Lev watched from his position, several yards back from Michael and the others. In his current state, he decided to take a defensive position. Let the others take point, take whatever might be lurking in front of them. Let the others fall rot consume. Let the others die. Feast on them. Feast!

A surging headache hit Lev full force. He swooned, going limp as his body hit the ground full force. The fall caused him to squeeze the trigger of his rifle, sending a single bullet roaring in to the sky. He laid there for the time being, dazed and overpowered by the headache that felt as if it was destroying his very being.

Lev picked himself up slowly, trying not to fall over again. He wobbled as he lurched forward, the large man weaving back and forth in his blurry vision.

Consume...

Lev fell to his knees, using his rifle to keep him in a kneeling position to the side of Feenai.

CONSUME!

He looked to the man close by, squinting in an attempt to make his vision clearer.

"Who the devil are you?"

Feenai placed her hand on Lev's shoulder to help him stay steady, knowing full well the dangers of being near him while his demon was hungry. "Yes, I'm curious as well. This seems to be a rather remote place to be."

Dante stopped in his tracks. Something was ahead; he couldn't tell what exactly. Instinctively, he flipped the blade on his pocketknife and inched closer, fully aware that there wasn't any place to hide.

If it's some sort of monster, at least it will get Lev first... His thoughts trailed off as he noticed Feenai's proximity.

...Damn.

Lev's eyes wandered towards the freshly crucified bodies. Hunger overtaking him, he lost what reserve he was holding on to as he stumbled towards them. As he drew near, his aura fluctuated as Na'lsa's cravings finally overwhelmed Lev. He cackled, speaking to no one in his voice of smooth oil and sandpaper.

"Flesh to feast upon and consume! Flesh so dear!"

As Lev draws near, something becomes apparent, though so great is his hunger that he scarcely notices -- the bodies on the crosses, rotted, crow-picked, flesh hanging in tatters, writhe in agony, draw shuddering, struggling breaths.

Meanwhile, Mithaias, with his sinister, beatific smile, beckons them to follow, setting off after Lev with slow, purposed steps.

Shealtiel looks to the others, a feeling of dread growing from vague to distinct within him. "Those bodies..." he says, mouth creasing in a grimace, "are possessed by Dybbuk. They can't help reincarnating. He's torturing them." Without waiting to see their reactions, he sets off after the robed figure, his sorcery ready to be released at an instant's notice. Something is horribly wrong here...

Feenai had been almost killed by Dybbuk twice but still felt sorry for the bodies on the crucifixes after hearing Shealtiel's words. Her arm dropped as Lev ran out from beneath it, and she made certain to not look in his direction, but of course was unable to block out his feelings entirely. It's probably a good thing I haven't had solid food recently. She followed Shealtiel cautiously, not really knowing what to expect.

After waiting for about a minute or two, in which time Michael went over 14 different situation in his head, he turned his head to look back. Shealtiel had gotten out of the APC and was approaching a robed man who carried a book. He looked almost like a necromancer, just like Altiel, but unlike him, the man approached Lev without fear, which instantly put up a red flag in his mind. Turning waist to turn he -*!*- braced himself mentally. The aura that the man gave off was nearly as bad as the Nephilim's.

Glancing over at Michael as the artificer drew near, Shealtiel studies him for a moment, wondering if he is all right after the sickness and injuries he's suffered recently.

Drawing up close to him, he says, "I do not trust this man. He is a theurge, that much is plain, but there is something in his eyes... and that book is hiding something, I'm sure of it." After a pause, he asks Michael, "can you sense anyone else around here? I'm sure the Dybbuk in their agony give off a psychic cacophony, but I find it hard to believe our freind Mithaias was able to subdue them all alone. Maybe it would be best if you scouted ahead while we occupy him, if you're up for it."

The Dybbuk were only bringing bad memories to Dante, no matter how much he tried to shrug them off as mere corpses that he would have to destroy again. It eased his mind slightly to know that he'd brought his silver wildcat cartridge, despite its properties maybe only being a myth.

The wavering auras were pathetic, so much that he wanted to march over and decapitate every single corpse, but the do so might anger the newcomer, who seemed strangely ominous.

"I FEED!"

Na'lsa ripped into one of the writhing corpses mouth first, tearing muscle and tissue from a leg. He paid no attention to the rest of the body trying to resist, only enough to devour it. It was sickening, sweet, astonishingly refreshing and disgustingly putrid all at the same time. Every bite and swallow was a joyous bliss of agony ebbing away in to nothingness. Every mouthful was his mind piecing itself back together. After a moment, he possessed enough of himself to truly be that - himself.

He took a moment to collect his wits, staring at the bodies writhing on crosses. Dybbuk. The undead. Fresh ones at that, but that wouldn't last very long. Souls tortured, none delivered to their true place. However...

