Now you're dealing with a dark godling? What in the name of all that is good and holy have you guys been up to?!

Glad you're seemingly well though.

That's quite a mess you're in. I was wondering what his deal was and now apparently he can see spirits. That can be quite useful.

Spirits, angels, demons, astral anomilies and anything else that appears on the astral plain and if I focus enough I can see souls while there in someone. Trouble is it just wont switch off so to speak, its constantly on so I always see the dead or the other astral beings even if I'm not focusing on them.... and if their around.

That would irritate the hell out of me. Have you always had that? I can only imagine being a little kid and trying to explain that kind of thing to people.

So this cult has been sacrificing specific people to fit icons from their belief system?

So what Icon do you fit, Celeste? Have you figured that out yet?

I can only say what you already know: Be careful with these people. It's obvious to me that they're a cult full of fools, but fools can still wield power...and if they've been hunting (as my brief scrollings through related threads seems to tell me they are), then they likely do have power.

Keep us updated... Any information on potential threats is always appreciated. Also, Dante, drop me a line... If any spirits you come into contact with are ready to find peace, and don't know how to reach it, let them know I can help. That's part of the reason I haven't been around much in recent months; there've been a lot of spirits coming to me for help, lately...

Where is this cult operating?

Excellantly written up as usual, and in my defense Las Vegas is not a small city.

Don't worry Bert, I should of figured out about Celeste not wanting to give her position away and told you, I'v just been lost in my own thoughts recently.

Nothing to do about it now. But I'd like to see 'em try and attack while we're with her. My military career was based on eliminating professional soldiers, I'd like to see what some half-baked vampire hunters would come up with.

Haha, not you man, just shmucks who get in over their heads without knowing full well what's going on. *Bert points to his first and so far only encounter with werewolves* But most importantly, anyone who enters a situation without knowing all the facts. Using Celeste as an example, so far I've seen no indication of evil intent or act, just a desire to do good, if someone went in guns blazing against her I would be pissed off. Granted the vast majority of SupNats prey on humans like cattle but you need to make allowances for that .5% of good natured or at least not-evil SupNats.

Your philosophy is probably the safest one.

"Safest or not, I get the impression Mr. Caliburn would never trust me..."

In my opinion, that would be a safe assumption. And if I cared overmuch about my own safety I'd still be in my bunker.

Ron Caliburn wrote:The lamb should always be wary of the wolf, no matter how tame it may seem.

Lamb versus a wolf? Mr. Caliburn, you don't give yourself enough credit. Say rather, a wolf versus a saber-tooth tiger. The wolf may need a few helpmeets and weapons to destroy the saber-tooth, but it can be done. I've never thought of humans as helpless. Weak yes, but helpless? No. Give yourself an unbiased review, Mr. Caliburn. Dante has proved himself to be a match for many supernaturals. I believe Bert will show the same mettle.

Part V

The butler’s smile was unctuous and repulsive.

“Not a vintage you enjoy?” he asked tonelessly. “Perhaps you would prefer to go straight to a meal?”

He grasped the top of the cover and paused as though daring us to refuse. I could smell nothing within; the covering somehow blocked my sense of smell. He revealed it with a flourish. I stared at the contents for a moment, the anger and rage boiling within.

In two pickled jars sat suspended two severed hands. They were that of a child’s.

“Would you care for a knife?” our host asked calmly, with a hint of malicious glee behind the creaking tone. “Or would you rather a fork?”

That sent me over the edge. Dante saw it and tried to warn me, but I was already moving.

“Celeste, no, don’t—!”

I grabbed the edge of the table and heaved it out of the way to get to the grotesque little man, snarling in rage and catapulting for his throat. The force of my blow snapped him to the floor, whereupon I grabbed his throat in both hands and began to squeeze with all of my strength. But his lidless gaze remained fixed, and he set his jaw and growled.

“Celeste—a little bit of help here . . .” Dante rasped.

