"New Turkey and the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse, Madam Red," Michael answered to the Babylonian woman, thinking of nothing else to call her by.
"Well it's got her interested, but the only question is why?" Michael put his thoughts aside and turned to the two girls left in the group, the novice psychic and the theurgic healer.
"And what of you two ladies? I'm pretty sure that your blind friend isn't coming back for you." Michael grinned at them teasingly. It didn't take psychic powers to know that he flustered both of them at nearly the same time.

Shealtiel looks pensive as he says, "Asia, Jon of Patmos called it. And Anatolia, the Greeks. It was Byzantium, to the latter Romans, and Turkey, old and new. The Seven Church Fathers were each visited by revelations, and given gifts by angels." He sits back down on his crate once more, his attention still on the psychic. "Of course, such gifts were never meant for men. Each one is mad in his own way. We'll have to tread carefully if we go there, and that's discounting passing around the Infernal Sea."

He takes a moment to adjust to a more comfortable position, then adds, somewhat abruptly, "Regardless, we have a long night ahead of us -- one which I, for one, would not wish to venture out into. You should all rest; I have little need, and can hold the defense, if it comes to that, better than any of you, at the moment. Before that, though..." he gestures absently toward them all with his cane. "Names. Let's hear them. I am Shealtiel Avshalom, Altiel if you wish. This adroit young man is Michael, named for the Archangel and Dragonslayer, no doubt."

Feenai lifted her head, hardly even hearing Michael's words. Her drying tears stained her face as she looked around for Jeanne. Not that John will want anything to do with me, and I'm sure everyone thinks of me as useless and a burden. She would have cried more but her eyes were dry and out of tears. She slowly came to her feet and looked around for Jeanne. I really don't want to be alone, especially since the town has been ravaged. My own home must have been too small a settlement to even bother with.

She found Jeanne half absorbed in reading a book. Shaking, she slowly approached. You were the first person I met here, and I want to stay with you at least. But if I ask, and you reject me.. it will just confirm Ruebella's words. I'm scared... Feenai opened her mouth to form the words but they would not come. The fear that Rue's words had caused would not leave, no matter how hard she tried to push it away.

"I am Lev. Lev Gurevich. Lev of Tsavo. Pardon for moment. Must retrieve something."

Lev muttered as he turned back towards the manhole they had emerged from, pulling it up so he could enter in to the sewers. With a quick look around he descended down into the darkness, intent on retrieving his weapons. He handled the ladder oddly, still not used to having the function of both hands. It took him longer than it should have to reach the bottom, breathing a sigh of relief as shoes touched concrete.

He set off in to the sewer tunnels. It was easy to find their trail, at least. Carnage and blood splatter made obvious signs of their presence, and each scene of slaughter led him closer to his possessions. Somewhere in the noise of the sewer, a whisper tickled Lev's ear.

Lev...

Lev strode on as if hearing nothing. He spent several minutes backtracking, reliving the battle in his head before he finally came to the site of his breakdown. Covered in various pieces of bodies and fluids, the barrel of his revolver peeked shyly out from where it was buried. He leaned down to retrieve it from the mess.

Take it!

He picked up the weapon, staring at a bit of skin that happened to cling to the muck on the barrel. It suddenly reminded him that his energy was running thin, and he had had very little to eat in a very long time. The whisper came again. 'Consume!', it said.

Devour!

Lev lowered himself to his knees, staring with hunger at the putrid flesh around him. Hunger gave out, and he grudgingly began to feast on the putrid remains of the Dybbuk. Somewhere, something whispered to him. He could not hear what it said, or what it demanded. It demanded something of him, but the words ere unclear. And as he ate, time slid by...

He found himself gnawing on a bone he had wrenched from a corpse, trying to break the sweet marrow inside from it. Slowly, he dropped the bone from his mouth. Lev realized what he had done. What he was doing. A sickening feeling came to his stomach. But even worse, a new feeling came to him. Something terrifying, something alien and deadly.

Lev sprinted back towards the exit to the sewer, the scent of his own fear trailing him.