With great force he ripped the other leg from his partially eaten meal. He took it with him, biting in to it as he made his way back towards the party and the mysterious man. He spoke in his oil and sandpaper voice, more calm and composed than he had been just a few minutes ago.

"So tell me tall one, of the corpses you keep...they are not merely snacks kept for company, are they? If so you are a gracious host indeed. But of course, in this day the gracious host is the one to be wary of. What is this place, if I may ask?"

Dara's eyes bugged out as she watched Lev tear into the corpse. The scores of people hanging on crosses were just as disturbing, and for a moment she just stood with her jaw open, hardly able to think about gathering herself much less do so.

The pop of a separated limb stirs her back into some form of reality, and Lev's sudden health and speech provide at least a minor diversion from the corpses and the leg still in his hands.

As Lev devoured the corpse Michael shivered. If the theurgic man was political enough, Altiel would be stuck to deal with Lev and the man in terms of firepower. Nonetheless he brought a good point. Were there any others nearby, they would have attacked, but what if they couldn't? What if they were the ones keeping the Dybuk on the crosses...or preparing them against the group. Either way, he originally planned to go down into the ruins.
"Don't die on me then," Michael said to Altiel as he concluded his thoughts. He turned back and walked back to the doorway, leaving Altiel to deal with the man.

As Michael makes his way further into the ruins of the village, he comes upon a renovated building, lain with fresh bricks and functioning windows. The door is heavy steel, but stands slightly ajar. No sound comes from within, nor can he sense anything psychically.

Catching back up with the others, Shealtiel comes upon the scene, hardly surprised. He has long since gotten used to Lev's actions. He does note, though that the unfortunate Dybbuk, if such a thing is possible, is not dead. If those things are capable of feeling pain, it must be in holy agony. For a moment, he almost sees an academic merit in what Mithaias is doing here...

But it remains, nonetheless, a horror. The man must be either mad or supremely confident in his own abilities to keep so many Dybbuk "alive" in his home. It is not inconceivable that they could wrench themselves free of the crosses, if a strong enough will compelled them to do so. Shealtiel's eyes drift once more to the tome the man carries, wondering not for the first time what secrets it contains.

Looking upon Lev's carnage, Mithaias seems unimpressed, an almost studious look to his eyes as he watches the man devour the dead the flesh. "Aren't you an interesting one?" he drawls when the soldier has finished his meal.

Na'lsa shrugs, giving the man an unamused look, as if he was of no real concern for him.

"I am the son of God. His lion. Charged with throwing open the gates of heaven so that we may all truly rejoice in the holy kingdom. I will consume whatever lays in my path to obtain the power that is needed for my reclamation."

He took another bite from his meat stick, having spoken as if he was discussing the day's weather. After swallowing more flesh, his eyes fell upon the book the man held. He nodded towards it, almost out of bored curiosity.

"What do you possess there?"

Half wishing he could close his "eyes" to aura, Dante turned away from Lev's gruesome feeding.

And..."key to the Kingdom"? He had no idea what the man, or creature, was carrying; everything about it seemed shimmery and wavering so that Dante couldn't even pinpoint its location. He growled in frustration and crept closer.

And as Michael reverted his senses from the door, he felt surprised. Once again, an unguarded door. Had someone come in before him. *whe~w* A shiver went down his spine as the wind blew against his back. Even with his lab coat and thermal gear, he couldn't help but feel cold.
He hurried inside desperately as his heart began to race more and the steps on the ground became louder and Louder and-*cre-BOOM*
The door closed loudly, and after a few seconds Michael composed himself. He hadn't felt this scared since the hoards in Corinth. Perhaps it was time to use a courage capsule. Without much thought, he popped one and entered into temporary mental agony.

"We are brought by something that you will not find here, if what you say is correct."

Tossing the leg to the ground, he cut the distance between he and the man. He walked around him, eyeing his figure. Something...put Na'lsa off about this man. The way he clutched the book, mayhaps. As if he was ready to spring it open, like it would unleash some force upon them. But he was not afraid. He was the lion of god.

"Open your book, Keeper. You mean to let it loose. If you and I speak of the same kingdom, then you will share its secrets. After all, it is my birthright to inherit it."

Whispers tormented the back of his head, but Michael ignored them. 8 pills he thought as he approached the angled doorway. It was cold, but no longer gave him goosebumps as he passed through. He could he the turning of gears as well, but the further he got in, the darker the place became. He tried to feel his way along the wall, but soon found that to be a mistake as he cut himself. Despite the pain, he remained silent, annoyed at the need for another first aid treatment when he returned to the group. Instead of trying a second time, he reached for the laser, letting it turn on and illuminate what he confirmed to be a hallway. The ceiling was low, but not so low that he needed to crouch; Lev was more likely to have trouble. On every door, there was a window in which he could peer into. There were about 5 or so. Some had boxes food, and others equipment, and in the farthest room, there was a man, silently working at a bench. There was no need to kill him, so he left him and entered the closest room from where he entered.
He looked around as-
*!*
The door slammed behind him and locked. Perhaps he should have killed the man, but looking out, the man was still there. Who did that?...

