Lev awoke with a start as a nasty bump jarred him awake. He screamed, wasting no time in thrashing about. His mind was clouded, gone even. He made unintelligible sounds as he rocked back and forth between the little range of movement that his chains would allow. A clicking noise came from his side, his finger pulling the trigger to his staked revolver over and over again. After half a minute he began to falter. Coming to what little sense he had at the moment, he began to take in his surroundings. A dark metal interior. Most likely some sort of armored transport. The people he had met the previous day were all there. Except...

"Woman?"

He looked again. Room was cramped at best, but he tried to peer for some hidden nook that the girl he was looking for might be hiding in. He grew anxious. Had he failed her? Or had she left him? Why was she gone? And where was the one they called Michael?

"Why I tied? I do wrong? Lady is where?"

*tsk*ing to see that it is the human host, and not the entity, that has regain consciousness, Shealtiel sighs bitterly and reclines from his vigil.

"I couldn't tell you," he answers Lev. "She seems pathologically disinterested in camaraderie, to the point of brazen recklessness. It'll likely be the death of her." He shrugs, ever so slightly.

"And you're chained because, in case you weren't aware, you're under the dominion of some sort of infernal possession. Whether those bindings would be sufficient to restrain the demon remains to be seen, but I thought it prudent. They'll remain until I have a chance to speak with it myself. You understand, surely? Don't worry, if things get violent, I'll make sure you aren't helpless. Something tells me you can abide the discomfort." His voice never once raises in pitch. It is rather obvious that he cares nothing for Lev's comfort.

He stared quizzically at the old man, as if he was rather addled in the head. He had heard what he said, but words...words had slipped, somewhere. He couldn't quite remember all of what he had just said. Most likely the old codger's mumbling speech. Raising an eyebrow, he tried to shrug in the little space he had.

"She abandoned me. And I possess nothing. Not possess things you may have the interest in. Was under understanding that I was of the civil. I am simple man. I have gun, shoot things with gun. Try to live. Are you to kill me?"

A faint, ghostly smile creeps onto the old man's lips. "You'll know it if I decide to kill you, and there will be no "trying" involved, rest assured." He watches his words only half-take with the addled gunman. Sighing, he clarifies, "You're safe, for the moment. At least from me." Seemingly disinterested, Shealtiel closes his eyes and listens to the engines of the APC groaning as they propel the vehicle across the wastes.

Lev thought for a moment, trying to understand what this man wanted from him. More importantly, how he could escape his chains. Looking down at his occupied hand, he noticed the blood from the stake looked rather new. He frowned as he studied, trying to remember why it was bleeding after it had been so long since it had regrown around the object.

"Seems off. All this. I have problem of memory. Not remember some. Hand seems strange. Something happen to gun in hand? Why I bleed?"

Feenai was only half listening to the conversation between Shealtiel and Lev as she rode in the front next to Jeanne as she drove. She was just concerned about the path they were taking. She knew Ruebella wouldn't want help even if it was force fed to her, but that's exactly what she wanted to do. It annoyed her to no end that someone like her could think, especially in this day and age, that no help was better than partial help. She didn't have to rely on the rest of the people, or expect them to do things for her, just by accepting their company. She sighed, hoping no one would notice and ask her what was wrong.

Feenai's ears perked up a bit at Lev's last statement about his memory. How could he not remember? Oh wait...that other presence inside him probably shut off his memory. Should I...try to remove the block? She shook her head at the thought. Maybe it's better if he doesn't know. I want to help him, but I wouldn't want to remember that at all.

Dante sat against a side, half asleep and a decent distance away from the old man and the lion. He couldn't stop thinking...

Maybe he'd go up above the APC to get away from everyone else, later.

Still sitting with Lev in the APC, Shealtiel calls out to him. "You can walk, can't you? Or did he bind your legs? I can't see inside this damnable contraption. Regardless, I'm not so impressed by your malignant host as to fear you being free. I'll help you up, if you want, though I can't imagine Lucifer will be pleased to see you awake."

"I can stand. I am my own man."

Lev stood as he spoke in a gruff voice, walking with the little range that his chains gave him. Stepping out in to the hot air, he squinted as sunlight hit him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

A corpse. A beautiful corpse. Splayed out. Ripe for the feasting! Lev groaned from a sudden headache, unable to cradle his head in his hands. The SAINT himself! THE SAINT! This is mine!

