Upon examining the red-haired more closely, Michael figured that she was Babylonian although disguised by the years of travel and the red cloak, when he first met her. "Not a good sign. I'm not welcome there. Hopefully she doesn't recognize me. Hmm...her wounds look fine, shallow although more than a few. The worst is near the tattoo. What is that anyways?" he thought.
Michael got up and explored the library, feeling that with time, the Babylonian should be fine enough to tell him about mind reading, like he wanted.
A number of the books he looked at were about psychic, in the past generations, even during the Calamity. Picking up one, he read about the a psychic named Gerard Gastoof, known for making a wall of iron out of his mind. "Interesting. Maybe my Psychic Block can used that way," Michael thought, making a note to try that at another time.
He then remembered to check his laser. Opening the hatch, he realized that the battery wires were roasted. He'd need to replace the wires if he ever wanted to use it again. Hearing an exchanging of words, he closed the laser, looking to Dante and Feenai just as they exchanged a kiss. He raised an eyebrow at them, knowing better than to interfere with the blind man's... tendencies, but when the young psychic pulled out the succor capsule, he grabbed some food from his regular rations. Noting that he would only have 5 day's worth after this, he tossed a couple of sandwiches to them. "Don't bother with the capsule, lover girl," he teased.
He turned towards his friend, next bringing his thoughts about the saint to the forefront. "If the Saint Typasius is fighting the Rephaim, it will sure be weakened by the time it is finished. Other than him and the other saint, who is wounded, the city will be extremely weakened." Michael paused here for dramatic effect. "It is an opportunity, should we choose to take advantage of it."

Shealtiel cracks open one eye, not bothering to get up. "A true child of the apocalypse, aren't you?" he asks Michael. "Well, you'll hear no objections from me. I've gotten to know the people of Corinth well enough to know that any of them would do the same thing -- come to think of it, they probably are. No wonder the walls were unmanned. The guardsmen were likely pacifying riots and arresting looters."

"No worries," Dante said to Feenai, succor capsule still in his hand. He placed it back into her pocket without saying more. Then he noticed a small burst of aura from the theurge who had healed him. Hm...Looks like I'll have to treat this one later, too~

Feenai caught the sandwich that the man tossed to her, blushing again at the 'lover girl' comment. She had just had a succor capsule a little while ago and still wasn't hungry thanks to the smell of sewer and burning flesh. "Thank you for this, but I don't need it right now." She lowered her voice some, and returned to look at Dante. "I know you're hungry, at least eat the sandwich that man gave you, and this one as well if you wanted more." She left the sandwich in Dante's hands as she stood up and moved away from him.

Feenai had also felt the sudden burst of anger from Jeanne. Though it had passed quickly it still worried her. I'm tempted to read John to find out why he was angry but that would be rude...and he's helped me a lot already.

She looked at the red haired girl who's name she had found out to be Ruebella. It sounded like she did not want people to know who she was, and a quick check of the Network told her that, while not exactly famous, she did have a lot of people wanting her dead. I don't like her that much, but she didn't turn on any of us in the sewer. Maybe she and I could talk things out, and I could find out what exactly is going on.

Dante lifted his eyebrows slightly. He could tell when people read his mind; it wasn't that hard, really. With two sandwiches in his hand, he'd finally gotten what he had waited several days for: real food. Even though he'd down two capsules that day already, he was grateful for having something to actually chew on, and quickly unwrapped one. Taking the psychic's head would have to wait for later.

"I was only taught by the best the east could offer, servant of Sheol." Michael said to him grinning. He looked up at the ceiling of the warehouse-like library.
"If there are lamps up above, there must be some sort of generator nearby. That means power and parts."
"I'll be right back," Michael said to the group, heading outside of the building. The building seemed pretty big on the inside for its size on the outside, although he couldn't tell in an exact measurement due to the growing sandstorm.
"Perhaps I should try out that shielding move now, Michael thought as the sand began to get in his eyes. He extended his hand out in front of him, like in the book and the sand immediatly stopped blowing towards him bouncing away from him as though hitting a windshield. While extending his psychic powers, he realized he was vulnrable to psychic attacks, as his mind was left open to the remaining psychics. He quickly stopped and returned to focusing on his mental block, forcing himself to deal with the sandy weather while he tried to find the generator.
"The young psychic has a overly curious mind. If I'm not careful, that'll be her downfall."

Lev winced at Rue's words, feeling somewhat insulted by them. Anger, like a glistening oil, began flow through him. Despite the ordeals he had been through, he stood up as he addressed her. Rage was evident in both his voice and face. For once, he spoke the language as if it was his own native tongue.

