Description: Upon an island south of Japan, flames arise across the desolate southern wasteground as an unearthly howling fills the clouded skies. Power has been drawn to this place, and so it attracts yet more; three brave warriors united in a single purpose as they track down the source of the earth's disrupted chi. Reborn as a hideous, barely-human monstrosity, Brihan Bogale is only too ready to greet them. What occurs cannot be prevented; what occurs is destiny.
Dark clouds hang, brooding tortuously in the air over this unidentified island, untouched by the petty concerns of civilizations who know not that they stand upon the crumbling brink of destruction. For miles around the skies seem to expand from this forbidding nucleus, lightening into bright, hopeful blue the further that one departs from the ensorcelled stone circle at the island's heart. By extension, the closer one gets, the blacker the atmosphere, and not just to the mundane gift of vision; it is palpable to the very soul, wrought in despair and wracked by... what can only be termed evil. Pure evil.
A bitterly cold, eternally spiralling blast of wind works its way through lopsided pillars, and around the surface of this desolate slab of land before twisting once more toward the centre. At that point burns an etheral globe of deep, lustrous red, shot through with inky, ugly purple veins. Not far hence from the oscillating sphere stands a figure familiar to a handful of unlucky fighters, victim and host to the Orochi taint that has led their destinies to this point.
Tall, monstrously athletic if suitably lithe for the devilish speed she has displayed as a woman, Brihan Bogale is almost majestic against the apocalyptic backdrop. Stripped to the waist but for black bandages wound about the upper portion of her torso, she appears more barbaric than she ever has before, each muscle popping in arrythmic ripples as she tenses and uncoils her body. Though she otherwise stands still, it is as though something lives inside her; a hundred thousand snakes writhing desperately, to break through her dark skin and pour forth into this hapless world.
The Rage inside her knows what it must do.
How long she has waited in this place is unclear, but as the storm clouds gather to a tight knot, a shift comes over the atmosphere and the landscape both, a sudden pulse of frenetic energy emanating outward like a sonic boom - invisible but powerful, the seas pushed back in an uncomfortable, bucking swathe against the grain of their nature. For what lives inside Brihan now is not natural, and it is not human - since her seeming immolation at the hands of a certain eminent chi-sage she has been reconstructed as thing beyond mere hatred and spite, beyond ambition, beyond all mortal concern.
She is one of the Anemoi.
She is their leader.
Lips curl back from teeth that stand too-white against black skin glistening faintly with the prickle of sweat. For an instant, an eerie calm settles about the mysterious island, before the ground trembles, a haze of heat subsuming it and obscuring it. The division between mere heat and powerful, searing flame is overcome scant seconds later; the soil churning and popping as it burns, a blanket of curiously dark fire soon covering all but a long central avenue - leading from a messy beach upon which a few straggled tangles of foliage can be glimpsed, through the raging Ethiopian until it reaches that forgotten temple. Paper flaps in the breeze billowing from the tips of encircling flame, and then begins to scorch.
Rearing her head back, Brihan lets loose a primal, hideous ROAR. It can be heard for miles.
When she bends forward, steam hisses from her skin, sweat bubbling into nothing but a sharp, misty obscurity. Her mouth hangs open, roiling orange-brown smoke brewing from between her lips with each rampant exhalation of feralized breath. Turning, swaying, toward the central avenue, she focuses down the line with eyes that are now pure midnight - orbs of black within black within black. If the heat across the island is fierce, and stifling, what comes from the tainted woman herself is inexplicable. Whatever is happening in this place, it's clear that Brihan herself stands within Ground Zero.
That orb is spinning so fast now it can scarce be seen, easily dismissed as a flickering illusion.
After her scattered meetings with Howard Rust, it hadn't occurred to Farah Tenjou that she might have any more roles to play in what was going on. Though the skies grew dark and the hearts of men grow clouded and fearful, she had come to understand that this was something beyond her. There were people with power and resources far exceeding her own that could -- that must -- be taking care of the problem. It didn't really help her sleep any better at night, nor did it make that feeling of foreboding that had settled into the pit of her stomach like lead feel any lighter. At best, it was her hope, found at the bottom of Pandora's Box... her bit of flotsam wood to cling to as the boat sinks ever so slowly on the horizon.
It worked until the dreams started.
Over time, Farah began to fear sleep, because in her dreams she was never safe. Dark claws encircling the planet, beings of pure elemental power wandering, destroying, screaming curses in alien-sounding tongues to the sky. And always, always, the star of hope -- the feeling that no matter how bad this gets, eventually it must change -- is gone. The sky is black, neither sun nor moon nor stars shedding illumination... only the terrible glow of impending destruction. Cold sweats, screaming, fingernails dug into her own palms so hard that they almost drew blood... all the result of any sleep, any foray into this nightmare dreamscape which seems to portend the end of the world.
Eventually, it was proof that she couldn't sit idly by. She had to do SOMETHING.
Getting to the island was no easy feat; it took what money she had, and all of the charm and dedication she could muster, to convince a fisherman to even get her NEAR it considering the weather conditions, and even then she swam the rest of the distance from the shallows, the man unwilling to get close enough with his little boat that anything ON the island might make its way off... and into his nets, as it were. As she stood on the beach of white sand, looking back at the man sailing away, some part of Farah felt like this wasn't an issue, because she was never going to be coming back anyway.
She had wondered if she would need to search out a route, once she was there, or ferret out a path. It quickly became clear that wouldn't be necessary.
And so she walked, onward, alone, until she found what she was looking for... and when she found it, she knew why it was that Farah herself needed to be involved, and that the source of those dark dreams might be, deep down, her own conscience and nothing more.
Amidst heat-charred trees and fire-scarred grass, Farah enters this fiery space like the corona of the Sun. Normally she would affix to her arm the blue ribbon that is her trademark, but today it is tied in her actual hair, black locks fluttering behind her in a ponytail... instead, she has found a scarf of the same color, a symbol venerating the woman who long ago set her on this path, the thing flowing around her body like some sort of celestial hagoromo, nearly alive... and defying the hot winds of Brihan's fury.
The Anemoi's leader may be the Sun, but Farah, too, is a star... fate has demanded that of her, that she become a Star of Hope.
She doesn't speak. What would she even say?
Three men from Southtown, bound as teammates in their ill-fated King of Fighters run, have all found their resolve to see the source of everything that's gone wrong. A good, long ride in Howard Rust's truck sees the three of them - the eponymous owner of said truck, Antoine Huang, and Zach Glen making the trek through help of Antoine's residual memories of being under the Riot of the Blood guiding them to where those fell energies seem to be gathering...
Up until they could go no further on land.
One extremely expensive boat rental later, Howard enacts his plan B, releasing a most curious bird as he guides the team off to the place of great interest... a place that numerous others have already been drawn to.
Zach wastes no time running off on his own for his own reasons, leaving Rust to stay with Antoine - and let's put it this way, even this sight is giving him legitimate pause, thinking... have I really just give up my job, and everything I've worked for, to come to this place? Something that strikes true terror well above and beyond being at the very heart of the Southtown Invasion base... bringing a hand on top of the sheathed pipe through the toolbelt pocket, Howard knows it's now or never. Too late to turn back.
That roar alone from the coast makes him think to reconsider, as does the sudden spread of dark, horrid flames that singe and burn...
Christ, I'm just a god damn working man, Howard thinks to himself as he takes his steps off the boat. His combover is already drenched in sweat from anxiety and the heat alike.
