Description: Two people with similar goals, coming from different directions, meet unexpectedly in tracking down a fleeing Cult of Gaia member. What they find is a woman on the verge, who is willing to put a terrible weapon in play to defeat her foes. One burns with the need to destroy the unholy, while another calmly accepts the sacrifice he must make to close the gate that has been opened...
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves...
Wait. Rewind.
Greece. It's early evening, and the dying sun beats down upon cobbled streets strewn with the last vestige of sleepy activity before this quiet place awakens once more. This particular den of olive-baked iniquity plays host to a scattering of small businesses, including the ruined husk of an antique shop once packed to bursting with glorious artefacts of a past age. Now, the windows are boarded, the sign fallen against the muddy earth bordering cracked and broken cobblestones. Only a handful of vowels are visible to announce a name forgotten even to most of the inhabitants...
There is still a door, though, with a suspiciously modern lock upon it. Whilst everything else is ruinous, security has clearly been made a priority. This may be simply to protect the denizens outside, however, as a beast lurks within - perhaps the very beast that has stained the portal's recently installed metal handle with damp, sticky crimson. Within, a booming, husky laugh barely emits to the outside. Calloused knuckles find meaty shelter in an already tenderized gut.
One more idiot, too weak to do their job, hits the filthy old carpet of the not-so abandoned store with a *whump*, raising a cloying cloud of dust. Brihan stalks forward, teeth scraping together as she hisses, lifting a heavy military boot, before shoving it against the hapless cultist's neck. Her power rises, blossoming into a searing, dirty orange smoke about her dark skin.
"This," she seethes, eyes alight with pure malice, "Is what's going to happen to you..."
So many questions, so few answers. Hints, certainly... answers? Not so much. Suggestions from Kyo and Tran that there is someone out there granting the dark power of the Orochi to individuals for some purpose. Hearing from Kyo that the Orochi himself is no myth, but a reality; a story with an actual occult history behind it that even the current players don't entirely understand. The knowledge that there is some cult, somewhere, furthering the ambitions of a dark and faceless serpent-god, doesn't shock Frei in the slightest. That terrible hunger he felt rising out of the ground like shimmering heat from that ruined temple in Sunshine City however long ago... it is the doubt-queller, the experience so vivid that it cannot be discounted or denied. It has set him on his current path... a path that, except for the brief company of Kula Diamond, has been a lonely one as well. But that is fine by the red-haired sage, in the end; like a stagehand, he will work behind the scenes, unseen and unnoticed, to do what he can.
Success is so, so much more important than anything else in this case.
Perhaps it is to his benefit, then, that most of the cultists of Orochi appear to be, without fail, utter morons. They are not hard to track; if anything, they almost seem to WANT to be found, leaving trails of inexplicable events and crimes in their wake that even a cursory use of modern information technology makes easy to trace, if you know what you're looking for. Never mind the fact that their serpent-granted powers -- that hungering, cold, gray chi that seems to eat at them from the inside out -- might as well be a hovering aura in the air, a sort of visible scent trail that shows their movements.
That is certainly why now, at sundown in a city overlooking the Aegean Sea like a spread of rippling sapphires extending to the horizon, Frei is standing outside this very shop in the street, looking less out of place than one might think. Sure, he's a green-eyed ginger with fair skin among the well-tanned, almost uniformly dark-haired Greeks, but the idea that a traveller from within Europe might be about is less crazy an idea than in other parts of the world. People pass him in the street, waving occasionally and looking confused as he waves back pro-forma, on autopilot, but without really seeing them.
"Something's not right," is all he can say.
The darkness has risen for far too long.
Alma Towazu, his scarred throat shielded from the offsea winds by a fluttering white scarf and the high collar of his obviously-designer tan jacket, merely narrows his eyes in acknowledgment of his friend and ally's words, following several steps behind. The time elapsed since his conference with Adelheid Bernstein and his erstwhile nemesis Seishirou Ryouhara has troubled him tremendously, and left him in an unusual state of powerlessness, the phoenix's allegedly indomitable faith tested by his despair and inability to protect those close to him. As the volunteers of the YFCC fell prey to the strange miasma that even he could sense, and Alma -- unlike Frei -- found it profoundly difficult to encounter the Anemoi himself, it became clear that their collective theory was correct: his psychic energy was outside the purview of the monstrous entity they faced for the fate of the world.
Yet if he could not wield it in their defense--
At last, his opportunity has come. He had been bracing himself for Ryouhara's intelligence, certain that he would be led into a battle designed to eliminate him and whatever dark opponent the amoral shinobi had analyzed. Instead, Frei has outdone the unfortunate Alma in identifying a worthy adversary. Both chi sage and psychic alike can sense the disturbance here, magnifying as they approach the building. It is the rare condition of this particular foe that both planet and man seem to warp and twist by their very presence. The earth is purged of human influence, and humanity--
"Frei..."
--consumes itself from within.
"This is the place."
They've stopped before the locked building. The scarred beauty offers no inducements or encouragement, no rousing speech. He and the sage alike are weary of this conflict, and Alma finds it utterly beyond him to gauge the power emanating from this place.
Well--
After a moment's pause, the champion of righteousness steps forward.
He always wanted to save the world.
Without another word, the mild-eyed Alma ferociously drives his foot into the door, tearing it off its hinges as though it were a fly to be swatted, striding into the room calmly, his gaze glinting with a spirit that instinctively begins to build in response to the presence of a force obviously antithetical to it.
"Pardon my intrusion," the Radiant Angel says blithely to the woman whose boot now presses down upon the cultist's throat, removing his right hand from his pocket in an almost penitent gesture -- or it would be, if those fingertips did not gleam with a still-building ethereal flicker -- "but I must ask you to release that person."
Despite his straight posture, Alma is almost defiantly sedate--
"Immediately."
Save, of course, for the glint in his gaze.
That aura the monk is so well attuned to, it permeates thicker by the second; clogging the very senses with a feeling that everything here is absolutely, profoundly /wrong/. As the pair of avenging angels reach the squat, dilapidated building, the sensation of corruption is almost like an actual, physical wall. Pushing through it takes not only desire, but willpower. Inside, Brihan leans to interpose the hapless cultist's vision with the full, violently lusting manifestation of her visage. Teeth stand out too-white against ebon skin, the flame within her oft-sleepy eyes seeming to expand, pressing forth. To burn. To hurt.
And then...
*whump*
".../what/."
Snarling, her lips contorting with unbound rage, Brihan tears her attention toward the door now flying toward her. It tumbles short of her prone prey, throwing up a further dust cloud that - for a moment - will conceal the black-hearted Ethiopian from view. When it clears, she remains precisely where she was, meeting Alma's heroic stare with a proud, terrible straightening of her own back. She bares teeth still, but slowly, languidly her mouth seems to relax. Tension pours from her muscular frame. Is she... smiling?
No. Because--
She /moves/.
There is a resounding crack.
Her mouth sets in a grim line as she removes her bloodied boot from the neck of her former associate, whose life leaves him with the merest, most pathetic groan. His throat has been torn open by the simple brutality of the motion - and the appointed leader of the Anemoi does not pay it any more attention now than she would the blowing of her nose. One purposeful step, then another, carries her within range of Alma Towazu, glimpses the red-headed sage behind him.
She pauses, wetting her lips, swallowing. Leaning back. Folding her arms.
And then she begins to laugh.