I twisted with my hands and smashed the butler’s head against the floor, turning slightly to assess Dante’s predicament. But the butler was far more durable than I gave him credit for. With the side of my face so clearly exposed and my garroting clearly ineffective, he flailed a fist against my temple, sending me wheeling across the room.

Now up against the far wall with the painting, I could clearly see Dante’s problem. I had inadvertently pinned my companion against the floor, the table’s edge leaning heavily against the hollows of his elbows. And throttling him in a parody of my own movement against the butler, were the two hands, escaped with the breaking of the jars, their contents spilled all over. I grabbed the table and lifted it free.

“Thanks,” gasped Dante, slamming his hands—and two bottles of holy water—against his throat. The hands shuddered and hissed, suddenly squealing like rats as the blessed liquid ate into their pasty skin like acid.

Recalling my own battle, I turned just in time to swing the table with all my strength against the charging butler. The force of the strike shattered the table into hundreds of splinters, shards cascading everywhere. The wall dented with the impact the butler made. But undeterred by the harsh blow, not even stunned by the table, he came on, ducking once to grasp one of the leg handles. I was in the air, lunging after him when he stood up. He pushed past my defenses with the speed of an arrow, ramming the sharpened end directly into my heart. His strength, obviously supernatural in origin, stopped me in mid-flight. Thinking me finished, he shoved me aside and turned his attention to Dante.

But I was not done with him; not by a long shot. Ignoring the improvised stake sticking out of my chest, I lunged for him once more. With his back to me now, it was a simple task to loop my arms under his and to bring them back up behind his neck. He struggled insanely, but my vampiric strength held him fast.

Dante took a quick moment to grab a knife from the destroyed table, jamming it through one of the hands and up to the hilt, pinning the wretched thing into the floor. Taking another bottle of holy water, he poured the transparent contents all over the incapacitated abomination, the thing shuddered and began to boil and melt with madly churning fingers. Another dash and another quick lunge likewise skewered the second appendage to the ground. Breathing heavily, Dante climbed back to his feet, his stare centered on the butler and filled with loathing.

“So, Jeebs,” Dante cantered near, a particularly large glass bottle in hand. “Thirsty? I have jus’ the tonic fer someone of your parched complexion. Hold him steady, Celeste. This little boy might need a bit of coercion to take his medicine.”

I nodded with derision.

Celeste Darken

Damn, I would've reacted in a similar fashion Celeste, but with more gunfire and explosions. Good thing you were both there.

Celeste Darken wrote:

Ron Caliburn wrote:The lamb should always be wary of the wolf, no matter how tame it may seem.

Lamb versus a wolf? Mr. Caliburn, you don't give yourself enough credit. Say rather, a wolf versus a saber-tooth tiger. The wolf may need a few helpmeets and weapons to destroy the saber-tooth, but it can be done. I've never thought of humans as helpless. Weak yes, but helpless? No. Give yourself an unbiased review, Mr. Caliburn. Dante has proved himself to be a match for many supernaturals. I believe Bert will show the same mettle.

Don't mistake the sheepdogs for the sheep Celeste.

Besides, last time I checked, Vampires ate humans, not the other way around.

Ron Caliburn wrote:Don't mistake the sheepdogs for the sheep Celeste.

Besides, last time I checked, Vampires ate humans, not the other way around.

Except certain sick-minded individuals . . . I won’t finish that sentence. And I apologize for the useless banter. We both know what you mean, and you have proven yourself far beyond anything I have done. I accept your and others’ criticism. I expect to be mistrusted. I am what I am, I do what I do, and nothing will change that. Dante and Bert have trusted me thus far, but I would not recommend their reactions to everyone who meets a vampire claiming integrity. The chance of that statement being true is about as rare as a tree weeping blood.

I sound like a sap, don’t I? Back to business; the story proceeds.

Part VI

The butler, his pugnacious nose twitching like a demonic rabbit, struggled even harder at the holy scent held within the flask.

