Jackson

Jackson Grey stood amongst corpses. The sun was just setting and it set a soft light to the carnage around him. This part of the rebel territory was now unoccupied. The Warlocks that had ambushed him had done their very best to kill him, it was a war after all. He had been faintly amused as he killed them, their blasts of fire and bolts of energy slamming against his shields of destructive red energy and failing. It was simple matter then to cut them the fuck down with his katana, the silver enchanted blade singing it’s lethal purpose with every deadly slice.

One Warlock was completely severed from head to toe, right down the middle. His internal organs and brain matter splattered on the ground. The gory sight of death and brutality delivered by his hands didn’t really phase him. Not anymore anyway, he had seen so much of it in his long years that it had numbed him to it. There came a tsking sound next to him and Jackson’s blue gaze touched upon the gorgeous redhead next to him. Lilith had been with him for over two-hundred years. The demoness was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. Her skin was creamy white and he knew from experience that it was soft, her lush curves could not help to draw any man’s eye, and he made no attempt to hide the fact that he was letting his gaze trail over them.

Her breasts were full and round. Her fire red hair was long and curly, falling down her back and to her waist. Her jade green eyes were cat like and full of almost dark amusement, her ruby red lips were twisted in a seductive little smile as she watched him looking at her. He knew that she had adorable fangs behind those lips. He almost felt bad for looking at her this way, but Rachel had made her choices. Lilith had been with him for so long, she had never betrayed him or lied to him or manipulated him, no matter his state. She helped him and consoled him, she was everything he could want, demon or no.

Oh people thought demons were manipulative and tricksy fuckers, but it didn’t work like that with them. She was infused with his soul, his very being. She could not hide her thoughts and feelings from him or vice versa. He was an open book to her. Granted she probably understood more about him then he understood about her. She had human emotions, but she wasn’t human. If she took control from him, which she would do if he ever starved or lost control of his bloodlust, she would kill and cause destruction to anyone and everything that crossed her path. It was who she was, it was her purpose and reason for being. No matter how much she loved him, and she did love him, she would do what she was made to do. She had no choice in the matter. Demons did not have free will in the same way humanity and other supernatural beings did.

“What now, Lilith?” He finally asked her, wiping the blade of his katana on a dead warlocks cloak. She pouted at his tone. Again, fucking adorable.

“You lacked flair.” Flair. It amused him that in a time of war, she worried about the style of his killing. “It’s a war, babe. Fucking flair is the last thing I need.” She frowned and tilted her head to the side, “What does that mean, ‘babe’? I am not a human child.”

He wished she didn’t always appear naked. Yes he was the only one who could see her, she was in his mind after all, but still. “It’s a term of affection.” He pulled her to him and kissed her before she said anything else. Her body seemed to melt into soft feminine warmness against him. It was so goddamn real, there was no discernable difference from the real thing. Though to anyone else, he’d be kissing the air. No one really could understand the intimacy of their relationship. She was apart of him in every way, and yet not him. She understood him on a level that no one else ever could or would. It was impossible unless you were her. She was literally a part of his soul, and he apart of hers. Even if their long time intimate friendship took this long to grow into something more, it was probably inevitable.

So he kissed her amongst the corpses of Warlocks, in a war zone, and he loved it all the same.

ELSEWHERE- Lycan Border House

The rebel was chained up with magic, and he looked tired. Healthy enough, his healing factor allowed him to heal the majority of his wounds, but he looked tired all the same. The beatings he took weren’t so bad, or at least he told himself.

“When do you think he’ll tell us what he knows?” One of his captures asked, a short extra hairy Lycan. “Who knows. He probably won’t. I’m having fun anyway,” a Lycan girl with short cropped hair said.

Their conversation was short lived as there was a huge BOOM as an explosion rocked the building. Shouts of “The Rebels are attacking!” filled the air and the sounds of violence and the smell of fire overtook the ears and nose. The rebel capture smiled and began to laugh.

ELSEWHERE- DarkWorld Faction Recreation Building

Lancelot drank his ale, or was it called beer now? He wasn’t sure. He drank and looked around and listened. “Just got word, Rebels attacking the Border House over in Lycan territory.” He heard a snort, “They’ll be put down quickly. Lot of them are idiots.”

Lance took a swig of his drink. They were underestimating these Rebels. It was always unwise to underestimate your opponents. Lance supposed that he should go help, but it would probably be over by the time he got there. Still...He drank.