It starts as a deep, breathy, choking thing, but soon enough her mouth splits and she is bellowing, pushing every thunderous sound from the pit of her lungs. She recovers herself after what seems an uncomfortable eternity, pulling back with a nasty hiss, teeth like fangs above the dark curve of her lip. That smoke continues to pour from her skin, at no point checked since it began, though now it seems to boil at her flesh, a warm and sickly smell filling the ruined interior of the store. "You're a fool," she gruffs in her thick accent, tossing her head with a sheer, powerful arrogance. "I'll release more than just that little /traitor/."
Brihan draws a deep breath, her chest rumbling.
And then she screams.
It's not a piercing wail; but a harsh, raw, ragged thing.
It seems to shake the ground, rends the air like the continual slicing of the most bitter winds.
And something happens to that hideous, all-encompassing aura. It comes alive. The umber smoke pouring from Brihan is no longer notable - because it is EVERYWHERE, generating a fierce heat that consumes body and soul both. Even the street outside is affected, suddenly swept in a filthy mist, roiling upward to touch the skies. It's a phemonon that might inspire awe, if it did not inspire dread -- because if the air felt wrong before, now it is as if the gates of Hell itself were opening.
Brihan continues to scream. Her entire body quivering.
Yet somehow, she is still grinning. What is this?
COMBATSYS: Brihan has started a fight here.
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Brihan 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Brihan has joined the fight here on the left meter side.
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Brihan 0/-------/-------|
The rumbling earth is not just a mere bad feeling in the stomach of the weak. The mists that spill from air that seems to fracture - even break like a mirror! - spills all about. Gravity does not seem to affect these shards of thin air, solidified so much like clear glass that shatters into far smaller pieces upon impact with the decor of the damaged antique store.
A huge figure writhes in the smoke and mists that appear beyond the reproach of reality itself. The rattling of chains can be heard well above the screams of Brihan and the rushing of air as the very physics of the universe itself quiver before the sight of a very large, bloodied hand wrapped in bandage... purple? At once, it slams itself down to the ground dangerously near Brihan, in what appears an overtly hostile gesture. Its other arm, almost entirely obscured - if it even is an arm - raises above.
Something hoots. Something hollers. It is as though it may be unfamiliar with the very noises it is making... or is it a they?
Something huge follows through the smoke. It appears to dive forward from the mist. A purple, nearly naked humanoid husk - maybe male? - with a tiny head that has no skin around the lips, teeth bared and strangely clean. There is no nose. Its eyes are hidden behind a chafing orange blindfold. Steel shackles around the wrists suggest someone intended to keep it, whatever it is, well away from here. Anywhere. From existence itself.
Nails are visibly driven through its hands and feet. Metallic stubs mark its spine from top to bottom. Its body, composed of numerous stitches - including a deeply blue-colored part that takes up much of the upper left corner of its torso and upper arm connected to it, a strange marking drawn upon it. It smells awful. From its very maw, the scent of death - or a corpse.
It may, in fact, be dead, as it lies prone on the ground, its sheer size only a tease of how tall it stands... or stood.
What the hell is this thing?
COMBATSYS: Gandara has joined the fight here as a boss!
GANDARA
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Brihan 0/-------/-------|
As Alma makes his heroic, dramatic entrance, the young sage standing nearby turns his green-eyed gaze on his friend, replaying in his head -- for a moment -- the strange circumstances that have led to now.
SOME TIME AGO:
"JAL Flight 780 from Fukuoka, you can find your luggage at carousel B... I repeat, JAL--"
The announcement's dull monotone washes over Frei, who is carrying nothing but a small knapsack full of an iPad, a few musty books in Chinese, and a bottle of water. Yet for all that, he can do nothing but stare at the nearby airport lounge, one of those chain places that set up shop and charge ten times more than is normal for watered drinks and smaller portions than their norm.
Sitting in one such place, serving just below the best of the local Athenian vineyards, and chatting up a blushing Olympic Air air hostess over glasses of what Frei can only assume is wine, is Alma Towazu. For no discernible reason that Frei can identify, other than that the universe has a really interesting sense of humor.
It's probably no surprise that feeling the undisguised heat of someone's gaze on him makes the model-fighter turn his head and blink in surprise at seeing Frei here, of all places, probably. Unless Alma's been stalking him.
And as the sage pinches the bridge of his nose, Alma enthusiastically and cheerily wonders aloud if Frei, too, is following up leads here in Athens, for he has heard that there was this--
NOW:
"Well, you know," the redhead says, walking sedately after Alma, gently pushing the swinging and now somewhat useless door out of the way, "do what you gotta."
The somewhat weary and flippant tone doesn't last all that long, though.
Frei is the last one in the room, but the power in the air hits him like a mailed fist to the face the second he enters; grimacing, he pitches forward and thrusts out a hand onto a nearby table, steadying himself. The effect is rather like being hurled into a bath of ice-cold water and held under until you acclimate, in his experience. It's not the long term that's so bad -- people can adjust to that -- but the shock of entering into the space so full of that dark power claws incessantly at his oversensitivity to this sort of thing. He recalls, momentarily, the old assassin Gen, who'd warned him that such sensitvity may hurt him in the long run, and while Frei did not 100% agree, at the moment he can very much see the old man's point.
His eyes are drawn to Brihan like a magnet, naturally; the flame that burns within and without concerns him, if only because despite its nature it reminds him of a dark mirror of the power possessed by Kyo and K'. While he wouldn't call Kyo's fire -- or anything about Kyo for that matter -- 'sacred' or 'holy', there is something in their opposite number in Brihan that screams 'profane'. Her power is chi-based, but in Frei's sight, it isn't a harmonious balance. It is as if her spirit has grabbed the element itself by the back of the neck and demanded its obedience, something Frei has seen others do before. It is a path that offers the potential of great power, but...
And then she starts with the 'ritual'.
"Wh..." The sage steps back, then back a second time. It's not even voluntary motion; some instinct, some intuition, keeps him moving away from what happens. And when it does, the sickness he felt simply coming into Brihan's presence intensifies by a considerable degree. It's impossible to form into words, other than for Frei to know that what is happening now is Wrong. The world, the universe... life itself. They have, in their own way, an order, or if not an order then at least an equilibrium. Brihan's power disturbs it; this... beast's... shatters it entirely. All Frei had come here to do was to find someone, to demand some answers, to figure out a next step. What he faces, by comparison...
For a moment, his thoughts drift to meeting Tran, and what it took to suppress the power raging inside him for even a fraction of the time he'd need. "I..."
It's a difficult decision to make. It might require some time.
Alma's composure evaporates in an instant.
Even when Amy Johnson revealed the corruption running through her, the true consequences of this dark influence existed in the abstract. Even when his students and acquaintances began to suffer, when his rivals and friends disappeared one by one, still Alma could not but experience his urgency at a distance. No adversary was within reach; no solution was obvious. The planet was being purged, but one who feels the breath of the earth only through the lungs of man will not know where to turn.
What Alma feels is not the raw, primal darkness of this warping space.
"NO!"
He feels that cultist's soul abandon his body.
Roaring in indignation, as though his own heart has been struck at, Alma reveals in an instant that whatever battle fatigue this protracted campaign may have inflicted upon him by his very powerlessness to act, now that it is occurring directly before him, the death and decay toy with his very heartstrings. The fire he flings is wild, for he flings it already too late, and it sails harmlessly by Brihan as she moves, cackling. The tall young man, laughing and cheerful in the airport only earlier that day, calm and resolute only moments before, at last feels his passion explode to the fore. Humanity is under threat--
"How /dare/ you!?"