He says nothing to Antoine, dashing headlong (to the extent his running speed can even really be considered a dash), hand on Ol' Rusty's makeshift hilt as he braves the flames surrounding his approach.
Up ahead, a highly angular bird-shaped... thing takes a perch inside the hot temple. A paper crane, perhaps visible from the corner of Farah's eye, one that mysteriously seems to resist the incredible heat of the dancing dark flames nearby, which appears to have a strip of duct tape attached to it.
Following soon after this sighting are the heavy footsteps (and extraordinarily loudly popping knee) of one Howard Rust, already squinting in the intense heat to try and make sense of it all, though the backside of a familiar person sees him opening his eyes wide.
"...Farah?! What, what's going ooooh my god wh-what the, what the, what the /hell/ is that," he stammers in breaking the dramatic silence, dropping his stance a little lower as he prepares to draw Ol' Rusty. Perhaps his reaction may be apt in regards to what he sees before him, referring to the otherworldly Brihan as a 'what' moreso than a 'who.'
The trip is long. Antoine anticipated a long trip through the truck. However, he kept feeling that nagging senses. He knew that he would not be able to go n forever with the memories, but he went as far as he could.
Land was no good.
Sea was the next route, following the bird to the great lan of entrance.
With Zach running off for his reasons, Antoine and Rust were left to their own devices. They finally made their way through.
Antoine would follow, only able to se the horror that is Ground Zero.
He can see it. He can feel the evil.
When he makes it to the hot temple, Antoine continues to walk through the heat.
He looks like a silhoutte. The flames licking against the ebony-skin merely causes sweat to perspirate against him. However, he makes no regards to it.
His eyes soon drift towards the transfigured form that was what he vaguely recognized as Brihan.
"Brihan."
Antoine releases the duffelbag, allowing it to drop towards the ground.
"It is time to show you what I've learned... as well as to put an end to you." He slides his right foot forward, both hands extend out before twisting to a fist. His eyes become focused, gazing at the Rage-filled woman.
Farah is right; and in this place, Brihan truly is the sun. No natural rays reach the island itself through the improbably bleak canopy, the dread light cast by the Anemoi's frightful aura all that saves this place from a cold plunge into eternal night. The gleaming Star of Hope finds her own magnificence tarnished by the searing flame, or at least by what drifts from it in a choking, feverish mass. Rarely has so much malevolence been focused into one space.
It shows, too, in the rictus-smeared face of the Anemoi, her bared teeth and black eyes the yin and the yang upon features that otherwise lack any semblance of balance. Her pores are wide open, steam pouring freely from them now as her bodyheat has reached a delirious constant. She is trembling from head to toe, though by some foul agency holds a maddening grace within her motions.
Her arms draw up from where they hang, limp at her sides, corded musclature bulging as each hand closes to a fist just before her sarashi-bound breast. Even this action causes her overflowing chi to pour forth, twin clouds of filthy amber taint coming forth in rolling bursts from straining fingers.
"AhHhH," the Ethiopian speaks, scalding smoke trailing upon each syllable, her throat vibrating and voice warping. Her voice does not sound alone - it is a creepy and oddly disquieting legion. Bad enough when she seemed merely some twisted and terrible human, the creature she has become speaks not just in that basso growl, but at once so deep as to beset the heart, and as high and shrill as nails upon a blackboard, bookended by a throaty croak and a hissing sibilance. "hElLo LiTtLe MoUsE..."
If Farah will not speak, it seems this much has not changed; Brihan will speak for her.
"yOuR CoMiNg WaS fOreToLd - It'S rIgHt AnD gOoD wE sHoUlD mEeT aGaIn. I oWe YoU a DeBt, Do I nOt?"
She begins to stalk forward, a thing more than a person, lithe and agile, but so /wrong/. Like a damaged marionette operated by a master puppeteer, and yet the unsettling effect does not last long, as the Egyptian girl is soon flanked by a pair of interlopers. One familiar, the other not so; though each gets a quick, scathing stare of those unreadably intense eyes. Brihan pauses a moment, then gives a long, dark chuckle marked by the same gross legion. It rises to a cackle, before she gnashes her teeth, drawing a fist to her mouth and closing stark white teeth upon it until the smoking flesh yields a thick outburst of blood. It makes it to the floor before exploding, remnant spots burning a deep welt into the ground as her very life's force scores like acid.
"tHe lItTlE mOuSe, AnD tHe LiTtLe BaT. tHe OtHeR iS nOtHiNg; A fLy In OuR oInTmEnT!!"
Unleashing the last in a tight, high-pitched scream, Brihan surges forward in a sudden lunge.
There is much distance still between them, but with the dynamic thrust of both arms she bears black, hazy palms toward the gathered trio. Expected, perhaps, by the pair who have encountered the baresark before, is the surge of tainted chi that erupts forth in a roiling, boiling column. But from either side comes the surprise, the island's consuming flame obeying her motions directly, leaping in singing arcs to strike like whips along and through the column.
Behind her assault, Brihan looses another hideous laugh.
"TeLl Me, MoUsE aNd BaT, dId YoU AcCePt YoUr RoLeS, oR wIlL YoU pRoTeSt EvEn As We StAnD uPoN tHe VeRgE oF oUr aScEnSiOn?!"
She can feel their souls coming up the path; perhaps that is why she does not turn, nor does not feel surprised. In fact, somehow, Farah feels like her sixth sense, her connection to the hearts of others, is only heightened now. It started with every step she took toward this island once the dreams started and hasn't stopped. If that isn't an indicator that she's made the right decision, then what is?
The woman in front of the trio of would-be heroes looks like she's survived being thrown through the sun... and the scorching flame that rages toward the three from multiple angles may just be that sun-flame that did the job. Her speech, her aura, everything... it is as if the actual human being named 'Brihan' is dissolving, being slowly burned away like a candlewick. Only the hellfire demon within remains. And as long as the human existed, doubt was in Farah's heart. Faced with the demon, her resolve... is considerably less wavering.
Her gesture is almost lazy, as the cobalt blue scarf unfolds from her shoulders and swirls in a loop in the air in front of her, but the whip-like flame tendrils and the rushing burst of fire they encircle suddenly slam into a rippling barrier of midnight blue shot through with silver sparks. The fire of a sun burns hot, but reflected through countless nights and days as it journeys through the cosmos, it becomes the cool flame of starlight.
When Farah turns her head from the attack to look toward Rust and Antoine, that starlight dances in the smile that she gives them. "I will deal with her fire. Please... you must do the rest."
The older man's skin crawls at the sound of the voice. His right hand's grip may have never fully recovered from the Invasion, but it is clutching that makeshift hilt as tightly as possible, visibly swallowing a lump and even taking a few steps backwards from that sheer bright, malevolent sight.
"W-Wait, mouse, bat, uh, uh, what," the forty-year-old man is hopelessly lost in the verbal tirade of metaphors about a bat and a mouse - looking ever more lost given he has never fought this... thing, Ol' Rusty drawing clean with a jerk as he grimaces to the leaping dark flames--
A silence passes, as he looks up from the pipe to see Farah doing... something with her scarf, having drawn that in, as if having expected to instead be host to some awful burning trauma.
With Farah's smile and declaration, the older man nods, looks to Antoine, and gestures with Ol' Rusty - towards the monstrosity.
"If, if everything's because of... because of you," in which he gives Brihan a little too much credit in the big picture, "it's, it's got to stop."
It is not the most fiercely worded defiance as he moves forward. Hold strong, he's thinking, we can do this, even though I don't know who or what the hell that thing is - if this is responsible for the likes of Brian, or Antoine... or so many other things...