Michael looked in the eyes of the novice psychic and realized that she was broken pretty badly, to the point of tears. It made him guilty not to notice earlier. "Where was I anyways?" He realized that the laser was still on and lighting the way. "Oh right," he thought.
He began to walk over to the young psychic as she turned round a row of shelved books towards the healer. "She's not mad at me, is she?" Michael was tempted to peak into her thoughts and find out, but knowing what he worked to achieve, he figured that it would be hypocritical to try.

Lev raised an eyebrow as he tried to dust the grime off of his clothes, looking like he honestly did not know what she was talking about.

"I have low food standards, yes. As long as I eat."

Inside, his mind began to race. He knew she could read his mind. Apparently what had happened to him in the sewers had been real. It had not been a hallucination, or some morbid dream. He had consumed the flesh. He tried to think, wondering if Rue You are a plague would betray his secret to the people gathered there. To distract himself, he began cleaning his gun with what little clean spots he had left on his coat. The bodily fluids on the You have not yet ran your course gun had congealed, and took some effort to remove. He stopped after a while, staring at the spots Flesh! Rot! It all rots! You are hunger. Your bones are stripped but they do not rot! Consume devour riprendfleshkillhuntthepreythatescapesdonotletthem escapenothingescapesthelionconsumedevourriprend... he had managed to clean. A whispering tickled his ear again, but it died as soon a he began speaking.

"Are we to rest here? With...everyone?"

Dante kicked open the door, cursing the fact the he'd only gotten five thousand from that bounty. Quite unexpected, he was assailed by a strong odor of death. At first he'd thought that someone might've died, but on closer inspection...

...It seems to be coming from the gunman. "So, you really did go down there, huh," Dante asked with a loud growl. "Hope you weren't a 'lion' there, too. But seeing as you'll even eat humans...well, who knows what you'll do, eh," he added with a smirk.

Feenai stared at Jeanne, wondering how long she would be immersed in that book. She swung her head around to see Michael staring at her, with a perplexed look on his face. He probably thinks I'm useless too. I barely know him, so maybe I should introduce myself... Her voice cracked, as she struggled with verbal communication. "My name is Feenai...the old man already introduced you to everyone...your name is Michael?" She tried to look him in the eyes but found that she couldn't, and turned her face downward to stare at her feet. Yes, that was great. I can't even face someone new, who didn't even see my uselessness in the sewers. I'm just a big failure...

Lev growled at the blind man, shouting words at him.

"Do NOT call me that, or you really will be meat!"

He froze, regretting the words as soon as he said them. He tried hard to calm himself down. He needed to lay a bit low in light of recent circumstances, especially since nearly everyone in the room could expose his thoughts whenever they so felt like it.

"I...apologize. Very tired. I am going to the sleep now."

Lev fell to the floor, more of a flop than anything else. He curled up similar to the way a dog would, revolver held tightly in his hand. He had a while before he fell asleep, and a while was going to be a long while indeed, since he would be alone with his own thoughts...

Dante glanced down and raised an eyebrow, his finger toying with the trigger of his handgun. It would be easy, almost too easy, to end things now. Just one bullet...The girl didn't look too heavy either. He could drag the body to wherever the bike was...Simple as that. Or, if it was even easier, he could take the head. Riding all the way back to Babylon would be easy, provided he had enough fuel and light. He took the gun out--

--and stopped, suddenly becoming quite aware of the nakedness of his thoughts to the others. Shit! He would have to do this almost reflexively later, or when they were too far to help...

Dante holstered the gun. 1.2 million had eluded him again. Walking back to his corner of the room, he grabbed the scarf and stowed the knife under it, then pushed it against the wall for a pillow and curled up, cat-like, to take a nap of sorts.

"She looks like a mental wreck. She's stuttering with actual words. Hell's Bells, what in the world happened?" Michael thought. As Feenai glanced downwards, the gunman climbed back up from the sewers, smelling like a fresh corpse. Noting that he was there, he turned back to the girl and crouched to look into her eyes. Although he expected shock, mental trauma from experiencing some horrifying sight, he saw pain, as if she lost all confidence in herself.
"This'll be a risk but..." Michael extended his walls, including Feenai so that she would be able to read his thoughts. Immediately, he began to speak to her using those thoughts.
"Why are you so sad?" he asked and at the same time he also said, "You seem lost, alone," and even at the same time as those two, he asked, "Will you be my friend?"
Ignoring everything else around him, he let his thoughts surround the girl attempting to coerce her, no convince her, into opening her thoughts to him, and praying that she wouldn't try to see his past, to see the monster that he has become.

