Get off my lawn

Aithene

So, Ingram and Aithene were casually talking about the Divine after Ingram casually decked some random. He's very casual.

A lantern situated upon a far-off desk flickers into being and a quiet, rhythmic clicking can be heard, like nails strummed slowly upon a wooden surface.

"Your fingers aren't looking all that delicate right now," Aithene states with a glimpse down at Ingram's wrapped hand. The vampire startles at the lantern that flickers to life and she glances over her shoulder at it for a moment before replying to Ingram, "Of course you can. What is it?"

Ingram's head lifts up and he glances at the lightsource with a distracted frown. His head tilts as he listens for something before shaking his head as he shakes off his concern over it. "Fifty thousand sovereigns," he states as he clears his throat.

Aithene's eyebrows plunge into a frown that creases her usually smooth brow, "What makes you think I would even possess that amount?" the woman asks with another glance cast over her shoulder towards the lantern.

Seeming to forget to answer, Ingram takes a step back, leaving his hands loose at his side as he peers around. His face tightens minutely and his breathing, through his nose, gets a little heavier.

Again, the soft rhythmic cadences of strumming fingertips upon a desk resonate within the comely room.

"What is it?" Aithene asks and alarm sends her voice up a pitch before she spins around towards the direction of the rhythmic tapping, "Who is it?" the vampire asks and her muscles coil inwards as her body tenses into a defensive stand.

Ingram's neck bends as he sticks his head a bit forward, brow lifting and he sing-song inquires, "Who goooes there?" His levity is a bit betrayed by the unsure hint in his tone. He looks down to you and shrugs a shoulder. "Hopefully not who I'm thinking of," he mutters.

An uneasy feeling prickles your skin, and the distinct sensation of being watched descends heavily upon your head. With your sharpened sense of hearing, you are able to hear a soft rustle of fabric as it brushes against a bookshelf.

Ingram's hand moves to rest in the small of his back, jacket getting pulled up and crumpled in the seat faintly. He parts his feet a few degrees and meets your eye again as he tries to focus on something not shifting and melding. "Aith?"

"I hope for the same," Aithene replies lowly and her head snaps in the direction of a sound. A careful step takes the woman towards a bookshelf and away from Ingram as her eyes narrow, "I hope for the same," she repeats on a voice that wavers just slightly and her wings tighten against her spine.

Aithene looks back at Ingram and her irises have been gobbled up by her pupils again.

"Well, it's yours or mine," Ingram sighs out, backpedaling slowly to vaguely follow with you.

Ingram's arm tenses faintly, hand behind him tightening into a gripping fist.

At the corners of your vision, you see the hem of a white dress teasingly disappearing from sight behind another bookshelf.

The rhythmic sound starts up once more, but there is a distinction between the sounds now: this one appears to be made on a denser material, very much like a book than a table.

"Although I'm going to remain hopeful and optimistic," Ingram mutters out of the corner of his mouth, largely to you, but partly to himself. "Maybe it's not." He sniffs sharply and tosses a glance to the descending stairs before returning to scan the surroundings.

A sound that is a mixture of a growl and strangled groan pulls from Aithene's throat, "Show yourself," the vampire demands and she touches Ingram's shoulder lightly before stalking across the room as she follows the sound.

A loud, groaning sound overwhelms all other noise in the room here, and the ground beneath your feet shudders violently, as though it is in danger of falling away from you. As the trembles stop, however, you realize that the staircase leading down to freedom.. is blocked.

Ingram's opposite hand lifts to unbutton the front of his coat with a flick of two fingers. He rolls his shoulder forward and finds solace, for a moment, in silence.

Aithene shakes out the ache in her arms as her wide eyes settle on where the exit once was, "You're playing a cruel game," she murmurs to the shifting presence and she casts a sidelong glance at Ingram.

Quickly onset, Ingram stumbles a step to his left, shutting his and and pressing a hand to the side of his head. He breathes slowly, controlled, brow knitting as he focuses. His head gives a sharp shake before lifting again and he says, through gritted teeth, "I'm back to pessimism again, Aith." He glances about and rubs his hand roughly over his hair before dropping it. "Could you quit -fucking- around?"

The flame within the lit lantern abruptly extinguishes itself, and as darkness begins to creep back into the space it was once chased away from, the outline of a figure, clearly Divine, slides into view.

