| Logs |
2009 September 20
| When The Bough Breaks |
| Realms |
Retired
| Reality Fault |
General Info
 |
| Realms: Bough Logs |
Fifth Movement, Drums of War (I)
It isn't too long after, however, that shouts start being raised by the raksasha, then the rumbling call of battle-horns. The angelic army has been spotted.
Jareth takes a deep breath and looks in the direction of the shouting, "Where do I go?" He's asking Mikal. Even though he's becoming competent with the vajra, he doesn't want to worry her.
Mikal jerks like she's been electrically shocked at the low howl of the battlehorns, and she gasps, "Quick! Get to our places -- c'mon!" She grabs hands or sleeves, glancing to make sure everyone's got their armor and salt and weapons, tugging them hastily along.
Norris puts his armor on first...and them helps Jareth with his. He showed him how to, before, but what with the call to battle going on right now he doesn't want Jareth to get nervous and skip a step!
Mikal whispers swiftly to her packmembers, reminding them to hold position, to not worry about the Mazikim, since Raphael will be watching their backs, and to stay together if they're called on to fill a hole in the wall's defenses.
Jareth isn't foolish and isn't overly proud... at least not about this... so he lets Norris strap him into his armor with a somewhat indulgent smile. He makes sure that Mikal sees that he's got his salt and the vajra. And he doesn't speak for fear of his voice breaking.
Mikal is hastily buckling on the thick padding she had made for Raphael's back and flanks as she speaks. She herself isn't wearing any more armor -- her flexibility is her greatest advantage in situations like this. She pats her half-brother's side once she's done, giving him a quick hug and thanking him for keeping watch over them... then she turns back to the others, "OK, we're ready. How're you guys doing? Remember to buckle the helmets down snug if we get called, all right? Don't need to overheat before then."
Norris nods firmly, checking the straps on his skullcap, and then Jareth's. "Yuh, Y' got the right of it, Rabbit."
Mikal sighs quietly once they're all ready, and sinks down into a sitting position against the trunk of a tree, going still and silent. She's good at patience when she's hunting... this is, effectively, a hunt to her. Her quiet gaze travels over the Mazikim behind them, studying their readiness and battle-lust... and she keeps an ear cocked towards the actual battle at all times.
As they assemble, they pass the small gathering of Mazikim. Asmodeus is in the center of the semicircle of fallen angels, reading placidly and calmly from a book. Andramalach stands behind the arch-Mazikim, looking unmovable and expressionless. One of the more monstrous Mazikim, who looks to be a black-winged, russet-furred werewolf with eyes of embers and wickedly clawed hands and feet, who looks rather unsettled. This must be Marchosias, of whom Vhibishana spoke of.
Norris looks at Jareth curiosuyl, then. "How does th' shots from th' vajra work, annat? Ah mean, kin they arc, like a bow? Or is they straight shots, like a crossbow."
Mikal studies the restless, twitchy winged-wolf-looking entity, reading his behavior as mostly someone impatient to be in the midst of battle. She considers a bit, then shakes her head once -- he won't want to be calmed down right now. She turns her gaze forward, studying the various defenses she can see. She wants to be familiar with them, since she and her pack may be called upon abruptly to fill in there.
Norris nods when Jareth explains the vajra is more like a crossbow. "Kay. Gonna be depending on yew and MIkal fer ranged...aint much good with crossbow m'self, and it takes ferever to reload. But iffn I need to protect y'all from ground attack, keep in mind ahm hard t' shoot around, less th' opponent's bigger n' me." he says wryly.
Mikal smiles faintly at that, reaching out to reassuringly pat Norris's leg from where she's sitting.
Jareth smiles a bit and says, "I rather hope we won't actually be participating in actual fighting."
Mikal nods silently at that, her gaze hardening for just a moment.
Norris hmmphs. "Aint there a saying, tho? Sommat about plans being the first casualty in battle?"