Lev lurched forward, running as best as he could. He fell a few feet from the body, screaming unintelligible sounds as he crawled the last few feet. With eyes glassed with ecstasy he reared back his head, plunging it in to the open, putrid torso. He feasted, ripping at the holy organs and silvery blood that the saint's corpse bathed in. There was no reasoning. There was nothing else. For now, Lev and the great Saint's body were the only thing in existence. And he would not rest until the body had been consumed in to his own.

Dante climbed his way out of the APC and shook his head a few times. To him, to world was now a hazy gray. Not too far away was an aura, brighter than to rest but dimming quickly. Well...that's...strange, he thought. Though it wasn't bright, he could see the details on it...and an all-too-familiar black form crouched in front of it.

If he hadn't left his weapons back in the APC and was too lazy to retrieve them, Lev would have found his head rolling. Or, at least, there would be a nice nick in that coat of his...

Jeanne knew that they were approximately at the Saint's body when the crowd of birds rose from the bodies of the Dybbuk to the air and began to circle. Driving normally made her feel relaxed, but she had been so intent on finding the swords that her grip was tight and her shoulders were tense. By the time they came across the crow anomaly, she was so ready to stop that she just slammed on the brakes; the jolt was unpleasant but it was worth being able to get out of the APC.

She jumped out quickly, eyes passing over the swords briefly before fixing on the Saint. "We have to give him a proper burial," the theurge said firmly, glancing back at the vehicle. "Are there any -" Before she could finish her question, Lev ran past her. "- shovels?" she finished, watching the Lion's path as he ran and began to devour Saint Typasius's body. "NO!" Jeanne screamed when she realized what he was doing. Lunging forward, she grasped the feasting man by the shoulders and jerked back with all of her strength. "GET OFF OF HIM!"

Lev let out an unearthly sound, full of rage and hunger. With inhuman strength he broke the bonds of his chains. His staked hand ran across her face, shoving her down. He dove head first in to the open torso once again, eating his way literally inside the body of the Saint. He clawed his way inward, ripping through organs and bones until he got to the very heart of the saint, ripping it away with much fervor as he began to devour it. He seemed to almost radiate with the power of his carnal craving. Blood and tissue dripped from his visage, chains hanging around his body in some sort of symbolism of his own host's bondage. Within the minute he had fully devoured the Saint's heart, snapping it down in mere bites as he became fully consumed by his own lust for flesh.

Sensing vaguely what is going on outside, Shealtiel nonetheless does not exit the APC for that reason. They are all oblivious, the damned, useless fools.

Standing just outside the door panel, the wind whipping his hair, he screams to them, his voice raw. "Get back! Get away! The ravens!"

He can hear souls shrieking, inarticulate, malign, all whirling in a cloud of fulligin and hatred. Carmine eyes alighting with lust at the site of living flesh. Sable wings flapping in the frenzy of hunger, the voracity of living death.

There are so many, thousands of mad spirits, all crying in the same voice of pain and rage, indeed like to animals in their unthinking fury.

He lashes out, a wave of necrotic sorcery striking the cloud, blasting dozens, hundreds of Dybbuk from their black-feathered houses, but it is not enough. There are more, waiting in the ether, eager to seize what is now free. To exorcise this horde would kill him, if he could even manage it. They had to escape.

"Now! Get out!" He sends another blast of power into the descending ranks, scattering them for another brief moment. Wanting only to retreat into the relative safety of the vehicle, he nonetheless strides out into hot sand, knowing that none of the others are equal to this, especially divided as they are.

He begins to gather his power, calling upon deep reserves, hoping against hope that the fools know enough to get clear.

Lev looks up from his meal, sensing more souls. Fresh souls. Angry, deranged. Ripe for him! Screaming to be consumed! For he is The Lion in flesh! He who devoured the heart of the Saint himself!

He stood, staring with glee in to the roiling mass of carrion scavengers. He welcomed them with open arms, radiating with an aura unmatched by anything he had ever displayed before.

"Oh yes! YES! Challenge me for a meal that is too late! For I have devoured the Saint! I am Hunger incarnate! You may tear flesh, but I devour yours! Let us rend each others bodies, and see whose bones are still standing! Let us consume each other!"