"Perhaps I should have knocked, but in times of duress, an open door becomes an ample opportunity, don't you think?" Michael said, breaking the silence. Perhaps the man at the table was a hallucination to calm him down. No matter, he knew he'd been had, as he grinned as he slowly raised his hands to his head. Brave, not stupid, he thought. "I don't suppose that we can parley as two artificers within our own ground of work, can we?" The other man's coat was frayed at the end, telling Michael that he either was a field man or that he works hard enough to lose necessary time to maintain a nice coat. His genuine smile could tell even the most mundane that a man with a frayed artificer coat was a trustworthy man.

Na'lsa cocked an eyebrow at the weapon, looking somewhat...let down. Throwing his hands up, he began to go on about it dismissively.

"A gun? That is the key to my father's kingdom? I don't care much for them. Surely this is a test, or a trick. My patience is not as unending as my future kingdom is."

After a moment, he decided to take a chance anyway. Cautiously, he reached a hand out towards the weapon...

...and was almost immediately bowled over by a semi-desperate Dante.

I want that. Whatever the hell it is (but it looks like a shiny gun...?)

He muttered a quick and insincere apology at Lev and grabbed the gun, staring at it the best he could. Or rather, trying to figure out what this...thing...had so much aura for an inanimate object.

Na'lsa picked himself up from the ground, enraged that he, HE of all people had been assaulted so carelessly. Did this cripple not know who he was? Had he not witnessed...of course not. He had only heard or felt his power. But the blind one would witness his power, if only for a moment.

Within a moment he was at the blind man's face, outstretched hand clawing the bandana downward. Na'lsa's index and middle fingers dug in right below the milky white eyes that stared and saw nothing. He had tasted this man's blood before. He knew how it flowed. What was wrong. What was missing. It was no permanent solution. But a temporary thing could haunt a man for a lifetime.

He seethed with energy, pouring the essence of his power in to Dante. Nerves long dead began to buzz with energy. The retinas of his eyes began to work, began to detect light. And for a few seconds by Na'lsa's power, they saw the only face they would ever see: His. And as his face came in to view, he spoke.

"Do not strike that which can bury you."

With that, he shoved the man backward in to the ground. Dante's blood trailed on Na'lsa's fingers, the cripple's vision going dark as the appendages were removed from his eyes. Na'lsa had accomplished what he intended. A warning, through a medium that his target could not comprehend. As if he was playing god already. The power was tantalizing.

Raising a silvery eyebrow at Na'lsa, Mithaias watches the... antics between the two companions, waiting for them to subside, before responding, "Unfortunately, that weapon is of little use at the moment. My own theurgic powers outweigh its power greatly -- it is little more than a prototype, and while we have made advances, there is still a long way to go. As it is, the theurgic investment in the weapon will allow it to harm ethereal entities, even with normal ammunition, but actually killing them will still be a burdensome task. The metaphysics of demonic constitution tend to be... peculiar. But, by all means, keep it. I've hardly had the occasion to put it to use, beyond testing its capabilities. I'm sure you'll get more use out of it."

Shealtiel nods at the other man's words, half-interested. "If we're going to be crossing the Infernal Sea, we'll need all the help we can get." He looks to the rest of the group, then back to Mithaias. "If I many, sir, while I personally find your experiment here," he gestures to the crucified Dybbuk "of some interest, I fear my companions may be slightly less academic about it. Perhaps we could go inside?"

Well. This was infuriating. And embarrassing. That vainglorious bastard!

Dante pulled the blindfold back up, and, still prone on the rocky ground, tried to stem the flow of blood.

What the hell is it with my face that this man...creature...thing...can't resist tearing the crap out of it?! And that face. The first thing he saw since Gabe's face when he barreled into him to push him out of the burning buildings.

The juxtaposition of his eyes' last memory and the latest one to laugh his head off and vomit at the same time.

He stood up slowly and caught the last of the old man's words. The urge to break down into crazed laughter was shoved down by his distrust of this Mithaias person.

Lion of God, my ass. The son of God was killed by ordinary humans. A mere lion is no different.

Na'lsa listened on in mere boredom now, Dante's transgression against him already forgotten. He cast an eye on the Dybbuk in the background, wondering if he should stockpile meat while it was available and still slightly fresh. After a moment he gave up on the idea completely. He wiped Dante's blood from his fingers, idly cleaning them as if he had merely touched something dirty. The lack of safety he was beginning to show against his 'flock' was becoming disconcerting.

As usual, I don't seem to contribute much to anything. Feenai followed along behind the others. I admit I am curious as to what this man is doing to the Dybbuk... She idly checked her belt to see if the grenades were still there.