--and so are human beings, right here, before them.
Or there were.
Alma is already seething when that horrifying entity emerges from the smoke and miasma. Oddly, though he has never seen anything like such a terrible thing, he does not seem shaken-- as though he cannot be made more agitated than he already is. His body is trembling, his eyes widened, his teeth clenched. This is it.
"Gods and monsters..."
This is evil.
"...you don't belong in this world."
If anything is.
"You wretched woman!" he roars, tearing his shining glare from Brihan as he lunges toward the felled whatever-it-is. "You're unfit to be human! And this--" He attempts to move past her, to plunge directly toward that chimerical entity before it can stir, if it will; he does not know what to expect, but he is compelled, as though by instinct, to destroy it, just on principle. These agents of Orochi are a plague, a toxin. And his faith returns full-force, for he is certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt--
"--is the human world!!"
His flames are the antitode.
If unchecked, Alma will descend upon that monster and plunge a hand sheathed in soulfire toward its breast, as though to stake it through the heart, striking with his very will.
Brihan seems to have pushed him slightly over the edge. If he found this darkness less repellant, he might have noticed Frei's seeming hesitance.
It's Kula all over again, it seems.
COMBATSYS: Alma has joined the fight here on the right meter side.
GANDARA
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Brihan 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Alma
Brihan's unearthly roar pervades the unfortunate pair's hearing throughout the apparition of that purple-hued monster, the parting smoke drifting to encase the Ethiopian more deeply in its boiling cloak. Sweat beads upon her skin, set immediately to bubbling by the heat of her own energies. Her ebon flesh is glowing by this point, seared to a backlit coppery hue. Unrestrained, chi even brews from between her distorted lips, compelled by the scream, by her will for power. Power, and the display of such. She wants these two men to see - to feel - to fear. It is a compulsion that can only spring from deeply set insecurities, unresolved. Perhaps painful, once.
Yet like the lock upon the shattered door of the store, measures have been taken. And these will not be so easily broken.
This woman is a beast. She is a monster. In her way, equal to the creature that she summons - shattering the rigid bonds upon the earth in order to manifest something that embodies her living will to every last iota. Alma's disgust; his shock, his dismay, his righteous indignation... these she deserves, as do any of her hellish compatriots. Yet to Brihan, these slurs against her are delicious. Her scream finally cuts off with a half-moan that might curdle the blood by itself, were it not for the thing now lying upon the floor. The Thriceborn Hero leaps towards it...
The berserker simply scoffs. He can do as he pleases.
"This world, little pup," she spits, her words sending forth more billowing, orange taint from her foul throat, "Belongs to those who /claim/ it. We have infested the surface of this pathetic planet for millennia, breeding and evolving and striving to seize every last mile in our dirty little claws. Now, something greater comes-- something with more power than you could ever pray to possess! And you would oppose it? You think yourself messiahs?! You /FOOLS/!!"
Her entire frame is quaking, tendons in her neck bulging as she rants, spittle flecking into the air only to burn away in stinking sizzles. Brihan raises a hand, clenching it to a fist hard enough that her knuckles send out an alarming crack, as though bone wished to escape before the burden of furious muscle. Her blazing eyes burn still on Alma, her attention turned from Frei as though he were not there - as though she were so certain he can do nothing that paying him heed would be a waste. It's a wonder she even acknowledges him with her speech.
Because a moment later, she is lunging forward in a single, powerful leap. An arm thrusts forth and around, her hip twisting to drive it for Alma's once-beautiful face in a singular, crushing backfist. But as it moves, her clenched, quivering fist bleeds off a blinding discharge of umber chi, and upon striking - it EXPLODES. Not once, but three times, resounding with impact after impact after impact, enough to drive him back toward the door, to throw him from this unholiest of temples.
Landing upon her feet, bent low and buckling from her own expelled force, Brihan hisses:
"Get upon your knees or die! You are fit for nothing else!!"
COMBATSYS: Gandara endures Alma's Self Expression.
GANDARA
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Brihan 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Alma
If this thing is dead, Frei literally has all the time left in his mortal life to figure out what to do from here. All the time he might need to figure out how to send it back for, if nothing else, the fact it reeks.
For Alma, to strike into the very soul - if this thing still has a spirit unto itself - may be easy enough for a psion so comfortable in what strength he can call from his very self. There is no doubting that it connects. It is, for all intents and purposes, now motionless.
Up until the creaking of foul, rotted bone as a hand raises in mid-strike. Alma should have no concern about whether or not he hit, as the psionic power washes through the head he manages to strike.
It is far more a matter of whether or not he is, physically speaking, even capable of moving it to begin with as the hand comes down vaguely around Alma's position. A vile swat of a tiny, soulful fly?
Given how the body begins to rise the moment the hand makes contact with the floor, it appears it is far more intent on simply getting up. A quiet gurgling escapes its gaping maw as, with every passing moment, it towers greater and greater heights. It is well beyond what is even humanly possible.
It dwarfs even the likes of Abobo and Hugo, mere dolls to this gigantic creature as it helps itself up.
Looks like Frei's allotted time to figure out what to do has grown just that much shorter.
Beneath notice. He is not a crafty, engineering ninja; nor the talented son of a powerful crime lord. He doesn't have otherworldly psychic powers, nor is the undisputed master of an esoteric or powerful fighting style. In the end he is a rather simple person, fond of creature comforts, someone who dislikes violence for the sake of violence, and who believes in simple and honest answers even to difficult questions. In a world where giants walk the streets, wielding the sacred fire of hope and the sharp, silvery blade of justice, he has ever been and ever shall be a comparatively small being, indeed. That the likes of Brihan should pass him by is not expected; that any of the people gathered here should think him not worth their time, not surprising.
Perhaps, then, that's why he feels comfortable closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. Let the heroes walk the path of glory and renown, adjudicating justice and retribution as they see fit, one assumes. Some people, small and foolish as they are, have to follow their own paths to the end.
Why this shop? That was the real question Frei had, before the busting down of the doors, and the discovery of otherworldly horros. Why *here*? What is here, other than relics of the past? Things long forgotten, desired only for their ability to remind us of people long gone, and ways of life long since abandoned. His eyes open again when he comes to the answer: 'abandoned like the myth of the Orochi'.
Those who don't learn from the past, are doomed to repeat it. So perhaps it didn't take as long to make the decision as he thought it might. He doesn't respond to Brihan's cackling remarks; there's no need to. His eyes dart across the room until he finds it: a censer, to burn incense. He picks it up, takes it in his hands, holds it. The metal -- perhaps gold, or maybe simply bronze trying that much harder -- is cold in his hands, but the rich scent of sandalwood fills his nose even as he looks at it, overpowering even Gandara's stench of death.
Every society on earth has believed that the world is made of components. In times of myth they were the elements of energy and creation; now they are atoms and molecules. But in the end it's all the same, if you take the time to think it over.
A spark of chi is all that's required, and Frei's entry to the fight... is to hold the censer high, spreading the scent of incense through the room. His eyes, fixed on Brihan and Gandara, are hard and unreadable... a distinct change from his normally bright, guileless stare. But perhaps now he has more to lose.
Now, at last, he thinks he has words to say to Brihan.
"No messiah. Just somebody who knows how to listen."