His wrist rotates Ol' Rusty around a few times before stepping in with his trademark advancing uppercut strike, the Cement Upper, the tip of the pipe scraping against the ground to a shower of sparks as he makes the swing for the chin of the monstrous, disgusting creature.
If it's up to him and Antoine, together, to take her down...
This is it.
Antoine is able to stare at the horror before him. The one who manipulated him into becoming the beast that was not him. He can feel the fury driving in him. This is not the Rage that drove him to kill and harm others. This is the fury of a warrior's might. The essence of the warrior's fury calls out to him.
That is why Antoine is stepping forward. His eyes shift over to see Farah, who is bck to her previous self.
With the flames washing around them, Antoine winces, his hand shielding his face. When Farah finally intervenes, Antoine looks a little moe calm. "...Thank you." He affords her a nod, and then he directs his attention to Brihan.
"My path is of a warrior's path. Not a soldier. I choose to wander the world and meet others. I choose my own path... And this path leads me to end your plans."
Antoine charges forward, finally taking the giant leap off of the ground. When he pushes himself off of the ground, the chi ripples from his leg. It ignites with the surge of lightning that traces against his foot. That foot winds forward, tearing through he air with a crackling noise before he seeks to tear through everything in its path.
Even here, at the end of days, it seems that hope can survive.
Farah's resplendent shield of ribbon and psychic purity holds true against the striking, insidious hellflames of Brihan's rageful devision. But they keep coming nonetheless, looping about as they fall against the soulfire barrier only to come again, and again, and again, striving to break the beautiful Egyptian's resolve with breach upon breach. Behind this assault, the Anemoi has already drawn her arms back, knuckles creaking and swimming in tainted chi as they are brought close to her twisted face.
Confident in her summoned fires, she pays no further heed to Farah. Rust becomes her target instead; the pitiful, stammering old man. She can almost hear his joints about to fail before her force and fury.
"'sToP'?" She echoes with a snarl that becomes a broad, brutally over-confident grin, the expression so savage yet eerily not able to reach the black-in-black eyes above. "tHeRe Is No StOpPiNg ThAt WhIcH hAs BeGuN, sTuPiD iNsEcT. yOu, WiTh YoUr BrItTlE, dEcAyInG sHeLl, ShOuLd KnOw ThIs--!" Abruptly she cuts herself off with a hiss, meeting his incoming steel with a sliding backstep, followed most unexpectedly and ill-advisely with a crushing forward thrust of her deeply scarred, smoke-wreathed forehead.
"AlL!"
Her skull collides with Ol' Rusty, battering it aside and down as Rust's body rises. She flinches not.
"tOo!"
Rushing through the pain as if it were not here - as though she were not even blocking it, but simply incapable of feeling such a strike, the Anemoi lances one strong leg outward and steps alongside the overextended teacher as though attempting a simple takedown; but as her arm stretches outward she does not thrust him back, but grips his shoulder, the pipe upright between them now as she grinds her fingers deep and hard, rending talons erupting with fire and flame into the man's tortured joint.
"WeLl...!!"
With horrifying ease and devastating abruptness, she tightens her grip and hauls him from the ground as though he were weightless, her opposite arm rising then to hammer him firmly in the sternum with an explosion of filthy orange from sharp and calloused knuckles. The degree of rotation sends him screaming through the air to impact with the incoming Antoine, Brihan roaring a short, barking laugh of cruel abandon as she sends them both toward the scorched earth before straightening into a loose stance.
It would almost be relaxed, were she not trembling and burning so.
"A pAtH wItH nO eNd Is No PaTh At AlL, lItTlE bAt; YoU wErE oFfErEd ReWaRdS, aNd YoU cHoOsE tO lAnGuIsH iN tHe CoMpAnY oF fOoLs," she casts a fist out, flicking fingertips disdainfully toward Rust before that hand recoils, its opposite number then lashing at Farah just as the lashing flames subside around her. Brihan pauses momentarily, casting the girl a derisive smirk, "AnD /wHeLpS/. iS mErE cOnViCtIoN aLl YoU hAvE tO oFfEr? BeFoRe SuCh PoWeR aS /uS/?? YoU sHaLl AlL dIe HeRe."
Her legion tone subsides in a careless groan, and she raises a foot from the ground.
A singular, rough stomp sets the ground to a vast tremor, and a moment later fountains of flame erupt within the heretofore safe haven of the central avenue - scalded soil scattered every which way as several dozen geysers erupt within seconds, short bursts of hot fury seeking out each of the bold trio seemingly at random. As if the demonic Ethiopian doesn't even care enough to aim. Behind her, the pillars of the ancient temple groan, creaking faintly to either side as though repulsed from their own central point.
In her heart, Farah has forseen the end of Brihan Bogayle at the hands of a hero.
That hero isn't her.
Before this moment she didn't have a name for that feeling, but now she does; presented with the resolve of Rust and Antoine in this moment, it is become clear to the Egyptian that it is they who have to do this. The Anemoi, if that is what they are called, and the cult... they are afraid of the power that people like Farah wield, be it Psycho Power or Soul Power or whatever. But it has occurred to Farah that they do not fear it because it has the strength to turn aside their Earthly-granted control over the elements of creation. No... her ability represents something greater:
The ability to rouse and suffuse the hearts of man. It is not a threat as a weapon: it is a threat because it has the ability to array the weapons of the world against them. In the dark it can kindle the light of hope.
Perhaps this is why she is so fully willing to *not* engage Brihan directly, instead putting her all into dealing with the unholy flame erupting from the Ethiopian's whims and direction. Sadly, with three people to protect, this is a losing battle. Farah's movements are dancelike as she twirls through the space between fighters, cobalt scarf alive at the direction of her hands, interposing itself like a shield when necessary, deflecting blasts of flame with a ringing, bright ripple of Soul Power. But there is more fire than there is Farah, and there are many moments where she is able to protect Rust or Antoine only at the cost of not protecting herself.
Case in point: the sudden erupting flames, terrible miniature volcanoes. Grimacing, wrapping herself in what protections she can, the Egyptian suddenly turns and shoves Rust out of the way, only to be enguled in that terrible flame herself, briefly hidden from view as the scarlet fire erupts upwards.
When it passes, however, a burned and blackened but not broken Farah still stands, body heaved forward even as she keeps one violet eye trained on Brihan, her voice hoarse as she speaks. "There is always a new path, if you are willing to look."
It is no secret that Howard is fighting advanced age atop the very consequences of having worked himself as hard as he has in his youth, his forward assault effortlessly halted.
Ol' Rusty is parried - though it remains something of a wonder it remains in his hand - and his mouth hangs open as if to drop the beginnings of a four-letter word.
A cry of pain escapes his lips with the fury of flame up against an already ailing part of his body, lungs emptied with a strike that discards him but a moment later. He may even be /thankful/ he's not still in that grip.
He is less thankful about the impact of Antoine to his very back, and Antoine is no light hitter himself. The hard tumble across red-hot ground makes for a dreadful finishing touch to a decisively deadly combination, the older man gasping for air as he pushes himself up with visible effort.
A few coughs later, he looks to whoever it is he collided with, to make sure they're all right. With Brihan's cackling, he might actually even believe what she has to say.
This moment of absentmindedness nearly costs him dearly as fire erupts all around them.
"W-Watch out!" He calls, although Farah is the one who does the watching out as she shoves him away from a pillar that erupts from underneath, a tumble across the flame-strewn temple that ends in a surprisingly smooth crouch before he knows what's going on, looking to see... Farah?!