"I'm Michael," he said as he slowly put his gun at his feet. "Aaron....where have I heard that name before?" he wondered. Whether or not he was familiar to him, the opportunity for knowledge gave him little reason not to cooperate for the time being. Stepping back to sit in the chair, the wood gave a creak but barely gave evidence of breaking to Michael otherwise.

Mithaias eyes them for a moment longer, then turns away toward the crosses. "Would you like a tour?" he asks, stepping away from them. "Come, I'll show you."

He sets off, wandering among the writhing, gurgling Dybbuk. "I have discovered," he begins, glancing over his shoulder to notice that Shealtiel at least has followed him. "that they do, in fact, feel pain."

He stops abruptly and turns to face the necromancer. "Does that bother you, Servant? Are you one of Abaddon's hounds?"

The Servant of Sheol's eyes harden, and he is long in responding. As this exchange goes on, he is losing confidence that this old priest is in fact sane.

"I am no angel's slave," he says at last. He is largely indifferent to the suffering dead, knowing that their minds are too devolved to be considered anything approaching human. If they feel agony from the theurgist's ministrations... so be it.

* * *

"Have you ever seen one of these?" Aaron reaches behind him and slides a long-barreled handgun off the bench. He tosses it to Michael casually.

"See the zircon inlays? The rifling is dusted with them, too -- they act like lodestones for psykosis. Not much use for the AA grunts, but people like us?" He gives Michael a crooked smile. "You should see what these things can do. Go ahead, hang onto it. Hell, see if you can't make any improvements. The crystals tend to get worn down after a while, and if you unload with it to quickly, the backlash on your mind can be... well, draining, to put it lightly. Anyway."

He pulls up another chair, reverses it, and sits on it with his arms folded over the top. "Let's hear it. What brings you to Phillipi?"

Despite the fact that she had been attacked by Dybbuk twice, Feenai was feeling some pity for them. Despite being malevolent spirits, do they really deserve this torture? She shook her head slightly and just followed along in silence.

Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Dante stumbled slightly as he tailed the old man from a distance. He'd have to wash the cloth later...

His own green aura on Lev fingers was unsettling. Not that he could see clearly.

Of course they feel pain. The nerves haven't completely died yet, he thought, unaware of the irony.

The first shot to break the silence missed his target's head completely and instead shattered the wood behind it. Dante pulled the trigger again.

Click.

With a nauseated groan, he reached into his supply pouch for a spare cartridge.

As Michael caught the gun, he studied it. It was well weighted, surprisingly comfortable in his hands. "Not bad," he said, putting it at his lap. He took note to take apart and rebuild the gun later. "I'm traveling," Michael said, after a few lines of unyielded thought. "Currently researching mind-penetration and protection of mundane minds. Luckily I've been able to find a large breadth of ability with my companions, for better or worse."
He waited a few seconds before a enlightened idea came to his mind. "How is reloading the gun draining anyhow?"

Dara let what happened around her happen, as she found herself to stunned to do much. Dante's sudden movement was about the most she had seen of the man she now learned was blind, and Lev's reaction only further entrenched her uneasiness around the man, now borderlining on fear. With little to do otherwise, and no particular inclination to remain among the writhing dead, Dara followed the group at a short distance, keeping closer to Feenai then before. Though they had talked little, she was most comfortable around the other woman.

Aaron chuckles, shaking his head. "No, no, not reloading, firing it, rather. It's keyed to the wielder's psychic aura and feeds off of it to empower the rounds. Blowing through the clip is enough to wind you, at least, maybe more. And if a powerful psychic were to use it, they could potentially overload the crystal and cause it to explode." His smile broadens. "Use it with caution, save it for a rainy day, all that."

Studying Michael for a moment longer, he continues. "I can't help with penetration wards -- not much of a psychic myself, way better at the hands-on stuff, but they didn't teach you basic mental defenses at whatever celebratory you studied at? Or you mean protecting other people's minds?"

* * *

Casting a sidelong glance over to Dante, Shealtiel asks him in a weary tone, "What exactly were you just attempting to do? I doubt anyone here relishes a blind man firing an experimental weapon at..." he turns to fully regard the young man. "What exactly were you firing at? Trying to put these miserable souls out of their misery?"

He pauses for a moment, looking almost regretful. "What if I were to tell you that every man you've killed, Lucifer, has gone to a fate far worse than what you see here?" After a moment, he laughs breathlessly and adds, "Whether you should believe that or not, I leave to your impeccable judgment."

Remembering the Nephilim's limit on them, Shealtiel turns to Feenai, asking, "How long have we been out here?"

At that, Miathaias raises a snowy eyebrow, but remains silent for now. His gaze flicks idly toward the APC in the distance. Whether the gesture is of significance remians unclear.