The element of Wood fills the room, coiled lines of green suffusing the air. It is gentle, but it is present, the wind of zephyrs in the spring carrying the seeds of new life.
COMBATSYS: Frei has joined the fight here on the right meter side.
GANDARA
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Brihan 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Frei
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Alma 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Frei gathers his will.
GANDARA
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Brihan 0/-------/-------|====---\-------\0 Frei
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Alma 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Alma blocks Gandara's Violent Smash.
GANDARA
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Brihan 0/-------/-------|====---\-------\0 Frei
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Alma 0/-------/-----==|
COMBATSYS: Alma interrupts Neutron from Brihan with Divine Intervention EX.
~~ Alluring Hit! ~~
GANDARA
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Alma 0/-------/-======|
What do you mean 'no messiah'? He's right here--
"Th... this..."
With a most unusual look in his eyes.
Alma is perched atop the bulk of that monstrosity, his own height dwarfed by its immense girth, his still-glowing hand having impacted with the sickening echo of the fiend's corpseflesh. It may have no soul itself to speak up, but his intent -- no, his /need/ -- to rend it asunder and purge it from the world is answered by the cry of his own spirit, and as far as he can tell, his will tears at the darkness that binds it together.
"...what..."
For a moment.
"...is... this...?"
Startled by Brihan's continued taunts, the fire and fury in Alma's eyes, the zealot's certainty, fades momentarily, looking toward the woman, distracted, even as behind him that mighty arm lifts, shadowing his form. In that brief moment, as the stunned psychic can only listen to his rushing adversary's demands, it can be seen.
The fear and confusion in his gaze.
A flash of desperation intuition saves him. He grunts and staggers, slipping off the monster's form as its brawny fist plows into his upraised guard; he stumbles as Gandara rears to its feet. He can sense it; that darkness is /reassembling/, recomposing itself, knitting into an impenetrable wall. What serves at this creature's will is an endless blight, a stream of what Alma -- limited by his own human perspective -- can only recognize as hatred. In reality, most likely such a force is beyond the scope of such terms. Suffice to say--
"What... have you /done/...?"
Reeling, Alma wonders, just for a moment, if his ideals apply.
Kneel... or die?
And then he ceases to wonder.
"Do you understand men only as beasts?"
When his gaze shifts back from the rising behemoth to his rushing foe, all consternation has been banished from the Thriceborn Hero's eyes. The sidelong glance he offers his violent adversary, as he raises a hand that once again glows with a flickering flame restored to life, is as sharp as it is calm.
"Then I shall bear upon my body--"
Outstretched, to meet the coming storm.
"--the dignity of my species--"
Power meets power. The floor about them erupts, Brihan's discharge causing the very room to tremble, dust raining from the ceiling, and though Alma's arm trembles, his gaze does not flicker.
"--so that you might see--"
Her technique is powerful, but unrefined, and Alma's art is, if nothing else, well-practiced. A beam of energy traces like water through cracks in stone, weaving through its opposition, artfully cutting through to plow into Brihan's form and will and fling her away instead, leaving Alma standing, his scarf fluttering ostentatiously, his off-hand unthinkingly slipped into his pocket, his head tilted slightly to the side, and glowing in his eyes--
"--the light."
Yeah, don't forget about the big monster, Alma.
A scythe through wheat - not mashing and crushing, not destroying, but gently parting. It is such a natural motion, the one that Alma's gentle hand makes, possible to miss within such earth-trembling violence as Brihan and her unleashed monstrosity bring to bear. These opposing forces cannot be called yin and ying however. There is no balance here. Nothing right but what the chi sage brings, spreading his sacred scent while the Anemoi is flung back with a growl, her lowered arm flying to cover her face as she snarls in outrage. He dares to strike her?
Indeed she is flung -- as he intends -- but her motion at least bears some semblance of control, the manouevering of her own frame a brutal counterpoint to Alma's own, lacking the languid and breezy air, entirely divorced from the aesthetic. She bends with lithe flexibility, but her feet do not come to rest upon the floor, they SLAM. The soulflame has burned to her core, enraged her beyond mere words, but even were it not so she would exhibit no less forceful passion. Because Brihan is not guided by the earth, by the rhythmic breath of Gaia nor the ethereal fire that drives Alma.
Brihan Bogale is driven by pure, selfish desire. She does not wish to watch this world burn. But neither does she care if it does. So long as she believes her actions will benefit her, so long as power and fortune lie within her grasp, she will continue to close her hands to fists. She will continue to fight.
There are no ideals here. Only lust.
"Men /are/ beasts," she darkly rumbles, rising from her pained crouch with a thrust of palm to floor, her muscles rippling as she rolls her shoulders back and stands. The storming, inhuman orbs of her eyes roll to the giant nearby, briefly flitting across Frei as he channels his own, inferior energies. Her nostrils flare. "We are without dignity, we lack all but our primal fears. We claim to have evolved, when all we have done is become besotted by our own ill-conceived myth! By stories! And we forget why we even made these legends in the first place..."
Suddenly, she smirks, wide and bitter, stamping a foot down as she takes a step forward.
"No. /I/ do not forget. You do. Weak-minded, dribbling cowards afraid that their dominion will be lost. But you are afraid of the wrong thing! You are afraid of losing your grip upon the world, afraid of losing your precious luxuries." A gesture goes to the shattered room around them, the sweep of her arm sending forth more of that roiling, tainted energy. It consumes what Frei has created, searing wood into hot, stifling, choking smoke. "Countries, homes, friends and possessions. You forget what it is that compelled mankind to try to be better than it is! Things like this..."
Tailing off with a hiss, narrowing her eyes upon the brutish thing she has called forth, Brihan draws both arms back. Another step is taken forward, this one cleaving old floorboards, her foot barely staying visible as a heavy heel drives into the floor. But she is able to set her posture firmly enough, and brings her fists together with a fierce smack of flesh upon flesh. Bone upon bone.
"You bury your fears. They, in turn, will /BURY YOU/!!"
A bright, searing amber glow streams through the gathered smoke, gaining momentum and substance as a wide swathe of her corrupted chi sunders the air, tearing toward Alma, seeking to consume him. To show him her own 'light'. The light in the darkness.
The strength of Alma's will, although subtler in regards to that horrible creature, is no less spectacular than the dueling of two opposing causes.
Does the giant creature itself have a cause, other than its simple, foul existence?
The creature has no problem using Alma as support for standing back up. It is this support that Alma represents for those he chooses to champion, perhaps a prelude to the strength of character he turns into energy to turn against the headbutting aggressor. As a battle of wills rages before the behemoth, there lies a terrible battle between worlds and realities unfolding between one aware of its underpannings... and one whom appears to display so little awareness, as its head clips - and soon destroys - the antique shop ceiling. Those outside may have a chance yet to look upon this form.
Everyone will have a chance to hear it. The way its mouth drops wide open and suddenly screams - Frei will be able to feel it reverberating through the air, as if its very lungs themselves have been honed to be some terrifying weapon unto themselves. Aircraft within a mile of this thing receive strange turbulence and even stranger readings. People out on the street risk severe hearing loss, to say nothing of those fighting inside.
A shard of wood from the ceiling's destruction is firmly lodged through the top of its head which, alone, probably is a great indicator of its mood. If this creature is capable, at all, of emotion to begin with.
COMBATSYS: Gandara gathers his will.