Perhaps this is the payback for taking that punch from Brian, in a way, as she offers her own nugget of hope.
Howard, for his part, lacks the dramatic gravitas in the heat of the moment to offer any vocal counterpoint as he raises Ol' Rusty again. Can't hesitate... don't forget all that time and effort Takuma and the rest put in his education in Kyokugen. His outfit charred by the flame of Brihan's touch, the rest of him holds intact.
"N-Not gonna happen," he offers with a horase, dry throat as he charges forth again, a forward leap. His jump is low, and not terribly empowered in momentum by his poor foot speed... but he puts all he can into the impact as he lifts a knee up in mid-air, Ol' Rusty raised above him as he attempts to avoid making the same mistake as prior, to try and come up from high upon the monstrous marauder with his very knee.
Antoine is coming down from the sky. Unfortunately, he is intercepted by the flying Rust heading his way
~ Shit! ~
This was not foreseen. The impact of Antoine meeting with Rust knocks the young fighter off-course. He is sent sprawling against the red-hot ground before the tumbling body makes a dreadful finishing tough to the jagged earth. He is already pretty cut up from the ground's mark alone. "Nggh.."
Antoine coughs, getting back up to his feet. He looks at Rust, "I'll live.." Then, he can see the horror coming forth.
The erupting earth as the geysers tear to life.
Antoine raises his arms up to guard against the searing blaze. However, the geyser scorches against his ebony flesh, causing the young man to release a hiss of pain. "Ggggghhhh!!" He bites down from actually screaming.
Instead, he toughens up, mentally reminding himself of his teachings..
He runs forward.
When he tears through the earth, Antoine makes sure that he's beside Rust. When Rust takes a leap, Antoine springs forward while shifting his weight over to the side.
He'll have to get to her first to distract her enough for Ol' Rusty to come in.
He closes in on Brihan, leading a hand out for a knife hand strike before his body shifts to fully face her. He springs off of the ground with two snap kicks before shifting over, seeking to allow the older man to strike her with Ol' Rusty.
While geysers boil and burn, Brihan begins to stalk through the heat, her step swift and predatory, the epileptic vibrations of her dark-toned form heightening but impeding not her feral stride as she slips through her own fire with brutalistic aplomb. At several points she herself is struck, welts appearing upon smoking skin, but she merely breathes a smoke-curling laugh at each. Black-in-black eyes regard Farah's efforts unreadably, and with never a time where her fangs are not bared...
There is no way of telling how this makes the Anemoi feel. If she even feels at all.
The salvation of Howard Rust however, is greeted with sudden action, heavy, calloused hands coming together in a searing maelstrom of filthy ochre as Brihan actually applauds, emitting something that loiters in the space between chuckle and titter, laughter and shriek.
Pride is an emotion. Cruelty too. And this costs the Anemoi. She is opened for Antoine's burst of speed, the scorched soil flying up in his wake and attracting her attention too late for the knifehand blow to miss - it cuts across the topside of her chest as she twists, bandages crumpled by the strike. The subsequent kicks land true too, snapping her chin upward, though at each point of impact there is a blaze of tainted, smoky chi, hot enough to scald both the knifing hand and the feet that follow.
Worse yet...
Those black eyes are brought to focus square upon the pipe-wielding warrior who follows to finish the combination. A twitch of bunching neck and a lip-straining sneer greet his approach, taking long enough that she has but an instant remaining to her. It's not until this that Bogale raises any kind of defence at all, and there is a moment where the aged brawler may believe he has struck true; but then she /moves/. Her hip sways, abdomen bulging as she uses the motion to sling up an elbow, striking like a claw-hammer for the inside edge of the knee.
"pAtHeTiC," the woman scoffs in the wake of her blow, which is powerful enough to spin Rust through three hundred and sixty agonizing degrees. Brihan uses this time to coil her legs like springs, and when he comes back around to face her - she /rises/ to face him. A short, curt leap carries the demonic creature into the air, Orochi's gift boiling from every pore of her body as she snaps her forehead forward with a sharp, legion grunt.
Upon impact with his combover-bearing head all that gathered chi goes off like a /bomb/, dirty orange blossoming from her dark skin to encompass his face in burning, rending energy.
"yOu SeEk To WiN bY aTtRiTiOn ThAt WhIcH cAn OnLy Be WoN bY /gReAtEr PoWeR/!" Landing from her airborne strike in a tight squat, the Anemoi dashes a wild, bug-eyed stare between Farah and Antoine, settling upon the latter with a grin that turns - suddenly - to a scowl. Black-in-black eyes roll inward. From her flat, broad nose trickles a hissing line of boiling crimson. First blood from his second kick. Brihan snarls, /surging/ to her feet and suddenly rushing at the Chongquan practicioner like some avenging devil, twisting upon her heel and spinning about in the instant it takes to cover the ground.
"StRiKe Me HaRdEr!! MaKe A pAtH aS yOu /CuT/ aNd /BuRn/!!"
Shrieking seems not to distract her as she lashes out with a crushing backhand, aiming to one-up Antoine's facial insult by hammering his own nose flat into his face with a second explosion of disgusting energy, her knuckles bleeding grenade blasts as they seek to break cartilege into slivers.
"/sEeK/ aNd YoU wIlL fInD oNlY dEsPaIr!!!"
The fire was too much; perhaps this is why, as Brihan fights back against Rust and Antoine, that the young psion is forced to merely watch, attempting to force air back into her lungs that the heat and hellish fire have robbed the former forest glade of; only choking soot and the intense, dry solar heat remain. Hilariously, ironically, starved of oxygen, every cell in her body, every fibre of muscle she has, feels like it's burning, blowing through reserves so that the environmental imbalance doesn't reduce the girl to an unconscious heap before her time. But it does mean Farah has to watch as the men fighting with her are subject to the African's ministrations.
And then something makes her eyes open wide.
An echo of something. Emotions... things that don't belong to a hellfire demon. But which humans have in abundance. A look of genuine surprise passes onto Farah's face. Somewhere in that morass, is 'Brihan' still alive? Is she watching?
Is she waiting?
"She's wrong!" Farah cries, surging into motion, feeling the need to keep the arguments coming. Her role here is to be the guiding star for Rust and Antoine... to open the door, to inspire them. "Not a greater power. A *different* power." Her heart, connected with Rust and Antoine, reaches out to them.
Thoughts, sent to Rust: of a thousand cranes, each one a representation of the man's desire to protect the innocent, to help those who may even seem undeserving, whirling in a blue sky like real birds.
To Antoine, fond memories of his tutelage in China... of finding, in Chongquan, a reason to live that perhaps he might not have had, otherwise.
And for herself?
It seems like a million miles are the distance between Farah and Antoine, at the moment, as the fiery demon attempts to put the young American on the ground... and then, to even the surprise of Farah, the distance is shorter until there's no distance at all, the girl's form blinking from one place to another in a shower of blue sparks. But it might be the opportunity she needs, for even as Brihan lunges at Antoine with a broad sweep of the hand, Farah -- crouched on the ground nearby -- suddenly rises, pushing outward with a palm while the Soul-empowered scarf swirls around her like a drill. "Not attrition, but survival!"
Howard can't take anything for granted. His strikes are made much in desperation, to put up the fight that Zach has effectively dragged him into with that hard truth he could not look away from -- no, he chose. Just as he chose to leap at someone... /something/, well beyond the full comprehension of mortal man, channeling fell powers from... something beyond.
