She looked down to the ground, a motion that seemed like fear until the mad laughter echoed through the Basilica. "Ah but Cain, you forget. His mighty reigns no longer tether me to his adamantine will. Your mark leaves as little hold over me as it does you. If you are so ready to die, then let us begin." The womans eyes burned blue as her head lifted and a menacing smile crossed her lips. Ethereal angels wings spread from her back, this was not just the madness of Asasiah, this was much more. She seemed to step forward but then dissappeared from the sight of the untrained eye. She was fast and within a fraction of a second the flaming sword bore towards Cain.

"AAAHHH!" Dara nearly screamed, grabbing her ears as her head is suddenly filled with the cacophony of wails. Instinctively, her aura winked out but it had no affect on what her mind was still trying to interpret as some entity's pained howl, if that. If it was anything else, she couldn't think what, or had the slightest idea of what to do about it except to bury her head somewhere so she wouldn't hear it any more.

Dante had the strange feeling of drowning in colors as his already-smarting head went under the assault of waves of blue and white. He let loose a string of curses as both hands shot to temples to try and ease the mental pain, but to no avail. Getting over the shock, he focused on hearing himself think over his own rapid pulse, then gritted his teeth and asked Dara if she was okay, still more concerned about the state of Feenai's mind.

Na'lsa's eyes rolled in to the back of his head as he consumed the flesh of the Nephilim. His jaw unhinged itself, opening wide two swallow gigantic chunks of the broken body. Shattered bones made it that much easier, streamlining his efforts as he devoured the man whole.

The skin was acid. It burnt him, made him sick. But the oily sensation of tainted meat was only a minor annoyance to the raw energy and power that threaded through the now short-lived body. It filled him with madness. Excitement. Ecstasy. His very being threatened to burn itself up with the sheer power he was holding on to.

He could not see. He could not feel, nor hear. He could only consume. Rearing back, his chest ripped itself apart as his ribs twisted back in to an open maw, tearing through skin. He paused only for a moment before throwing himself back down, his very body consuming the rest of the corpse as it was literally shoved and melded in to his own being with the living mouth he had become.

The burning sword descends, flaring as it parts the inky shadows in the center of the shrine, tiny whispers of flame bursting as Uriel's empyrotic fire ignites the lingering darkness of Sheol. There is a scream, a howling resonance that quakes the bones of all who hear it as Cain's malefic aura erupts, filling the entire Basilica with the radiance of a holier Heaven than that which sits lordless in the empty skies above them. For a long moment, the darkness is banished, as though the ancient, ruined temple has been sanctified once more.

Then the laughter begins.

Cloaked in bursting flames, the wraith stands visible at the heart of Asasiah's raging conflagration., a hole in the majestic fury of the fire of her sword. For all the power in those flames, swirling in a gold-and-crimson vortex up into the cloudless sky, Cain stands unmoved, a bar of impossibly-black steel in his invisible hands. Despite the titanic, aeons-honed strength in her frail-seeming arms, the Emim holds her off effortlessly, utterly still. A void looks back into the hybrid's wrath-filled eyes, and from it comes that awful laughter, hearkening to a primordial ecstasy in murder. A blade of darksome power like a shard of the abyss itself flickers at the end of the burning spirit's staff. A web of stains – Abel's shining blood – traces a horrifying pattern down its length.

Their silent struggle continues only as long as it takes for darkness to overtake the watching sun. Still shrouded in agony and flame, Cain hurls the awakened angel away with all the effort of a shrug, sending her crashing through one of the few standing pillars left in the shrine, bringing down a rain of stone and rubble on her stunned form.

Unconcerned for the others, the Murderer stands and observes, noting Asasiah's fast-returning vitality as she stirs and writhes beneath the stones.

It is with utter disdain that he lifts his spear overhead, twists it in a blur of black against golden flame, and hurls it, shrieking, through Asasiah's chest.

* * *

He can feel dust choking his veins, the ashes of a hundred-million dead, the daily bread of Sheol. He can feel ice sheathing his withered heart, turning his blood to hoar. He can feel the weight of countless wasted lifetimes sitting upon his bones. The inheritance of the elder damned.

And for all that power, the old man is helpless.

He did not know what he had expected, coming here. It was the allure of power that had led him to this... brashness. As though there were not older, more terrible spirits than his to be found in the pits of Abaddon's realm. Whatever he had hoped to accomplish would come to naught. Here was not a soul that could be exorcised, and any power Shealtiel might hurl at the wraith in desperation would only quicken the unholy creature with its own essence.