-Zeiss Calavan-

Zeiss awoke to the sounds of lightning striking in the distance, groaning as she took her time looking at her clock, then out the window; it was about sundown. She turned to see the amount of papers littering the floor of her apartment and the fact her not taking got worse as it approaching the bed. Muttering to herself to be more organized, pushed herself off the ground and started picking them up. She must’ve worked until morning again, given the spilled coffee in the dining room and the scribbling on the wall, but it’s not as though she had some time schedule to follow. Most of her delivery requests would be done by the following morning.

Stepping into the shower to wash away the bags under her eyes, Zeiss wondered what there was to do today. The war outside was raging on as violently as ever, not that she ever partook in the fighting. Most of her assignments came down writing down the more complicated scriptures other warlocks and witches had trouble with so that they could be busy fighting while she did more of the literary work. Made sense, her scriptures were the best there was and it was somewhat difficult to replicate.

When are people going to learn how to write better scripture; it’s a language, not hocus pocus. Well, if I put it that way, it sound more like a science than sorcery, she thought as pulled her hair up into a ponytail.

Since she didn’t feel like going to the workshop today, it was a good time to try out a bar. Because of the diversity within this central hub, many of the little places she walked by were always bustling with Lycans, vampires, and even magicfolk like herself. The bar she had set her eyes on were somewhere near the northern part of the city; maybe a cool breeze will sweep her way. She expected mostly Lycan to be on that part of town, given how close it would be to their former territory, but she never knew what she might find; something always surprised her when she leaves her little workshop in her new environment. Pacing to her dresser, she put on her gold earrings, a red tube top, blue jeans and a black silk jacket; nothing too fancy, just something that’ll make people dart their eyes for a second. She equipped her copper watch and took a black leather handbag, placing a few of her essentials into it (phone, money, dagger), including a pad and paper; never know where inspiration might take her. Fitting into some black platform shoes, she whisked off to her destination.

As she walked, she heard the whisperings of those around her; not to her, but of information. Once the Rebellion finally decided to do something, the news tended to spread like wildfire. Initially it was somewhat annoying having none of the attention on her, but she got used to everyone's hurried voices going on about the latest news; it seems as though quite a few warlocks had engaged in battle against something fierce.

Not that it was any matter to her.

She arrived at her destination and looked around.

Dylan Stroud

An explosive buzz tempered the hum of conversation, and demanded Dylan look up from his work, the world materialising around him anew as his eyes left the page. The thrumming electric lights, the stone floor, the aged armchair in which he found his form sprawled upon its beaten upholstery. Dylan stretched. There was something feline about his movements. When he yawned, the sharp incisors added to that parallel, and his eyes were half-closed and slow to blink.

There seemed to be much excitement. He pocketed his tiny notebook.

Attacks by the rebels, no matter how frequent, always seemed to revitalise the young and foolish, filling their heads with such notions of glory. More often than not they found their tale concluding. Many of them left hurriedly, on the hopes they could get to the infraction before the fighting ended.

Boots clapped the floor as Dylan made his way over to who might have been the most stoic man in the room.

“Lancelot, darling, do not drink yourself into a stupor,” He said, gently resting his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Events may unfurl tonight that require your attention, and I will be otherwise occupied.” And with that he breezed of, seeming to walk with infinite grace and purpose. It was almost ruined by his frayed jeans and baggy, grey-wool jumper.

The stars were absent from the sky that night. Brooding clouds smeared the heavens, and hid its gems from view. A chill wind bit through Dylan’s clothes, but encouraged no shiver. Stalking from shadow to steeple, he made his way through the city via rooftop and alleyway, hidden, if not for the tiny embers and trails of smoke from his cigarette.

There was distant popping and thunderous crashes that rang through the hollow city, emanating from the city’s northern region.

Perhaps this is why his feet took him that direction. Before he got too close, though, he changed direction, winding his way towards the centre of the city as he listened to the twin melodies of death and triumph.

Making his way into the rebel section was simple enough with an access key. Some here knew him as an informant, a double-agent, others as a friend. Most didn’t know him at all.

It was not long walking before “The Ancient Cavern”, an establishment from which music and conversation bled, invited Dylan inside. He stomped out his cigarette. Inside was musty, but comforting. An old jukebox sang crackling records from the corner, forming a counterpoint with the gossiping huddles of fervent whispers. Those of the patrons that were not in huddled groups were staring deep into their drinks, except for a young lady with startling orange hair. Instantly, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Those which did not blend in with the crowd usually had the most interesting stories.