"You cannot toss me away. I see what you are doing. I have expended my usefulness and now it is time to let me go. It's evident in your eyes. Do you think I don't know that look? I've been put down in shallow graves before, and each time I have risen back to my feet. I will not be 'let go' so easily! You will continue to employ me!"

He raised his hand as if to threaten her with his revolver, only to realize it was no longer in his hand. He froze, looking at his hand dumbfounded. He let several moments pass before he muttered "Shto...?", his mind beginning to fall apart once again.

Hearing a specific yelling from indoors, Michael chuckled to himself. "Well, it looks like I wouldn't have gotten paid even if I was employed. Bah."
Finally turning the corner to the back of the house, he found the generator. Heat was radiating out of it and a circut breaker next to it directed Michael towards his next move.

Dante muttered in between mouthfuls, "It'd do you good to be polite to people for once...And you left it under the body of my brother down there." Hm? Where'd the other theurge go...?

"I'd advise you against going to find that bloody gun. For one, you'd be touching Gabe with those dirty hands of yours, and for another, it's probably covered in Dybbuk slime," the bounty hunter growled.

"So that's what you want then?" Feenai's voice rang out, dripping with bitterness. "You just think that everything you want to do can be accomplished on your own, with no help? You, miss red head, are an even bigger fool than I thought you were." Feenai was shaking as she said these words. I'm too scared to approach her. If I make her upset, maybe she'll come to me and I can outline my plan with a little more secrecy.

Feeling Ruebella ravage her open mind was painful but not unexpected. Since you're already here, you should know there is one thing I could do on my own: broadcast to the Amorpha Network your exact location. I know there's several people who would enjoy THAT information.

After thinking that directly as Rue, Feenai continued verbally, "If everyone abandons you, maybe you just haven't asked the right people to help." If you want to kill me for this, we might find out how 'alone' I am.

Still reclining, indifferent to the petty argument taking place, Shealtiel announces to no one in particular, "He's dead," in a tone that would suggest contrived apathy if it weren't for his obvious exhaustion. Once more, he closes his eyes.

Feenai sank to her knees as Ruebella headed for the door. Tears came to her eyes, and she had no desire to stop them. Numbly, she let go of her connection to the Amorpha Network, and put her shields back in place, not wishing to have anyone in her head but her own.

She asked me what I could do on my own, then calls me devious for doing so. Perhaps she is right and everyone is just horrible. These people seem good to me, even the old man, and even...her... Feenai tired to keep her sobbing as quiet as possible as she felt over and over the feeling of Rue's words, as they cut deep into her heart. Her legs could not hold her up anymore, even though she was already on her knees, and collapsed into a small heap. Do I...trust people far too much..? She continued sobbing silently, and shut her mind to everything.

"You will wait!"

Lev shouted at Rue's back, snapping out of his breakdown from witnessing his free hand. His face was a mixture of hurt and hatred, confusion roiling inside him concerning what he was doing. He laid a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back none too gently. He turned her around, pointing at the jewelry in anger.

"What is that? You call that payment? I am a soldier, not a jeweler. I give you one more chance to employ me."

He took a moment to breathe, lowering his voice as he spoke with the ferocity of a feral animal that had not had a decent meal in a long time.

"You might be able to destroy my body girl, but I've killed many with one hand. Imagine what I can do to you with two."

Lev removed his knife from one of his many pockets, gripping it firmly in his right hand. He stared at Rue, eyes unblinking as he ran his knife against the skin of his left arm. Blood began to trickle downward, dropping slowly on to the floor. His eyes began to dilate, his voice once again speaking more naturally as his words flowed along with his blood.

"I see this blood. I feel the warmth of it, but I do not feel the pain of it. It would seem that I am flesh made manifest. And yet as this flesh is stricken from my bones time and time again, I do not disperse. There is every chance that I am dead already, that my corpse rots on a rotting cross. But until I see that empty crucifix for myself, I am dead. And you, you are merely a construct, an attempt made to alleviate the sufferings that Hell brings. For if I am dead then you are nothing, and if I really do still breathe, then you have at your disposal a man who has been shoveled in to many graves and left them all. If graveyards are filled with the indispensable, then I fail to see the harm in siding with the one who never seems to stay."

Lev took a moment, taking several breaths. He sighed after a while, his speech returning to what it had been before his tirade.

"I just say, I know you possess intentions. I best chance for achieving."