“Hurry,” I grit my teeth, his renewed vigor causing me to jerk. Dante hastened, but the repugnant fellow broke free just as my companion was about to get to him, twisting free with so much force the stake we shared between us was shivered to pieces.

“Heartless!” he cursed, staring at the wide hole in my chest heal over in a matter of seconds.

“You gotta be, ta try an’ force me ta drink that stuff,” Dante quipped, feinting an attack. “Celeste, take ‘im down!”

His ploy worked, the butler jerked to the side to avoid Dante’s feint and leaving himself wide open for my lunge. Again I knocked him to the floor, and again my hands were wrapped around his throat. But this time I was ready for his struggles, and he was unable strike.

“All right, ugly,” Dante hefted the bottle meaningfully. “I’ll ask ya once. And then we’ll see if you can survive headless, eh?” The butler relaxed, pure hatred radiating from his urine-colored eyes.

“And don’t lie,” I seethed, my eyes flaring angrily. “Or I will rip your head off and my companion here will pour it down your filthy neck! If you think the cult’s wrath is terrible . . .” I bared my fangs and forced my eyes into glowing coals. “You will be surprised at how humane their punishments are compared to mine!”

His eyes widened perceptibly.

There was a moment of silence as the coldness of my aura spread. “Where’s the little girl?” Dante asked, gathering his courage with a heroic effort. “The one the Dar’ota kidnapped just a few hours ago?”

“Down . . . in the west corridor . . . they took her to the basement. When all are gathered, she will be one to die.” He looked squarely at me, his fear dissipating. “Just as you will die, Heartless.”

I squeezed so hard I felt his windpipe and neck bones splinter beneath my pressure. He gurgled helplessly, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge me. He did manage to jump from the floor away from Dante, but I bore him back to the floor, pinning him down hard.

Dante slid to the fallen creature’s thrashing head, grabbing his stringy hair with one hand while holding the neck of the bottle with the other. He bit the cork off and spat it out, upending the entire contents of the sweet-smelling liquid down the gray throat.

“Bottoms up, fetcher,” Dante snarled, ramming the bottle deeper when the being tried to spit it out. “Drink up, ya gotta have yer vitamins.”

Thrashing to the point of nearly knocking me aside, the butler’s face and throat began to melt with a rapidity that almost bordered on bad special effects. Vainly trying to spit the killing liquid out with his ruined throat, the butler stared balefully at me once, then all his features blurred like a reflection on a foggy window, and then his head and neck simply disappeared. His body crumbled to dust soon after, leaving me straddling a pair of empty clothes that was rapidly decomposing.

“Hold that pose, beautiful,” Dante jumped up to his feet, rushing to the hand that still struggled under the knife and destroying it under a shower of holy water.

“How many more of those do you have?” I asked, returning to my feet.

He checked his satchel and counted quickly. “Two more big bottles and eight more small vials,” he patted the leather bag. “And they’re all safe from breaking open inside here.”

“Good,” I nodded in satisfaction. I glanced around the ruined room, expecting the macabre picture to come alive as the hands had. But they didn’t, so I searched for some other things of interest. Dante watched me curiously. “Did you see where the glasses of blood landed?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, gesturing to his blood-soaked shirt. “All over me; in case you didn’t see them flying at me after you tossed the table.”

I nodded, feeling cheated out of a meal.

“What, you were actually gonna drink that stuff?” Dante stared at me.

“It was ordinary blood,” I shrugged. “A free meal for me; it was already spilt.”

“Yeah,” my companion shuddered. “But he tried ta get me ta drink the stuff. C'mon, let’s find lassie and get her outta here. He did tell th’ truth, right?”

I nodded. “He did.”

Celeste Darken

"Dante and Bert have trusted me thus far, but I would not recommend their reactions to everyone who meets a vampire claiming integrity. The chance of that statement being true is about as rare as a tree weeping blood."

