I'll have a reply sometime toda
It was all about finding the side of which to take, neither necessarily screaming of a particular side or a care for the hell seer. However then it came, a telkenetic gesture of a most vicious kind. The visions of hell that could relate to such an act helped paint what side the hardened warrior was on. The care the younger guy had for the man something far more to Rana's liking. One was just moody the other was damned. So the decision was made, violence was wanted and so it was to be given. Rana though out to better the world was hardly as reserved as some other heroes death a passable judgment on particular people.
With a wave of the hand earth would rise to encompass the old man who looked after the Jedi. "That should keep your butler safe" she remarked as a tomb of obsidian stone looked to entrap the downed man. From the layers of hell where one was expected to lay behind rock and burn for eternity Rana had faith that nobody was breaking the man free less she wanted it. Treatment of Ali's men however was far less generous. As she looked to cast them into such tombs as well, but in there case Rana didn't hold of the cinders of hell. Locked away to burn was the fate the hell seer looked to bestow on those men.
"You know, I thought I was going to get to dance with a devil. The way you crave violence though tells me I'm just looking at an imp." Playfully casting her hands into the devil horns looking as though she might head bang instead of fight her hand suddenly fired a thin flame. No bigger then the blade of a rapier the javelin of fire looked to spear into the temple of the man. Fires of hell blazing at a heat equivalent to the sun turning falling and nearby snow into steam.
(sorry I failed to get to it last night peeps)
The shirtless Sith triumphantly celebrated the successful assault against the Count by antagonistically pacing back and forth along the elevated station of the Brick's aristocratic steps. His faux arm held in place behind the back by his more, visually acceptable appendage. He had struck the first blow, gazing down upon those who had dared express their discontent while in his self-anointed presence. 'Fools' he thought, righteous indignation shadowing his theatrical pace, never lifting the optical survey that continued to register the revenge minded ward's inevitable counter-attack.
There was to be a culmination of combat articulation, first by the unknown force-sensitive apprentice - who sought to replicate the Bashir Bishop's suffocating strike, and then by the teenage gateway to Hell. Entombing the Count in a cradle of symbiotic stone and magic. Powerful, magic. Beyond the speeds of Olympic reflexes, the entire display had become an instantaneous ignition of dynamic reactions. Without hesitation Ali had barely managed to reverse his proud and passive stride, bringing his faux arm up before his face and ahead of his optimal appendage, engineering a defensive minded cross to intercept the telekinetic choke. The force of which savagely compressed the faux fabrication, crushing its structural integrity before hurling the Black Sun Sith backwards towards his acolytes.
Like a parting sea the Fianna smoothly slid back allowing their master to land in agitated crouch, but one of his own acrobatic making. A sudden and unexpected umbrella of translucent hues and colors, courtesy of the Montessi, sheathed itself over top of - and across, the small confederacy of dark-force users. Ali and his Fianna. Offering the current owner and those who worshiped his divinity an esoteric shield from the incurable teenage interloper.
Rising, slowly at first, to a standing position of stoicism, Ali brushed his bare shoulders off, and violently pulled the decommissioned remains of his bio-pharma'd arm off, letting it unceremoniously clank on the ground. "And?" Ali confidently smirked. Looking to entice the newly aligned duo to 'step it up' a notch. If they could.
Sorion has once again drawn his saber to a defensive position, narrow eyed and furious still as he stared down the One-Armed Sith. He felt the anger simmering within at the smooth evasions of Ali's knights. At the smirk tugging at the corner's of Bashir's mouth. At how his knights had dispelled the girl's flame. I'm going to cut that smirk off his face.
He looked around as a layer of earth rose to surround his mentor, one of the few friends he had on this earth. His attention briefly flitted over to the sorceress or demon or whatever she was, meeting her eyes as he felt a sudden surge of gratitude and appreciation of the girl's presence here. "Thank you," said Danny, nodding.
He took this moment of gratitude to enable cool air to filter through his nose and out through his mouth, prompting some semblance of calm to settle over the fury bubbling within in. If he was going to fight a Sith Lord, he needed to keep a cool head. Or, at the least, keep his anger direct, precise, a cold fury that would power every slash thrown at Bashir's shirtless form.
