling revolver that has barreled two holes through the man’s gut, "reproducing wit mortal gyals, starting bloody revolts inna dis country, inna dat country. Witchcraft wit demons, and enslaving humans. Plottin' di downfall of di Church...A 'crusader of di Lord?'...Well, di Almighty isn't enjoying yuh work. And, Miguel tasked mi with dealing wit ye.".

Lying upon the cold ground, the angel, with a gaping hole digging through his stomach and his right wing, tried to turn over. “Perdoname pa’ tu ala…couldn’t have you flying away. They don’t want you up there, anymore…”, the spirit apologized for scorching off the fallen one’s wing. But, in return, he was met with scorn and passionate anger. “أيها الوغد الدموي”, he spat back in what Xango could only guess was Arabic? Perhaps an insult…judging from the tone and furious expression. Driving the son of the saints to become more frank, “Mi have no clue what tongue yuh speak, Watcher…”, he looked down as the bloody figure, as it gasped for air, staring at the heavens and wondering who would hire a hedonistic pagan to hunt him. “-you murdered my child, you damn pagan reaper!”, Ejazamec gritting his teeth, as blood erupted from his lips. Leaving the spirited hunter to sign at the rightiouesness of angels. Even thouse who fall still hold themselfs to be higher than Xango's kind. “An angel wit a child. That be yuh first problem, papi!”, Xango smirked as he eyed the dying Watcher. “Pero, I’m short on time. Ya tu sabe, con mi trabajo. So, en’l luz de mi dio. El quien es el, Te destierro al inferno. Vaya con dio’. Yo rezo en la nombre de la madre, el nino, mi padre…”, Xango prayed upon the fallen angel, in his native West Indian Spanish, he ignored the fiery spats of Arabic insults, as he rose his revolver to the line of head’s sight. And, with a fiery flash of fire, the bullet combusted into flames. Burning the angel until it was fully incinerated into ashes, and blown away in the smoky wind, Xango slowly stepped out of the shadowy alley.

Looking up into the setting sun, eying the layers of purples and orange, he eyed heaven. “Mi hope yuh pleased, Miguel.”, he muttered, as he fetched his cigar. Snapping his fingers to light it, and savouring the flavored taste, he closed his eyes as he heard his mother’s tongue. “Child, watch yourself…the Nephilim is after you…”, she whispered in his head, leaving him to sulk in his annoyance of dealing with angels. Standing upon the brick paved streets, he looked for a bar to get some peppered rum. Rubbing the black and purple beads of his parents, he thought to them, as he waited for his car to finally catch up to him. And, with a sign, he thought to the remaining children of his target, “…today just isn’t mi day”. And, finally seeing a bar at the end of the block, he finally noticed people. Hit with the thought of how they didn't hear the gunshots and dying angel, he remembered how good the inner-city dwellers are at ignoring the spiritual realm. So, Xango began his pursuit of relaxation, with the hugging of some bolero tune in his head.

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@superstay:

The city had begin to fill back to life, as the morning work day had ended, with the evening shift yet to begin. It was the life of the inner-city - ever the constant hustle as the city truly never slept.

Hemingway was not part of the city though. He graced it, but he was something far different than the average dwellers. He was magical. The city dwellers think they had seen everything, but magic was something all together different. For all the cursing done on instinct, cars honking to get others attention, and babies crying just because that is what they do, Hemingway found a way to ignore all as he snored upon a park bench. That was until the breeze which comforted his skin dropped to an unusual temperature. His eyes opened, gazing around the world before him.

Then there was the sound. It was loud and sudden, and even eclipsed the damage caused by the accident of a sedan getting t-boned by some texting driver. Hemingway was unsure what it was. It almost sounded like a shot but unusual to normal ear and an eerie shriek.

There was a gesture by the mage's hand, it was small in movement but who it was intended for was like a loud klaxon. Bowie, was a fiery spirit, her hair pulled back into a bun as she traveled upon skate board. She was rebellious spirit, causing commotion to those that she passed. Her snicker of mischievous deeds ended instantly as she heard from her master. Creedence was different altogether than her troublesome counterpart. She was more reserved, and patient, yet just as obedient when the call came in. She enjoyed reading a good book as she did this day, but her attention quickly shifted too upon hearing the summons. Both spirits hopped upon the city like a playground at recess.

Bowie appeared at the source of the sound. There was nothing there but ashen marking upon the ground. The residue made Bowie apprehensive, as it did Hemingway who saw and heard everything both Bowie and Creedence heard and saw. Her eyes wandered but saw no one but there was a scent that lingered in the air. Something strong yet inescapable.