Her (or maybe 'its') elbow hooks in and unfurls his knee to a forcefully outstretched leg, extreme stress against it as he spins a full three-hundred sixty degrees in a place that feels like it's three-hundred sixty degrees Fahrenheit - never mind what would have become of these individuals if it actually were that hot.
The midair spin adds another hazard: the lack of traction when Brihan times her headbutt with brutally perfect timing, head-to-head. The explosion rocks the entire temple, and sends the forty-year-old brawler corkscrewing out the front of the temple, scraping against the scorching hot path from the outside. Brihan's taunts continue to ring clear despite this new distance as he lies face-down. The scalding feeling goes ignored in favor of the splitting headache within his skull, his combover frayed and scattered oddly across the scalp.
It's actually a minor aesthetic improvement.
He feels ready to give up - can they really win against her? If it is attrition...
Farah, the Star, will not let things go that way as he's filled with those visions. Those cranes, the representation of his efforts... however bizarre or esoteric... his desires, what pushes him even at his worst...
I'm too old for this, he grouses as he lifts himself up and staggers back into the temple, Ol' Rusty faithfully pointed down back and low, scraping it against the ground as if to make sure it grabs attention.
"'m not," he coughs twice, "'scuse me," yes, even excusing himself in the middle of a decisive battle, "'m not done," he sneers as his voice picks up a bit more clarity, a small step away from the mumbling and stuttering of a tired voice. "I don't, I don't know what drove you to... to all this." That's a fact - this Brihan's a total mystery to him, as a latecomer to this particular party. "You're... you're not askin' us to give up," he grouses as he points his pipe outwards to Brihan. A challenge, a poignant gesture as if to make sure she's taking in every word he says.
"/You/... you're the one that's... that's givin' up. That's, that's why you're doin' this... isn't it." To have thrown away everything for this, whatever it is... he hasn't done that yet. He hasn't thrown anything away, long as he's standing, as he gathers his strength and thoughts for another volley of the inevitable overwhelming force he has suffered.
"That's why you all're... you all're tryin' to, y'know, take away everyone else's future, isn't it," he finishes up, picking up his voice to a clear, angry yell at last in the culmination of his vocal challenge.
"Ya can't salvage your own god damn mess!"
Antoine anticipated trying to maneuver enough to give Rust a bit of an opening to catch the woman off-guard. However, it is the fact that Antoine finds himself in the worst position when the demon makes a come back.
She strikes at Rust before leaping into the air to settle upon him. Antoine can see her coming down towards him....
The hand is coming up to smack him across the ground. That backhand nailing him across the face by flattening his nose. Blood comes flying from the impact as the disgusting energy strikes him down to a knee.
When he falls down to a knee, he is about to slam pretty hard....
He takes deep breath, looking over towards the earth. His head is ringing pretty hard. A wince is given, trying to recollect himself. But then...
~ "...Father. I want to thank you and Quon for giving me a second chance..." ~
There he is, sixteen years old. He has had the strength to continue. He is standing in front of his teacher with Quon by his side. Both of them are in their attention stance.
~ "You both do me proud... Continue to flourish... Remember to let your strength guide you. Not just your physical strength..." ~
A hand is pressed to the solar plex.
~ "But your heart." ~
Antoine is starting to get back to his feet, now standing up completely while still in front of Brihan. "And we will survive."
"...We will not allow you to take away our future..."
He runs forward, while Howard is taking the way with words, Antoine is continue directly with her, while she is RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM!
Antoine steps forward, leveling his right palm towards her chest. Then, he steps his left leg forward to meet with the right. Then the foot steps forward to strike another palm at her chest.
"You give yourself up... and try to ruin others... for what?! We will stand here, for everyone's future. To prevent people like you from taking ours away."
Quon...
"tHeRe Is No 'DiFfErEnT' pOwEr, /MoUsE/."
Remaining extended after her strike upon Antoine, Brihan casts those black eyes to Farah, baring once more too-white teeth against her bubbling, smoking skin. The chongquan practicioner is allowed his time to recover, though there is a sense within the Anemoi's stance that she could shift attention without delay of any kind - that everything she does is a fleeting, simple thing.
"tHeRe Is OnE fLaMe ThAt WiLl CoNsUmE tHiS fRaGiLe EaRtH!"
Hissing with unruly laughter, she looks to Rust as the man delivers his own heroic rant, those eyes actually widening now as he seems to strike some kind of chord deep within the demonic creature's bloody core. It's the most fleeting thing of all; but it's there, before she is able to bark more amusement.
He buys also the time that Farah needs, to cover the distance, to fling her soul's spiral forth, prominent and colourful, bold and alluring. It penetrates the baresark beast's guard as truly as any delicate blade betwixt the folds of seemingly impenetrable armour. Flesh flays before it, heat erupting in instinctual defence to tatter at the scarf - but it is the latter that wins out, and though Brihan seems more irritated than shocked, she does stagger back a step, allowing one palm to become another as Antoine shows his own considerable mettle.
And yet, by the final strike she seems almost willing to be struck, baring her fangs as she savours the blow, a low, guttural murmur escaping her mouth. Her recoil is too pronounced to be honest, her strong frame flying backward, kicking up scalded dust before she comes to an abrupt stop with a flexion of toned limbs. Esconced within tattered, dirtied cloth, the woman's legs coil beneath her with such power that her heels grind deep into the scorched earth. Packed soil rises in waves around each quivering foot, and then begins to smoulder. Crooked lips twist with cruel abandon, a drip-drip of blood from Brihan's damaged nose sending two crimson drops spiralling down between her bunched thighs. When each strikes the ground, there is a sudden jolt in the heated atmosphere of the island.
Somehow, unimaginably, it actually gets HOTTER.
"MeSs, PeSt? No. ThIs WaS pLaNnEd. We FeEd; YoUr StReNgTh, yOuR cOnViCtIoN, iS aMbRosIa." The African hellion releases a seething breath, her exhalation matched by a second deep and a third high and keening, smoke now pouring from her ravaged throat like the breath of some mythical beast. Black-marble eyes narrow, lids closing them to void cracks that stare past both Antoine and Farah to focus upon the brittle form of Howard Rust. "AnD wE hAvE eNoUgH."
"iF yOu PeRsIsT iN sUrViViNg, PeRhApS aN eXaMpLe ShOuLd Be SeT," she croons, murder upon her scalding syllables. Her hands lower to the ground, dark forearms bulging with veiny muscle as she hunkers down low, a beast that has found its pray and prepares to pounce. "wHeN oNe DiEs," she intones with sudden solemnity, mouth no longer a rictus but a forbidding line, "iN tUrN sHaLl ThE oThErS fAlL."
Calloused fingertips claw at the earth, driving deep then tearing away, coming up soaked in hellish flame, burning dirt scattered like napalm to rain down around Brihan as she tosses her head back and looses another long, bellowing roar; that shriek ever-present behind it. Almost deafening, at this proximity there is no mistaking the sheer power present within the berserker-woman.
"GoOdByE pEsKy, /PeStIlEnT/ _fLy_!!"
Screaming this to the crowded heavens above, Brihan's entire body /strains/, veins quite visibly full to bursting, muscles bunching, skin even starting to fray in places as it burns so fiercely that no amount of training or even borrowed power can prevent the natural process of decay. She bends low then, a fiercely hot gust exploding every which way before the motion of her descending forehead. It's with a shuddering crack that she headbutts the earth; though it resounds not from her skull.
It is the sound of the island itself beginning to split in twain.