The Paladin was determined as he fixed his attention back on the Master of the Brick. His right hand's grip on the saber's hilt tightened, knuckles white beneath the gloves. He took another breath, leveling the humming, elegant device to his opponent's level.
"And?" Danny repeated, raising his eyebrows. "And, Mister Much-More-Than-A-Sith-Lord, you're a sissy! Couldn't even muster up the courage to attack me upfront, so you went for my mentor!"
"Let's not forget you choking a teenage girl, and then when she retaliates, your whole squad has to come together to save your cowering hide. And yet you still try to instigate. Do you feel safe up there behind your crew, Bashir?"
Danny knew he was tempting fate. There was every possibility that Ali outclassed him in every way. He'd been a Jedi for little over a month. Bashir was a Sith Lord, and the cool air he emanated did more than suggest that he was beyond a force to be reckoned with. He was likely one of the most dangerous individuals Sorion had yet encountered.
"Dismiss them," he commanded, knowing full and well he had no power here. "Dismiss them, and fight me...or we can all just walk, and you get nothing but wasted time and wasted opportunity. It's not like you can hurt us, can you? He survived, she survived, and you've already succumbed to the fear of taking me on, till proven otherwise, of course."
Ignoring the fact that she struggled and Oliver got extremely lucky...
A shattered arm a barrier and a tactical retreat and the results of the attacks made had been less then concluding as Rana had hoped. The shattered black stones from her attempted conjured tombs told of a magic that may just go beyond what the novice hell conjured could do. Devoid of fear and intimidation though she only saw the actions as a challenge. She also knew that the likelihood of giving up on contest was unlikely first though, some attempted theft.
"I'd of much rather studied and borrowed but seeing as I'm unwelcome." Extending her arm it passed through the air blood dripping from distorted air as the girl's hand vanished. It'd appear in the library looking to take hold of an old relic of a bock a thick tomb of chains and arcane signs. It might just be the most in depth volume on the darker aspects of the after life. She looked to take it and if she could then she'd attach it to her back the chains letting it work akin to a backpack. "Don't get me wrong ridicule is fun but it's far from a classy action." Stepping from her perch to stand beside the Jedi the umbrella had a somewhat humorous look next to a radiant energy blade.
"And I wouldn't expect someone who chokes a sassy teen and tries to explode the organs of a butler as someone who respects the one v one." Her eye changed in its projection lustful and immoral was the pits of hell to which Rana had to look. It was sick and uncomfortable but she'd come to accept the burdens of her vision. With a twist of her umbrella where one might expect stones or fire as she'd shown however instead came a hurricane. With ear splitting roars a cyclone began to spiral through the air with a vicious hell. It was a wind that turned dust and debris, such as broken stones of her previous attack into bullets. The winds were swift enough to carve up the air casting a blender of an environment. In hell the frigid wind was intended to chill the damned to the bone as wicked gusts tore apart flesh and muscle. And it was this vile forecast the heterochromia hellion had sought to cast in the way of the one armed Sith and his followers.
With grace and stylish comfort an emerald and gold stitched ceremonial cloak was fashionable swung over the elongated shoulders of the mythical icon, Raysh'Al Shaytan. A perfect compliment to his already existing attire. "Are you sure it is worth it? He is, after all, but one man." a soothing yet audibly concerned voice inquired, while simultaneously overseeing the particular implantation of various regalement upon her father's persons. "You do him a great dishonor. The Last Mark Bearer is much more then a mere man, he is his brother's keeper, the keeper of Cain and by extension, its unfathomable power. More importantly however, he the closest living thing our dear Abigail has to a friend."
Closing his eyes, the self-proclaimed 'Tru Shaytan' afforded himself a mind clearing moment of introspection and cerebral contemplation. Meditative metaphysics allowing his consciousness to race across the ether as taught by the greatest Keijijo practitioners in existence. "I still do not understand why so many have tried, and failed, to end her. Your.....precious successor. And now apparently even the return of Satar is not without its mysterious connection to this, wayward hero" the feminine voice continued, a hint of slight agitation, or perhaps even jealously governing her cadence. But the Shaytan merely sighed. With neither the time nor patience for petty placation, he simply elevated his hand with sobering purpose. "My vision of a perfect World does not require you do understand. What it requires is your obedience."Dexterously turning, the Shaytan's weighted cloak flowed and arched behind his retreating silhouette. "If I have called upon you more then by which you can deliver, by all means, stay home."his voice stern and confident as it trailed off.
