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?"