"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.