Unlike the wave upon wave of forceful opposition that had visited the Brick in recent months, the Shaytan's disarming arrival had not been cause for concern. Though certain he could, would, prevail against its current host and his fabled Fianna, the celebrated Knightfall saw no reason to incite an open conflict, to start a war in the name of rescuing one man. Having arranged a premeditated meeting with the fallen Warden of the False Bay, a trade was initiated. One soul, plucked from the metaphysical prison by which it was trapped in exchange for a perfectly detailed map leading straight to the esoteric well springs hidden deep inside the mythical Temple of قيامة. "Vincent." Snapping his fingers, the Knightfall legacy loomed larger then life over the heavily bandaged and motionless figure of the Last Mark Barrier. Freshly plucked from the Brick's haunting walls of living aberrations. "Tis time to wake, al'Shaytan" a hint of mockery now fleshing out his verbal discourse. "Your 'our' Abigail is in desperate need of help." he grinned with sinister implications.
"I can do this all day. Do your worst you son of a bitch."His words would soon be drowned out the subtle sound of his skin being slowly cut from his body. By the time his imagined captors were done, his body would be nothing but a mess of exposed muscle and gore. But he never died. No, it wasn't his time. He would fall unconscious and awake to find himself whole only to reexperience the multitude of torments conducted on his body. Over, and over again. His imagined captors beat him, burned him, flayed him, among other agonizing deeds. This must be hell. That singular thought reverberated through out his entire being.
He didn't know if it was Ali or Strix that was doing this to him. It felt like years since Vincent had sat foot outside the Brick. Since he lost to Ali. Instead of death, Vincent's battered body was thrown and locked inside of a dark corridor within the esoteric compound. Day by day, his torturer's visage and voice change. Some days it was Abigail Aensland whispering sweet nothings into Vincent's ears as she distributed his punishment. "You let him take my mother. You betrayed me. How could I forgive that Vincent?" Other days, it was Charlemagne forcing Vincent to choose between those closest to him. "Who's it gonna be kid? Emille first? Then little Ellie? Then Abigail last?" He would leer at Vincent and smile. "If you choose, it'll be quick. If not. Then I'm going to have to get creative. But either way, you will choose kid."
The last of his tormentors was none other then his late Uncle, Declan Harrow. The man that made Vincent into what he was. His one, cold blue eye bore into Vincent's. “Clarity of vision is a thing much prized. One that I prized above all else. To see things, and people as they are and what they could be with the right push."He raised his hand and affectionately stroke Vincent's cheek. "Yet, I often found that when you turn such clear sight upon yourself, and see through to the truth behind your own actions, well, it might be better to be blind. Would you disagree, nephew?"A smile spread across his lips as his the fingers of his hand plunged into Vincent's eye socket and preceded to rip one of his eyes out. He raised the bloody appendage and showed it to Vincent. "What do you see, nephew? I'll tell you what I see. A battered and bloody child." He tossed the appendage to the ground "I gave you a great gift. Yet, you do not use it. You can do so much more with those eyes then what you know, nephew. Now, once more, with feeling, nephew. What do you see?"
This time he awoke to the voice of a dead man. But his eyes, he couldn't see. The mark had not once been sealed since being thrown into the Brick. As if the energies of the compound continually powered it. Now, it was dormant. And that voice, the voice that at one time had welcomed him into the League. "I knew I hadn't heard the last of you. No one stays dead now a days."Vincent coughed as his battered body laid out on the ground. He could feel the wind as it beat against his skin. "Where am I?"
"You, perhaps more then anyone should know, death is never the end." the mercurial martial master sardonically surmised. Taking great care in his visual observation of the returned Shaytan's mental and physical disposition. Seeking out any and all traces of postural degradation, or cerebral retardation. "Impressive. One would expect to find you in a more....disrupted state of well being, but you appear none the worse for wear." Gliding his ringed hand just inches over and across the blind-mark bearer's battered face, careful not to diminish his own sense of entitlement by making physical contact with the disgruntled leader of the fractured League.