"You and I both, mister Tenor," Aithene replies as she crouches low, watching the figure that moves through the darkness. Dark eyes narrow again as the woman attempts to make out the features.

"Did no one teach you, mortals, the power of Names?" comes the cold, cruel voice of Chakrasul as She languidly shifts Herself out of the settling darkness and into perception with a sinuous sway of Her hips. The light that falls upon Her features emphasizes the angularity of Her cheekbones and the sadistic amusement that has arranged itself into an expression upon Her face.

In spite of things, Ingram slumps faintly as he gives an audible, but faint, sigh of relief, hand coming from around his back to drop at his side. He has trouble taking his eyes from Chakrasul to toss a concerned glance at you, but he manages it. He doesn't answer Chakrasul's question.

"No," Aithene says with a quick shake of her head and the vampire steps back, "No," she repeats again and strands of hair fall free of her ponytail, "You're resting, recovering. Not here, be anywhere but here," the woman stupidly demands of Chakrasul before her eyes squeeze shut.

In the dull, grayish surroundings, the presence of Chakrasul along with the unfurling tendrils of jade mist is almost too much to take in. Glittering eyes shift and settle upon you, but instead of walking in your direction, She makes Her way towards Ingram instead.

Coldly, precisely, Chakrasul, Goddess of Corruption says, "Am I, Aithene D'baen, simply a figment of your imagination? Perhaps you would like Me to prove.. otherwise."

His rigidity returns, Ingram back straightening. He folds his hands behind his back as if to properly receive someone, and one disappears under the vent in the back of his coat. His eyes track Chakrasul, pace of his breathing taking a hike up, and he plants a foot slightly behind the other.

"No! Leave him!" Aithene says and she quickly steps closer to Chakrasul, "You're here, I see You," the woman lowers her dark eyes respectfully and the humming of insect wings lifts into the air as the vampire's wing begin to flitter.

Gracing you with a careless backwards glance, Chakrasul reaches Ingram without any cause for concern, languid grace in every action She takes as She tilts Her head to the side and stretches out a thin hand towards him.

Ingram cranes back, trying to maintain a distance. His hand begins to retreat from his back, something in tow, and at the last moment he merely shoves it back in and lets his hands raise up to his chest. "Wait," he starts, eyes on the approaching extremity.

Unfamiliar with the word, Chakrasul chooses simply to ignore it. The hand of the Dark Lady whips forward, snaring about Ingram's neck and dragging him close to Her side. Now, however, She turns to you, emerald gaze seeking to observe the vampire's reaction.

Cruelly, Chakrasul, Goddess of Corruption says, "Thank you for offering Me this delightful morsel, Aithene. He will be a lovely test subject."

Ingram's legs kick out from under him, shoes scraping on the floor as he tries to get footing. Both his hands curl around Chakrasul's wrists, his face twisting into a faint struggle as he tries to pry it off. His eyes, for the briefest moment, shoot to you.

"No!" Aithene shrieks as she lunges for Ingram, "I see you, Mother! I see you, I just wish I didn't. You ruined me when I lost You. YOU RUINED ME!" a fire ignites in the darkness of the vampire's eyes, "Let him go. Do not take him from me," she says lowly and her hands come up to Ingram's arm, but her eyes are on Chakrasul, "You took a portion of my mind, is that not enough for You?"

Spinning around swiftly, not caring how graceful She looks, Chakrasul slams Ingram into the nearby wall, hard enough to elicit the sharp crack of bone from Ingram's body. "I am Corruption, Aithene, and I take what I desire," comes the cold, cruel voice of Chakrasul. "Will you stop Me, I who controls every fiber of your being, Blood and all?"

Ingram's eyes roll up faintly, his body going mildly slack. Trailing lines of red paint down the colorless surface behind him, dripping, crawling, and splattering lines to disappear behind his shoulders. A hand slides off Chakrasul's wrist to fall limp at his side. Only a beat later, consciousness returning, does he jerk back to animation with a struggling, wheezing gasp.

Aithene sways a little, slightly stunned by Chakrasul's sudden movement and the sweet scent of fresh blood lifting into the air, "What do You want from me?" she asks the Goddess softly and her dark eyes settle on Ingram as her hands curl into tight little fists, "Because You and I both know I cannot stop You. But You would not be here unless You wanted something. Desired something. What is it, Mother?"