Michael killed the power before pulling the wires. First he charged his gun, and then he stole the wires to replace the burnt ones. Suddenly a message came from the Amorpha network: "Saint Typasius is dead."
"Oh shit," Michael's thought rang through is head so loudly, it might as well been a psychic call to his unconventional allies.
He ran to the door and flung it open. "Anyone who's coming with me, we're out of here! Rephaim's on the loose, and if we don't kick it to high gear, we're next!" Michael paused to look around, using the gun on torch-mode in order to light the area. The Babylonian was ready to leave the room, and the, until recently, gun-handed man was angry enough to chase her down. Altiel seemed to have already gotten the picture, and the others were who knows where.
Looking at the Babylonian a second time, he realized that this was his chance.
"Is he bothering you?"

Sitting up at Michael's outburst, Shealtiel is confused at first. Then he realizes what the Artificer is referring to and says, "There's no need for that. Most of the Rephaim's Dybbuk are dead, and all the Emim. And he'll be wounded from the battle. It would be suicide for him to attack Corinth on his own." Pausing to chuckling wryly, he adds, "I wouldn't put so much stock in your fear-mongering Network friends, if I were you."

"I accept different payments."

Lev left it at that, oblivious to what she had been trying to do. He turned more, surveying the motley group that had gathered in the twist of events that had shoved them together once again. He took in the news of the Saint dying with a small twinge at the back of his head, wishing if he could remember if the one that had died was the same one he had assaulted. Turning back to Rue, he spoke in a lower voice as to try to not be overheard.

"I think it is fair to know what you plan. I wish know what I bury myself in. And I require more munitions. For effectiveness. But whatever you plan, you right in moving soon. The city grows in danger greatly."

Dante stood, secretly wanting to knee the artificer in the face for worrying about the psychic, and at the same time wanting the kick the gunman in the chest for verbally attacking the girl. Although...she seemed to be able to hold her own pretty well...

The bounty hunter felt no remorse for the Saint. Hadn't seen him, hadn't met him, didn't care. Was probably an arrogant braggart anyways. Meh. What he was more concerned about was the psychic leaving. Of course, that would have to be his own secret, too.

"I guess not, then." Michael thought behind his psychic block.
"My friends don't fear, Altiel. I do, and precisely because it won't attack Corinth on its own, it'll come here, to where the people who could sufficiently defend themselves are either wounded or exhausted. It'll devour us, take our bones for power, and then move through the sewer into the heart of Corinth." Michael shivered at the thought. "Either way, I vouch to move either into the city until we can deal with the Rephaim or move east. A colleague of mine has a boat that can take us to New Turkey, for whoever wishes to follow."

Sitting himself up amid creaking, aching bones, Shealtiel speaks. "The Seven Churches are indeed safe from most threats in our new world, but they aren't without peril themselves." He pauses for a moment to rolls his shoulders, rubbing vigorously at the back of his neck. "I'm personally convinced that each of the Chruches' leader is insane, in his own way. Regardless, it would be a matter of decidedly which particular insanity is the least threatening to us."

He stands up slowly, flexing his legs as best he can to get feeling back into them. "I also somehow doubt that our Babylonian princess is fond of the idea of seeking sanctuary." Turning to Michael, he adds, "While, yes, it is conceivable that the Rephaim will continue the attack, I don't that very likely. They're hardly fools, and if Typasius was anything but empty bravado back there, he should have wounded it enough to make it reconsider taking the city."

He looks then over the blind bounty hunter and his mark. "As for the two of you, with your ignorant disdain, think on this: the Saint gave up his life -- an otherwise eternal life -- so that the likes of you could find safety in Corinth. As I've said before, I've revised my estimation of the man. We should count ourselves lucky it was Acacias, and not him, who came to arrest the lot of you."

The hairs on the back of Dante's neck bristled. "The likes of you"? Che. "Whatever. I'll thank him in hell, then. And really, I doubt it's just the Churches' leaders who are insane..." he muttered, rubbing his face where the two scars from the gunman showed up as much lighter patches than his tanned skin.

"Man, victims these days are so much harder to kill," he grumbled, somewhat directing it at the gunman and the psychic. He glanced down at a massive scar that ran down a rib and curled around to mar the wingtips of his tattoo, as if to make his point.

Feeling sufficiently recovered, Shealtiel snatches up his cane and stalks over to the blind man.

"Yes, the likes of you." he snaps. "Do you think you're some sort of an enigma? A mystery vexing us all?" He takes a few steps closer. "There are two kinds of people left in the world," he says. "Those who set aside personal interest for safety in numbers, and the lone wolves who will do anything in order to survive. So, yes, the Saint sacrificed his life to feed, among other things, your sense of self-preservation. The least you could do is honor what he gave up."