Feenai could hardly react to everything that happened. Lev, eating the saint. Jeanne, trying to stop him. Shealtiel, being more active than she had ever seen him. And the birds! The ravens were acting with a ravenous hunger that did not suggest they wanted dead flesh. The birds are acting just like the Dybbuk! In fact... A quick glance at the Network confirmed that people have witnessed Dybbuk spirits inhabiting animals as well as dead humans.

Feenai had no idea if this would be effective enough against such a large horde, but she had to do something or the ravens would rend Jeanne's and Lev's flesh from their bones within minutes. She yanked an Ectoplasmic Dispersion grenade from her makeshift bandoleer, and tore the pin out before she tossed it out the door towards Jeanne. She grabbed the grenade with her mind and held it high above Jeanne and Lev, and hoped it was far enough away from the APC while she waited for it to explode.

"Jeanne!" Feenai screeched. "Run back here! PLEASE!"

Shealtiel is distracted in the throes of his sorcery, hurling bolts of withering power that send raven carcasses careening earthward to collapse into dust upon the ground. He does not notice the grenade Feenai threw until it goes off, it's invisible force raising only a quivering sensation against his skin.

The effect on the enemy is vastly greater, though. Immediately, the majority of the Dybbuk vanish, sent howling back into the depths of Sheol. Shealtiel can feel the void in the ether where they were only seconds ago. The formerly-possessed ravens flutter awake and begin to fly awkwardly, aimlessly around the area.

With almost casual indifference, the Servant of Sheol banishes the remaining spirits of the Dybbuk, having barely tapped into his own reserves, though he has burned through all of the power he siphoned earlier.

Michael had little qualm, if any, about watching his former companions attempt to cope with their new obstacles. He turned off the engine, letting the sun seep in to repower the little fuel that was used. From their distance, they wouldn't be spotted very easily by anyone near the APC. It felt awkward to just sit in silence as the crows were fought off. A flash of light appeared in the flock of crows just as he thought up the words to break the tension of the moment.
"So what are your plans for the future?" he asked Rue. "I don't suppose that we're following the only Servant of Sheol who'd ever travel and fight with a Theurgist for a particlar reason."

Lev was oblivious to the grenade until it went off. The result was catastrophic.

A wave of fire attempted to rip the demon from his body, his very soul. The demon was not unseated entirely, But was at least knocked looser than he usually was. Inside the body, it was a struggle to hold on, a struggle for both of them. Lev felt his own soul trying to split. The physical aspect was much worse.

With the demon not in full possession of the body, his powers over the vessel faded ever so slightly. Lev himself thrashed back and forth in throes of madness as his body opened itself. Every wound he had experienced began to reappear, their time spent healing a product of the distracted demon. His neck ripped itself apart, only then to attempt to close itself again. Gashes reappeared. Blood splattered from wounds reopening all over his body. His right leg cracked, jerking itself violently as the wound was now free from the perverted magic of his captor.

He screamed, the sound unlike anything he had let loose before. The chorus of a thousand violins strung with the tendons of the still living issued from him, the sound both carnal and feral. In his insanity he added to his own wounds, hands both bleeding freely as he dug and tore at his own flesh. The map from his leg began to run red. Every gunshot wound he had ever experienced revisited his body as blood began to literally explode from old wounds. The cheeks on his face ripped themselves open again. The bullet wounds from the day before ripped through his body. A dozen stabbings separated flesh from bone, organ from tissue.It was if he had been caught unaware from a machine gun that would not let up, tearing his body asunder. And through it all, Lev lived. Bone and blood mixed with sand and dirt, made mud of his bodily fluids and the earth's body. And in this mud, he wallowed.

The body calmed after a while, the demon establishing his power over it once again. He twitched, mind completely gone as only instinct took over. The demon played his own hand, orchestrating the body to repair itself. Flesh crept back together and intertwined. The bone of his leg cracked sickeningly as it was pulled back in to his body. Fingers broken in his madness twisted and snapped back in to place. His wounds filled with pus and then sealed themselves off.

Panting hard, the body lay in a state of shock. It took minutes for the form to stand again, once again an aura radiating from his visage.

"Foolish girl. You cannot kill the Messiah."