As they find their places, the mortals' eyes are drawn Mirrorward. from out of the mist of distance and the spotty cloud cover, come first a few, then many, then flocks of six-winged shapes. Distant trumpets herald the approach of the Architect's Army, and starlight glitters off the pennons of the angelic lances.
Mikal watches silently for a few heartbeats, her face turned up to the sky... then she closes her eyes and deliberately looks away. She breaths slowly and meditatively, maintaining her calm and her energy for when it will be needed.
Jareth watches the host arrive and part of him cannot help but be awed at the beauty of the coming sceptres. He lays a hand over his heart as sadness that this has to happen wells up.
When she looks up again, Mikal's face has the impassive calm of Ninshubur or Inanna, Lady of Battle.
Norris sees the angels coming. And oddly, his first response is anger. It was these angels like these that may have killed his wife. That did kill his sister. That anger shocks him, and troubles him, and he tries to draw on his own inner calm. But somewhere in him, the hatred of a god seethes.
Mikal glances over at Norris and smiles faintly, recognizing his body language. Her voice is quiet and calm, "Channel the anger, pack brother. Remember, the fire seethes mindlessly in the forge, but it is the wisdom of the smith who knows when to strike that crafts the sword."
And then a murmur of consternation comes upon the raksasha. For until now they have simply seen the coming of their foe, the seemingly countless numbers of the Host of Zion as being, at it's heart, nothing more than those angels they have fought against ever since the close of the Godswar. But now, in the center of the vast formation, can be seen an angel that is slightly larger, the wings more luminous, the dying light glinting off of silver and gold armor, a halo that burns and flares like magnesium. In the stead of a blazing lance, the angel carries a greatsword of gleaming steel.
"Uriel!" the cry rises up from the Raksasha. "It is Uriel! The Fire of God!"
Norris's response comes, only after the cry goes out. "This fire is a far more problematic matter." he murmurs dully.
Jareth feels as if something has hit him in the chest. This is not simply an assault by the Host if they have one of the Archangels at the fore...
Mikal smiles slowly as she rises to her feet and pulls out her bow; it's an unpleasant smile that doesn't reach her cold gray eyes. She runs the fingers of her free hand along the bowstring, not drawing an arrow as she softly murmurs, "The Fire of God, eh? Let us see what happens, then, when the fire of an usurper god meets the cold-salted wrath of a goddess too long denied!"
Jareth reaches to put a hand on Mikal's shoulder, "No, love, not yet..."
Mikal doesn't move, and her coldly cruel smile widens slightly as her eyes unwaveringly follow the big, glowing angel, "No, not yet. Not until he's become confident, and swooped in too close... only then -- when his fall will have the most impact."
Mikal is already whispering softly internally to the bow, letting it know what sort of arrow she needs.
Norris's gauntlets creak, as he stretches his fingers, and pulls his gifted mace from his baldric. He is trying to take his dear ones words to heart. But it not mindless fury that he fears. Hephaestus is not, never was, the passionate warrior that Ares was. No, he was far more practical. The thing he fears, is the urge him, not to protect, but to kill. He prays - if gods pray - that he will not have to make that choice today.
Jareth takes a deep breath, nodding to Mikal and steps back, taking his vajra in hand. The ache of sadness and fear is nearly overwhelming, but he will not run.
Raphael is settled, apparently quite relaxed and with his chin resting on his crossed front paws as he lounges behind his pack. His golden eyed gaze is on the Mazikim... and Mikal hears his quiet thought, [I bet salt harms the Mazikim too, little sister. Do not worry about them at your back.]
The Host approaches, and several leagues distant Uriel stops, hovering there with slow flaps of his wings as he watches impassively with crossed arms. Another, apparently lesser angel, is shouting orders to the flocks of sceptres as they form up for the impending attack.
As if speaking of the Mazikim, heavy footsteps are heard behind the group, and the rumbling voice of Andramalech hails the mortals. The Mazikim is stepping cautiously forward, one eye kept to the Hosts, the other glinting orb looking to the mortals.