GANDARA
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|----------=====|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Brihan 0/-------/-======|====---\-------\0 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-======|
It's probably for the best that Brihan and Alma are engaged in their own battle, and that for the moment the beast without a spoken name is content to gather power to itself, even if that roar seems to shake the very marrow of Frei's bones, let alone his spirit. The truth is he's had to find some inner calm to even go through with what he has been planning since the 'demon' made an appearance... and the momentary look of dauntedness on Alma's face reinforces that the chi sage would rather not burden his friend with the knowledge of what he's going to do.
Especially since, the last time Frei did this, Alma's reaction was not... precisely... positive.
Even as he puts the censer down on a surface away from the fight, letting the thing burn itself out, he keeps his goal in mind. That terrible power that flowed through Tran's veins. Frei was able to suppress it, for a time, even if its source was stronger than is individually. It was a matter of redirecting flow, and then finding a 'key' to 'lock' it in place. Eventually the power would reassert itself and break the dam of the lock because the lock itself was hastily constructed, and formed of rough materials: that is to say, a shard of Frei's own life force, his internal chi, rather than the freely-available but sadly unattenuated energy that flows through the world.
If he wants to send this... thing... back where it came from, a rather larger sacrifice might be possible.
Yet even as he searches the room, the red-haired fighter feels a sort of calm, as if he's passed through the rough seas and can at least enjoy the eye of the hurricane before the churning seas drag him down into the depths forever. He finds it in the form of a lamp, shaped and dusty glass over a ceramic bottom. And as he cups his hands to the sides of it, letting chi build up inside to a burst of scarlet flame that sets it alight -- a brightness that seems too powerful for the simple wood or wick burning in the antique -- he finds himself replying to Brihan almost as if hypnotized. "Fear is normal. Why shouldn't men be afraid? The world is a scary place, and there isn't a shred of justice or mercy built into it. But fear preys on loneliness; we're most afraid when we're by ourselves, with nobody to rely on."
The power of fire -- the cleansing wings of the phoenix that burn away impurity and herald the dawn -- adds its note to the song of the trees in the wind, as Frei steps away from the lamp, taking a deep breath. "Friends, even strangers... other people turn fear into hope."
COMBATSYS: Frei gathers his will.
GANDARA
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|----------=====|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Brihan 0/-------/-======|=======\-------\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-======|
COMBATSYS: Alma dodges Brihan's Hypervelocity.
GANDARA
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|----------=====|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Brihan 0/-------/-======|=======\-------\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-======|
Alma's poised stance cannot be maintained in the face of this rearing monstrosity; even with his courage and dignity, he cannot but flinch as the terrible entity crashes through the ceiling, its roar shuddering the very earth. The pulse of fire upon his hand surges, almost spasming, as his body -- bearing, as he claims, the very honor of the people of this world -- trembles, but not in fear or in anticipation.
The raw intensity rushing through his veins--
"You cannot long bury--"
From whence has it arisen?
"--that which yet lives."
Is it Frei's ceremony, the gathering of elements which has already begun to encircle and ensorcel the miasma that plagues this foul den? Is it his own passion and fury, rising beyond limits at the death of another occurring right before him, stained though that life was with guilt? No, what remains of Alma's reflective mind here, in the midst of the rush of combat, suggests that the phoenix's light is one which awakens in reaction to darkness: not a hope that can sustain all, but a faith that shines forth in defiance of despair, an ideal more sword than shield. And this creature, whatever it is, resonates with Alma's shamelessly human soul as the epitome of darkness, something far beyond the worst and most corrupted men he has ever faced, something infinitely beyond the world of enemies he and Jiro shared. This is no Kain, no Yamazaki, not even Vega, who bends his efforts toward shutting out the light.
This is a darkness that /radiates/.
"You lone, wild creature..."
And Alma must radiate in turn.
"...I will end your ambitions, and so end your suffering."
When he turns toward Brihan, gathering her own mockery of light, his eyes glow as sheer /fields/ of energy, scintillating pinks and purples behind what appeals to be an iris of pure white. This divine eye sees all-- sees every passing moment, every mote of energy. And this surge he is experiencing-- he has not felt it since Taizhou, when his soul tore from his very body. But this time, he can control it. Yes, this time--
He will show what he is truly capable of.
Brihan's glow passes by where he once was, a split-second before.
Alma has reappeared in mid-air, his form blurred, in the same position. Never before has he peaked so swiftly to the point of teleportation; his mastery over his own abilities has never been seen in such abundance. He has reappeared-- right by the demon's torso, his hand clad in a gauntlet of light. "I WILL--" Even as that darkness rises, so too does Alma's soul rebel against it. It does not matter if this creature seems to restore itself, or if that evil seems eternal. He refuses to believe it cannot be crushed. He /refuses/ to believe his light cannot overpower it. He is /compelled/ to strike against it. Roaring, he plows his fist against the creature, unleashing an eruption of psychic light.
"--END THIS--"
Whereupon he flickers, and vanishes, again.
"--HERE!"
To appear behind Gandara, and strike a second time, with another shattering echo; and appear again, a third time, to strike at its side; and again, a fourth time, to strike at its other side. Sparks fly from his very eyes. The righteous youth's gaze has taken on a maddened tint, pushing the limits of what his body can handle, straining toward that true transcendence he had once experienced.
"Hraaahhh!"
He attempts to teleport again, and seems to fail, though what results is no less spectacular: his body half-phasing out, he rockets upward and plows through what remains of the ceiling, buoyed by psychic energy to meet the demon face-to-face, for all the terrified and staring masses on the street outside to see, before attempting to plunge his glowing fist into the beast's head, spittle flying from Alma's mouth as he screams.
This tremendous fury--
He feels as though his heart will burst.
"'Why shouldn't men be afraid'?" Brihan spits in disdainful mockery of Frei, arching her back as she unfolds from delivering her searing thunderclap of barely tamed, horrendously powerful energy. She is not even properly watching as Alma makes his evasion - keeping but half an eye upon him, and though her sneer deepens, pulling her face into an angry rictus, it is the sage who now has her attention. "It is right to be afraid. You should be. But your fear is misplaced!"
An arm sweeps toward Alma, her neck rippling with bulging veins as she rolls her wild gaze around, over him and back to the monk. Hunching, bringing her shoulders up in the predatory fashion of a lioness, she takes a swaying, stalking step toward the meditative man. "You hear his cries?" She rumbles, gritting her teeth, disgust gnawing at her features. Her own chi intensifies the slightest degree further, and a shudder runs through her. "The pup is afraid of /losing/, not of his destiny--!!"
Enamel shrieks as she gnashes hard, hunkering down upon powerful haunches. Her clothing begins to shred, the heat that she herself is generating pouring forth in tight, fearsomely concentrated slashes. Blackened holes appear in her vest, in the legs of the loose cargo pants she wears. As though such mundane trappings could no longer stay upon her corrupted form. Her arms spread, and as they do so does that dreadful aura - in the streets beyond, people jerk upright upon sofas. Those dozing early are awakened. Babies begin to cry. The taint is so deep... so vast...
How could it ever be contained?
"Our terrible dawn is what you should fear. Because you cannot fight it."
For the first time, she does not scream, growl or even raise her voice. It is almost lost in the foul wind that billows around her, in the crackling sear of her powers. Powers that may indeed be stolen - and thrust upon one who seeks only to bludgeon them into submission, to control them through sheer force of bloody willpower. There is nothing here that should be worshipped, nothing that should be welcomed by any who hear its unnatural call. Can it be fought? Perhaps Brihan does not exaggerate...