Stumbling over to where the demon stands, sweat sheening on his bald pate, Shealtiel comes to a halt before the creature, feeling power bleeding out from it.

Without preamble, he addresses it. "What are you? No mere fiend, to survive that sort of exorcism. You should be screaming in Hell right now." He suddenly turns upon Jeanne where she kneels. "And you!" he thunders, a sudden rage stealing through him. "Are you out of your mind? Do you think you're any match for this thing?" He gestures offhandedly toward Lev.

"Look at him, girl. No, not him, your precious Saint. Just a carcass. Bones, and rotting blood, nothing more. Nothing worth throwing your life away over. As I told you before, Typasius is gone. Obliterated. These Saints do not have the luxury of an afterlife. I suggest you discard all your naive delusions if you mean to live. This isn't a world for hope."

"Hell? Hell?!"

The demon laughed, cackling insanely. The action was extreme enough to warrant Lev's ribs cracking. With a push of his hand, he quickly seated them back in to position.

"My dear son. Hell is not where I belong! For I am born from this Earth. I am born from my people's sorrows, from their sins!"

He stood straighter, opening his arms wide to gesture to everyone who had assembled before him.

"For god so loved the world, he gave his only son! I am Legion, for I am many. A demon not of hell, but born from this world. But even demons, the lowest of the low, are His children! And when the Father falls, a child must take up his mantle! My brethren! We think we have only seen this Chapter beginning to unfold, but mine eyes have already seen the Final Act! It is my destiny to cast us in to the Heavens once again! In his death, Our Lord Father leaves his work incomplete! By the ingestion of the Saint, I have seen that God's work must truly be my own."

He lowered his voice, beginning to calm after the surge of power flowing through him. He whispered, looking over his body.

"This vessel has served me well. I contemplated abandoning it, realizing my higher calling. But it is capable of so many things. The body is strong. The mind strong of will, if not intellect. The soul chained. But it can serve its God, even in bondage. It shall continue to live, until all have joined us in the Promised Land."

He looked back up, smiling at everyone. Insanity was evident in his eyes, drunk on the mad rush of power.

"Rejoice, my children! For today is a joyous day! You have witnessed a return! For I am the Messiah. The Lion of God! His Child who feasts upon the Lambs too meek to inherit his Earth and Kingdom! I cull them, so those worthy may enter the House of the Lord!"

Michael can recall hearing many different answers when he has asked former colleges and even those who followed Jez'ebel back when he was a child, but when talking about the future, he never heard 'Hm... What? Oh, them. I suppose.' It was a type of answer that made him feel ignored. "But why would she try to igno-
"CLIVE!" It was a mental scream that grew so loud, that he found his mental shield to have been popped, as though it were a bubble. It was disappointing. However, it was a still a mixed blessing. Although being shocked by his sudden moment of vulnerability, his mind was allowed to see what around him, and he listened in on the conversation that his employer was having with Clive. 'Seven Priests' 'Constantine' 'Our Lord'. These words went through Michael's head as he pocketed his new memory and then began adjusting his blocks, trying to find ways to improve them even more than before so as to not let it happen again.

Jeanne cried out as she was thrown to the ground, a hand rising to her cheek where a bleeding scrape had appeared before going to her knife. The fury at this man whose life she had saved devouring the blessed body as if it were mere meat rose to a peak, and she was about to threaten him again when the bastard began to yell and the ravens descended. 'They can have him.', she told herself, an uncharacteristically spiteful thought; running back to the APC, she shielded her head before an explosion sounded and the birds ceased their attack.

"T-thank you, Fee," she said, her voice warm as she realized that her friend had thrown one of her grenades. "And you, old man." The tone was not as friendly, but not quite openly hostile.

Glancing back at Lev at the unearthly sounds of his screams, Jeanne gasped. "O-oh, God-!" She clasped her hands over her mouth as the man ripped apart his own flesh, aiding the wounds that were already appearing. Her eyes began to water as the blood flowed around him into a deep puddle and she had to suppress her gag reflex. Jeanne had just told herself that two brushes with death was enough, she wouldn't heal him, she couldn't - when, with agonizing slowness, the wounds began to meld together again, flesh becoming whole again. And as the demon who had once been Lev stood up, she took a step back, and then another, until she was right next to the surviving Wrath Sword, where she kneeled, hand tightening around the hilt.