That's right kiddies, don't trust vampires without a powerful reason!

So what happens next?

Bert_the_Turtle wrote:"Dante and Bert have trusted me thus far, but I would not recommend their reactions to everyone who meets a vampire claiming integrity. The chance of that statement being true is about as rare as a tree weeping blood."

That's right kiddies, don't trust vampires without a powerful reason!

Not unless the Allmighty hisself was personally vouching for them.

Ron Caliburn wrote:Not unless the Allmighty hisself was personally vouching for them.

I have to admit puzzlement why you would trust me so swiftly, Bert. I do not begrudge your acceptance, but it still does make one wonder . . .

Part VII

Our motions were swift as we followed the creature’s instructions. But we did not try to draw attention to ourselves, moving quickly but not running, giving the impression that we belonged here and we were also in a rush.

It was the truth, anyhow. Dante was staring off into space once more, speaking to ghostly companions.

“Can you keep them from coming after us? How much time can you give us? Would you prefer staying behind? Aye. Right.” He stopped speaking, but his gaze still looked blank, as though he were listening. But he seemed to see where he was going, so I kept a lookout for complications in the form of unwanted visitors. I am not certain if Dante was aware of humans when seeing into the “Spirit Realm.”

The west corridor was decorated just as grisly as the entry we had used. I managed to pick up the scent of both the girl and the Dar’ota about a dozen yards in, which hastened our pace. We met no more people, whether it was ordinary parishioner or crazed cult member. Dante informed me that this far into the church, the spirits of the dead enthralled in this area were supposed to materialize and tear into shreds any who did not know the sign. It seemed our safety was due in part again to “Mary’s” bargain. A little farther in was an iron hinged door of thick mahogany. The scents went right through the door. Strange symbols were etched in the thick wood, but I sensed no magic. We exchanged dark looks before looking to the door again. It opened with an echoing creak; Dante flinched slightly at the sound.

Almost immediately ahead there was an immense, cliff-like drop off. A narrow staircase no wider than two feet spanned the hole and connected to a massive pillar, the stairs branching off in two sets to ascend and descend from the giant stone monolith, the narrow steps twining gracefully around the mason work in great, circling spirals. Dante edged cautiously to the stairs, looking up and down as he spoke.

“A stairway to heaven . . . or a stairway to hell?” he mused philosophically. “Actually, there’s the bell tower up there, but down there . . . there is a red glow. An’ the spirits float up an’ down all the way, riding along by the stairs.”

“Hsst,” I held up my hand. “I hear voices.”

“Well, don’ keep it ta yerself, lass. Tell me what they’re sayin.’”

“They’re chanting a hymn . . .” I listen carefully. “They say the girl is one of the chosen vessels needed to ‘free’ some sort of . . . god. Its name is Aidacoel.” I stepped to the edge and knelt to listen better. “They need a traitor . . . a . . . crusader . . . an innocent and a . . .”

Dante looked at me. “And a . . .?” he prompted.

“A heartless,” I said evenly, standing back up. “To be sacrificed in that order, before this ‘Aidacoel’ can fully arise.”

“Ah,” he nodded as though everything were fine. “That last one would be you.”

“Yes,” I agreed emotionlessly, looking at him. “It would.”

“Well, I’m with ya to the end, Celeste,” he said, his light, airy tone transforming suddenly into a serious, determined oath with each word. “Let’s rescue the lass. Her parents will be worried.”

Dante pulled out his ankh from his pouch and another vial of holy water, and we descended the stairs slowly and with care. There was no railing at either side of the staircase, the intricate stone scrollwork that served as scaffolding, no thicker than an iron rebar, had at least five feet in between each one. I felt a tingling sensation slather my skin.

The air was suddenly ripe with magic. After several spirals of descent, the voice of a head clergyman could be heard quite clearly by all, his voice loud and reverberating.