"Terror," is Chakrasul's answer, as She lifts Ingram from the wall, holding him at eye level as She leans in, taking in the scent of blood. Her pupils are dilated slightly, an indication of Her pleasure. "I want you to remember what you've lost. I want you to wade in your despair. I want you broken. Not just physically," She continues, Her breath cool against Ingram's face, ".. I am sure you understand."

Damariel arrives from the out.

Wordlessly, leaning heavily upon His cane, Damariel approaches, His mouth twisted into a firm frown, lifts His cane, and, with a two-handed grip, He pivots on His good leg and wallops Chakrasul across the back of the head.

Firmly, Damariel, the Unbound says to Chakrasul, Goddess of Corruption, "Bad."

"I will not give that to You, not again," Aithene all but growls and she steps closer to Chakrasul, her wings flaring and hanging around her slight figure, "You took that from me already, You made me fight against it already. So no. I deny You that."

Aithene blinks quickly in surprise at Damariel and her features twist from a scowl into a look of confusion.

Even with the trouble in focusing, Ingram aims his gaze back at Chakrasul, legs sporadically kicking in the air. One hand still grips Chakrasul's wrist, the other clinging a bit further up the arm. His eyes are reddened, bloodshot, his face dotted with trails of bulging veins. He only breaks his stare to catch a glimpse of the oncoming cane aimed towards his captor.

A hiss issues forth from Chakrasul's lips as Damariel's cane connects heavily against the back of Her head. Even so, She does not relinquish the grasp upon Ingram's neck. With nimble footwork, She maneuveurs Herself quickly out of the range of the Unbound's cane and bares Her ebon fangs. Obvious pleasure settles upon Her features as She recognizes Her assailant, yet Her next words are not directed to Him but to you: "Then I will tear away what lingers within you that was not yours, as you believed, but -Mine-."

As Ingram's whipped about, body flinging around and below the hold on his neck, a faint groan emanates from his chest. His mouth parts to emit a single hacking couch and his fists start trying to flail and slam onto the extremity snaring him, eyes jammed shut.

Sinking to one side, Damariel rests again upon His cane - His face is fixed in a scowl, His left leg sliding across the floor as He makes His slow, cumbersome approach. It bends at an odd angle, clearly mended imprecisely. "Set the boy down," He says, "And stop plying Your foul trade here."

"You already laid Your claim on me the first time, there is nothing else for You to claim," Aithene growls back at the Goddess, "You marked me long ago, so I do not know what You seek to achieve," the vampire moves around Chakrasul and towards Ingram. A hand comes to the woman's mouth in attempt to block the smell of blood, but her pupils dilate further.

"This is My land, Brother," comes Chakrasul's cruel voice, "Ever since Your antics with the guards within the Citadel, I didn't think You would be allowed entrance again." The edges of the Goddess's lips inch upwards before they split apart to form a vicious smile. Her other hand sets itself upon the handle of a wicked, obsidian-spiked whip. "You look incapacitated."

"What My Brother doesn't know," Damariel whispers, roughly, as if in defiance of His obvious limp, "Will harm Him none. Your land-" He jabs His cane, vaguely, toward Ingram, "My concern. Stray sheep. Not Your mutton, not Your eating." The speech, such as it is, has exhausted Him. "Put him down."

Quietly, you say, "Lord Damariel, please get him away from Her. If nothing else, just that... Just that..."

Ingram's eyes flutter as conscious begins to fade again. His wailing hands slow the pace and begin to miss entirely of their target. His legs have gone fairly inanimate.

A soft crackle of metal meeting obsidian can be heard as Chakrasul slides a wicked, obsidian-spiked whip from its position upon Her waist. The length of the whip unfurls across the ground like a slithering snake. Chakrasul holds it firm and steady beside Her and maintains Her gaze with Damariel as She brings Ingram's body up again. She tilts Her head and with a quick gesture, moves to sink Her ebon fangs into his injured neck.

"Stay with me, mister Tenor," Aithene says quietly to Ingram behind her hand and she shoots a dark glance up at Chakrasul before noticing what Chakrasul is about to do, "No!" the vampire shrieks again and without even thinking, the vampire lunges for Chakrasul's wrist, aiming to use her own fangs.