Ochre filth spreads in a boiling blanket, overcoming even the outlying flame around Brihan's shockwave, which thankfully spreads no further than a dozen feet around her, though to the fore it gathers in a rush, a raging torrent of Orochified flame blossoming into a wave. It's this that rushes toward Rust, as from near his place within the temple that purple-veined sphere suddenly cracks and bursts, raining shards of some red-hot yet damp, organic material down upon him amongst a deluge of black fire.
The Anemoi's devastating attack widens before it comes to impact, consuming the fore of the temple.
And then it seeks to consume Howard Rust, even as stone pillars collapse in toward a spreading chasm.
Injury upon injury. Breach upon breaking breach.
"aS yOuR fRiEnD DiEs," she calls, still hunkered over the ground, breathing hard through her own diminishing destruction, "KnOw ThAt YoU aRe NeXt! ThEn FaMiLy, ThEn FrIeNd, As StRaNgErS yOu WilL nEvEr KnOw AlSo FaLl UnTo Us! AnD wItH tHeIr DeScEnT /wE/ wIlL aScEnD... YoU cAnNoT sToP tHiS."
Howard Rust does not look to be in great shape in the big picture. There is a limp to his step as he staggers forward for a few more, a large bruise on his forehead where explosive contact was made... and it's getting harder and harder for him to breathe, forced to cough up dust and who knows what else that's getting inside his lungs just being here.
It gets hotter, and he stands still with this fact, a grimace with heavy breaths as Brihan taunts him. How this whole thing was her plan. That they're feeding off all their strength and conviction...? His stance hunkers down with the threat to make an example, and a part of him falters, thinking... oh shit, this is it. Something that may go well above and beyond any appearance of Igniz... or that pumpkin-headed guy he was almost convinced he would have seen present here... or the representatives from the central Pacific school system administration.
As the very earth shakes, he reflects on everything that's led up here, as the growing wave of heat stings his eyes, his skin, with zero shelter or any easy answer to mitigating this power - he is about to be struck by what may very well be the single purest representation of the element of fire.
He looks briefly to Antoine and Farah alike, but it is not a look of 'um, help me out here, I'm going to die.' It's putting it all into perspective. He is, in the big picture, a mortal man gifted with amazing strength and endurance that puts even a couple of people above his fighting ability to shame.
With a slow nod, he bows his head and squats down. No, it looks more like he's sitting down in an invisible chair, Ol' Rusty held in front of himself horizontally. Both of his hands tighten. He thinks of all the efforts so many people have made to try and encourage him to chase his dreams, with all the mounting odds.
As the wave of fire forms, he knows this is the point of no return. He doesn't close his eyes to shield his sight as his body shudders. It's not from the shockwaves or the quaking ground, as embers of flame splash onto his body.
"Antoine, Farah," he speaks up, "I'm, I'm gonna let you in on somethin' real quick." It's a tough thing to say, isn't it? Tough in that it would be difficult for anyone to believe what will take place as he faces the woman who may be better described as the corrupted sun.
Suddenly, his feet glide forward as the beam is thrust forth, said beam clearly far larger, far greater than he. His form appears to disappear in the blaze. For countless seconds that may become an anxiety-filled eternity, he is not seen. He is not heard.
The beam flares outward, energy splashing around and threatening to incinerate what little may still stand of this temple... and yet, it flares out closer, and closer, and closer yet to its originator. As it continues...
Farah and Antoine will be able to see his backside, still in that bizarre seated position as he is visibly pushing, /resisting/ the beam to the utmost limits of his capability - maybe even that of mortal man.
What they don't see are his bared teeth and shuddering as the flames burn away cloth. Memories sufrace of Igniz managing to slice open his hand and, upon him grasping molten metal with his bare hands, inflicting permanent damage on his right hand. Memories he casts away with a jerk of his head. He's not that weak anymore - weak compared to Brihan individually, perhaps.
He discards it for the pride he had as one of the hardest working people there was in his youth. No rain, no sleet, no snow, no storms, no winds, no /heat waves/ stopped him. Though his momentum slows, the closer he gets to Brihan, he remains resolute. He refuses to be pushed over, to be burnt to cinders even with that hugely imbalanced posture that should dictate him tipping over at any second.
Moreover, through the incredible heat, he sets his eyes on Brihan as he pushes that power back with all his might, his body locked up in this curious posture he's assumed. Unmoved, unstopped.
A part of him would have preferred, greatly, to pull this heroic resolve for the sake of attaining his life-long dream... a fighting title. To be the World Warrior. To be the King of Fighters... and yet, in his advancing age, he has become a mentor as much as he has been mentored in many ways by those younger than he. It is his job to pass on the knowledge, the skills he obtained... even through irreversible disappointments and setbacks.
More importantly, in the end, perhaps he was, ultimately, in the wrong... in believing that one person by themselves was unable to make a difference in the big picture. The difference he has to make - /is/ making...
To ensure the prosperity of the next generation, even as flame scalds his flesh and Ol' Rusty starts to melt to slag. As a teacher, as a fighter, as a steadfast friend.
"IT TAKES MORE 'N THAT," He cries above it all, for the sake of Farah's and Antoine's information as it is Brihan's, "TO PUT... ME... DOWN," he spits out these last words as he grows closer, face-to-face, with Brihan as he spearheads this rebellion against Brihan. Perhaps the single greatest insult in facing down such incredible power... the force he exudes when he punches all the way through does not match it in kind. There is no apocalyptic, world-shaking force behind Rust's approach when contact is made in brief on the other side of the incredible heat. It is, in fact, little better than a good, hard shove.
For this show of strength, if the other two can match and surpass it, one may even say this is outright dirty fighting to corner her so.
Now is the signal for Farah to shine.
Now is the signal for Antoine to climb.
At first, her eyes are filled with the wet beginnings of tears, thinking perhaps that Rust had sacrificed himself for the younger generation, to protect them. It would be the last thing she could ever want; if anything, she's prayed so hard that everyone could live through this together. She wants to scream his name but it dies in her throat, the Egyptian practically scrambling across the dirt to move him out of the w--
No. Wait...
Something pulls her back. Something makes her stop. And as she steps back from the conflagration that Rust's form has become, she knows what it is. The iron resolve in his heart. The hidden power of Howard Rust emerging at long last... the ability that has always been within him, held back by doubt, or fear, or anger. Given this, a moment where the purity of his soul can shine forth, the result is something beyond expectation. It is as if his spirit itself were the imperfect steel, and somehow through those terrible flames, Brihan -- no, whatever has taken Brihan's _shape_ -- forges it anew, removing impurity, burning away all that was bad and wrong until only the essence, the undeniable, remained.
The Egyptian still weeps, letting her emotions get the best of her, but they are tears of joy.
Her arms thrown wide, the cobalt scarf and matching ribbon fluttering out behind her in the solar wind of Brihan's attempt to annihilate them all, denied entirely by the power of Rust's resolve. "No other power? You cannot be so blind when that power stands before you. You don't understand. Even should you reduce the world to a cinder, this power would persist. It would grow! Nurtured by the will to survive. The power of hope isn't the ability to deny destruction, but the ability to defy fate and despair!"
She can see it, now; she knows that these terrible flames are an attempt by whatever is there, whatever horrible being from beyond wishes nothing but its own destruction, to silence doubt before it grows too wide. Doubt and Hope, eternal opposites; the belief that things can only get worse, versus the belief that somehow, they must get better. And one being's doubt just may be another's hope. In her heart, Farah has felt it... the faintest of echoes. She knew the darkness inside the human Brihan's heart. She saw the memories of destruction and betrayal, the eternal suffering from which annihilation seemed the only answer. And before, she didn't know what to do. Farah's instinct was to help her, to coddle her, to protect her.
