Feenai almost didn't hear Shealtiel's question. "It's been..." she paused, cocking her head in thought. "It felt longer but it's only been fifteen minutes. Though I have no idea what we will accomplish here..."

"How can there be a worse fate than being turned into this mess..." Dante's voice trailed off as he finally managed to reload the gun. The whole round was fired almost indiscriminately in the Dybbuks' general direction.

Not bothering to reach for yet another cartridge, he fully turned towards the old man.

"What, are you saying there's worse than being sentenced to a life of pain and hunger?"

"For the innocent by-standers. Call it 'atonement' for crimes I committed before being an artificer," said Michael, his eyes further studied the gun for a few seconds, before he slipped it into his outer coat pocket, safety on. "At first I was thinking a helmet of some sort may due, but that would be too heavy and complicated for your average man or woman, and probably ineffective against anything particularly powerful. Hence, my research." He paused for a second. "Say, you haven't heard any news from Babylon, have you?"
He was thinking of Rue's family. Constantine, her fiance, was declaring war on one of the Seven churches, or so she had told. Considering that they were heading there, it wouldn't hurt to know more, or so he thought.

"Why does it matter if they feel pain or not? Why don't you just kill them?"

It was the most Dara has spoken since leaving the APC, but the situation wasn't likely to improve any time soon and if these undead were like the wanderers she had seen off an on in her travels, then it was more practical to do away with them quickly or leave them be and move away yourself.

Turning on Dante, Shealtiel's eyes take on a haunted, far-gazing aspect, as though he in fact staring through the young man into the depths of Sheol as he speaks.

"Imagine, Lucifer, the act of dying. Stretched as a skein over eternity. Endless dying. An infinite abyss of despair. Pain that cannot be escaped. This..." He draws a deep breath suddenly, eyes regaining focus. "This is the fate awaiting unsaved souls. And we are all... all of us... without salvation."

With a low chuckle, he adds, "Even if gracious Mithaias were a sadist, torturing these creatures for no higher purpose than his own indulgence... his acts here would accomplish nothing. The pain he inflicts is a breath upon the tempest. It is physical, besides, fleeting and finite. Of no meaning to these suffering souls."

He inclines his head toward Dara, acknowledging her earlier question. "I suspect our host is a believer." Were the man not standing nearby, he would use the word "zealot". Shealtiel glares in accusation at the priest. "That's how it is, isn't it? You hate them, not just as enemies, but as abominations to your sanctimony. You don't merely wanted to slay them, you want to wrack them with the price of their sins. It's your destiny, yes? To mete out the retribution of the LORD in His wake. To avenge your murdered God."

Before the man can respond, Shealtiel addresses them all. "I think we've seen all we need to, here. As much as I'd enjoy the ensuing debate of theology should Kasdeja come to collect us, I don't believe we should delay any longer."

***

Aaron regards Michael thoughtfully. "We don't really get visitors out here, if you'd believe it. The only news I hear is what comes over the network, and Jez'ebel keeps that city off the grid. I guess that goes to show how powerful she is, seeing as we haven't been able to breach whatever wards she has over her city." He sighs, nodding as though at some grim tautology he's just remembered.

"For your project, you might want to look into the AA. I'm sure their own Artificers have given some thought to the issue. They keep that stuff classified though. Good luck getting anything useful ought them.

With a nod toward the door, he adds, "I do believe your friends have had enough of wondrous Phillipi. You might want to go see what's up." At Michael's questioning look, he smiles and taps his ear, eliciting a slight plastic *tink* sound. "Psyko-aural enhancement implant. Comes in handy sometimes. Here." He turns for a moment, rummaging through a cluttered drawer. "I have an extra." He tosses the small device to Michael. I'm sure you can figure out how to install it." Eyeing him for a moment longer, he ends, "Take care of yourself out there."

"The act of dying." The old man made it sound so...voluntary. And that was his fate? It'd be easier than struggling to survive.

Right?

But pain. That was something he had had enough of. More than enough of.

However...to not be able to feel physical trauma. Interesting. As if each painful jolt of things slicing through flesh wouldn't cause that feeling of going under. No more worries about dying, no more desperately seeking out and end to what seems to drag on and on...

Wouldn't the pain of dying become a sort of background?

Shaking his head a bit, Dante shrugged, still somewhat lost in his thoughts. "Why do something with no purpose? I...oh, nevermind." He couldn't be bothered to care about the know-it-all's knowledge.