Creedence smelled the scent in her nose that Bowie had registered, her journey leading her to a bar with many patrons. She waited upon the neighboring building waiting for her master to appear. And as the squeal of brakes upon the city bus halted the immense vehicle, Hemingway stepped off the bus, his clothes eccentric to many but more to his liking. His sleek black pants stepped off as his top was covered by an actual cape and highlighted with a matching fedora. Hemingway stepped toward the building as both Bowie and Creedence disappeared into nothingness. His hand grasped the handle to enter while taking an enormous gulp due to the anxiety.

The door opened, the red haired mage staring pass the patrons and focused on the smell. With a childish smile he uttered aloud to get the strangers attention. Its quite a magical day today, dont you think?

The bar was loud with commotion, as the bartender yelled across the room, as a man was sent flying over a pool table for trying to snatch a bottle from Xango’s hand. Filled with dark brown rum, and a jumble of black and red peppers, the loosened-up hunter tried to defuse the tension that started over him entering the establishment with his slimly fit chest and stomach bare to the room. Moreso than just his light caramel abs greeting the barroom of drunkards, gamblers, and evening ladies, the shining chrome of his revolver could be seen tucked into his pants. As his belt held more extra bullets than the bartender held liquor, his left leg was hugged by his sheathed knife. Catching the eyes of those still in their right mind, he was too wrapped up in the thumping percussion of the Cuban music he managed to tune into from the booming jukebox. As horns blared through the dimly lit room, a bouncer tried to grab his arm, stopping his from taking a sip of the rum that he paid for (though, without the bartender’s permission).

But, now the burly man was sent tumbling over the pooltable, as if he was a doll. “Oy…perdoname!”, Xango didn’t mean to hurt anyone, “Yo pago pa’ la ruma? Mi money is on the counter”. He pointed at the folded up money that the bartender still didn’t want to take. Instead, he just called for the man to leave. However, the morreno lad was in a trance of dancing to the rhythm of his forefather. The old Caribbeans, the native Taino, and the Africans, he felt their spirits laughing and singing around him, as he drunk away his worries. Smelling like peppered sage and smoked herbs, the lad smiled and spun, as bystanders stared in shock and worried awe. As he tilled his head back, to feel the light of his father’s father, his body grew hotter with passion. As his Chelsea boots tapped to the popping bongos, boiling his blood with furious joy, he halted at the sound of the eccentrically dressed gentlemen.

Stopping with a puff of his cigar, Xango stared at the man, hearing his voice clearly, over the music and yelling people. Taking a sniff of the air, like a cautious wolf, he smelt something not of the regular mortal world. As his senses heightened alerting him that something otherworldly was in his presence, he eyed the lad. “El Nephilim esta aqui?”, he muttered under his breath with enough steam to set off a smoke alarm. As his eyes sparked with the fire of Shango, he smirked at the man. Was this a child of Ejazamec? Usually, the Nephilim were taller…was it a trick? Xango hated mind tricks. Was he some sorcerer? Gypsy?...he bares the same fiery hair has Brigid; did she send him? He thought to himself as the bartender yell. “NO! No more of you thugs…”, the bartender yelled out in anger, seeing another brightly dressed man in an outfit that demanded attention. So, he reached under the counter and pulled a shotgun. However, before he could say anything, one of the drunkards saw the gun and pulled his own. Followed by the two bouncers, a blast erupted under the thunderous flare of trumpets and horns, as they fired around the bar.

People ducked and ran, as Xango whipped out his revolver, leaping up and over the pool table, he fired two normal bullets out into the direction of the mysterious stranger. Landing on his shoulder, and rolling to his knees, he tucked behind the wooden barrier, as he loaded his gun, hearing more shots going off, he inhaled his cigar, causing it to grow bright with a flame. Then, with the light of the nearly vanished sun reflecting enough light through the window to bounce off of the hunter's lion-faced belt buckle, and into his eyes, he scoffed. "Uh, It's not if mi wanted dis! Maybe mortals should loosen up!", he looked out the window, knowing his saints were displeased with the chaos he's started.

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@superstay:

The sudden move by the bartender caught Hemingway by surprise as his feet fluttered about running as everything next came on instinct. He gave a soft shrill which would be muted by the gunfire with his cape trailing its owner as if it too were trying to avoid the gunfire. It wasnt the most manly of moments, he would not argue that, but random shells racing past one's eyes he assumed shared a universal effect as the patrons began racing out of the establishment - all the patrons but one.

Hemingway's eyes wide, it locking onto the reason of his presence in the establishment. He thought Xango moved gracefully, firing and reloading almost in the same motion. What the Hell did he get himself involved in, he thought.

With the commotion of panicked patrons, it didnt take long for the inevitable. First through the door was Clearwater, her onyx hair matching her darkened desires. A wicked grin appeared on her ivory face. She was pure ying and yang. Cause and effect. With the the sound of gunfire she would bring a blade, easily slicing through tables which were in the way. She leapt in the air, almost dancing on the tables that were sent airbound.