In life, Cain had been a prodigy, son of the First Man, bequeathed a legacy of psychic might enough to shape the world to their newborn wills. And uncountable centuries of undeath had done nothing to blunt that awful power. Not even an arch-angel's fire could touch this coldness, nor ever hope to break the curse of Cain.

Shealtiel watches Asasiah struggle against the Emim, knowing that it will be for nothing. Metatron himself, if legends hold true, could sear the old spirit from existence with his Light, but Uriel... great, puissant Uriel... can do nothing but fail.

He does not even look as the young woman crashes down, does not flinch as another part of the shrine collapses. Shealtiel has eyes only for the burning silhouette of the First Slayer, and, even as he feels Asasiah's soul fall quiet in the ether, the necromancer kneels, unspent power bleeding from his eyes. With bowed head, he turns his eyes from the abominable sight, and awaits the end.

So this was pain, she had been so immune to it before that it came as a shock to her small body. Though strong and agile, the might of Uriel was not enough, she could tell that much. She felt her spirit falling silent to another power within. The darkness slid through her veins as she pushed herself up from the rubble, thick red blood splattering the ruined stones. They could feel nothing of Asasiah, her spirit was quiet as the dead. But she was there somewhere deep within the dust and smoke, silent until her maddening laugh echoed through the Basilica.

"Ah, the air burns my lungs...such an interesting sensation. Asa dear, you must let me out more often, and you Cain, is that all the power you have? You can't even destroy this body, how pathetic." The voice was madder, darker..seeded with evil. The woman slowly walked from the settling smoke as she pulled the spear from her chest sending blood spattering across the ground, the wound closed almost instantly. Her ethereal wings looked dead and darkened against her back, and as she started forward toward Cain her eyes began to glow blood red.

"Mmmm... the blood of innocence. So sweet yet so old... its power, it's bursting within me." A small laugh escaped her lips as she slowly licks the blade of the spear. "Not to be sentimental...but isn't it ironic, you killed your brother in cold blood, you are the first of many, a god to the worst of sinners, yet it will be that very act that will end you." She laughed madly and conjured her sword once more, instead of the holy red flames, black and purple fire lit the blade. Dark wings spread behind her as an evil smile crossed her face.

"Are you ready to die Cain, to enter the endless void from which there is no return? You should have begged for forgiveness long ago son of Adam... Today is the day you forfeit your murderous soul, and instead of Sheol, God, or Father you will find only me at the end."

Na'lsa reeled as he tried to withstand the power that wracked his body. A wave of madness assaulted him, cleaving his already weak mind apart as it tried to wrestle away his sanity. He screamed, trying to regain control of his own body and self away from the poisonous nectar that flowed within him. Blackness overwhelmed him. He thrashed madly, seams in his flesh from old wounds beginning to unravel slowly as he was unable to maintain them. He began to slip...to let go of who he was.

No...

"NO!"

All at once his eyes shot open. He could not fail. Not with this power he barely held to. Like holding on to a downed powerline to keep himself from being swept away by rapids, he willed himself to hold on. Na'lsa struggled to his feet. His eyes adjusted, gauging the fight before him. In the back of his head, he knew somewhere that there was no hope. But hope was not his concern...only hunger was there. That ever present, gnawing hunger. And with all the raw force that he possessed, his appetite set its sights on the Murderer himself.

Na'lsa jumped, legs like coiled springs as he sailed through the air. Hungering maw opened wide, he lunged at the wraith. There was no self preservation. No tact. Only the desire to consume. Only to devour Cain.

Back at the campfire, Dara gradually pulled her hands away from her head, the moment passed but the shock still remaining, and looked back to Dante.

"I think so." Still reeling somewhat from the psychic force, she considered where it might have come from. "Do you...do you think that came from the others? Do...do you think we should go look for them?"

Shealtiel stares at the unveiled demon, torn between confusion and horror. By all measures, a demon of Amaymon's stature should be as nothing next to the manifest might of Uriel, and yet, it certainly seemed as though the fiend was convinced Asasiah's was stronger for him being in control.

Unless she cannot master Uriel's power or wholly channel it through her body. If the demon's will commands the angel's might and further girds the flesh...