As the titan gathers itself, to unleash what might be the perfect storm, the Anemoi who has brought it unto this place, unto this world, she says nothing more. All she does is close her eyes, and the gathered energies suddenly draw in toward her, focused about her still, upright figure. Her fingers claw at the air, a subtle yet straining motion, and with this faintly discernable gesture, all that gathered amber taint IMPLODES. Throughout the room, abandoned relics shatter, filling the energized air with white-hot metal and splintered shards of ash.
But it is the force of the woman's dark will that does the true damage. Her power rends the spirit, permeates body and soul in ways that it should not. As if she called to herself not just this cruel energy, but all those who it touches, preaching despair and pleading insanity. It is crushing - physically, and emotionally. It will be to the controlled, measured mind of the chi sage. Even to the Thriceborn Hero, as he finds himself consumed as he falls back to earth.
Only once her own storm is underway does Brihan raise her voice once more.
"This Earth shall burn! All those unworthy will be unmade!"
Her eyes find Alma amidst the boiling flame.
"And then! Only the greatest of us will be /BORN AGAIN/!!"
COMBATSYS: Gandara Toughs Out Alma's Absolution!
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-==============|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Brihan 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Gandara endures Brihan's Black Hole.
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
2|<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<|<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Brihan 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-------|
The truly brave remain unmoving. For all the monstrosity really cares in the big picture, it now has a big boo-boo in its head, and for it it must take its distress - if it can truly feel distress, given what little personhood can be attributed to it aside from it sharing the shape of a (very, very, very) large man.
Do Alma's words carry its meaning? Does English exist whence it came? Can it even sense where Alma is, having appeared in mid-air in front of him as it rears its bloodied, impaled hands and whoops like nobody's business. Any glass relics within this shattering building have long since turned to powder, but it is known that Alma's will shall never shatter like glass, his fist plowing into the great demon (or it just may be a simply average demon - let's hope it's the best they have, one could not begin to fathom how much worse they could get), the psychic energy rippling through the body.
Curiously, the ripples halt the very moment they reach that blue part of the husk. Something about it - something there, that protects it even from such a powerful assault of Alma's fullest potential.
As Alma continues to disappear and reappear with similar strikes, the giant demon responds in kind moments too late, twisting and turning. Visibly, the effect is the same - it hardly moves, and what energy that does course through it stops the moment it hits the dark blue patch of flesh.
This may prove an important visual cue for Frei, if he'll be able to see through the horrible flames that consume all, courtesy of Brihan's incredible, unending hatred. The beast roars again, terribly, bending flames from the sheer force of its voice.
It should be topped off with that final, buried fist into its head. It should end this thing. It should destroy it - Alma's hand visibly pierces the top of the head, impaling its very mind. It should have killed it. It should have destroyed it.
He may be met with one of the most disgusting sensations he has ever witnessed, when something pulsates around his hand. The mark within the blue patch of flesh on this creature throbs visibly once more, as one hand - finally - is in position to snatch Alma where they have received thin air, walls, and shelves prior in its destruction.
There is no grand assortment of blows. If Alma does not fall out of the way of its hand, somehow, it horizontally scoops him up and sends him out - miraculously - the single intact window left, as if to dispose of him as worthless garbage.
There was no weakness in Alma's attack - even Brihan's assault, when combined with it, should be enough to take down nearly any force of this world.
This creature is not of this world.
COMBATSYS: Frei blocks Brihan's Black Hole.
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--=============|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////////// ]
Brihan 0/-------/-----==|=======\==-----\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-------|
How do you deal with an intense wall of fire that looks to consume you and, basically, everything else? One that carries with it not just the heat of intense flame, but the scorn and malice and despair of a pure destroyer, one who would see it all burn? 'Only the greatest of us will be born again!'?
He will hold forth the light.
The lamp -- representing the element of fire -- is held before him, and it shines greater than ever. It is Frei's only defense, but it's the only one he needs. The dark amber fire washes around him, as if peeling off an invisible barrier, flowing to the sides, raging throughout the stricken store. It's not perfect, perhaps because Brihan's fury is so great; tongues of fire break through, streaking against Frei's body, searing lines of scorching heat across his arms and legs, but it is not the worst pain Frei has had to endure in this process, not by a longshot. He can endure much, much worse. In fact he'll probably have to, in the very near future.
Three elements remain.
It's unfortunate, but Alma's rather... wholehearted crusade against Brihan and the demon is taking place in Frei's periphery at this point; echoes of a conflict in which the sage has always been a sidelines player, running parallel but never crossing. It is where the 'important' people move, but it has always been a world apart.
He's left looking Brihan in the face, however, and now he can't ignore her. So he will respond, as best he can. The contrast to Alma's impassioned fury is stark; his eyes are glassy, his expression still perfectly calm. All around him is the rubble of the building, and the churned ground underneath. But the redhead can bring himself to smile, even now. "You don't get to decide," he says at last. One hand comes up, before he turns and, stepping toward her, intends to press it, palm down, against her stomach, almost gently. He needn't invoke the element of Earth, for it is now and forever will always surround him.
The contact of hand to body is merely a conduit for the Earth's power to be unleashed in a single, silent shockwave. "Death, rebirth... you can't control that cycle. Nobody can."
COMBATSYS: Alma blocks Brihan's Black Hole.
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--=============|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Brihan 0/-------/-----==|=======\==-----\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Alma dodges Gandara's Etart Senefed.
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-==============|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Brihan 0/-------/-----==|=======\==-----\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/------=|
He has wounded it!
Alma's pounding heart thrills with the glory of a blow well-struck. Even as the darkness grows, he carves into it again and again, yes, relentlessly, stemming the tide of an outpouring of evil, defying what seems eternal. He begins to descend, the laws of physics petulantly asserting themselves over his mentally-elevated form, and as he does it is his attunement to his adversary's state, not the should-be-obvious implosions below, that alert the risen phoenix to the onslaught boiling up from beneath him. Yet his eyes, gleaming with the feverish intensity of one, however momentarily, utterly bereft of doubt, flash with the power yet gathered about his hand, and he thrusts it down, that sword becoming a shield with which to protect himself against Brihan's rage.
Oddly enough, had he not felt the woman's unrestrained assault eating at his own enemy, this great demon, he might not have detected the danger in time.
He thus remains sensitive to Gandara's movements, as he has been all along, and twists his head as that massive, horrifying hand reaches out to grasp at him. At a distance, he can hear the screams of those fleeing the streets below, witness to this improbable battle above the now completely shattered roof of the building. They blend together in his mental vision. They are the cries of the people.
Humanity's outrage against this beast.
He cannot stop.
Again, though it would be impossible for most other men to act, sailing through the air as Alma is, he seems primed to his utmost; he flickers and vanishes /again/, a mere sliver of a second before that grasp closes upon where he once was. Any onlooker could detect simply from the repeated flickering, and the lateness of his evasion, that he struggled to achieve it. But his expression, when he reappears above Gandara's head, reveals nothing but the totality of his righteous fury.
Screaming, he descends again both the demon, now attempting to fall directly upon the blue-toned part of the monster's body that seems so resilient against his blows. From his right hand emerges a plume of flame that coalesces into a blade, and he falls like a sword from the heavens, to cleave asunder that which would defy its mandate.
If he had the power, he would tear straight through the creature's body and shear it from shoulder to hip, and destroy it utterly.