“Take this ceremonial dagger, Smythe,” his voice had a theatrical reverence to it, the words sounded rehearsed. Perhaps a misguided televangelist or something of those sort of people giving religion a bad name. “Prepare the chosen for sacrifice!”

Celeste Darken

"I have to admit puzzlement why you would trust me so swiftly, Bert. I do not begrudge your acceptance, but it still does make one wonder . . . "

My motives are completely altruistic.

Bert_the_Turtle wrote:My motives are completely altruistic.

Ah, I see. One more question . . . is this altruism for me . . . or for you? Do not take my suspicion wrong, Bert. I do not intend to belittle your or anyone else’s aid. But I would hate to see you get caught off guard and killed by a werewolf simply because he or she claimed repentance.

Part VIII

Dante and I exchanged worried looks. Were they starting the ceremony early, or had this all been an elaborate trap?

“The mosaics on the ceiling,” Dante warned under his breath. “Mary was killed first . . . but she was supposed to be the Innocent.”

We still had five more circles to descend before reaching the bottom floor. The scene was laid out in front of our eyes, the scent of magic and evil thicker than anything I had yet felt. Below us, all wore white robes, embedded with black, wicked runes. The girl was also dressed in one, easily set apart from the others for her long, dark hair, unfettered by a hood and her fragile, small height. She was tied upright to the side of an altar that was marked by a rune that I knew well. The hooded figures were strategically placed about a circle carved into a floor. The rune on the altar and the sign within the circle was all too familiar to me . . . .

“I accept this, the ceremonial dagger, Standing One of Aidacoel, mirror of the Unnamed Within the Pit,” the figure, apparently know as Smythe, took a large, ornamental dagger of stone from another robed figure whose face was hidden beneath a hood. Holding aloft the dagger in a parody of some holy object, Smythe solemnly turned to the little girl and walked toward her, dagger raised.

“Be prepared for a large fight, Dante,” I snarled quietly, tensing my calves as I smelled our enemies.

“What are ya gonna do?” he asked, but I was already moving, jumping down the stairs with inhuman bounds. “Bloody . . .!” he cursed, following me as fast as possible.

In three long leaps I faced the dagger-wielder, though he and all the other cult members were facing the girl. She stared at the man approaching her with wide eyes; the fear I smelled upon her was as thick as sweat upon her. Then I pounced, grabbing Smythe by the neck and leaping back behind the pillar. There was pandemonium as the group suddenly saw one of their order disappear, so quickly had my attack been executed. They glanced about uncertainly and murmured in surprise, the “Standing One” the only one was outwardly calm, though the rage within was burning hotly.

Then I walked back around the pillar to face them, the stone dagger in one hand and dragging the limp, bloodless body of Smythe behind me.

“I promised you death, Dar’ota,” I licked the last vestige of Smythe’s blood off my bottom lip, catching sight of seductress demon dressed in robes as the others. “I am come to fulfill that promise.”

She hissed in anger, drawing away from the other cult members. But the Standing One drew in front of our battle path, anger boiling in his eyes.

“Infidel,” he cursed. “You dare touch the relic blade of Aidacaoel?”

All the others were retreating, staring at me in alarm. “I suppose I do,” I sneered in return. “As I am guessing crosses would not be found in a place such as this.”

“But we have others . . .” he drew back his lip in a snarl. “Heartless!” Then he thrust out his arm, fingers bent like claws. Red lightning streaked from his hand, mingling with the light that permeated the air. The strike came too quickly. It smote me directly on the chest and hurled me against the wall, the dagger spinning from my grasp.

“Grab the dagger!” the Standing One screamed. “The Glory of Mediation to the one who holds it!”

There were far too many cultists in the way for me to have any chance of getting it. One in particular was keen at grabbing it before all else, a big brute of a man. Shoving aside the smaller members, he rushed to grasp it. He was mere feet away from whatever “glory” awaited him.

Celeste Darken