"You've had quite the adventure Vincent. What torturous wonders you must have seen in there. But tell me, how exactly was the mighty Shaytan defeated by a magical charlatan such as Ali Bashir?"the Knightfall's devilish brow elevated, as did his kneeling posture. "Did you submit? Have you finally given up? Tell me Vincent, is there any fight left in you? Or did I make a grave error in judgment and rescue a man who has abandoned all hope?" gripping the hilt of his non-discript blade ready to execute his possible mistake, should the conversational tone call for it. "I have need of you, Al'Kalb (the Dog). And in return I can offer you the man who sought to destroy your mind,body and soul by locking it away in a space between the living and the dead. But we must act quickly. What say you?"
Vincent merely sat on his knees. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. He slowly clenched his fists and let out another cough. He wanted to lash out, take a swing at the Devil. Instead he kept his hands at his side. He still had Gae Bolg. But he didn't have the strength to summon the lance. Not now. The cursed Celtic turned his head towards the sound of The Devil's voice. All he could do was listen, for now. There was no point in avoiding the question of how he was defeated. Perhaps the question was designed to assess The Dublin Devil's mental facilities. "Through pragmatic strategy. He sacrificed his own men to bring me down. Used them as shields to deflect the majority of my death blows. Not to mention the Dark Side that he had tapped into. I didn't have the man power at the time and couldn't afford to lose another man. So I came alone. I was simply out matched, out maneuvered, and out numbered. I'm certain you already know all this."
His dull eyes flashed crimson for a mere second. He had to know if he was out of the Brick. "Dog huh?" He made no intention to hide the disdain in his voice. Still, this could be another manifestation the Brick conjured to help break him. He had to know. For a mere instance his burning eyes locked with the Devil's"I've never had much hope to begin with. You know that. But the fight....the will to survive. It's all I've ever had. I believe that's why you seeked me out in London all those years ago. I have no illusions when it comes to you and what you want. I know that one day, you, or someone else close to me will be my executioner. The Brick showed me that. But, I also know that you will hold back just so long as I am useful. To move sooner would be wasteful. And your anything but wasteful. So, what the fck do you want? Aside from Abigail. She's just an elaborate piece on your ever growing board."
"Well now" her venomous voice hissed. "That was quite the colorful soliloquy. I never would have taken you for the theatrical type, Al'Kalb." Placing her manicured hand on her flexed hip, dismissively ignoring the faint yet distinctive sounds of gunfire and conflict resonating in the far off distance of the Brick. The only daughter of the 'Tru' Shaytan stood in judgmental surveillance of the downed anti-hero. "But if you two wouldn't mind, I suggest we conclude this heartwarming reunion elsewhere. It would appear as if the Bashir and his Fianna are more formidable then anticipated."
Quintus smirked a wicked conveyance of arrogant enticement and egotistical confidence before addressing his snobbish but dedicated daughter. "Did you retrieve the artifact?" he questioned. A subtle hint of rhetorical affirmation symbiotically accompanied the inquiry. To which the half Liafador half Knightfall heir smugly scuffed. "Then it appears as though we have everything we came for." Extending his hand towards the awakened leader of the fractured League.
"I will explain everything in due time my friend, but for now you'll simply have to trust that your help and Abigail's safety are paramount to the success of my plans." A small yet martially effective contingent of acolytes seemingly appearing from various corners of the Brick. Their excited postures and defensive mannerisms all lending to the visual sense of urgency. "Or you could stay here and once again face the author of your captivity. The choice, as always, is yours....."
"Theatrics can at times be of use."Vincent sardonically replied to the Devil's daughter. After finishing his sentence, his enhanced senses picked up the the incoming sounds of gunfire and steel clashing against steel. Of course, the mercurial Knightfall wouldn't waste the trip just for him. There was always an ulterior motive with him. Plots within plots. All Vincent could do was listen to the verbal exchange between father and daughter.