"I see." It was still the small as Michael expected it to be. He always heard of such enormous strength, but he never expected it to work so well after so long. The last time he tried the wards, he had just left Babylon, and he got a whiplash on his mind that kept disabled for hours.

Catching Aaron's spare, Michael eyed the implant and found it in pretty good shape. He was kind and generous for giving something so valuable, almost too much so, but who knew. He'd probably take it apart and put it back together a few times before wearing it, but he took care to keep that from Aaron. "That's very nice of you. Thanks."

He then looked at him in the eye, and lost his doubts of him. He looked trustworthy to him.
"Here," Michael said, reaching into his coat. "Keep in touch. Alright?" he said handing him it. "It's my principle pay back acts in good faith. Good luck with your work," Michael concluded as he walked out the door. The air seemed fresher, kinder than it was before as he made his way back to the APV.

"Let him come. We are a flock, not cattle. The words are similar but not congruent."

He eyed the crucifixes that surrounded them, wondering exactly how an aging man was able to affix Dybbuk to a cross, especially if they had been free before. This ability eluded him, and for once made Na'lsa worry about what he had just ingested.

"I thank you for the gift of flesh. I however hope that they will not be like the Four Seeds of Persephone. Surely there is a power here that aids you that is either not visible or not present."

Feenai felt Kasdeja's presence before she saw him, and mad a conscious effort to not look at him. She was feeling something else. Unhooking one of her grenades, she wandered into the field of crosses following the odd feeling she got from somewhere within.

Coming up to one of the crosses, she came across a man with dark, narrow features. His skin looked like a dead man, and there were burns and scars all over his face and body. He looked, visually, as if he was dead. But he's not. Or at least, he's not a Dybbuk... She reached her mind forward to try to find out what kind of person he was, taking care not to probe deeply as she did not wish to intrude.

The still expressionless face of the man on the cross burst into life, "AH! What is this?! Who the hell is that?!" His eyes were caked shut with soot, ash, and tears. His head jerked in an odd fashion. His mouth tore open and his lifeless body writhed in agony against his torturous condition. Pain raged through his consciousness, tearing open the psychic connection between him and the young woman before him. For a split second, all of his thoughts and memories passed from him to her. His psyche accidentally torn open, the young psychic was flooded with the memories and emotions of the old wanderer. A torrent of confusion took hold of him, but just as suddenly as his mind was opened, it was wrenched shut, his conscious mind taking back control.

Ignoring his physical plight, his eyes popped open. He looked down at the young psychic, wondering as to her condition, "Oh dear, are you alright, young lady?"

Na'lsa's eyebrows perked up as the group began to congregate around a particular crucifix. They rose even higher as what appeared to be a corpse began to move, and even speak. He strode towards the gathering, speaking in a tone of nostalgia.

"Now this...this looks familiar! I found this host body of mine perched upon a cross as well. You share a common fate with this vessel!"

He clapped his hands together, finding the similarity to be like the two having the same type of pet when they were children. His eyes roved over the skin, taking in the delicious meal that he had missed. Living skin still possessed its secrets, and it had been awhile since he had had something truly alive. He had decided in an effort to save his Father's flock, that his diet had become severely limited.

Shealtiel is shocked, horrified even, at the disregard the others have shown what seems an immanent catastrophe. Hobbling across the dead ground, the old necromancer makes his way toward where Kasdeja and Mithaias stand even now confronting each other.

"And men like you..." he can hear the Nephilim's words as he draws near. "Would call me the monster."

"Monster?" The priest's voice is thick with condescending scorn. "You deserve nothing so grand. A witless child playing in his father's mantle." Shealtiel watches him take a step closer. "But not to worry... we shall find a use for you... Despite the curse of Semyaza's loins, you can yet serve the holy purpose of LORD...."

He seems to be considering his next words, glaring into the Nephilim... but something... is... wrong.

There. In Kasdeja's hand... is that...?

Forcing his gaze away from the site, over to Mithaias once again, Shealtiel sees it, a gaping, savage wound in the man's chest.

A bloody hollow where there should be a heart.

I saw nothing. He never moved... an yet...

With a sort of ponderous grace, the priest's body collapses, falling, ironically, to its knees before the Nephilim. Seemingly indifferent, Kasdeja stalks away from the corpse, still clutching the heart, over toward where the others stand encircled around one of the crosses.

With a shuddering breath, Shealtiel moves to follow him.