Approaching from behind, he could smell her: sweat and coffee underneath honeysuckle soap.

“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” he said, stepping up beside her, and, with a sidelong glance, “Might I buy us a drink?”

-Zeiss Calavan-

Zeiss had been soaking in the atmosphere of the bar; it felt very homely, with the warm air caused by the bodies within and the low but vibrant energy that surrounded its patrons. The jukebox gave it a rustic that made the atmosphere that much more comforting; a nice change of pace from the EDM night clubs she came across around the center of the Rebel Section.

She heard a man addresssing someone, and turned to find to find he was addressing her. The man reminded her of licorice; his straw-like black hair, the creases across his sharp cheekbones, his lanky but firm silhouette, and the way his lips pursed into a fang.

It's been a while since I've tango'd with a vampire, she thought while giving the man a warm smile.

"I'll have a Matador cocktail," she said, turning curtly in her stool to face the bar side to catch the tender's attention, "So tell me, what brings a devilish man like yourself to my side this evening?"

Dylan Stroud

“Why of course,” Dylan purred, saddling a stool next to her. He tapped a slender finger upon the bar and met the tender’s gaze, “And a crimson rush for me, darling.” Using the colloquial term for blood and well drink, one of the wonders he discovered in Meridian. The man nodded, and began preparing their drinks.

Then his attention was fully on the lady before him. Now he could see a brilliant streak of cobalt through her hair, an unnatural delight against her burning locks. She was an amalgam of self-assured fire and arcane mystery. Glistening teeth showed through his crooked grin.

“The stars have left me all alone, and the moon is a fickle lover,” their drinks came, and Dylan nodded his thanks, barely turning from her, “I am here for company, much the same reason as anyone else, I would imagine. I search for singular souls amidst this surreptitious situation.”

A new track came upon the jukebox, this one terribly scratched, causing a groan from a large part of the patrons. Dylan broke his intense stare and took a sip from his drink, the taste on a single malt whiskey and the coppery pang of blood not entirely unpleasant, but still caused him to purse his lips.

When he looked back at the woman, it was with furrowed brow, as if pondering a deep thought, chin resting upon clenched fist.

“‘My hopes are dying, while on dreams relying, I am spelled by art’,” He intoned, “Whole truth told: I am a poet, searching for his muse. However, lady luck must have smiled upon me, for I think that perhaps I have found her.”

He straightened up, shaking his reverie, and split his face with a fanged grin, his eyes seeming to twinkle, “Just listen to me go on!" he gave a theatrical sigh and chuckled, his voice turned to treacle and chocolate, "Tell me, my dear, where do your interests lie?”

-Zeiss Calavan-

Zeiss couldn't help but laugh at the man's words, her eyes shimmering with gold speckles from the lights above them; this vampire certainly was being quite the charmer. Perhaps in was in their nature to have such a demeanor. She was glad to find a man who would try to woo her, words were a very strong force indeed.

Her profession spoke volumes on that front.

Taking a sip of her drink, she allowed the warmth of the alcohol to ripple through her body. She shifted her shoulders and played with her hair a bit.

"Well, my dear sir, just as the stars dance brightly in the sky, I am also a shining pioneer. Someone who has begun to unravel an unknown magic, knowledge possibly only known by the Gods themselves. Allow me to indulge in myself for you; I like to show off my assets."

Taking a napkin from the table, she took out her pen and started writing. At her skill level, it only took a short second to write down the long inscription in a circle across the surface and evoke the words from within herself:

‘er pao Runum Ansuz Eihwas Pethro Uruz spyrr Uruz Algiz opendi nam er Ehwaz Isa’

Her left shoulder glowed with a blue light and the rune below her thin jacket revealed itself as the magic ran through her arm into the thin paper. The napkin stopped its motion, unmoved by the air and the elements within the bar.

"And so here is my 'interest' in full display. Fun at parties. As long as I hold onto this, the material is unmoved by anything. Be it time, or-"

Taking a knife in her free hand, she shoved it with all her with all her might into the thin sheet of paper, and presented him with a bent piece of metal.

"Be it force."