Jeanne said nothing as the old man began to ask questions of what couldn't possibly be human - she had the same questions - but when he turned on her, she shrank back.

"I...No, I-" But of course he talked through her stuttered explanations. "W-without hope t-there is no reason to l-l-live," she said, crying openly now. "I-I just wanted to b-b-bury his body! Is t-that too much to a-ask?" Of course Jeanne knew that the Saints could not return to Heaven, but to bury his body was to regain the sense of normalcy that she had lost when their current group had come together.

She kneeled there, sobbing, for what seemed ages before she realized that the demon in Lev's body was talking. Raising her head, she watched his movements through the tears still streaming down her cheeks; it didn't break her concentration when she untied her bandanna and wiped the wetness off of her face and neck. When the fabric touched the scrape she felt a sharp sting, but it was ignored.

"Y-you're wrong," she whispered. "God loves - l-loved - everyone! We are a-all his children! We are all worthy!" As she spoke to herself, her tears began to slow, but she was afraid to speak louder. Even though she knew she was right, the way that the old man had referred to the demon made her more afraid than she would have been had she only seen an immortal lunatic.

Feenai let out the breath the was unconsciously holding as she surveyed the aftermath of her grenade. The ravens had either all flown off or had died, she saw some of them lying on the ground around Lev, unmoving black husks.

Lev's...or rather, the demon's pain was washing over Feenai and making her dizzy. She could hear him talking, as well as Shealtiel and Jeanne, but she could not concentrate on the words at all. She collapsed back into the APC, fighting against lying down on the seat but failing miserably. Despite the outcome she was rather pleased with herself. Unlike the last fight, this time she had done a lot more work and had probably saved them from a grisly fate.

Unable to concentrate, Feenai let the pain claim her as she closed her eyes.

Lev nodded to Jeanne, listening to her like a parent might listen to a child.

"We are all his Children. He loved us very much. But he is no longer here. An ocean of chaos roils beneath the heavens. Our glory was cut short. But it is time to resume what he started."

He stepped closer, noticing Jeanne's scrape. With a wave of his hand, her flesh pulled together quickly. The wound seemed to almost sew itself up, becoming painful for a moment right before all pain melted away. The wound itself scabbed, as if it had been on the mend for quite some time now. Lev smiled at her once again in insanity.

"Go with your new god. Bury what is left of your Saint, dear child. For we must all leave those behind that which hold us to this world."

With that, he strode away from the group, distancing himself so he could concentrate.

Releasing a short, breathless laugh, Shealtiel staggers over to the pair. Chuckling again, he says, "Not just a Saint you sated yourself on, then, was it? Bene ha Elohim. A Cherished Son of God. And you... you're no simple demon. Not like any I've encountered before. Some kind of protean being, a chimerical essence seemingly naturally optimized for adaptation and assimilation. Dangerous... and fascinating."

He steps closer, locking eyes with the entity before him. "Tell me, do you have a name?"

"A name?"

He blinked, seeming confused. 'Lion of God' seemed like it would have been enough. But people would need something else to call him by. Something short. Something the masses could remember, could chant in their fervor for him as he rose them up to the heavens. After a deep and slow breath, he faced the old man.

"My name is Na'lsa. And I will be the new Light in this world."

Dante had some few minutes before ducked behind the APC, not knowing exactly how far away the grenade was. Now, with his arms crossed, he listened, straining his ears, to the Lion's blabbering.

Maybe the things wasn't as dangerous now...? Hoping this was true, he slipped out from the shade and approached the widely strewn corpses, ready to loot enough gold for maybe a decent meal or two.

Jeanne's breathing hitched as the demon approached her, and she flinched as his hand moved; expecting the sudden pain to be more wounds, the theurge was surprised - and confused - to find an almost-healed scab instead.

When Na'lasa turned away, she took the opportunity to stand up and run back to the relative safety of the APC, where she found a trowel but no shovel of a decent size.

"Fee, can you-" Jeanne began, about to ask her to hold the Wrath Sword for her while she dug a grave, when she realized that her friend wasn't moving. Carefully she set down the weapon and went to the psychic, shaking her shoulders.