But would it be enough? Could it possibly be? Looking at the wraith was like staring down a tunnel straight into the depths of Sinai, into the very throne and seat of Abaddon's fullest sovereignty. Undoubtedly, Cain was among the chiefs of the Emim. Somehow, the old man doubted the Angel of the Abyss would allow one of his preeminent servants to perish so vainly.

And yet, that unholy lust in Amaymon's eyes... that hunger...

He can feel it, now, the pounding pressure of the life he consumed earlier. Even though it fills him with power and possibility, it stretches Shealtiel's mortal frame to its limits to contain it. For a moment, he ponders consuming a dead essence to counteract the force within him. What would be the consequences? Already, Sheol stains his very cells to their core.

He had never been one to dare, to tempt fate, before the end of the world. But lately, the necromancer found himself caring less and less about his own survival. If he was right... the results of drinking Cain's ancient soul could prove... fascinating.

He would merely need to wait for his moment.

Amaymon stared at Cain, he perhaps seemed angry, maybe even scared as his eyes looked down. But, to think that would of been a mistake for dark laughter came from the girls lips.

"Cain, you are an old fool who knows not what he tempts!" Asasiahs small hand lifted the dark flaming sword and pointed it straight at Cain.

"You dare to think that I have no power over my own servant?!" He slammed the sword into the ground sending shock waves across the ground that were quickly followed by cracks.

"Asmodai is mine to command, and you were foolish to think that, I, Amaymon could not summon him at my will." A smile crossed Asasiah's lips as her form backed away from the sword and the ground began to fall in on itself.

"If you think the prison of your dead god can keep hold of my servant, you are soarly mistaken."

Dante merely nodded and proffered a hand, and then the world went still. What...? He had barely turned towards the source of the recent attack on his mind when another assault almost brought him to all fours.

Definitely feels like they need help. "I'm going to check out what's going on. I might need help, but..." He glanced at Andy.

"...I don't expect you to trust me."

Na'lsa dodged back and forth as he tried to close the distance. His timing was off, and a sharp edge of marble cut deep through his arm, yanking it back on a hooked edge. The bone instantly snapped, arm trailing by sinew alone until it broke free from the slab that had severed it. He ignored it while he ran, flesh already contracting and attempting to put itself back together as strands of flesh wove themselves tighter. He shouted above the chaos, trying to gain the attention of his foe.

"For all your talk and all your show, you prove that you can only throw rock, the same thing you were capable of doing ages ago! You have learned nothing!"

He grinned maniacally, bits of stone and debris ripping through him. Gravel assaulted him, jagged edges ripped through the cheeks of his face. A particularly larger chunk caught him across the side, breaking his jaw and taking bits of bone in to the storm that was forming across their makeshift battlefield.

Na'lsa spoke again, his voice coming from nowhere as his form became less and less with each assault of the stone debris.

"You are nothing but old blood waiting to dry!"

The throb subsiding in her head, nodded lightly, not sure with what or whom exactly but she stood up and started walking with Dante, helping Andy to his feet on her way by. She massaged her fingers as her hands and shouldrs started to ache.

"Fee?" She said in a quiet voice. "You coming?"

"Yes. Yes I am." Feenai shook her head, unable to loosen the nagging feeling that she should run far away, and just get away from everyone and everything. She grit her teeth and marched along after the others regardless, letting Rue's taunting voice echo in her head to remind her to not run away.

Amaymon smirked as he looked at Cain, he held no fear for the being and he was growing tired of this silly game.

"We will show you who the 'Cur' is here, Cain. In the end, you will bow at our feet!" Her voice echoed in the Basilica, now sounding both of Asasiah and Amaymon. She glanced toward Asmodai raising her hand, her sword flew back into it. Purple and red flame swirled around the blade. She began her approach as ethereal wings, one black and the other white, sprouted from her she rose her arm to shield her from the onslaught of rock and ruin, each one crumbling to pieces as it hit her. Terrible power began to seep from her in waves, no one could of guessed that she was hiding so much. Or perhaps she hadn't been, this must have been what she was meant to be.

"Come Asmodai, it is time we ended this."

Na'lsa went quietly, his form completely eradicated by the barrage of debris and sand. At first he became less and less, and then he was swept away in a cloud of red, and then nothing. His body was gone, his flesh and blood mixed with the sands that swept with the storm.

"The murderer..."

