Thief of Lives
22st of July 2006 A.D.
Mind racing through all the permutations of what could have... taken over Lydia you consider what you might do. Still atop a fearsome form of concrete and steel the stair looks flimsy indeed, but you do not know what kind of power Lydia might have or what the being looking at you from behind her eyes might conjure forth. But you do know of One All-loving as He is All-powerful...
"Dad," you do not raise your voice, but neither do you try to hide what you're saying. There's no time for subterfuge anymore. "I think Lydia's possessed."
He does not hesitate and he does not doubt you, instead in one smooth motion he draws forth the Sword of Love and turns its cros guard towards Lydia as he intones with solemn voice:
"Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies,
Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in "our battle against principalities and
powers,
against the rulers of this world of darkness,
against the spirits of wickedness in the high places"
And lo, on the simple steel cross-guard there is a glint of gold as if the morning light had reached into even this deep place. In the echo of his voice you can hear others faint and far off but growing closer, men and women, young and old.
But then from the height of the ladder Lydia, or rather now the thing that speaks with her lips having thrown off all veils laughs, an empty thing that recalls the form but not the meaning of mirth:
"Your God has not power over me, for I have slipped the chains of death and the demands of His Judgement. A hundred deaths I have faced and all of them I have cast onto those too weak to keep their lives from me." There is no light to her working, no glimmer in the air, only a chill void that grows and grows, a stillness that devours. Like the conductor of some demented orchestra she motions with her right hand presenting her palm up towards the pale light above and the ceiling
shatters.
Unquiet specters flow like grey mist of sorrow and of rage, broken limbs and twisted faces, hollow eyes and howling mouths, tragedies and horrors uncounted stitched together into a spiritual abomination driven only by rage and the mind lash of its maker.
Though Amoracchius shines all the brighter in the murk, though the runes on Gard's axe burn fel and clear upon the steel dread comes over you, not of the ruined, tormented dead, but of the one who called them. The spirit's words still ring in your ear,
death traded with the weak... Capricorpus, the one Lydia's father hunted had found
her. Behind the veil of wailing specters she is fleeing, with poor Lydia still locked in to her own mind... but for how long?
What do you do?
[] Ignore the ghosts, you are tough, go after Lydia
-[] Write in stunt (optional)
[] Help to clear out the ghosts as fast as possible, you are going to need help to deal with that thing
-[] Write in stunt (optional)
[] Write in
OOC: Really short this time, but can't really be helped since it's combat.