Lancelot grunted at his fellow Vampire. He didn't feel like hanging around anymore. So he got up, stretched, and left. Before he had gotten too far. however, he heard someone say "Traitor," in a hushed voice. Lance stopped to listen in. "There's rumors of a traitor in our midst. Supplies going missing, information that shouldn't be known getting to the rebels. They shouldn't have known where we took their Lycan ally, yet suddenly, boom, they're attacking the border house. No other explanation." Lancelot sighed. Paranoia was rampant in camp. He paid it no mind as he left, heading to a house he had claimed not far from there.

It was smallish and simple in style. Going to the back, through the small kitchen, he went into his room. In it was a bed, dresser and closet. Curious he looked at the letter that was on his pillow. It had not been there when he left. He opened it and read it.

Lancelot,

I know how honorable you are. Come to the Warehouse by the docks at 11pm tomorrow night. Trust me.

Yours,

A friend.

Well. Looks like Lancelot had a plan for tomorrow night then.

Dylan Stroud

The playful smile dancing upon Dylan’s face went slack at the spectacle. For the briefest of moments there was a frown upon his face, and his eyes might have narrowed. It happened so quickly, it may not have been there at all; now, once again, it was so perfectly composed and under control that the falter absolutely must have just been a trick of the mind, surely.

Quite deliberately, he ran fingers through the mop of hair. All his awe was genuine.

“My dear,” Dylan began, his eyes flitting between napkin and woman, “You have indulged me too! Throughout my long years, I’ve never been quite so impressed by magic.” Runes were unfamiliar to him, and he knew he would be unable to recall them from such a fleeting glance. “Can you use it on people? I may not need use handcuffs ever again.” This came with a wry smile.

He raised a hand gingerly, as if the napkin might bite. With the same slender digit that he had rapped upon the bar, he pressed gently into the napkin. It felt like, almost disappointingly, a napkin - gauzy paper, almost furry with slight moisture - yet it did not budge. A little more force was applied. Still nothing. The finger withdrew.

After finishing his drink and gesturing for another, Dylan spent a moment reappraising the woman. It was plain for all to see she was unique, but to what extent, he was only beginning to realise.

The blue light on her skin was mesmerising, and he had caught himself reaching out to touch the glowing runes. The hand returned to his knee.

“Truly, there is a beauty in the craft of such magic I had heretofore feared,” He locked eyes with her, “You are giving me second thoughts; a true pioneer indeed. I wonder what other secrets you are privy too,” His toothy grin was back. With cat-like languor, he leaned upon the bar.

Slender hands made an elaborate gesture to the heavens. “But the Gods you say? I searched for mine many a year, and never found them,” an eyebrow arched and a thin smile played at the edge of his lips, the blue lights still dancing in and enhancing his eyes, “I thought most magically inclined folk had forsaken gods, how comes you are so different, my muse?” He rested a finger on pursed lips as he awaited a response.

-Zeiss Calavan-

With the last downing of her drink and the release incantation of "Dagaz Othala", the napkin went limp while she bathed in the compliments and admiration. She knew it was a waste of her daily mana but hell if it didn't feel good to indulge in making herself feel more important. She called for another of the same drink as she locked her eyes back onto his.

"I simply have such a talent, refined by natural determination. My family comes from a long line of German warlocks; perhaps my ancestors grant me passage to the lines connecting reality to the metaphysical. It all has to be put into the perspective of something beyond my comprehension."

She took a sip of the tequila cocktail before continuing, feeling a blush come across her face. "Unfortunately, I have not made much progress on what I've been calling Stasis Magic. It works on organisms just as well if not better than a meager napkin, the only problem I have so far with this magic is that the object is indeed fixed; it cannot be moved from its spot within the Earth's rotation. I'm the only one putting the time and effort into what so far amounts to more expensive Paralysis runing. If I can just find the breakthrough I need, I know I can make a killing in profits."

She grinned wistfully among the crowd of various magicfolk, "Though maybe there's been enough killing nowadays..."

---

---

It wasn’t a good night for perimeter checks, but between wasting time drinking and wasting time re-enforcing wards that had been checked well over a hundred times, Shidya opted for the marginally more productive option. The clouds blocked out whatever natural light there was, and without the humans to keep maintenance there was no artificial street lights to lead the walk either. The entire city was in quite a state, the Council would have a hell of a time fixing it, especially if they got their way. There had been losses both sides, and there would be punishments dealt so Shidya’s group, how many magic users did that leave to repair and entire city, clear the wasteland they’d created, and make the humans forget the years spent?