Feenai's eyes widened at the momentary flood of memories. She quickly pulled back, and noticed the man had awoken and was speaking to her. It took her a moment to comprehend his question.

"Err, yes..." she answered, shaking her head to clear it some. "As much as I want to know how you got here, I think we may have a problem." She glanced around to see the others gathering, and felt Mithaias' pain. She then saw Kasdeja moving towards them. "He said an hour and he meant it. I don't think it's been that long but time feels very strange to me around here..."

"Time is strange," the man on the cross agreed, "But, circumstantially, given my, ummm..." he examined himself once more, wincing at what he saw, "uhhh, condition and recent plight; I would say that my concerns lie elsewhere."

He looked at the girl, waiting for a reply, and he continued "It would be nice to get... errr... down. Please?"

Watching her, half defeated to himself and half to her he quickly adds, "I mean, it's quite alright if you don't want to, but... uhhh..." he paused.

He looked above the girl to see what was happening in the distance, "What on earth is that strange man doing with what appears to be a... oh. Oh dear."

He frowned, "Please get me down."

"Remove thyself, child of...of..."

He trailed off. All at once, a scent flooded his nostrils. Sweet, succulent. An aroma not unlike mixed spices. His eyes rolled back in to his head as his more savage side surged to the forefront of his mind.

"Shall not. Waste not! Flesh! SWEET flesh!"

Na'lsa turned suddenly, leaping the small distance between him and the gory spectacle. In the swift motion his mouth had become a horrifying maw of jagged teeth, jaw unhinging and breaking apart to accept a larger quantity of meat as he dug in to the still warm body. His jaws latched on to the face of the aged priest, breaking and crushing both bone and tissue as he devoured him face first. His teeth became a whirlwind of jagged edges; a grinder of flesh in living form that let him quickly eat in to the old man. All semblance of his civility disappeared as blood poured forth, staining his body as he reveled in the gore. Gone was concern for the crucified. Gone was the worry of the previous meal. Gone was the threat of Kasdeja. All that existed was the body that he was compelled to consume.

Every pound of flesh brought forth a surge of power, a replenishment of that which he had expended. The rapidly forming pools of blood began to pulse with Na'lsa's heartbeat. The remaining skin began to ripple, almost as if it was anticipating its consummation. In mere minutes, the body would be gone. And until then, the Lion was drowned in the ecstasy of his unholy feast.

Na'lsa's eyes bulged as the hand closed around his neck. Bone cracked as they began to break, throat collapsing in on itself. His mouth opened, lips not moving as a hollow whisper escaped.

"I am not bound by mere flesh."

With that, he slumped. Even before he stopped moving, his body began to...decay. In a rapid moment flesh began to become red and swollen, rippling as if it were being brought to a boil. His eyes began to swell, growing larger until they actually burst, hot tissue exploding forward in to the priest's mangled face. Blood gushed freely from the sockets, other streams dripping from the rest of orifices and even the pores of his very skin. His body began to liquify, flesh peeling back along the bones as muscle and tendon literally dropped to the ground, blood and various other liquids following as little spittles of liquid clung to the rapidly brittling bones. Eventually they fell away in dust, peppering the quivering pile of half-rotted organ, muscle and blood at the man's feet. The only thing to mark that the crazed demon had been there was Lev's coat, and several firearms hanging from it limply. Below it the flesh pile pulsed and fluctuated, pumping back and forth as it still continued to somehow live. Laughter began to issue from no discernible source, the mound quivering in time with the sound.

"You will be consumed!"

Ignoring the activity behind him, Kasdeja walks up to where the others stand facing the man on the cross. Crossing his arms, the dripping heart still held in hand, he scrutinizes Innon, staring into his mind as though he were perfectly welcome within.

"You dwelt in Paradise." Not a question. "Tell me, did you know my father?" His child's giggle escapes with the last word, making his words utterly threatening. "Of course, you don't know that. But we're going to find out the answer, you and I." Gesturing dismissively with the heart, sending a globule of dark blood flying to spatter on Feenai's arm. "Take him down," he says disinterestedly.

* * *

Halfway between the cross and priest's body, Shealtiel is unsure of which to give his attention. But then Na'lsa makes his decision for him, rushing past to partake of the fallen servant of God.

Seeing the awful light erupt an instant before the demon notices, he bellows an inarticulate warning, stumbling nearer. Then the priest is moving and things progress to quickly to act.