But can his soul pierce the heart of this demon's power?
COMBATSYS: Brihan successfully hits Brihan with Black Hole.
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-==============|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Brihan 1/-------/=======|=======\==-----\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/---====|
COMBATSYS: Brihan endures Frei's Reiki.
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-==============|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Brihan 1/----===/=======|=======\====---\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/---====|
Earth. The one thing that most opposes Brihan; what she is, and what she is trying to achieve.
Swamped in the overbearing, overpowering inward breath of her own riotous energies, the screaming Anemoi is almost delirious. Her eyes bug out as they remain affixed upon Alma in the dizzying aftermath of her cry, the depth of her own zealousy now revealed as she appears simply to await her own self-wrought destruction. The searing, lashing waves of corrupted chi so aptly defended against by the two warriors of light pass on to her, and she starts to smile. This is not a wild, crazed grin, a rictus much like those she has so frequently worn...
For a moment, one surreal uncaptured instant, Brihan Bogale actually looks blissful.
And then her own storm consumes her, that broiling smoke no longer pouring out - but in, subsuming her flesh, her organs and then that focused place at the very centre of her abominable being. It devours itself from within. Through the impossible heat, past the sweat that drips from her brow only to hiss away from her cheek and lips in trailing wisps, she watches Frei approaching her. Carrying the counter-element to her power, bringing the terrestrial to that which will not obey its laws. Though she is being overwhelmed, she has the presence of mind to note this. It...
It makes her laugh. Does he truly think himself worthy? Special enough to harm her? She may have been brought to her knees by one whose ability surprised her, but Brihan will no longer accept defeat at the hands of one unanointed by her master. The time for change is upon them. The time for destruction, then victory. Bittersweet, terrible, heinous, jubilant victory. Her lips crack, and she begins to voice her sheer frustrated delight that this man would oppose her still. It does make her angry -- her every pore RAGES as it always does -- but she cannot tether herself to further violence in the face of this ludicrous worm.
Earth enters her, it only adds to the agony she feels already.
Could it be, however, the small, single rock that causes the landslide?
Her body is shuddering, rents opening in her flesh now, blood burning up as it struggles to leave her body, the scent of torched skin and superheated iron now duelling for supremacy with Frei's incense. Brihan continues to laugh, that gruff rasp now becoming a fevered, heady cackle. Shrill, completely lacking in self-possession or even - as it continues - any sense of awareness. Her flesh continues to flay, human form destroyed in otherworldly flame and the most natural form of chi that the earthly sage can offer. The heat rises, and rises, and rises...
Until finally there is ONLY a blinding, searing eruption, and laughter.
Laughter that seems endless, before it reaches a sharp, prolonged climax.
When the noise fades, so does the light, a column that now reaches beyond the shattered confines of the dusty old store descending into a mere candle's flicker above the floor. Arrayed around it, tattered ashen cloth, scraps of curled leather where once were boots. And no other sign of Brihan Bogale.
COMBATSYS: Brihan takes no action.
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-==============|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Brihan 1/----===/=======|=======\====---\1 Frei
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/---====|
COMBATSYS: Brihan has left the fight here.
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-==============|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Frei 1/---====/=======|
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/---====|
COMBATSYS: Alma successfully hits Gandara with Blaze of Glory.
>> Decisive Hit!! <<
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
2|<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<|<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Frei 1/---====/=======|
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-======|
Alma cannot stop.
This beast - Gandara - will not stop.
As the flames roar and tickle his rancid flesh, the creature writhes. It does not apper satisfied nor disappointed in catching air - one of the remaining, burning pieces of architecture of this very building collapses to its palm, and for all intents and purposes, it does fine for it as it leans over.
Does it - has it ever viewed Brihan as a master? Or is it just a mere visitor? Its continued lumbering - each step shaking the very earth - forward means there's something compelling it. It may be able to sense him now.
That there is something truly irritating - or maybe just interesting - to itself. It falls to a knee suddenly as though its own weight were an obstacle to its ability to maneuver. It exposes, perfectly, Alma's opportunity.
The blade of Alma's will strikes against it - it seems to pierce. A foul ichor pulses from it as the beast roars, the inertia of its fall and Alma's lunge showing it downward. A large, meaty hand crashes down where Brihan once stood, disposing of her supposed remnants in a great big cloud of ash as the foul-smelling beast is brought to a kneel in front of Frei.
Now Frei stands face to face with the horror, writhing with Alma's self-empowered blow to the shoulder. This strike, hardly enough to destroy it, decisively points out the task at Frei's hand - the possible weakness in which to send it back, if not outright banish it from this world.
The question is... can he do it?
A challenge that the Gandara itself seems poised to issue as one hand reaches out to grab Frei, to crush him in his hand... and then suddenly, with his other hand, smash away at his very own hand with Frei within it, as if uncaring of the notion that it would be turning one of its fists into a fine, bloody paste if it didn't seem, somehow, so resilient. The way the hand trying to hold Frei jerks around suggests, at minimum, the possibility of it feeling pain.
A pain only able to be resolved by inflicting it upon anything and everything around it, unaware of what it is, or why it's there - or what it's doing.
COMBATSYS: Frei endures Gandara's Gnil Pirc Sehsams.
*KNOCKED AWAY*
GANDARA
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--------------=|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Frei 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-======|
That wasn't... entirely expected, as an outcome, but never let it be said that Frei can't go with the flow of things even when they're unexpected. His hand comes back, and he closes his fingers into a fist, lowering his eyes a moment. "Wherever you end up," the redhead says quietly, "rest well."
He turns back toward the demon just in time to see its fists flying at him at a totally unavoidable speed.
From the outside, he really does turn toward it just in time to see the massive blue hand wrap around his upper body, crush him against a wall, and then hurl him away into the distance. The sage's body hits a wall with a loud crashing noise, before sliding bonelessly to the floor, a slight streak of red trickling down behind him. For a moment, he sits there, staring unblinkingly forward, likely not seeing much of anything, before he stumbles to his feet. It is a painful-looking process, Frei effectively unfolding upward with all the strength he can muster. If the demon had wanted him to die, Frei has no doubts that he bloody well could have done it. But there was no purpose in that strike... no rage, no fury. Just blind force, reacting.
The first thing anyone did was attempt to kill it. To see it as inhuman, and otherworldly, and terrible. And understandably, it lashed out to protect itself. Perhaps, thrust screaming into the light and heat of the world of men, it could do little else.
Even though both his own senses and -- as his reaction proves -- Alma's say that everything about this is 'wrong', a part of Frei's heart tells him that 'wrong' is just another word, in fear-soaked terms, for 'different and not understood.' And surprisingly enough, it is this knowledge that gives him the composure to do what, inevitably, he must. Had it been to kill, or to destroy, this sacrifice perhaps might not have been worth it. But if it's an issue of mercy?
Looking at his feet, the sage sees a worn copper dagger with a simple hilt sitting at his feet, one of the last remnants of the shop's previous collection of artifacts and crafts. Covered in soot and tarnish, it is an old a thing as one could imagine, seemingly useless, dulled by neglect. Picking it up, Frei turns it over in his hands before turning back to Gandara, holding the knife up. "I'm sorry," he says at last, before flicking out his arm horizontally, parallel to the ground, knife held the same. The chi of metal flashes silver-gold during the movement, and at its end the ancient knife gleams as if brand-new in Frei's grip. "I will end your suffering."