Raphael lifts his head, his lip silently curling back from his impressive array of shark-like dentition. Mikal murmurs, without looking away from her almost hungry regard of Uriel, "Yes, what is it, Mazikim lord?"
Andramalech's words are delivered cautiously, and with as much concern as a being warped into a creature of destruction can deliver: "Have you noticed if Marchosias charged forward past you, to engage yon angels upon his own?" Behind them, they an hear Asmodeus starting to raise (excuse the expression) hell now that he's found Marchosias is no longer present amongst their number.
Mikal murmurs in her mind, [You were watching them, big brother. Did you notice the winged-wolf-thing's departure?]
Norris looks blank. He's not even sure who Marchosias is.
Raphael looks surprised. He lets Mikal know that he knows the winged-wolf-like being amongst the Mazikim most definitely did not charge past them. If anything, as all of the Mazikim noticed Uriel, the demon was backing away and behind the group of Fallen. He hadn't thought that the creature would be attempting to evade his bretheren....
Mikal calls quietly, "He backed up to be behind you all. Try tracking him by scent from there." She has yet to turn from watching Uriel. She adds, "It hasn't been long since he did so, so the scent should still be fresh."
Norris looks at Mikal in amazement. "She's good." he informs the Mazikin.
Andramalach blinks his yellow eyes. "How uncharacteristic of him," he says, and trudges back to the Mazikim where he confers quietly with the others.
A moment later, Raphael tells Mikal that Asmodeus had turned remarkably pale.
Mikal smiles faintly, turning just enough to grin and wink at Norris -- then her storm-cold gaze re-fastens on Uriel. She murmurs silently to Raphael, [That should be quite remarkable on such a dusky-skinned entity. He really should hurry, though, if he expects to stop his compatriot. They must have at least one scent tracker in that odd collection.]
Mikal muses silently to her half-brother, [Although... I bet if Marchosias burst up into those ordered platoons... Uriel would be drawn in close. Hm. It would anger the rakshasa, who are our honored hosts, to have the demon meddle... but it would deeply satisfy me to bring down Uriel as a result of Marchosias' meddling.] Her small smile gets wry, [It will be interesting to see what our Fates are, this day.]
Mikal does not say it, but she can feel her emotions starting to surge at the imminent onset of battle, and the prospect of bringing down an archangel... one of the direct Hands of the usurper god, who destroyed all she held dear. All her cities were laid low, her temples razed and forgotten; all her priestesses raped, scattered, and slain; she herself so thoroughly wiped from the scrolls of history that only the writings of one individual priestess accidentally preserved her stories and her life... so thoroughly forgotten due to the Architect's fiendish deviltry in shattering even the very concept of a goddess! Yes, she has anger within her -- a lot of it. She just channels it in very, very specific and focused ways.
The Mazikim disperse in pairs and threes, apparently as much to keep each other in check as anything. Several minutes pass, as the angels continue to assemble their battle-formation -- almost languidly and without hurry. Vhibishana comes by shortly, brow furrowed in concern, but he does not stop to talk; he seems quite intent on his task at hand.
Mikal nods politely to the rakshasa if he looks her way, but says nothing -- if it's important enough to pull the great rakshasa lord's very brother from the ranks, then it's an errand he should not be distracted from.
Norris continues to watch, himself, and while he is not focused on Uriel himself with the same intensity as Mikal - the angel that supposedly killed is wife was already dead at Athena's hand - he does look at the self-proclaimed 'Fire of God', and his enormous sword. Wondering where the sword came from: wondering who forges the weapons and armor of the angels, too.
Then the magic shield that prevents aerial attacks... goes down. It goes down hard. Even at this distance, they can see Uriel smile, tightly and intently, as the shield simply shatters and evaporates into nothing.
And around him, trumpets sound the attack, and the flocks of angels plummet down from the sky upon the raksasha encampment, like a murder of white-winged crows.
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