Looking upon the appalling sight of the demon dissolved, of Mithaias unveiled, Shealtiel's instincts return and he opens himself to the power of Sheol. It comes crushing into him on a wave of frigid delight. Fulligin spews from his eyes, black lightning crackling between his fingers.

Only... he is unsure who his foe is.

Feenai, horrified at Kasdeja's treatment of the heart, was certain that something terrible would happen if she didn't cut the man down. Flustered, she pulled the laser off her back and, using the lowest setting, started cutting his binds from behind the cross, starting with his feet. "You might want to brace yourself..." she noted as she cut his arm bonds.

She desperately tried to ignore in her mind the feelings she was getting from Na'lsa. She also knew she shouldn't, but Feenai was feeling close to a mental breakdown again and she did not want to be rendered helpless in a situation like this.

As the young psychic cut him down, Innon bantered and complained. "I've not the slightest who you are, who your father is, what you are, or what your farther is, but I am NOT eating that thing in your hand," Innon said, attempting his best at a dangerous tone. "I might be dead, but I am not a zombie. Despite what you things might think of me, I am far from a flesh monger... unlike your goopy companion over there..." he said, eying the mess behind them.
"I've no idea whats going on, here, explain. Why do you have the heart of a priest in your hand? What does it have to do with me?"
Innon braced himself as Feenai asked him to, as he was freed from his restraints.

"PERVERTER OF FLESH!"

A bellowing roar rumbles deep from the quivering haggis. It began to bubble and spew. A skeletal hand shot forth from the mound, bending and twisting as others followed it. The bones of legs and arms and various other things began to extend out of the swarming froth, tendons and muscle quickly snaking down them as they contorted in to different shapes. What could only be the raw materials of the corpses Na'lsa had eaten began to cover the structure he was becoming. Eight arching skeletal appendages became covered in skinless tissue as liquids dripped from them, his main body becoming a writhing horde of organs resembling some nightmarish skinned arachnid. Twin hands, devoid of all but sharpened bone stuck out from the front, as if they posed as some sort of twisted pedipalps or fangs. The entirety of the flesh quivered, the shape buckling for a moment as it became accustomed to standing on all eight...appendages. And with a hiss like bone against metal, it leaped at the priest's form.

Dante, disinterested, had turned back and walked some distance before a chill ran down his spine. With practiced speed, he spun around, his newly-acquired gun in hand. But there was nothing.

Or rather...there was blackness. A blackness heavier than just...nothing. With alarm, he noticed Feenai's and Shealtiel's aura, half covered by something similar to thickened black swirls of ink.

Lev.

Dante sprinted towards Fee a few paces, then paused to wonder what Kasdeja could possibly be doing with a golden...blob?...in his hand. Or what seemed to be his hand. And it was dripping, apparently.

Just then, the "ink" shifted around, and magnificent golden light filled the bounty hunter's mind for a moment.

...Then that must be a chunk of the priest.

There was a small "crack" with hardly an echo. From beyond the fight, Dara lowered her rifle, her eyes wide as she took in Lev's transformation, the sight leaving her without the least bit of attention to see if the small bullet had actually done anything the the priest when he rose from the group again. Given the state of his skull already, it's doubtfull she would be able to tell after the fact either.

Dara was a good enough shot that she doubted she has missed, but even so, waiting until one knew for certain often meant no dinner, if the answer was "yes." She raised the gun and pulled the trigger again, twice, aiming for the back of Mathias's skull.

Michael had gotten tired, by the time he gained sight of anyone in the group. At his gladness gave him reason to run, empowered by the fresh air, but soon this had to end and he walked. He never remembered the exact way that he came in so he took a different path, one which led him to a field of crosses, and Feenai and Kasdeja.
They were staring at a body, which moved as though it were human. Intriguing. Audaciously civilized he thought as he saw the thing released from the bonds. Now what do they need him for? He wondered, as he approached. His hands stuck to his pockets, in case he decided to use the gun, and he contacted Feenai, doing his best to block out Kasdeja.
"So who is the other guy? Surely you aren't cutting up Dybuk to watch them suffer.

Despite the absurdity of the question, Michael's voice in her head made Feenai mentally chuckle. He's not a Dybbuk. He's dead but there's no trace of Dybbuk possession in him. She wasn't really sure what else to project. She could hardly comprehend the sights in front of her.

Innon frowned, "What if I don't want to join you?" Looking at Kasdeja, he continued without answer, "Why should I want to join you? I really don't feel as though its your decision, after all," he paused and looked at Feenai, "it was our lovely young lady friend here that helped me down. If I'm indebted to anyone, it's her, and should follow her; not some scary mad man carrying the heart of a priest."