Then, the infamous Knightfall turned to Vincent, and spoke his case. Vincent, ever being the pragmatist, made no hesitation. He solemnly nodded his head. "We should leave. Now would be great. The longer this drags out, the quicker Ali gains advantage."The Heir of Cain stood to his feet with great difficulty. He didn't know how far he could go in his current state. The Brick sapped everything from him. But he wouldn't collapse. Not here, not yet. His breathing was ragged. One day Ali and Strix will account for me. There was no point in speaking his thoughts. Instead he put one trembling leg in front of the other and followed the sounds of footsteps around him.
(I figured I keep it short. Seems like a good stopping spot.)
The inconspicuous craft landed along the outskirts of Dublin. From there, The Devil's Head and Tactical Hybrid made their way to towards Jean Luc. Vincent said little along the way. He hated this place. But it was here, that Jean Luc took residence. No doubt utilizing the vast arcanic energies that lied dormant within Vincent's former prison. The moment Vincent entered the esoteric building, he was momentarily halted by a whisper. It called to him to him, that prison that Ali had thrown the Dublin Shade's battered body into. And now, those voices, those voices from the abyss begged him to come back to them. They weren't done with the Cursed Celtic. Vincent, remained stoic on the outside. But inside, he dreaded hearing those inhuman voices.
"Careful of this place. There's more here than you know. If you're going to start a fight with him, then I suggest you start planning your exit."His tone was somewhat sarcastic as the unlikely pair pressed on. Fountains of forbidden knowledge and artifacts were on display before them. They stopped short of what was supposedly the heart of the building where the supposed king of kings waited. Vincent sent word ahead of time that He and Cass we're well on their way and would be there before sun rise. "And here we are." Vincent muttered as the doors to the main chamber were finally opened.
Arms folded behind his back, his posture one of poise and self-certainty, Impero strode into the room, the echoes of his footsteps drawing the attention of his Masquerade agents. In unison, his Masquerade agents turned to face him, each one issuing a respectful inclination of the head as he stood before them. The light bulbs above them cast a warm sepia hue all about, and from behind his mask's empty, alabaster visage, the Last Emperor's piercing eyes met his agents' collective gaze. His arms now held at his side, Impero took a step forward, his presence casting an enigmatic quality colder than the ice water running in his veins, his deep voice rasping a simple command, "Continue".
And continue they did. Turning away and once more dedicating themselves to the papers and pencils set before them, the Masquerade agents conceptualized and calculated, running through equation after equation, mathematical operation after mathematical operation in a bid to unravel the anomaly that was Cassius Knightfall. There were no computers, no powerful systems of sophisticated technology - there was nothing that could be hacked. Instead there were papers scribbled to their edges with all manner of equation and abstract theories. With a greater network density in their brains, and thick bundles of neural materials connecting and coordinating activity between the left and right sides of their brains, the Masquerade agents were geniuses of extraordinary cognitive ability.
When not memorizing entire libraries of information, they were multitasking and running entire mental simulations in the span of seconds. And here, now, they dove into the heart of pure mathematics, a field that dealt only in the abstract, and perhaps held the key to unlock the true nature of Cassius Knightfall. However, as the Last Emperor strode about the room, his eyes calmly examining equation after equation, he was certain in his theory. That Cassius was a programming glitch in the information fabric of the universe. Impossible to destroy and impossible to alter. The efforts of the Masquerade were simply a means of confirming what he had already decided as true.
The second Cassius stepped off the plane something felt off to him. This place was not like any other he had been since he discovered his new self. He could see shade and shadow but they were quiet and oddly distant to him. The very air was all but silent as if clouded in something ethereal. This was unsettling. The lone Knightfalls caution flaring again as his company warned him of hidden depths beyond clear sight. The silence was off putting but the idea of hidden rogue elements worried him even more. These were his tools, deception, and misdirection as well known to him as the fingers on his hands, yet as the two walked he saw nothing, heard nothing. This place was a blank canvas to him, and house at least one Lebeau. That put him on edge.
As the doors of the main chamber opened the Master assassin and the Noir Knightfall stepped through into a grand hall beyond. Cassius taking the lead as he hid his fear. Fear was something the weaker version of himself should have. He wasn't that man anymore he was more. Seeing a lone man sitting at the end of the room he advanced stopping at a distance he deemed close but not too close.
" My name is Cassius Knightfall. You called me to this place. I came. Explain the purpose of this meeting?"
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