Seeing the man's hackles raise, he adds with a sneer, "Oh, don't bother with your pathetic threats. I dwell with the dead already. You won't be seeing me when you get to Hell." It crosses his mind that he could activate his fear aura and cow all of them except the theurge but it isn't worth it. He neglects to share, likewise, that if he was willing to, he could call the Rephaim down upon them, and even wrest it to his will, though the effort would likely kill him eventually. Let them think he's a harmless old man.

Dante threw his hands up in sheer exasperation. For crying out loud...! Does no one have mental privacy here?! The purple aura was now interspersed with a dark crimson. He bent down, grabbed his holster belt, and slipped into his boots. Kicking the rest of his clothes into the corner that he had been trying to take a nap in, he spat, "I don't honor anything. To me, he was only doing his job as a Saint."

"And now that the city has settled down a decent bit, some pub should be open. I'll be doing my own job. Fighting Dybbuk doesn't exactly provide a person with food, unless you're willing to eat the stuff," he added, glaring at the gunman. He made his way towards the door, resisting the urge to push the old man aside.

As the blind man shoulders past, Shealtiel calls to him, "Yes, it may be his job, but do keep in mind, his employer is a corpse on a heavenly throne. Might want to think on that." He could also note that Dybbuk flesh isn't any more poisonous than human flesh, if properly prepared, but somehow, he doubts Dante would appreciate that piece of trivia.

Jeanne was sitting to the side and flipping through a book that detailed different theurgic techniques when the red-haired young woman walked up to her and threw an ugly bracelet into her lap. Looking up, Jeanne was about to ask why when the other woman spoke. 'Must be payment for healing the gun-handed man,' she thought, slipping it into one of her bags. She went back to her book after a moment.

In fact, she was so engrossed in the book that the first time someone said that the Saint was dead, she didn't hear. It was only when Shealtiel began talking angrily at Dante that she drew herself out of the learning-world and back to the warehouse. 'The Saint is dead?!' she thought, shocked.

The others were talking about leaving. If so, she wanted to take the book with her; it was small enough to carry.

Lev turned his head to study the doddering old man, trying to size him up for what he really was. He raised his hands in the air only to drop them by his sides, his left hand twitching as empty palm hit his coat.

"What is point? Of keeping faith. Leader is dead, in...in both places. Right me if wrong, but what is point of keeping loyalty to an empty kingdom? What so special about either? And if god is so great, and if god has fallen, should children of god take up his mantle? Must god's work truly by our own?"

He paused, not quite sure if he was making sense. He pointed in the man's face, trying to make his words more...intelligible.

"I understand admiration for dead man, following another dead man's path. But these kingdoms, they are empty. Why follow them? Why even bother? Strong enough army, you could take one for yourself! I know not of heaven, but I hear it is not fortress or unobtainable as it used to be. A barren wasteland, not unlike our own. Perhaps it is best for these 'Saints' to be forgotten, like leader. If these scourges can be reasoned with, they can be dealt with, yes? There are certainly more of them then holy warriors still standing."

Shealtiel is surprised at the wisdom in the warrior's words. He'd figured him for little more than a brute. "Indeed," he answers. "Look at the mighty Cherubim, who once sat before that throne. Hiding, every one of them. And who wouldn't? Eternal life is a precious, precious thing."

Falling silent to consider for a moment, he nods and meets the man's eyes once more. "There's a statement, somewhere, in the behavior of the Saints, a pervasive human truth. Most of us want to be slaves, and the thought of having something to die for, well..." He chuckles. "We all have our hubris. Honor is theirs. The martyr's delusion. Let them have it, I say. Let them humble us all. We're the ones who are left standing in their wake, the ones who have no use for honor. The survivors."

He takes several steps forward, pointing with his cane. "Wise words. True words. Well said."

Before Dante headed out of the door, his ears pricked up, and he snorted lightly at the old man's talk of honor and survivors. A moment later, he was outside, nose searching the air for a whiff of liquor.