The sound of the struggle between the monstrosity and the priest caught his attention, "besides, judging by the sound of it, there is something slightly more urgent; something I might actually be able to help with. But I'll need my things first, so I will be back momentarily; if you'll excuse me," and with that, he vanished, leaving nothing but two bloody footprints.

Dante face twisted into an annoyed scowl. But what is Feenai trying to do? I don't think anyone can actually REASON with that nephilim...demon...thing. And the priest now seemed to be on fire. If he hadn't been torn between the two eerily different events, as the old man apparently also was, some ways ahead, the situation would have been quite...hilarious.

"Dead...But not dead?" Micheal thought as he walked forward to gain a closer look. Judging from Kasdeja's response, he was already spotted, so he took to nonchalantly walking until he looked closer at the walking body, which then disappeared. "What the-!?" his hand flicked to his left coat pocket, leaving his new weapon in his right and taking out his laser. He wanted to save the other gun, as an ace when he finally decides to confront Kasdeja.

The flesh creature that Na'lsa had become let out a horrifying shriek as it leaped forward, pouncing on the burning body that had once been the priest. Legs wrought from contorted flesh and bone scrabbled at the man, trying to both slash and curl around the form. Skeletal hands in the place of pedipalps reached for what remained of the face, scratching lightly as he was just barely held away from devouring the head by the man's unearthly strength.

Innon returned in the same fashion he'd left, only moments later about 30 feet from the fight between the demon and the priest. He was dressed in a thick dark armor singed and charred in some places. A large weapon with a tank of liquid attached to its bottom dangled from a strap to the right of his hip.

He played with the trigger. He wasn't aware of whether he was drawing attention or not but he raised the weapon to his should and, with his left hand glowing red and placed on the tank, aimed it at the combatants, "I'll let God sort you out," and he let loose an indiscriminate torrent of black flame from his weapon. A pillar of fire engulfed the area the two combatants had stood in.

Innon held the trigger until a plume of smoke formed that concealed where the battle had been happening before.

He frowned; he examined the fingers of his left hand, though thickly padded, were smoldering. He let his weapon dangle from his shoulder by his hip, and waited for the smoke to clear, watching carefully for anything to come out.

The scream of a hundred corpses rose up at once from the unearthly flesh creature as liquid fire attached itself to his very being. He immediately released the priest as he began to buckle and stumble about, the smell of burnt and rotted flesh swirling together in the dry air. The flames continued to grow, the horrid mixture of napalm sticking to him as it continued to burn through. Flesh crackled. Bones literally exploded from the heat, sending shards ripping through flesh dried and pulled taughtly over quickly evaporating muscle. Large portions of exposed tissue turned golden brown as a layer of crisp like coverings began to well up. The more exposed portions weren't slow lucky, as the skin roiled in the flame. Large expanses of muscle rose up, bubbling from the heat until they exploded in to fiery meat chunks, spraying some of the group with pieces of Na'lsa and Lev. The various limbs began to fall away from the creature, crawling of their own volition towards nowhere as they exercised what free will they had until the flames consumed them. Muscles moved weakly, either being burned entirely or the very water from them evaporating until the skin pulled tightly over them began to stretch like dried papyrus. The main body stumbled closer to Innon, tumbling this way and that as it closed the distance. It buckled a mere fifteen feet before him, the crackling husk finally giving in to the wretched fire. What legs were left curled up in to the body, the fire seeming to retreat to within as the outer husk became black and charred. For a moment there was silence, only disturbed by the crackling of loose body parts still kindling in their unholy embers. Then, it happened.

I will know your FLESH.

All at once the husk exploded, larger bits disintegrating as something shot forward towards Innon. As it connected with his neck, it became clear that a glistening tendril of muscle tissue had curled its way around his neck, pulsing and shivering as the rest quickly caught up with it. The end of it bled as it violently split itself in to two parts, quivering like a snake's forked tongue. No sooner had it done this than both portions violently shot themselves inside Innon's nostrils. They expanded, feeling around and driving deeper until they found the throat, forcing their way back in to his mouth and expanding as they exited, completely running through his airway as the tendrils grew bigger. As it proceeded through his airways, a scant few of the charred bones began to tremble. A leg here, ribs there, broken and cracked spines all started to vibrate as they were manipulated by unseen forces. Without warning, they shot through the air, latching on to various parts of Innon's body. The long tendril of meat began to snake one end around the bones, restoring life to them as tissue and blood began to fill in the empty spaces between the bone structure. The final bit of the horrid tentacle cleared Innon's mouth as it wrapped around the still glistening unfinished body, filling in a hollow skull that reformed itself from dust. As skin began to form around what was quickly becoming Na'lsa, the more and more humanoid form leaned closer and whispered so only Innon may here.