As expected, there were no disturbances along the Lycan’s boarder. That walk alone had been a few miles long, and she’d be tired if there was an attack the next day. A shiver hit her spine; something was wrong. She held out her book, already opened to a glowing rune of light, and looked at the wards on the ground, all appeared perfectly in place. Of course, it could of been the night chill finally getting to her. She grasped for the charm around her neck all the same, trying to determine the source of her unease. A flash followed by rumbling thunder eased her. A storm was easy enough to avoid.

She crouched down to begin tracing a return teleport rune to link with the anchoring rune two blocks from where she lived. ’Never put a rune where you sleep Shidya anyone with a trace of magic will find you then.’ A dark shape skittered across her work, knocking her inkpot over in the process.

“Hey!” Shidya just had time to lift her book away before the dark puddle spread to her feet. Her shoes, already stained black leather, where of little consequence, she stepped to make a barrier between the spill over her half-finished rune and the ever-important wards that marked the barrier. There were prints in the ink, leading away from it. Shidya lowered the book to trace where they went. Four feet away the small dark shape of a cat was licking a paw with a black-stained tongue.

“That’s going to make you sick.” As though heading her words, the cat stopped. Then lowered its body, staring intently at her. Shidya stood in response, retrieving what was left of her inkpot in the process. Wards against spilling. She would have to look them up again when she returned. She wiped the bottle down with her skirt before dropping it back in her sack. That was half of her clothing ruined, but both precious books where safe. The cat was still peering at her, she took a tentative step closer. It raised itself and turned to walk away, casually, not in flight. Likely someone’s pet from before the war. Though, six years seemed a long time for a domestic pet to care for itself. There was I quiet mewing, just past the edge of where the light from Shidya’s glowing rune ended. The wind picked up, and the ring of light shank smaller still as Shidya folded her arms against her chest. Black cats could be good or bad luck depending where you were in the world. Not that that mattered for Shidya; what harm where signs or demons and witchcraft to a witch? She followed the cat, only slightly aware how foolish it was.

They walked just short of a mile before stopping again. Shidya didn’t need prompting from the cat to stop, she’d broken into a cold sweat despite the biting air, now filled with invisibly small droplets. If her hands weren’t trained for steadiness, they’d have been shaking. There was more than a storm to worry about. Her first thought was the wards of course, no one patrolled the north barrier alone specifically because it was so difficult to maintain. There where double the wards compared to anywhere else, and nearly a third where always in some sort of disrepair from magic on the other side. On quite days, in the sunshine, it was almost a game. Each side attempting to outwit the other in their use of runes and materials. In a moonless night, it felt a good deal more sinister. Shidya knelt down to examine the mark on a brick wall, it was paralysis, but changes she didn’t recognize where made with dark red ink. The cat came and sat directly on top of her light rune the moment she laid it down. Not a black cat after all. She went to move muddy turtle shell tabby, only to hear a voice coming from around the corner of the wall. On the other side of the wards.

The inspection was forgotten. In one quick and practiced movement, she pulled the cloak from her sack and covered herself, the book and cat with it. Too late, she remembered the replaced empty inkbottle, it gently clinked to the pavement and rolled away. The small sounds was loud as thunder in her ears. Very slowly, she began to shift herself backwards and directly into a warm puddle. She raised a wet hand to her face, already knowing what it would be. Blood, but no body that she had seen. The trill of fear that came with the discovery only served to focus her mind further. She pushed the cat from the book and out of the hiding of her cloak. Once the book was safely tucked into her sack, she pressed both palms wrist deep into the puddle of blood, grimacing only slightly. The fact that a disturbingly large collection of blood was on her side of the boarder and an almost jovial voice was on the other was enough to diminish whatever curiosity she had. Barely daring to breath, she began to blindly trace a teleportation rune with an ally’s blood.

Jackson

"Are you going to be here very much longer?" Lilith asked him. Jackson sighed, but it was a sigh of amusement. "What does it matter to you? It's not like you have anything fucking pressing to do." She sniffed haughtily, "The corpses are starting to smell." He stared at her for a while and she grinned playfully at him. He shook his head and held out his left hand to his side. A dark red slash split the air and opened slightly. A small hole, just big enough for him to slide his Katana through. He was about to do just that when he heard a noise. His head turned sharply and he listened hard as he put up a spherical shield of crackling destructive energy around himself.