"So the servants of Sheol can read minds as well." Michael thought behind his block. He wasn't sure if the block would hold against the type force this man uses to read minds, but nonetheless, he kept it held.
"Or perhaps it's the principles of those kingdoms long dead that drive them on," he said to the two men, sliding his mind into his reserves of knowledge. "You said so yourself that there are two types of people in the world. Among the stereotypically named darkness and light there are people who value different things: themselves, the ones they love, their honor. And those looking for the greater good find themselves out numbered by those, who's principles lead them into conflict because the way they do things, and the way they want others to do things, is different. Most importantly, those groups, when acting as one group, do so much more then the individuals and people fear that, whether alone or united like in the times before the calamity." Michael puased to catch his breath. "I don't think the general population generally practices the slaying of creatures because some 'empty kingdom' tells them to, but rather it is because they dissapprove of the action those creatures exhibit, whether within their nature or not, that they slay and become martyrs within the slaying."
He left a puase in his words notifying the group that he shared his bit.
"Now then, what have you all decided? Will we stay together or seperate and to where shall we trav-?" Michael noted the blind man walking out of the door out into the night. He wanted him to stay, but he knew better than to go after him.

The ghost of a smile finds its way onto Shealtiel's features. "Almost like my old classrooms," he murmurs.

Clearing his throat, he answers Michael, "As useless as I may appear, I possess skills that none of you do. If you mean to travel, you could do worse than to take me along. Besides... I don't think Corinth will be a pleasant place for a while. It must be torture for Acacias, to lose so old a comrade."

Out on the street, Dante had followed the scents to what seemed an old pub. He found an old ragged piece of cloth in his pocket and tied it around his eyes to give the impression of weakness due to blindness. It had been useful in earlier maneuvers. There were quite a few people inside, and, looking for both business and a drink, the hunter kicked open the slightly jammed door and walked in.

Dim auras, as usual... No one of outstanding psychic strength was nearby, and he breathe a small sigh of relief. Walking up to the bar, he grabbed the nearest seat and ordered a vodka tonic. "Hey..."

The bartender looked at him for the first time. After a long minute, during which Dante presumed he was wondering at his obvious lack of eyesight, he asked, "What's you story? You're new to town, eh? Haven't seen your face around."

"Yeah, well..." Dante dropped his voice to barely more than a whisper. "This town need a hired gun?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow, which would have been missed by Dante if not for the change in tone. "Yes...but..."

Incredulous. Hm. "It's not as bad as it seems," Dante replied to the doubt in the man's voice, dismissing his blindness.

"Well, if you're sure...That man sitting five seats down from you, to your left...He has five grand on his head. Loki Cicero."

Five...Meh. Good enough for now, at least until I can bring the psychic's head to Leonid. "I can bring him in today," he whispered, downing the last of the tonic and slipping a coin over to the bartender as a tip.

Before the bartender could protest ("The man's dangerous, are you sure you're fine...? Killed two policemen the other day, you don't wanna mess--"), he was off the chair, walking casually to his new target. Hm...he's...big. To say the least. Doesn't look like he's got weps... He took an empty seat next to the huge man.

"Mr...Cicero." It successfully claimed the attention of the well-muscled giant, who spun around and nearly flattened Dante's face.

"What is it?!"

"Let's just say...I've a deal for you, seeing how you were able to beat up those two a few days ago. I need someone like you."

"And you are...?"

"No need to know my name. But you could say...I'm like you. I hate those police. I hate the government. And I think you could be of some use to me. Of course, I'll be paying you."

"...What do you want, then?"

"Why don't we go outside? There's things only for your ears, and I wouldn't want..." he looked around, "other people listening in."

Dante's silver tongue paid off, and in a few moments the two were outside. He led the way around the side of the pub, to an empty dirt-covered lot.

"So what is it that you wanted? If it's the police, I can--"

The man never finished his sentence. The handle of Dante's trusty switchblade now protruded from between two ribs.

"Wha--!" The cyanide did its job, and in a few seconds, the lifeless body dropped onto the dirt. Whew...good thing there was muck here... Dante thought to himself, as he pulled the body to one side and began kicking the dirt over the bloody patches of earth. He wiped the now-poison-less blade on the man's shirt and pocketed it, then slipped back into the pub.

"Got him. He's outside," he whispered to the very startled bartender.

"What! How? Not even twenty of our men could stop that barbarian!"

"I'm not exactly your average man," Dante muttered, exasperated. After all, what bounty hunter was supposed to not finish his target? He held out a hand for the pay. "I'm assuming you'll get someone to bring him in."

"Of course! You're amazing! The police force will definitely appreciate--" The unfortunate bartender found the blade at his throat.

"But of course they won't, because I never killed him. Right?" Dante asked with a smirk.

"A-ah. Er. No. Of course you didn't kill him. I never saw who did it, the body was just there by the time I found it."

"Good. Get it right." With that, the hunter pocketed the bag of coins and headed back to the warehouse.