The air hums with the vibration of that resonance. Fire, Earth, Wood, Metal... just one more. Water. Easy enough. But then... the final sacrifice is required. The last bit of the 'spell': his own life. Perhaps because he understands that Alma likely has no idea what he's about to do, Frei turns his gaze to his friend and gives him... well, if not a reassuring smile, then a gentle one. "I'm sorry for what I'm about to do," he says quietly, "but I don't regret it in the least. Some things... are worth the price."
He turns back, hand raised, as he prepares to summon that final of the five elements, and then to seal the rift closed. And as he does so, he sees the trickle of red blood running down his arm, dripping into a pool on the floor... and across it toward the pool of terrible ichor that has erupted from the beast, some... strange color, foul and dark, but pooling on the floor just the same.
His chi is the 'key' in the lock, but it's crude if he simply steals it from himself. But what if... could it...
Epiphany strikes.
Stepping forward, Frei gives up on conscious thought, gives up on his fears and his sorrows, the objections of logic. He lets his heart decide. Ducking low, the copper blade swipes across the floor, and comes up dripping along one side with that foul beast's heart's blood. "Wood for the power of renewal and decay. Fire for the passion to live. Metal for shaping and art. Earth for the world under our feet. Water, the giver of life. Though they rage and churn, ultimately all balance, creating law and chaos, light and darkness, birth and death."
He cuts the ichor-stained blade across his hand, and drops of both Frei's own blood and the dark blood of Gandara fall toward the ground. When they connect with it, well...
Like the many layers of the lotus flower, petals of light spread outward from Frei's position in waves. Like a mandala of perfect light, for a moment, the sage's efforts find the world in perfect balance, and the world sings out as a result. And from the midst of this flower of light, Frei's voice -- before halting, even unsure -- rings out strong. "All things live, strive, and die. You who have stepped away from the cycle, I now bring you back. Let that which rages rest; let that which suffers heal. Let balance return."
He turns to the raging beast, Gandara, and extends his hand palm up, as if beckoning, welcoming him. And in that moment, the air fills with the petals of the lotus, and the harmony of the spheres drowns out any that would seek to hear it silenced.
COMBATSYS: Frei successfully hits Gandara with Nanashi Senjutsu - Renge Mankai.
GANDARA
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Frei 0/-------/----===|
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-======|
Alma's cry would shake the heavens--
"Huooooohhh!"
--as Gandara sunders the very earth.
The phoenix has risen twice before, and he will not fall again. Though the ashes of the building fall around him, though the Anemoi's fate is unknown, this monstrous entity's power is with what Alma must reckon, though it be beyond reckoning. His endless cry continues, his psychic sword hissing and shuddering as it burns into that decaying ur-flesh like a saw of flame, the constant stream of power cycling from Alma's soul to his fist driving relentlessly against his foe, pressing it to its knees--
"Frei!!"
Blinking sweat out of his eyes -- blinking, perhaps, for the first time since his eyes became as pearls upon an indigo banner -- Alma, for all his sterling efforts, is powerless to prevent the demon from grasping at his friend. His scream of Frei's name is raw and hoarse, and not merely from all the screaming he has done before. They have fought terrible enemies together before, faced down the very Will of History. But one person has already died before him today. One of his beloved friends has already been lost to him forever. And for too long--
"Graaaahh!"
He has been powerless to combat this darkness.
Redoubling his efforts, a scarred man mild-mannered in peace and implacable in war devotes every fiber of his being toward shearing through the physical and mystical defenses that guard the most vital part of Gandara's essence, seeking the critical point amidst this roiling darkness. He does not even perch atop the demon; he seems almost to hover, the very force he is projecting with his flaming sword pushing back upon him to keep him aloft. It is not hatred that he feels. This creature is not an entity that he despises. No, for Alma, it is a symbol -- of the reason why his light ever began to shine.
Perhaps that is not fair.
There is a reason why he and Frei continue to fight side-by-side, for all their nuanced differences, and for all the pronounced division in their temperaments, if not in their usual demeanor. Arguably, it was Alma's unwavering conviction that freed Kula of her past, and allowed her to take the steps onto a new life -- the conviction of man who believes, rightly or wrongly, that he must, and therefore can, take responsibility for the lives of others. But he would never seek to see the world from this monster's perspective. However generous he might be with other human beings, it would never occur to him, however much he contemplated, that Gandara might be worthy of sympathy. Even free of malice--
"GRAAAAAHHH!"
This flame would not burn if he were to think twice.
And in the end--
"...ghh... gahh...?"
His flame means nothing.
His sword flickering, Alma sinking in the air, his bleary gaze meets Frei's, confused and worn, his passion abandoning him at the sight of the sage's peaceful, almost melancholy smile. The intensity at long last drains from his eyes, leaving the warrior looking like nothing more or less--
"Fr... Frei...?"
--than a lost child.
What follows is beyond Alma's understanding. He fused his power with Frei's once, to face the Will of History itself, and earth and human spirit combined to triumph. But just as his own ability has escalated tremendously since then -- having come to terms fully with the transcendence he experienced -- so, clearly, has Frei's. This level of mystic technique is as becoming his grasp as Ryouhara's engineering. His psychic senses can make neither head or tail of it. His blade of fury flickers and dies, just as the gathering force of that power flings him away, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Sweat dripping from his forehead, his fine clothes stained with dust and ichor, Alma, wide-eyed, stares up at the gorgeous sight of Frei's perfect technique.
So this is the harmony of the universe.
All his own striving, his noble struggle--
"...Frei..."
It pales in comparison to that cosmic unity.
COMBATSYS: Alma takes no action.
GANDARA
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Frei 0/-------/----===|
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-======|
The true harmony of the elements... so many profess its existence, that such an ideal would be nearly impossible to reach. In this moment, in a display that is grandiose in its subtlety as it is its very meaning. The petals of the lotus seem so small, in comparison to the miasma of the bending of realities - of a mundane world, and one home to things like this, horrors beyond imagining.
The miasma begins to fade as the petals dance across the form of the Gandara, rearing back a hand up high as if ready to squash the monk underneath him like he were a bug. His shoulder still spasms from Alma's blade--
The moment the petals cross the bizarre circular insignia upon the blue part of the body, the mark glows lightly. It turns to mist and vapor, a vile hiss as it disappears into the nothingness.
A long roar follows from the mouth of the behemoth, growing lower and weakening as the stitches that hold its various sections of body together. They fray apart, separating into pieces.
Thanks to the miracle that Frei had brought to this beast, the power that kept it together - kept it moving - is no more.
As each piece of the behemoth rains down around the duo, each piece of meat fades bloodlessly into the aether, save for puffs of a dark, black color that, by themselves, cannot continue to exist within this world.
It leaves little true evidence as to what truly managed to come visit the world those gathered know of, aside from a charred and ruined antique store... two injured people, and the faint scent of sulphur.
Panicked masses may look onto the two still here with a flurry of questions in Greek. No doubt police types will have been dispatched to contain this unexplainable incident.
The orange headband once adorned by the beast lies at Frei's feet, perhaps as a sole reminder of this day. It would be best, now, if Alma and Frei found the strength to hurry and regroup, lest they spend valuable time attempting in vain to answer questions not so easily answered, to people unable to understand.
This was, after all, a mere taste of the ends Brihan and her foul cohorts are working towards.
...But would it be the last of Brihan...?
Log created on 21:16:36 05/14/2011 by Frei, and last modified on 09:44:02 05/23/2011.