"Whomever you are, come out where I can see you." From his coat he pulled out a silver flask and opened the top. He drank from it, Crimson Rush, his favorite drink, flowed through him.

"Come on now, I don't have all god damn day." He looked at Lilith, "I could just start laying waste to the other side." Lilith cocked her head. She liked destruction, "No. Could be an ally." Jackson sighed again. She was right of course. He started walking toward where he heard the noise. "If I find you, I'm probably going to eat you. I'm rather thirsty."

---

---

Shidya only half listened to the goading from opposite the wards. Idle threats, little more. If he could pass to her side, he would have already. Not that she was ready to count on that. Her greatest fear was in her ability to create the rune properly in such terrible conditions. With her light gone, she was completely blind, the blood was thick and sticky and she constantly needed to re-wet her fingers and attempt to find where she left off. Lastly the rune she needed to make was too large, and the space under her cloak too small, but seeing as it was the one of the two thin defenses she had against something that had already killed multiple of her own people, she wasn’t about to part with it.

The cat bushed against her leg. Shidya cursed it silently, and kicked it less so. It responded with a hiss which she ignored, weighing her options as she groped the assortment of object in her sack. A vampire she could hold back, maybe. She had no prideful illusions on her own skills; a Darkling would kill her outright. Either would smell her out before long.

“I can’t imagine I’d provide much satisfaction after the feast you’ve already provided yourself with.” She stood, careful not to let the cloak fall. Not that it was of much use with the cat continuing to nip and mew at her ankles. She continued moving backwards, searching for the source of blood.

He looked around him at her words. The corpses were rather bloody. The scent was sweet to his senses. It made him thirstier and he took another sip of Rush. He could get on the other side fairly easily if he wished, he had a key. The wards thrummed with power, ready to incinerate anyone without said key. Those involved in its creation were very talented. Still, he had killed enough people tonight and she wasn't offering him violence. Lilith pouted at this thought. 'Oh shush, babe. I just fucking eviscerated ten people. That should satisfy your bloodlust." She smiled at him in that seductive way of hers, "I'm never satisfied." Jackson laughed, that was true.

"Feel free to do what you fucking wish. Just stay over there and away from me. Or I will eat you." He called out to the feminine voice.

Dylan Stroud

Another glass of murky red liquid was placed by Dylan, his third of the night. The tickling, bittersweet euphoria of blood and alcohol toying with his mind in tandem was all too familiar to those who shared his affliction. That haze didn’t stop both his eyebrows rising.

“Wait, wait, wait,” He waved his hands at the air and the dawning realisation, “You mean to say,” His accent seeming to shift across all regions of Europe as he spoke, and, was that a slight slur? “that you developed this system yourself?” He paused. “My, that is impressive.”

At the topic of the war arose, he nodded grimly, but there seemed to be a noticeable spark in those twinkling eyes. “You think after enough times, losing a friend would become easier. I suppose I am thankful at least that I am still human enough for that not to be true.” He reached for his cup, and found it empty – he hadn’t remembered drinking it, but tapped it on the bar all the same, hoping to rectify the problem swiftly. “I do find myself fascinated with its affects though; war seems to strip people bare, and expose something primally earnest, but unique in them.”

He shook his head, “But yes, too much killing indeed,” he stretched, casting an idle gaze about the room, “but perhaps one of the many things we should leave for when we are alone," He winked. "It is the funniest thing, but I heard the walls have ears here.” He returned to his fourth (or what it his fifth?) drink. The deep crimson liquid reflected Dylan’s deep scowl.

“Why is it just you working on this ‘Stasis Magic’?” There was something earnestly intrigued about his tone, the way it lifted at the ends, “If you want my untrained opinion, it seems far more useful than a simple paralysis. I'd throw as many minds as I could at the problem. Is it hard to understand?”

-Zeiss Calavan-

At the mention of her solo venture, she gave him a wink and a giggle; it was probably the alcohol on that one. She downed her fourth drink, a Screwdriver, making sure to limit herself to one more drink so she can keep her wits about her. Wait...was this the fourth or the sixth? What was the fifth? She shifted in her stool staring at the glass, her arms resting on the table as she listened to the vampire next to her talk on about the war that surrounded them. She felt herself starting to ramble after he stopped talking to take another swig.