Feenai felt pressure in her head, and despite not wanting to hear anyone's thoughts, Michael's pushed past her tired defenses anyways. The words came to her, and flooded her with relief. He doesn't hate me...

Still not wishing to let people in, however, she held the shields and answered verbally. "I...I do want to be your friend. Thank you..." Feenai's voice was weak but it was more from physical weakness than emotional now. Looking over at Jeanne, Feenai saw that she had fallen asleep reading her book. "I think I'll go to sleep right here too. And thank you again..." Feenai reached out and squeezed Michael's hand briefly, then laid down next to Jeanne and closed her eyes.

If only to disprove Ruebella, I will NOT be useless...

As the others one by one succumb to sleep, Shealtiel sits in contemplation, legs folded, his back against the crate now. Despite his words to Dante earlier, he isn't even remotely certain what will happen when he dies. He has never known another servant of Sheol, nor encountered the spirit of one in any of his conjurings. It is possible that the Rephaim are born from souls such as his, but he has nothing to prove that disconcerting fact.

As the night wears on, he maintains his vigil, keeping his spiritual senses sharp, lest they be caught unawares. It is not unusual for him to go without sleep; as he has grown older and more thoroughly mastered his power, his body has become less and less of a hindrance to him in its daily functions and needs; he can go for weeks without sleep, if he needs to. That meal from Michael will hold him over for a month. Even his mind feels dislocated -- not particularly resistant to psychic assaults so much as harder to reach, as though disconnected from the electric network of his brain. He thinks of the Emim, divorced wholly from their bodies, and wonders if he is not becoming something similar.

But, no. He feels the pain and strain of his magicks all too much. He knows in his bones that he is weak, old, failing. It is the price of the vast lore of experience he has achieved. If he were a young man again, with this knowledge and mastery, he could rival a Saint. As it stands, he must measure himself, check every outstretch of power, or risk breaking himself beyond the point of recovery.

Eventually, the others begin to rouse, still under the lurid light of the moon, but that is no surprise. Morning's light is bloody in this world of theirs.

Michael lifted his thought from her, returning his mental defenses to normal. "So she doesn't want to tell me after all." But then a final thought slipt into his mind before he reset his psychic block. If only to disprove Ruebella, I will NOT be useless.... Michael's eyes widened as he cursed himself again and again for hearing her thoughts, but at least he knew what was wrong now.
"Ruebella. It's doesn't sound like the blind assassin, so it's either the theurgic or Miss Red. Madam Red? Little Red, like from the fairy tales? No, what about... Ruebella... makes sense." Michael looked at the theurgist next Feenai. "She doesn't look very mad or uncomfortable next to her, so it must be her, then. Where have I heard that name before... ah, it doesn't matter, that's her name...though it could use some polishing. I'll call her Bella from now on."
Michael looked at the group sitting around the library. The blind man returned from whatever he was doing before and is now sleeping in the corner, and everyone else seemed to be doing their own thing, so he climbed up to the roof top, after nodding to Altiel, and meditated, drawing upon his brighter memories to keep him sane for the night with his new friends and to battle the presence of Jez'ebel that was still lingering in his mind....
....When morning came, he stood up, lowering instead of rising, strangely enough, and returned to the comfort and security that can only be found indoors, and began to eat his breakfast out of his rations.

Lev awoke with a start, snarling as he aimed his revolver around before he was in the presence of what passed for friends. He murmured an apology to everyone, trying to look a bit remorseful for his sudden behavior. In the crimson light, his eyes caught his hand again. Stakeless. Removed from his palm entirely. It was an odd feeling, being free now.

Free...