There really had been no conversation for him being there, but just the sheer knowledge that Hemingway was in the room was all that was needed to switch Clearwater into a modern samurai in business attire.

Creedence soon followed. Her overexaggerated self with blonde pig-tails and an outfit a size too small - she came in with a bazooka on her shoulder, looking left and then right, looking at anything to hit if Hemingway was in trouble. Someone give me a reason to pull a trigger.

Creedence's eye caught Xango's, looking then at Hemingway to see what to do next.

@hemingway:

The bullets whizzed by, tearing through the walls and disappearing into the distances outside. Only leaving the dispersing smoke that erupted along with it, the trail smelled of strong graveyard ash and churchhouse sage, salted tobacco of ghostly fields lingered in the air after, as Xango ducked. Still listening to the wailing trombones filling the background of the room, as it cleared of mortals, the natty-haired hunter sat behind the cover of the thick framed wooden pooltable. With his cigar blazing within the grip of his heated lips, the Caribbean lad heard a table crack in half, before seeing table legs flying around in the chaotic creation of debris and rubble. And, in that moment, his eyes saw dim smoke of the metaphysical realm.

“Calm yeself, Child… an fiú é?”, he heard the harmonious whisper of his adopted mother’s Celtic tongue. Trying to help him realize how worthless a fight was, he heard the eternally ancient bone flutes of resolve behind her soothing voice. However, from the fire of his heart, he felt the burn of his birth father, “…Maṣe gbagbe ẹjẹ rẹ!”, a deep voice of assertive power and masculine strength banged the animal-skinned conga drums of might. Reminding Xango of his blood and heritage, “…you are the son of I, Shango! Child of the fire, and blood of the Oyo, boy! They threaten royalty…”, his furious Yoruba words burned through Xango’s body, as his breath nearly burn the cigar he bit. Hearing the roar of the mighty lion, high upon the mountains, his blind lust was halted by the screech of a sax. “Tonm ou deja fouye, pitit gason”, the snaking tongue of the Baron soothingly warned him of his demise, at the hand of his own choses,"pitit gason, how reckless be dis act? Yuh fi be dead if not fi be blessed!". Pouring sexy notes of reassurance over the vibrant bangs of the war drums, the guiding flute placed Xango in a trance, as he slowly peaked over the edge of the table to see the three figures.

Only seeing them from his peripheral, he tucked back down, as the music in his head took over his mind, and the voices of the saints grabbed him in many directions, he closed his eyes, and took in a drag of his rich cigar. Holding the flavour inside of him, enough to give each of them a chance to taste the homegrown fertility that rested within the tobacco, Xango’s eyes popped open with a flame of red. And, in a second of squealing horns, he launched himself away from the table’s cover, into a barreling roll, and towards a nearing table. Grabbing the singular leg, he stood and whipped himself around. Ripping the entire chestnut table from the floor that it stood upon, he hurled it at one of the three figures…the one with the huge gun.

Almost off reflex, her voice struck his attention to strike at first. Launching the somewhat-small-yet-very-solid stand with so much ferocity that it forced him to continue turning and whip around a second time, after letting go of it, to catch his bearings, Xango aimed his gun on the second go-around, to stop and ring off three more shots in the direction of caped lad. Thick bullets of led and brimstone, they burned through the air, as the smell of ash and the flash of blinding reddish white light exploded into the room. Although, still a bit off balance, he tumbled off the souls of his rugged boots and back into the redwood wall. Hoping his shots weren't too off kilter, since he aimed for the lower region of the caper, the shots were wild. Thinking to cover up his brash action, as he knocked a few photos down, he noticed he was moving closer to the bar counter. So, as he knocked against the wall, he began to move for a second cover behind the bar.

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@superstay:

The flying table hit Credence directly, the force of the blow knocking her backwards until she landed on her buttocks, causing her finger to press the trigger accidently. There was an intense hiss, the rocket firing upwards toward the roof, creating a massive hole that was not there previously. Her eyes opened widely as her head rested on the floor, the rocket moving to her what was slow motion. She moved quickly, avoiding the debris of wood and clay. It wasnt the outcome she was hoping for, expecting her sister Clearwater to do what she could not.

Hemingway marveled at all that transpired, wondering how did it come to this. His eyes remained on Xango, even as his gun aimed directly at Hemingway, the fire of his mussel the inevitable action of possessing such a weapon. Hemingway did not know if Xango's shot was true, or a warning in his vicinity, but his survival instinct kicked in, causing his mass magical aura that he constantly kept under a series of barriers and seals to leak out. His aura seemed to quake the building itself momentarily with his aura unleashed even at a fraction of it caused the physical realm to react to his immense magical signature much like the mana which now fell like snow from his aura charring the physical realm momentarily until it was but a memory. Unleashed, the air became thick with his aura, any normal caught in its wake probably difficult to breathe even with the finest athlete. It was force against force, Hemingway's aura of effect causing the bullets to slow enough to see the spiral rotation of each projectile enough to dodge the fired bullets and onto the other side of the bar.