Damariel's hand tilts back - and in His hand, a sileris berry. He shoves it into His mouth, chews, shoves the pulp into His palm, and flings the substance through the air. Unfortunately, as you moves to intervene, the berry's contents plaster themselves across the side of your face.

Consciousness returns with no small measure of rapidity, Ingram jerking back to life and clawing about, one hand at his neck and face, the other dragging his nails down Chakrasul's arm.

Chakrasul's grasp upon Ingram's neck relaxes a fraction as She moves into action, Her whip-wielding hand jerking up and then falling. A sharp CRACK! is heard as a wicked, obsidian-spiked whip connects with the ground by your right foot. The tip of the whip wraps tightly about your ankle, pulling you off-balance.

Cruelly, Chakrasul, Goddess of Corruption says, "How lovely he looks, tainted by My disease. He is going to die, you see."

Allotted enough give, however minor, to bring his lungs back into some function, Ingram's focus faintly, but their crimson tint fades none. His body reacting as it does takes precedent to the hold on his throat and panic sets in, hands still clawing and darting, moving over himself as his eyes shine with wetness.

Ingram crumples to the ground, his eyes rolling back as the disease claims the last of his life.

"No!" Aithene shrieks again as she hits the ground by Chakrasul's feet. The vampire lays dazed, staring up at Chakrasul with various emotions crossing over her delicate features. She rolls over and pushes up against the ground onto her hands and knees, "Lord, save him, please," the pleads and the strange berry mixture drops from her cheek, "Fight it, mister Tenor," the woman says fiercely and her eyes snap to Ingram, "I lived through Her 'Gift', you can," as the life begins to fade from Ingram, she ignores the bite of whip to begin scramble over to him.

"Sister, Dearest." speaks a voice that seems to reverberate from the very stone, carrying with it the stink of ice and ozone. The frozen sky coagulates into the fearsome, draconic form of the city's Patron - Maghak, the Sovereign. He bellows, acidic spittle flicking across those present, "What, precisely, do You think You are doing!?"

"WELL!?" Maghak demands, slamming His tail across the towertop - with no care at all for you or the corpse of Tenor.

Damariel, for His part, isn't listening to His Brother - He's too busy attempting to beat Chakrasul to a pulp with fists, cane, and good leg all striking in tandem.

The tail grazes over Aithene as she slumps over Ingram's corpse, "She is proving a point to me," the vampire whispers.

Chakrasul's eyes widen as She takes in the appearance of Maghak in the small, circular room, not even bothering to move Herself to avoid the acidic spittle that flicks across towards Her. As a result, She takes Damariel's lunge head-on. An exhilarating laughter escapes from Her lips as She is thrown backwards, bruises forming from the flurry of fists. "No regrets, Brother Sovereign. I was paying a visit to those who called Me here."

"We were only talking about the Divine!" Aithene basically screams at Chakrasul as she hugs Ingram's corpse to her tighter, "Mortals and Consanguine talk about those of You watching over us."

"ENOUGH!" comes the Stormgod's roar, and He surges for the duelling Gods, propelling Himself with powerful beats of His enormous wings. Full-flight, Maghak crashes into Damariel and hurling Him aside with a savage blow from His taloned fists. "I SAID ENOUGH, DAMN YOU BOTH TO THE ABYSS!"

Damariel lands hard, His cane clattering to the floor - with a wince and gritted teeth, He crawls after it, snatching for the runed artifact. It seems that the cane is of Ankyrean make, bearing Qeddwyn's mark, which flashes in the light as one of the Truthman's hands closes around it. Now some distance away from His other two Siblings, He climbs back to His feet with some effort.

"You come to My city." Maghak hisses, low and rattling. His scales bristle like a field of upraised swords, and He draws Himself up to His towering Height, casting furious, burning glares between both Damariel and Chakrasul. "You fight like children in MY CITY!? YOU KILL THOSE UNDER MY OATH OF PROTECTION?"

"I was trying," Damariel insists, cutting in, "To stop Her, and it all went bad."

Chakrasul's hair, curled about Her neck, is in careless disarray, evidence of Her clash with the Unbound. She raises Her empty hand, brushing fingers tenderly across the bruises that begin to form. With deft flicks of Her right wrist, the Goddess stows a wicked, obsidian-spiked whip away, coiling it around Her waist.