His voice whispered to no one in its sickly oily tone. As the sand on the wind battered harmlessly against Cain, it left traces of the blood it carried. Little at first, barely noticeable. Just a few cells, but the sheer amount was slowly becoming more and more visible. Faint tinges of red splatter were just visible against flesh, and in the same moment sunk in to every pore they could find. The tinges of blood seemed to be...burrowing.

Asmodai's pain had no affect on Asasiah, the being was just a pawn on her board. A distraction was all she would need, and as Cain became clumsy she grinned. Taking her chance her ethereal wings spread behind her and she rushed forward with a powerful boost from the appendages. She slammed into Cain with enough force to send them both flying into the air. She swiftly slid her sword around his near invisible being using it to pull him tight against her as she rolled into the air with him. Seconds later she used the momentum to throw Cain downward. As his form hit the surface he sunk in sending cracks across the ground. Pulling the flaming weapon up she flung herself down and the sword sunk into Cain's being pinning him to the crevice ridden surface.

"I suppose we were wrong, you aren't bowing at my feet...You're laying like the dog you are!" Her wild eyes looked down on Cain, the only emotions riddled with hated in the gaze. She had no remorse for him, no pity. Kneeling down she drove her sword deeper into him.

"I told you in the end...there would be only me..." Asasiah leaned over the wraiths form, illusions of humanity disappearing when she took the first bite.

NOW!

The moment gleams with horrendous promise, frozen possibilities splayed stark before his prowling gaze. As the sword descends, injecting toxic light into the spirit, Shealtiel seizes upon the sudden weakness in the Murderer. The ancient soul lies exposed, helpless, made mortal by the cursed blood tethering him to this realm.

Gnarled fingers reach out in rictus, bones bulging and snapping as unearthly powers course out of their tips. Cracked teeth groaning and splitting, exploding in bursts of blood and marrow as living darkness erupts from the necromancer's mouth. His eyes detonate, spraying ichor into the haze, leaving gaping holes into Sheol's pits behind.

As the torrent of sorcery mingles with Uriel's fire, Shealtiel's body dissolves, divesting itself of not only the life-energy he was gifted by Asasiah, but of the very vitality of his soul. He has taken the final step from the world of the living, letting the energies of Abaddon embrace him at his deepest essence, opening a conduit between himself and the dying Emim.

As the flesh sloughs from his bones, as bones wither to dust, Shealtiel begins to feast...

"I AM YOUR PLAGUE, CAIN. I HAVE NOT YET RAN MY COURSE!"

All at once the particles of Na'lsa's body began to stir, moving through Cain's 'body'. Gorging on the inside, they quickly grew in to much more massive proportions, the body no longer able to contain them as his chest burst open. It was followed by the hand of Na'lsa, gripping something covered in gore. The rest of the chest contorted wildly as Na'lsa made Cain's flesh his own, weaving blood and tissue together to form his upper torso as he wrenched himself free from the chest. For the moment, he was skinless. Blood and muscle glistened across bone, freshly produced organs pumping furiously. Eyes not held back by skin glared down at Cain in a wide and unframed grin-like expression. Na'lsa placed a bony hand upon the skin of Cain, and with a great heave it gave way. In a matter of moments he rose completely from the quickly fading body, and with a flourish of the flesh he had stripped, he pulled it around his shoulders. There was a horrible creaking sound. Skin tightened, pulled itself over bone, oozed downward like melted wax.

He cackled. His face was as it was, before he had left himself to the wind. Everything below the neck was something else. Patchworks of skin, stretch marks, crisscrossing scars. Buildups of tissue that had quickly fused together. But the skin he wore was still different, something besides scars and scrapes. He hadn't just consumed a source of power. He had woven it in to himself. He bore the flesh of Cain.

His essence dwindling by the second, Cain has no time for aught but the most ephemeral reflections on his death. His last words echo hollowly through the devastated chamber.

THUS DO WE INHERIT THIS GODLESS WORLD. MAY IT BE BLESSED. MY DEAR KILLERS... GIVE MY REGARDS TO SETH.

The presence fades, the fell sense of otherworldly will that blighted the chamber since their arrival is gone. The Murderer is dead.

Asasiah gorged on the form her eyes glowing red as the inky essence of Cain dripped from her cold lips. She felt her insides burning, revolting against her at every bite she took. She had to stop. Grabbing her stomach she shuddered her ethereal wings spreading open above her crouched form before exploding in a blast of dark light. When the haze finally settled, Asasiah lay unconscious on the ground.