I guess your day really sucks to fire at me for saying its a magical day, huh? Hemingway uttered with a calm a giggle as if he were playing hide and seek. I guess you never have been to Disney huh? He would peek out from the corner of the bar, trying to see Xango as mana began to to fall once more at Hemingway's desire.

Clearwater wasted no time at the chaos, charging toward the the bar with her cleaver like sword braced for an attack. For such a small girl, her swing would inflict damage enough for her swing to cleave the heavy wooden construct into shattered pieces and debris. She did not know where Xango would be, but his actions infuriated her enough that he would see her anger spill from her eyes. Peek-aboo, scum-sucker.

@hemingway:

Flying across the wall, the natty-haired boy hit the ground, covered in wood debris and spilled peanuts, before rolling behind the bar counter. Immediately checking on his gun, his hazel eyes stared into the engraving of the cast-iron barrel. 'What begins inna Fire, ends inna Grave', and he thought to his fathers. Beginning to fall into deep though, communing to his saints and ancestors for further guidance, he felt the intense boom of air and force, flushing the room in something beyond this realm.“¿Es mágico?”, Xango thought to himself, as he gritted his teeth and bit his cigar.“Dem no fi be normal...”, he muttered to himself, but moreso to his saints. Knowing his parents were listening to him, as he stared into a purplish-black bottle of spiced alcohol, from the toughened mountains of Haiti, the caramel lad thought to his fathers. On the matter of his foes' earthliness, if they were in fact something other, he could loosen up a bit on them. His fiery father urged him to go fully into the flames and give them all. Though, his deathly father warned against him unleashing too much within the midst of mortals, still before them.

In opposing tongues, opposing spirits, opposing elements, and opposing instruments, the two paternal figures disagreed within Xango's mind. And, the fight of the sax and conga continued as Xango slowly noticed his body's shift for the worst. Feeling his heart racing and his lungs becoming flushed and abnormally filled, he figured that burst was causing his physical body to collapse. Even the flame on his cigar began to fade from the shift in oxygen levels.

“Ọmọ mi, fun wọn ni ina mi ...”, he heard the Yoruba tongue of his father. Ordered in the flames of the Caribbean heaven, as the wailing trumpet spoke to the mighty conga, patting over the claves rhythm, the macho Shango spoke fire into him, and Xango breathed out steam as his breath rushed through the Cuban vessel of tobacco, flashing an intense flame. And, in that instance, he felt his senses alert him, and his sniffing nostrils picked up the scent of a force rushing near him. In the time it took his head to motion over into a glimpse over the bar, the counter cracked and tore, as the rushing lady charged through it like a rhino against cardboard. Ripping it apart, he quickly darted to his feet and stumbled back. Witnessing the sweeping stroke the thunderously killed the bar, sending glass and wood flying, the lad huffed as the blade came towards him in mere eye-twitching paces. Echoing in flashes, he managed to get back far enough for the end to slice his cheek.

As his mouth spat sparks of grey smoke, and his cheek puked crimson blood, his mortal throat emptied, as his head was thrown by the force of the strike. Stumbling backward, he knew in his mind that she would strike again. So, in that faint instant, Xango vanished into a puff of purple mist and smoke. Only to reappear behind the swordsman, soaring through the air, away from her and the bar, he aimed his cannon-or-a-revolver. “Perdóname, mi chére...”, he muttered a apology from his smoky lips, as he focused his barrel, ignoring the fact that he was craning backwards back into the bar room of tables and chairs, glass, trays, and numerous other things that would hurt the average mortal. And, in a flash of white, red followed. The eye of his revolver grew hellish in red fire, as Shango’s fury entered the room. And, the bullet that followed was encapsulated by sparking flames. While the booming eruption caused the lights to flicker with its volcanic wave of sound, the shot aimed at the back of her right thigh moved like thunder.

The smell of burnt sage filled the shaken room, as Xango descended into a shot glass covered table only mere half-seconds later. Hoping the shot connected, as well as almost hoping it didn’t, the fire was strong enough to burn straight through mortal flesh, if it did. And, if it didn’t, it’d burn through the wooden floor to match the scorched hole in the roof. Either way, the heat could be felt the same from outside. Almost as if they were in the baking sun of the West Indies, the room felt like a oven the entire time the fire lived through the air. Longing for the blood of its enemies, it burned furious and hungry with the strength of Shango.

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