Next to Maghak, massive and imperious, Damariel suddenly seems quite bent and small; feeble and pale, with His leg dragging uselessly beside His cane. It seems to be all He can do to stand upright, and guilt is written clear on His features.

Refusing to leave the corpse, Aithene rubs absently at her ankle, now free of the whip, "It was always going to be bad when She came to torment," the vampire says to the three Divine.

Chakrasul tilts Her head upwards slightly, a soft chuckle slipping past Her lips.

A soft, cruel laughter echoes through the halls of the Citadel.

Maghak turns on Chakrasul, bunching His muscles as His hands clench into fists. "You disrespect Me, Sister Harlot." He spits. "And You disrespect the compact between You as an Advisory and the people of Spinesreach. Be glad I am without a weapon, or I would crush Your skull where You stand - Your moaning and panting BE DAMNED!"

Chakrasul's emerald eyes narrow dangerously as She fluidly closes the gap between Maghak and Her. Her expression is serious, devoid of warmth and amusement as She stares at the God dead in the eye. "Watch Yourself, Gambler," comes the icy cold voice of the Dark Lady. "Very carefully." With this, Chakrasul turns and bounds down the staircase, breaking through the blockade of rocks that prevents entrance to the top of this astronomy tower with ease.

A jade mist seeps from the ground, enveloping the form of the Goddess of Corruption before wafting away in a slight breeze.

Aithene rises slowly to her feet and her wings curl inwards to drape around the woman. She steadies herself with a hand flattening against the wall before the vampire rolls her shoulders and straightens. As Chakrasul vanishes, a weight lifts from the Azudim.

Matter-of-factly, Damariel, the Unbound says to Maghak, the Sovereign, "As a matter of principle, I stand against murder, but if this situation should arise again, I will offer You My cane."

Practically bursting, Ingram almost has to skid to a stop, arms out. His eyes dart of Maghak, widened, and then snap to you. His chest heaves faintly with his breathing and he visibly recoils when Maghak's voice bellows out.

Aithene flinches away from the sound of Maghak's shout, one hand lifting to rest against her temple. Dark eyes lift to Maghak before lowering respectfully and as she sees Ingram, her face becomes the setting for various emotions to flit across.

Ingram rolls a shoulder and crosses over to you, keeping a side-eye on Maghak. He turns and ducks his head to peer at you, gauging for injury or illness before leaning into to plant his lips abruptly, but briefly, on your cheek. Straightening up, throat jumping in a small swallow, he looks back to Maghak, head angling back to allow it.

"I have no interest in the squabbles of mortalkind." Maghak rasps, the deep bass thunder of His displeasure shaking the windows in their frames. "Nor do I particularly care for your lives. But I will not tolerate such disrespect from the whore-queen of Djeir."

Without much to offer in argument and hesitant to volunteer anything in agreement, Ingram simply makes an apologetic face and flings out a hand through the air. His eyes keep to Maghak and his hand seeks for your.

"Noted, Lord," Aithene replies simply before her exhaustion creeps in, causing tense lines to crinkle at the sides of her eyes and her lips. She takes Ingram's hand and draws comfort from the gesture.

Maghak stoops for a moment, scooping up the corpse of Ingram in His immense claws. Casually, He bites off the head, crunching noisily as He bunches His hindquarters and leaps skyward, vanishing in a handful of heartbeats.

-------

I feel like I should say something witty about Maghak just... Chewing on the corpse, but I'm still recovering from the intense RP session, so feel free to make some.

Thank you to @Chakrasul @Damariel @Maghak and @Ingram for the RP. Loads and loads of fun.

Ingram

Weird, a log where I don't occupy most of the speech.

I'm kidding. This was amazing though, and a strikingly awesome surprise. I second, very hard, Aithene's thanks.

Moirean

*shakefist* stop killing Spireans, Chak!

Definitely a cool read and a great showing from Maghak. He makes a cool sort of Patron - you get this pretty bamf, "I am not really that fond of them, but damned if I'm going to let another god go smacking them around." I'm eager to see more logs to see how the whole bitchslap from Juxa has affected him.

The complex relationships between the divine these days are quite interesting, especially in the rivalries and infighting among the same sides and the cross-faction alliances. 

Poor Damariel looks so beaten up and broken and almost mortal. It's lovely.