"Cast the first stone and you will be buried with it."

He leaned a bit further, using an elongated tongue to lick a strain of blood that was slowly trickling down from Innon's nose after he had received such an invasive visit from the demon.

"I have experienced your flesh. Don't give me a reason to consume it."

The power is enthralling, narcotic, even as he can feel it sliding against his bones, tonguing the backs of his eyes, brushing death-cold fingers along each alveolus of his lungs... sensations never meant for human experience.

And he has nothing to use that power upon. The priest gone, his body broken and blackened, his soul scorched and sent screaming off to whatever afterlife awaits him.

But it begs release. He cannot contain it, now that he has called it forth to this world. The demon? Not a sound idea, who knows what effects an infusion of Sheol's energy could have on the creature? Certainly not Kasdeja, much as Shealtiel might wish to smite the foul Nephilim. Not these hapless souls who call themselves his companions... then...

A scream escapes the old man, like shearing steel, echoing upon itself as though ten-thousand voices speak through him. Ash-black whorls of power gyre around him madly, whirling so fast as to cocoon him, then they break their momentum, shrieking out in every direction like missiles of darkness, each unerringly piercing one of the crucified Dybbuk.

A wave of silence rolls outward across the field, denying any noise as the bodies fall to dust from the crosses and a cyclone of tattered souls rises skyward, dissipating before it breaches the clouds.

Shealtiel falls.

The hallucinatory wave of colors completely overwhelmed the bounty hunter, the added shriek from the old man nearly bringing Dante to his knees as he clamped his hands over his ears -- not a smart idea given the malfunction of one sense already.

In the field of multicolored aura, Na'lsa's ink-tinted tendrils were obvious. And warping sickeningly. And seemingly throttling a blue...something...that Dante had never seen before.

And I think stuff just blew up.

Straightening up, he crept a bit closer to Na'lsa and the stranger, his curiosity getting the better of his judgement.

As much as Michael wanted to shoot the demon and the "Not" Dybbuk, he let them settle things because...well it was interesting. After a few mental notes about the two beings, he heard an echoing scream, and a the air went suddenly chill.

Two thumps were heard as Michael turned to the falling, old man. "Altiel!" Micheal called out, as he ran of to attempt check the man's condition.

Shouldering her rifle, Dara makes her way gingerly over to where Michael kneels next to the necromancer. Having been out of range of the flesh bomb that was the demon Na'lsa, Dara continues to avoid the remains of the grizzly blast, stepping over and around the leftover entrails.

"Is he alright?"

Dara is still trying to decide what to make of the group she so recently joined, and this latest encounter certainly hasn't helped her analysis any. Still, they had been accomodating enough, if not kind, and that was often as much as could be expected with the world so far.

"Codger."

Na'lsa spoke the word as if it were the nickname for a dear old friend. He let go of his new toy to approach the body of the old man. His gait was slowed, and a limp was apparent, as if his right leg was wavering in strength. In a tired motion he drew himself up a few feet from the body. He took a moment to compose himself, speaking in a somber voice.

"The old man knew what he was getting in to. He had dealt with powers far greater than he, manipulated them, and had wielded something far greater than most mortals will ever know. And in doing so, he risked that very power for the good of something more than just himself. We will honor him."

He took a brief pause, bending down to gently nudge the old man, not at all like his usual self. He frowned, as if not entirely approving of the results from his nudge.

"He's still alive. So much for the Great Repurpose. The charred remains will have to do."

With that he hobbled off towards what remained of the priest, possessing none of his bark. He lacked his usual brutality too, meekly pulling apart chunks of charred meat and eating them like a normal person might eat any other meal. For the time being he seemed almost...neutral.

Dara ignored Na'lsa's speech, again, and started to give the old man a once over, as she had done with Michael after his fall. She checked to see if there were any mundane hurts that she might be able to deal with, but he seemed no worse for wear as far as broken bones went. He might be in for a headache though.

Satisfied he was alive and not likely to die in the immediate future, current dangers aside, she sat back and curled her legs up, waiting on the ground for the the rest of the encounter to play out.