"I'm a genius, hun; the template I use should be understandable, but I don't know what these peons are doing. Schools aren't any better; I surpassed my seniors in my second year and they still teach the same type of inscription. For what I can tell, they don't use runes like they do a language; it has a structure and presentation that needs to be addressed when making the right ones. You don't say 'happy' when you mean 'arousal'" She got quite close to him on that word, feeling her breath on his and vice versa, "and it's the same thing with runic magic."

She asked for a glass of water and took two gulps before letting her tongue stick out to let the lack of taste set in.

"I'm too hard ahead of the game, that's what it is. It's like trying to teach school children about anthropology. Moreover, it seems as though many other warlocks and witches don't use Norse runes anymore, sticking to Celtic or Sanskrit or some other drivel. That's my job here as of current; making the inscriptions for the less talented suckers so that they can use them in the war and they STILL lose. Not my fault that they have such poor aptitude. But I agree with you; the war will strip you down to your bare bones and make you face yourself. Make you ask if you're making the right decision by being in the center of it. Ask you why do you even bother."

She let out a laugh, first nervous but slipped into silliness as she brushed the sweat on her brow; the warm atmosphere could get fairly heated in this place. She rested her head in her hands and looked at her partner of the night.

"I'm sorry; that became a bit too introspective for how many of these drinks we've had downed. So what about you, man of mystery; what are you like?"

@Tackytaff@Override

---

Sarafine laughed, low and joyless, not far behind Shidya, as she reached down and plucked the body the woman was backing up towards. "Luv, I'm not sure exactly where you are, little Faerie, but I know you're close. Why don't you scamper away, yeah?" Sarafine said with a wicked smile, throwing the body down the street.

That was cruel, Sarafine, Asmodeus chuckled in Sarafine's ear.

"Shush, beautiful Asmodeus. Let me play," Sarafine giggled. "Now, little Faerie, take your chance. The grownups need to have a discussion. Don't disappoint me."

She crossed the Wards, having been given the necessary means incredibly quickly once they'd been erected.

"Jackson, Lilith. The pleasure is yours, do believe," Sarafine called over as she sauntered over towards the younger Darkling. "You've been busy, I see. I wanted to have a little chat, and I do believe you have the time."

That's my girl. I assume we'll be having fun real soon, my beautiful destroyer? Asmodeus asked with a glint of teeth.

Yeah, soon. Very soon. Sarafine thought in response.

Jackson Grey

Jackson was leaning against a building, drinking out of his flask. Crimson Rush wasn't as good as blood, but it definitely staved off his thirst. He should have left this area a while a go but his intuition told him to stay. Lo and behold another Darkling showed up. He paused in the act of taking another drink and then put the flask away. Darklings are not common creatures. Jackson knew of pretty much everyone in existence and he could count them on his fingers. Seemed that at least half of them were in this war in some way or another. He looked at Lilith, "She can't see you can she?" Lilith pursed her lips. She was standing not far from him, looking every bit the goddess instead of demon. Finally she shook her head, her gorgeous fiery hair flowing from side to side. "She cannot. Doesn't mean she doesn't know I'm here though, pet." Jackson sputtered at that, "Pet?" She bared her fangs at him in amusement, "It's a term of affection." Jackson groaned inwardly. "Why do I keep you around?" He asked her.

She walked closer to him, tracing his jaw with her ruby tipped finger. Jackson felt shudders run through him, "Oh, lots of reasons," Lilith murmured. Lots of good reasons Jackson thought. He shook his head and playfully nipped her finger, gesturing at the newcomer that had joined his massacred hangout spot. "I really should pay attention to her. If I'm right that is Sarafine. She's very dangerous." Lilith pouted adorably, "Let her watch." Jackson actually blushed and shook his head, "No Lilith." Finally he turned his attention to his fellow Darkling.

"I hope you're not here to fight. It would be a pointless exercise for us both." Jackson said. He held out his hand all the same, the familiar red split in the air appeared and Jackson stuck his hand into the sudden hole, pulling out his silver katana. The blade thrummed with seemingly deadly desire. "I hear you're a psycho though, so I should be prepared."

Dylan Stroud

For the most part, Dylan sat silently with merely the toying hint of a smile, an attentive listener, save for when she was particularly playful; that earned the smile of a satyr. At the end of her explanation, he found himself nodding shallowly, impressed at her concise and fluent explanation, despite her increasingly rosy cheeks. The news that she was not a fighter was a massive relief; he was careful to hide his face when he could not avoid raiding, but he couldn’t avoid defending himself.