"Can you hear me, Fee?" Jeanne was relieved to feel a heartbeat - she didn't want to bury two bodies - but that didn't mean her friend was okay. Opening a pouch at her side, she withdrew a small canteen of water and unscrewed the cap.

Nodding after a moment, Shealtiel mutters, "That will have to do, then."

He makes his way back to the APC, tacitly ignoring Jeanne's frantic ministrations. After a moment, having taken his seat in the rear once more, he addresses her, interrupting her treatment of Feenai.

"So, are planning to keep that, or march it all the way back to Corinth? I suppose you could, conceivably, make the journey, assuming you're willing to use those powers of yours on yourself, but it's a long way, and I doubt our dear friend Saint Acacias has the well-being of that Sword much in mind, given what's happened to his town the past few days. If you're determined to return it to the Legion, I'm sure we can find another Saint once we move farther south. Speaking of which, we should probably be going before this wasteland spits up yet another threat on our lives."

Feenai opened her eyes both to Jeanne's shaking and to Shealtiel's voice. "I'm fine...I promise." She smiled at Jeanne hoping to reassure her even though she was completely lying. The demon was no longer emanating pain but she could still feel the effects of it. "Also...I don't want you to be upset but I agree with Shealtiel. None of us here can return to Corinth right now because of the things we have done. I don't think returning is a good idea for us and I don't want you to go alone..." Feenai looked slightly away from Jeanne, unable to look at her directly while saying this. "I will do anything I can to help you return it somewhere else." She also inserted a thought into Jeanne's mind. With this demon near us it might be a good idea to keep it as long as he is near, however, because if we die who will know the truth about him?

Looking up at Shealtiel as he began to speak, Jeanne did see some truth in the old man's words, though she hated to essentially steal the sword. Still, they were bound to come across other Saints who could surely use the sword as well as Saint Acacias, and surely he had a great armory of his own.

"You're right," she said, pressing her lips together as she looked down. "I can't inconvenience the group further."

She lost all interest in Shealtiel when Feenai's eyes opened, and was considerably happier when she heard that her friend was all right. Jeanne smiled back, trusting Fee to not lie to her, but she was a little disappointed that Fee agreed with the old man. She had hoped that she would protest, but the reasoning was sound.

"That's true." Jeanne nodded, looking at both of them. "I wouldn't want to put anyone in danger." That was not strictly true, but close enough. "Thank you, Fee."

Hearing the thought that was definitely not hers, Jeanne was startled, but turned to Fee and realized that it must have been from her. She showed that she agreed with a subtle nod.

Having found nearly nothing of value in the field, Dante stooped and quickly pulled out a single long flight feather from each of the few raven corpses that surrounded his, then pocketed the slightly burnt-smelling feathers. Sighing, he walked over to Feenai and Jeanne. Don't seem too badly injured.

The gruesome remnants of the Saint, still oozing energy, burned their way into Dante's mind. searing a macabre image on the pitch black backdrop. He bent down, and, in one swift movement, wiped closed the Saint's eyes with a muddy hand. There. Paid my respect. Not that I owe anyone respect.

Feenai squeezed Jeanne's hand briefly to show that she understood. Even if it was for the best, I wish I hadn't lied...not to Jeanne...

Hanging herself out the APC slightly, she called out to Dante, "Hey, we should get going! You do still want to come with us...right?"

...But how I envy that you still had sighted eyes! Dante nearly spat out the thought.

He turned towards the two girls. "Weren't you gonna bury him? ...or should I do that for you," he finished off in a low growl.

Already sensing Dante's anger and distaste, Feenai shook her head. "No, that's not necessary...Jeanne and I will do it." She jumped out of the APC and knelt next to the Saint, using both her hands and her mind to start piling dirt onto the mutilated body.

...What. Dante resisted the urge to point a thumb at the trowel; maybe 'six feet under" didn't apply to Saints.

Looking as best as he could at the girl, he thought, "...Are you okay? You weren't doing too well just a bit ago."

Feenai heard the thought clearly. She had already lied to Jeanne, so lying to Dante wouldn't be too much harder. She inserted a thought directly into his mind. I just got a little too much excitement from everything that had happened, that was all.

She followed Dante's gaze and noticed the trowel. Silly me... She grabbed it and used that instead of her hands to continue scooping dirt onto the Saint's body.