Perhaps... the opposite is what was needed.
"Antoine..." she whispers quietly, glancing at the Chongquan fighter. "When you see your opportunity, take it. You will know."
Turning back to Brihan, Farah closes her eyes for a moment, putting a hand over her heart... before the air around her explodes with starlight. Under the dark, sunless skies, the air is suddenly alive with pinpricks of blue and silver, as if the entire world has become a planetarium. And Farah? Well.
Who are those behind her? Silvery shapes, like people. Ghosts, perhaps? Or memories ripped from Brihan's own thoughts? They are her victims. Not just hers, but all those who've died for the sake of the Anemoi's terrible plot. Called here, now, by the young Soul Star's clarion. Searching the world of the soul for those who have been dealt great injustices.
"If there is anything human left of you, know this!" Farah shouts, voice echoing. "You have done great wrong. I rebuke you! I reproach you! All who have suffered in your name hunger for you to suffer! But if our power is to love, to hope... then also our power is to forgive. You wanted to create a world where everyone suffered as you have, and that was wrong, but now you have your chance for redemption."
Her hands come together over her head, focusing that terrible cold starlight. "If there is anything human left in you at all, then prove it!"
She lets the power go. There is no visual, no epic blast of power. But the force of not just Farah's will, but all these gathered hearts and minds... human will, human hopes, an inexorable wave of power.
This is it... This is getting hellacious. Antoine can feel the heat encompassing him, sucking in his ability to take in any more air. The earth feel like napalm raning down. It does not help that the atmosphere is growing stronger under the control of the Orochi-variant. When the African hellion focuses on Rust...
"N-no!"
As it comes forth.... Antoine is trying to reach out to Rust. However, the flames begin to consume him. It covers his form, yet he watches the old man resist.
Climb.
"Climb...."
Antoine is tighting his stance, channeling the chi together. He looks towards Rusty as he charges into the fray of battle. As he spearheads the rally, Antoine is following suit.
Those who he met in his adventure come to mind. Pepe, Rust, Farah, El Fuerte, Zach, Frei, Makari, Lau....
Quon.
Lightning surges from his hands as he takes a hard stance downward. He hears the words of Farah, hearing for him to take the opportunity that comes.
And.... it calls.
"This is the strength of those who have a reason to fight..."
Antoine charges through, tearing through the wash of the flames. Those ebon, terrible flames that seek to tear through life itself... Antoine's chi manifests, shielding him as well as enhancing his form. "Chongquan is the Strong Fist..."
"The fist of the world... and it's people."
The lightning traces along his fists...
"This is the world's resolve!"
He slams his right hand out, tearing through the air to strike at, no, THROUGH, Brihan.
"AND OUR DEFIANCE!"
Even as she spits her foul, twisted defiance at Antoine and Farah, Brihan is exposed to the impossible, halting yet undeniable advance of the nigh-on crippled shop teacher... his joints creaking, his combover flapping in the destructive fires of her transmogrified rage. Pushing her back straight, still squatted against her haunches, the Anemoi watches with breath smouldering and black eyes transfixed. Her mouth hangs slightly open, bottom lip curled in disgust - and perhaps even in disbelief.
Step after unbelievable, heart-rending step the man takes, until he stands before her.
She rises to face him with a snarl, but it is the desperate urge of an Alpha challenged.
Perhaps there is more than one predator here after all; perhaps she is not the hunter as she has imagined and styled herself to be. It is they who came to she, meeting within her lair of venom and fire. It will take more, Rust declares with such boldness that would give a vengeful god just pause. More than what? More than the totality of Orochi's scathing flame? More than armageddon? In this moment, this old man lodged deep in a ridiculous and esoteric stance before not just a fiend imbued with ancient power, but a woman who has been declared amongst the future of martial arts, is far more than she.
In his own particular way, he may be more than anybody has ever been.
"HhHhHhNn-RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHH!!!"
Lips scream back from too-white teeth, Brihan's legion scream suddenly imbued with a very human passion as she finds herself entrapped by the very defiant conviction she has condemned as worthless. Behind Rust's trial distraction, Farah's ghosts gather. No- somewhere in that crazed skull she remembers some of them, black-in-black eyes searching about past that dread combover to pick out faces ruined and bodies mangled by her filthy borrowed power. Some go even further...
One was counted her brother, once. Slain for some coin and a loaf of bread.
"yOu CaNnOt HaVe ThIs!!" Brihan is spitting now, frothing at the mouth even as that saliva burns upon introduction into the heated haze surrounding her. For whilst they may have found that breach, as Farah's soulfire assaults her, it touches a husk of a human being - where once lived a pathetic waif made swaggering, cocky prize fighter, now there is only a servant of Orochi. The side most dominant springs forth even as she staggers back, swatting and striking with brutal efficiency and force at the motes of gleaming Psycho Power. Against men, they would be crushing, murdering blows.
"We WiLl NoT bE UnDoNe!!"
In this instance they only hurt her more, each landed fist and thrust of the forehead, each lancing knee bringing a stinging of flesh, and a much more troublesome jolt to the dehumanized soul of Brihan Bogale. Soon enough she stands so far from Howard Rust that she has nobody to lash out at in her rage. Though she has fought off the power that assailed her - or so she strives to believe as it pulses through her system, weakening from within, tearing aside her psyche and the mortal skills upon which even the demon must rely when dealing with the likes of these terrestrial heroes - there is another to keep at bay.
Antoine. In his way, another ghost; another victim.
Brihan left him broken and afraid, scarred and ready to serve the risen Orochi.
Alongside Farah, he is the first of her living victims to return and extract their pound of flesh, but she was always a dubious thing - possessed of the one power her dark master has shown to be afeared. In her case there was doubt. In her case another encounter was inevitable. Antoine Huang is the rogue element, the merest and most pathetic of mortals whose death should have been assured. He was an empty vessel to be used and cast aside, a stepping stone, a skull upon the pile that the Anemoi would use to ascend to the heavens alongside their evil king. The little bat...
"yOu Do NoT /dArE/." Brihan's words come hard and stern, flame roaring from her throat as Antoine closes in upon her riding that incredible lightning. It cuts through heat, searing the oxygen upon which her summoned fires feed, depriving it of life as she would have deprived him. Despite her opened guard, though, the Anemoi is still a dangerous creature, and the striking hand is met with a grotesque, bloody-minded moan that begats a roar. Brihan pushes herself /onto/ his fist, the heat that greets his thrusting arm indescribable - as though he struck the very sun. It radiates outwardly, but inwardly it is a raging inferno; the same that has been consuming her now consumes him.
This does not stop the stench of her ichor from mingling with his burning flesh as she pushes herself close, inching along even as she fries under his own elemental chi. Her breath is laboured, shuddering much like her body as she forces herself to stay conscious, to stay whole, to stay alive.
He can feel her back giving way, spine jarring aside as she wrenches herself the final few inches. His melted knuckles will emerge into the air behind her, perhaps still sparking with that thunder - it matters not. Blood and smoke pour liberally from Brihan's tortured mouth as she smiles gorily into Antoine's face, greeting him with a horrific relish as she feels her death throes coming.
"tHiS rEsOlVe," she croaks, black eyes rolling in their sockets, "iS mY mAsTeR's...!!"