The rumblings outside what was left of the Basilica walls indicated the arrival of the others in the APC, though whether anyone inside the Basilica was lucid enough to notice remained to be seen.

Opening the door, Dara stepped cautiously out of the vehicle. Lacking any ability to sense anything supernatural, she took her usual careful approach to the area. No one was immediately visible, but it was obvious something big had happened. She picked her way carefully over broken stones, carefull of the walls that appeared to be teetering against each other for their only support, found a hole, and looked in.

For a good several minutes she just stood by the wall, staring. Eventually she found her voice again to ask,

"What happened?"

Dante groaned as he clambered out and tried his best to follow Dara, eventually giving up at just yelling in her general direction. "I hope you're not asking me..." he called, rubbing his temple.

He dropped his voice and muttered to himself, "...though if anything's mutated or deformed, I'm not getting within ten feet of them..."

He turned his head back, checking on Andy and Feenai. I wonder if she'll be okay. It might be best for her to stay in there. I also don't fully trust that half-demon... But there were more pressing matters at hand, and he carefully and reluctantly made his way towards Dara, stumbling on stones and fragments of pillars.

Feenai sat in the corner of the APC, fighting off the urge to vomit. She had gotten a very clear psychic picture as they drove closer, and she had no desire to see it in person.

She heard both Dara's and Dante's words, but didn't process them well. The feelings she sensed from their minds told a better picture of Dara's confusion and Dante's mistrust and distaste. She felt horrible about it but she also knew if she moved, what little food was in her stomach would leave.

Crowned with thorns... and pain... was he. Raised our hands, and slew him. Utterly.

In shaken silence, the group finally departs Thasos, those who remain alive boarding the APC scarcely comprehending what they have been witness to. Asasiah is laid across several seats to rest, no efforts by any of them able to rouse her from the coma that has claimed her, but she seems to be in no danger. They leave the dead behind.

A course is set, finally, for Anatolia and the bastion offered by the Seven Churches. It will be a day and more before they arrive on land, with a long trek into the dominions of Per'gammum ahead.

Feenai drove, thankful for the opportunity to do something even if it failed to completely erase the scene from her mind. She didn't want to imagine what it would have been like if she had actually gone to see with her eyes rather than her mind, but the driving was not distracting enough to stop her mind from working.

Do I really want to know what happened? What happened to Michael, Shealtiel, and Na'lsa? And who is this other woman? Feenai shook her head and sighed audibly. Who am I kidding...of course I want to know. They...they're my friends.

Dante had kicked up two of the seats in the APC and now was curled up, cat-like as usual, in the space they had previous taken up. It was easy to physically pretend to be asleep, but with this group...everyone knew he was wide awake, even though he had slowed down his breathing. The hell had happened back there...? His finger instinctively tightened around the pocketknife, as if it would provide protection against these inhuman beings.

If there ever had ever been a time when he wished he was completely blind...

Na'lsa sat in silence. Too much silence. He had not spoken a word since draping himself in skin that wasn't his. For the time being he possessed a moment of clarity. A moment to comprehend just what he had become.

He took in the contents of the APC. What was left of their ragtag little group seemed to be much different than the meager group of mortals he had encountered when they began. He himself had changed, for he would not even be who he was if it had not been for them. If it had not been for...Lev. The man he had manipulated. Latched on to. Fed off of. And even now, the mortal seemed to clutch to the back of his mind. Changed, but somehow alive through everything he had put him through. With this in mind, he decided to retire, to digest and comprehend his own being...

Lev vomited as he found himself in what was left of his 'body'. More of a mixture of himself and Cain, woven patterns meeting where different skin came together. Unable to keep his stomach together, he vomited again as his mind replayed everything he had witnessed. The devouring of Cain by half the party left his stomach empty as he heaved nothing but air. It was sickening.

Through matted hair he took in the rest of the group, eyes focusing on no one in particular as he spoke.

"By God, we are a sad sack of monsters.'

As the APC ground to a stop, Dante's prone form shuddered a bit and slowly picked itself up -- since everyone else had seemed to prefer being curled up, he'd forgone his usual catlike habits and covered what floor they'd abandoned, and had spent a great deal of time spread-eagle across the floor of the vehicle.

He'd never learned to swim, so being away from too much water was a relief. Grabbing a pack of smokes, he peeked out a hatch. Looks like it's all clear. He slowly climbed up, noticed the strange haze of aura ahead, and dove back down to grab weaponry.

