Skin of Iron, Mind of Gears
18th of February 2007 A.D.
Ever since you first learned of your father's calling, of the Fallen he battles you wondered what you would feel laying eyes upon them: terror, righteous anger, some sick temptation? What you feel instead searing from the depths of your soul is
contempt. Broken winged rebels spreading suffering for its own sake, playing by the rules that mean they can't win, that mean this is all they will ever be.
"An old monster that deals in traitors coin thinks themselves entitled to the lives, the minds, the possessions of those that came after, what a surprise." An echo grows as you grasp for deeper power . It is harder so soon after the last time, an unseen muscle aching from the strain, but you are no stranger to pushing. "Wizards peel away his magic as much as you are able, Olivia go nuts. "
Distantly you hear the sound of the stone floor cracking under the weight of stone and brass and arms of storied legacy.
The man, the magus shakes his head, like a mildly disappointment teacher.
Between his brows a hellfire brand flares, its light contesting yours, the Coin. Like a leviathan adrift in a liminal sea, the Fallen reveals itself to your sight, a shattered, mutilated thing grand not in spite of it, but because of it. It is broken and the promise of the world's breaking, the dark void in the web of magic, the soft voice of temptation behind in every sorcerer's ear.
And in those ears nearest to him now he
screams.
Like perfectly balanced fighters, waiting for a blow only to have the gravity suddenly reversed most of the wizards behind you stumble their will sputtering in smoke and light against the walls of the Halls, except that is Nzola and Aleron LaFortier. The two illusionists had instead of taking your advice called forth shades of dreams and nightmares, knights in armor and lions with manes of fire, birds of steel with mirrored wing and roaring chimeras that shift with every moment, illusions given the weight and power of their will.
A look of annoyance passes over the Denarian's
twisting features. Be he ever so mighty he can't curse what he can't
see in the glare of magic. You catch the very moment when the he opens his Sight and looks upon the whole of yourself bearing down on him. Threads of unraveling magics flow from clawed hands, slicing the phantasms like smoke and dust, though one still manages to reach him before you moving at the speed of a dream, raking with molten gold claws... though they leave no mark.
He's fast, faster than any mortal man, but even with time seeming to congeal around him far from the fastest thing you've ever fought. Soul-forged brass screeches on iron-hard kin with thorns like nails. It leaves a mark but no blood shed. Looking in the eyes inside the blackened mask close enough to smell his breath you see the moment's indecision fracture.
It had cost him more than he expected to break the phantasms, he had barely turned the blows enough to keep from shedding blood. Behind you are wizards, mortal, frail, ripe for the killing, but they are six and he is one, a nephilim be side them them, a sniper raising her rifle almost as fast as him. Any of them might be his next victim, but not
all.
He turns a ring of tarnished silver upon his left hand and the air in front of you
implodes. By the arts of the Fallen this place and some distant other become briefly one without having to skim though the spirit world at all.
Lost 5 Essence and 2 Willpower -> Now at 7/18 and 4/9
"Oh come on!" you shout as a bolt of balefire sizzles though the space the Denarian had occupied until a moment ago. "We almost had him!"
"And he almost had whatever he came for," Aleron LaFortier points out. He has a kind of lilting accent you can't place, almost musical. "Pardon the presumption, but one assumes the hell-sworn has planned this for considerably longer. Given the ills of the day I will count us lucky. You have my thanks Miss Carpenter."
He has a point. Doesn't stop you from kicking a crack in the nearest wall.
What do you do?
[] Go to Paris as you are the others need the help, your present form might cause some exposure, but it is night there as well. There can't be that many poeple out
[] Wait until the transofrmation wears out
[] Write in
OOC: That could have gone better, it could also have gone a lot worse. Namshiel is monstrously skilled, but between dripping up the wizards preparing a counter, dispelling twice and having the dodge the 28 dice worth of sword heading his way he was on his last action and then it was Olivia's turn. He did not live this long by running himself out of actions when faced with his kind of opposition. 