Suddenly she is no longer near, but against him, pushing her shuddering frame into his, all those toned muscles labouring to bring him CRASHING down into the scorched earth. At the same time her neck snaps forward with brutal speed, her forehead closing upon his already-bloodied face as every last iota of her remaining power is poured out into Antoine. The resulting blast is equal and more to that she delivered against Rust; though perhaps nothing compared to the worst he endured moments later.
Nonetheless, the plume of tainted ochre spreads to encompass she and Antoine both, Brihan's wracked frame dissolving away as it lies against him. The blast is destructive indeed, and worse yet, it does not end at a simple, ferocious attempt to steal the life of one of the stalwart trio...
For in its wake, the crack opened by her monstrous blast toward Rust...
Opens. It widens, splitting down the entire desolated length of the island, which shudders as if it too were gripped by the madness that tore upon Brihan. The fires all around rage just a little higher, but turn their heat within, too; and though the Anemoi herself will ultimately be reduced to tattered wisps, what she leaves behind is the power to destroy the island and sink what remains beneath the oceans.
These are the wages of evil. This is the destiny of which she so often spoke. She was a puppet.
Death was always to be her legacy.
And as she falls, as her temple shatters...
He will arise.
When the beams of flame clear, it is more and more readily apparent that what Howard Rust brought to the table was no trivial effort. What's left of his shirt and safety vest falls off his back, the rest vaporized to cinders - he looks to be down to a tattered pair of pants burnt away from the knees down. The back of his boots break free from his feet as he leans backward onto his back at last, posture held in brief as his bare back rocks back and forth against the burning, hot ground like an overturned tortoise.
The good news is, he has strengthened himself such in that span of time between that hand injury and now that whatever burns he was subjected to - plenty, extremely worthy of medical attention, and agonizing to make contact with the air - won't be leaving him a permanently scarred, disfigured mess.
The bad news is that his body has locked itself up that it is a challenge to once again reassert control of his locked-up joints, rocking violently back and forth with significant effort - and a very odd view of everything that's going on above him. The expression of Farah's power, blue and silver lights dancing above him. It's distracting and wonderful.
The even worse news is that molten metal is starting to try and drip onto his chest from the way he holds Ol' Rusty, and... there's a lot of things this man is willing to suffer but this, decidedly, proves to not be one of them - something that prevents him from getting a front row seat to the finer details of Antoine's single decisive strike.
A lot of his effort is worked into his arms to try and flex them, try to move them so that the melting pipe won't further aggravate already significant injury.
He can feel the ground start to give away just near his head, eliciting a four-letter word as he shifts his weight to the side in a clumsy roll, just as Antoine finds himself on the receiving end of the beginning of Brihan's last, final, terrible destructive legacy.
It's like watching a statically posed action figure tumbling when it's dropped as he, himself narrowly avoids falling into the chasm as the flames and fires turn up.
His resolve is not fleeting in the wake of the heroic push against the fullest, utmost power of a zealot - but now he is, finally and truly, working up against physical limitations, his efforts only enough to see him stretch a hand out towards the Chongquon artist.
"A... Antooooine!" Howard calls as he realizes he's got back control of his right hand from his body's stiffness. The same hand that he nearly lost completely to intense heat following a deep, nasty cut...
Can he really let it limit him now?! Even if it means possible, further damage to it... it might be one of the only shots he's got, he growls as he flexes his right hand tightly against the end of Ol' Rusty. The place where he grips it is, in itself, still solid - perhaps a bonus of it being shielded by his hands.
But the rest of the pipe, is it still strong and solid enough...?
There's no time to give warning to Antoine, as he sweeps his right arm outward from his awkward position on the floor, a loud snap in his shoulder and elbow - extremely loud complaints of parts of his body who do not yet want to move, grip holding best he can as he puts all his faith in an inanimate object.
An inanimate object that has, unto itself, no feelings, no motivations, no soul to speak of. Yet, an inanimate object this man, for whatever reason, /personifies/. Does the power of his faith and conviction extend that far into what he has made as an extension of himself when he fights?
With that one thrust, he hopes the pipe holds solid enough to try and hook into Antoine's clothing to try and prevent him from falling into that chasm left behind by Brihan's destructive power - to lift him and toss him up and away from an early, untimely end.
Surely, he will not be alone in this effort.
Being the conduit for so many spirits, so many hopes and dreams and feelings?
It's actually exhausting.
Even as Antoine makes his move to strike true against Brihan, piercing the demon in body and soul alike, the starry glow around Farah fades and she slumps to the ground on her knees, palms pressed into the heat-cracked dirt, taking deep, gaspy draughts of air in and breathing out in ragged heaves, the superheated air not being particularly pleasant or helpful as it rages through her system. Never mind that the demon's ascendance over the human creates a terrible pressure, a disjointed feeling of *wrongness* as if something shouldn't even exist in this world. That alone has its own gravity that keeps her rooted to the spot, staring at the exploding points of light in her vision.
~ Did we make it? ~
By the time her heat and fatigue-addled senses come together enough, she struggles forward, eyes blinking and muscles protesting, to find Rust screaming Antoine's name, and rushing forward to save him from death by geology. "A... Antoine!" Now this she wasn't prepared for. Can Rust pull him up? And what then? What is she supposed to do *now*?
And perhaps some part of her kicks into high gear, faced with such disaster. No. They lived, and through their hope, came through. They won't die now. "We can't!" she says, apropos of nothing, suddenly bringing her hands to her hair, untying the cobalt ribbon from the ponytail it is keeping in place. "No more _dying_!" the Egyptian shouts, before gripping the ribbon in one hand and the scarf in the other. Like a whip, she snaps both out, in opposite directions: one around Rust's waist, and the other around a nearby secure tree. With a flash of bright blue, the cloth is given -- through Soul Power -- enough resilience to be an anchor... hopefully enough for Antoine to pull his way up. And normally she'd be shouting encouragement, but she can't. Because right now she's got... well, another person she needs to contact.
MEANWHILE, OUT AT SEA:
A fisherman, looking sternly at his tiller, tries his best to put out of his mind thoughts of the girl that he almost assuredly sent to her death on that bloody island. She paid! It's no concern of hi--
This is when he gets the psychic image of that girl, and another man, doing their best to keep a friend from dying, as the island itself comes apart around them. It is momentary, fragmented, and highly, highly unsettling.
There is a long pause.
"Gods DAMNIT!"
Slowly, the boat turns around.
It all comes forth.
Antoine is starting to charge through. He was once her victim. He was once broken and afraid. Scarred. Ready to serve Orochi.
That is not the Antoine that faces her now. This Antoine is the heir of Chongquan. The preserver of the tradition. The young fighter is charging ithrough, bringing the palm out to tear through the air.
The hand strikes the sun.
"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" And the palm strikes true. It appears from the other side, his eyes looking up towards Brihan as she smiles at him even as she dies.
"Wh--.."
Antoine receives her resolve as she slams her head against his body. That speedy headbutt releases a thunderous blast. This is tearing the entire body of Antoine apart. Not literally, but the muscles are shuddering violently as he can feel his muscles crack. Blood splatters everywhere as he is starting to receive...
His early grave...
~ So... this is how it ends. ~
As the world darkens... the blast is ready to send him down the chasm.
At least, until Rust grabs onto him.
His eyes turn to face Rust, seeing the old man before him offer him that third chance of life. The smile grows. While Antoine's body is beaten, he uses the resolve to grab to the arm to help Rust and Farah lift him up.
"Thank you..." Once they are pulled back, he is trying to catch his breath, regain his senses....
"...Damnit..."
Log created on 17:17:49 07/30/2011 by Brihan, and last modified on 18:03:36 08/09/2011.