Nope. Nope nope nope nope. This had better not be another monster, he muttered to himself, silently, while he threw the strap of his chestplate over his head and quickly buckled various belts and holsters.

"...There might be something ever so slightly intimidating way up ahead," he grumbled, not bothering to look up.

"Like what? More abominations? More things for us to consume and become?"

Lev stood, legs aching from sitting for so long. With a heave he threw back the door to the APC, stepping down on to the terrain. Rancid air filled his nostrils, fresh only in the sense that it was something new. Removing the little items he had left from his pack, he checked his battered weapons. They almost seemed useless now. Rarely had he been able to use them, and even his own consciousness was controlling his body less and less. Na'lsa had become a great and powerful being, and had been in danger of consuming Lev entirely.

The blind one senses great power...

Lev kept himself from vomiting. It was always sickening to hear Na'lsa inside of his head. He quickly packed his things in a neatly manner. Na'lsa would be coming soon, and he took no such care for the mortal's possessions.

How they dance so merrily to their own slaughter!

Lev's body was wracked with pain as the inky tendrils of Na'lsa's consciousness began to overthrow his own. He fought back, scrabbling to stay above the black. The transition was harder this time, not as fluid as it had been for the gluttonous demon.

You resist fleshling. You cannot hope to stave off the Messiah!

Lev's body fell to the ground. After a moment, Na'lsa rose. He brushed himself off, as if the affair was of no great importance. He was in power once more, and he would lead his people to a great power.

"My flock!" he said, "Today is a fateful day. Let us go forth and enjoy a bountiful fruit!"

You would pluck the fruit of flame? That tree you lust for was raised from the seeds of God's wrath. Be careful where your tongue wanders, demon, there is bitterness ahead to gall us both.

The voice arises among them like the seeping vapors of the grave, familiar yet stretched taught across the boundaries of worlds. There is no visible sign of Shealtiel, but his presence can be felt all the same: an ancient stain upon the air, dripping with the appalling sin of Cain. He now bears the Mark in lurid intransigence, an impossible condemnation.

And not only that. Power leaks from him like superfluous blood, carrying the flavor of rotting malignancy. There can be no doubt: the old man's soul has descended into the charnel cellars of Sheol, and returned. There is an appalling effortlessness to the way he carries himself now. Long gone are the hunched back and creaking knees. He has become.... vital with death.

Our friends will find warm welcome in Thyat'ria, he continues. But you, demon? And I? We are the Enemy to these good people, the bane that demands that men become monsters in defense of their loves. We must be careful. Yes, very careful. I may be able to... mask myself, at need, but I can do nothing for you, Son of Heaven. Pray they do not make a martyr of you.

"Martyr?"

Na'lsa threw back his head, letting loose a malicious cackle.

"This body has expired time and time again, raising its corpse from the corpse of this earth because I say so. I approach with open arms. If they wish to bite the Son that they should embrace, then they shall see that like the First Son, I will rise again. They shall feel the sting of the back of my hand instead of the open palm if they spurn the grace of me and my Flock. I shall eat of their body and drink of their blood, and take their being into my own."

Na'lsa seethed, becoming almost delirious at the thought that he, Na'lsa would ever be cast out, would ever be rejected by any mere mortal that supposedly rejoiced under the name of The Lord. For he was the Child! The Second Son of God! The Holy Lion that tended to the Flock! Tender of Flesh of this world! He...

Realized how silly he was being. He had power, but he was not invincible. Especially not to an entire city. Flesh could only re-weave itself if there was flesh left to weave. He sighed, realizing his own limits.

"Very well. I shall approach as a guest; a visitor. If they do not take me as I proclaim allegiance, then I shall flee. I wish to see this city with my own eyes."

"You think so?" Dara said to Dante as she stepped out of the APC. She shouldered her rifle and first aid kit - now half full of herbs, kindling, make-shift bandages, and the vegetable scraps she pulled from abandoned gardens.

She looked ahead to see the city. If the city itself was impressive, it was an afterthought to the fact that it simply was a city after she had spent most of her time wandering rural areas and woods.

Tucked at her side, Dara had the pistol she had taken off of Michael. It was heavy and square; she was uncertain about what she would ultimately be able to do with it, if she should even try. Putting the pistol away she rubbed the side of her right hand, feeling the nub that had begun to form over the last few nights. If it got any longer, she was going to have to alter her gloves again.