In the corner, the jukebox was skipping on a record, until somebody gave it a hearty whack. It let out gentle crooning from the 50s, and Dylan found himself swaying with nostalgia. The gentle pattering of light rain could be heard on the roof. The storm was moving in.

Before answering her question, he tilted his head to the right and met her gaze, his lips barely curling upwards, his eyebrows rising in the middle of his brow. “There is nothing wrong with introspection, my dear, under any state of consciousness.”

Then he laughed drily. “What am I like?” He thought for a moment, “Nice enough, I suppose. Nowadays I collect and chronicle, I seek out seeds of humanity and caution in the hopes of salvaging something paradoxically beautiful from such dire days.”

A silence settled like fine snow, and sat there, until it was chased off by ponderous tones of silk and satin, “I suppose what I’ve been looking for is meaning. I thought I found it, when I partook in every vice and sin available to me, but earthly pleasures are fleeting, and left me feeling hollow.” He finished what he determined would be his last drink here and looked at her. “No matter how sensual it is in that most carnal of moments.”

“I also do things for the war here, of course, but…” a deep sigh, “I fear I have drunk too much to make sense, and I am a dreary topic of conversation anyway.” He stood, unfurling enough money to settle the tab, and then some.

Turning to the woman, he beamed, a held out an arm, oddly stable for his apparent state, “Would you accompany me on this fine night, O muse of mine? Witching hour is fast approaching, and I could really use a walk to clear my head.”

-Zeiss Calavan-

Zeiss simply smiled, "The night air would feel really nice right about now. Being so flush in this place is making me a bit woozy."

She put down some money for the extra drinks and nodded to the bartender, who just looked between her and the vampire before nodding. She looked to her companion; he was a man of stories, and has been exposed to so much that he lost touch with the world of matter, unfeeling to purpose. Nihilism is something that she had never felt before; she was always too invested in her work to care about the details of philosophical ideologies. She didn't mind the company of those who did have those feelings as long as she had something to gain from it, and from this man she gained the venting of some of her frustrations.

She attempted to stand up, wobbling as she balanced herself. Her chest felt heavier than usual, and obviously her vision wasn't very steady; perhaps she really did over do herself on the tequila this time. Must've been the company that kept her doing.

As she slowly walked toward the entrance, she noticed the pitter patter of light rain and looked to see that a faint shower was coming down; seems as though Freyr had blessed her with a cooling breeze after all. It was nothing to be annoyed by, but it made her second guess bringing her lovely silk jacket since it would be such a waste to have it get wet. She tucked it into her hand bag as a few more people came into the bar looking for a bit of shelter. She wiped off the sweat on her brow and realized her hair was curling even more from the humidity.

She looked over her shoulder with a sideways glance (which probably could've been executed better if she were more sober) and said, "Come now, my dear chronicler; you must tell me of your stories. Having experienced so many vices and sins must make you quite the skald."

@Override

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Sarafine's smile disappeared in a flash. "Children should remember how to talk to their elders. And psycho I am not. I would have accepted bitch, though," she said, devoid of emotion. "A fight might be a waste for me, but talk like that again and I'll remove your tongue, boy. I came to talk to someone who wouldn't bore me, since the Council is a bunch of pattering whelps. I swear they almost soiled themselves when I paid them a visit." She laughed, walking closer now.

"I'd rather we don't fight then," Asmodeus said with a shrug.

"Of course we won't, luv. Not unless we're disrespected." Sarafine crooned back. Returning her attention to Jackson, she continued. "See, I've come to join the festivities. I am indeed Sarafine, third of our kind. More ancient and wise than the Council. Asmodeus and I have decided that this little was is worthy of our interest. I'm sure you can understand, given our history in the world. So, tell me young one, what is your opinion on the state of this war? Mind, I don't give two rat asses why you're with the Council. I don't care why you fight. I don't care why you live, either, for that matter."

Having come within spitting distance, Sarafine stopped walking and bent down. She investigated the corpse that had been cut from groin up, a distasteful look on her face. "Wipe that look away, Sarafine. You've done worse with Curse and Purge."

"Yes, I have. I'm more disgusted over the sloppy cut. I, at least, made mine perfectly straight. Though I suppose I should forgive him. He is but a child."