He turned his head quickly, thinking he had heard something. A whisper, of sorts. After a moment he brushed it off as nothing, returning to his musings. He worked his fingers back and forth, finding it odd how they had healed, how the muscle had repaired itself. Flesh was a fascinating thing. It could regrow from almost any debilitating setback. The flesh he was thinking of was so attractive...

Hearing the whisper again, Lev shook his head. He knew he had heard something. Words had formed, he had heard suggestions, whispers, quiet musings. Not something for him to dwell on.

He crawled over to Rue's sleeping form, nudging her in the shoulder with the barrel of his revolver.

"Wake up. It day second. We move today."

With a growl, Lev leaned over Rue's prone form. He whispered very closely to her ear, doing his best not to be overheard.

"We need talk. I have...concern. About a thing. And we best get move on while can."

Muffling a snort, Dante blinked his eyes up and stayed where he was, instinctively. His job required that he not make any indication that he was awake, and it was well-integrated into the bounty hunter's muscles. Reflexively, soundlessly, he slipped a hand under his scarf and felt for the knife, just in case someone would try to attack him.

Feenai awoke suddenly, the dream she was having already slipping away into nothingness. Shaking her head to clear it, she tried to ignore the pains in her stomach from the succor capsule she had consumed the previous day. She was still slightly hungry, but did not feel like having another succor capsule yet. She pulled out the bag anyways, and placed five of them on the floor in front of her. Drawing on the secretive practice she had made while living with her parents, she lifted them into the air telekinetically, one at a time. Once she had them all in the air, she tried to move them in different ways, spinning one horizontally, and one vertically. She made the other three bounce and jiggle along at different rates, testing her control. It's been a long time since I've done this, but it appears that I still have a great deal of control.

Feenai heard Jeanne stir beside her, and stopped her mental exercise. She opened the bag and mentally marched the five capsules back into it, before sealing the bag and returning it to her pocket.

Lev was quiet for a moment, trying to find a way to phrase what he wanted to say. He finally blurted out what he was thinking, not being able to find a way around his less-than-eloquent speech.

"Yesterday I go down sewer again. To get gun. I hear voice. Not really voice. Whisper. Not understand. But I feel it. Gun is buried under corpses. Of Dybbuk. I...I believe I ate them. Maybe. There is part I do not remember. But I remember chewing on bone. I do not know why. Is that a normal thing? Do other peoples eat things like that?"

He ended his speech with genuine concern on his face, not really clear what people in this part of the world ate. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there had been more to it than just an overly-distracting appetite.

Jeanne yawned quietly, rubbing her eyes. 'When did I fall asleep?' she asked herself, looking around and then at the book on her lap. Then she remembered; it had been gradual, and she had been reading this fantastic book. The theurge had never had access to something like this before and she had plans to try out some of the techniques.

She noticed Fee was also awake, and the others seemed to be stirring as well. "Morning," she said quietly to the girl next to her, popping a succor capsule as she did so.

Hearing the psychic's complaint, Shealtiel rouses from his meditative reverie, a slight smiling creasing his gaunt cheeks. Cleanliness is one advantage of the inhuman forces he allows to ravage his body; any foreign organisms die at first contact. The black waters of Sheol wipe clean his body every time he invokes them -- which is almost constantly. He is kept hale even as he wounds himself with necromantic power.

Now that most of the others have awoken, Shealtiel stands and says to them, "I suggest we return to Corinth now while the night holds. The city will be reeling from the assault and the death of the Saint. We should be able to acquire any supplies we might require, with little resistance, hopefully." Looking around, he adds, "Though I'm sure you have a better idea, my dear," to the red-haired woman who seems to find some sort of facile pleasure in keeping her name a secret -- and yes, he is aware that his thoughts are open to her. Draw from that what you will, daughter of Babylon.

"Good morning John," Feenai answered carefully. She had to make sure her voice didn't crack or waver. Just because she had a breakdown doesn't mean everyone had to know about, least of all Jeanne. "So, that's a good book? And I think the old man is suggesting we go back to town for supplies, before we head off. I'm not sure of the exact reasons, but they all appear to be going together. I thought I would, umm, stay with you. If you don't mind that," she added quickly, blushing faintly.

Dante tensed, his hand tightening around the handle of his switchblade. His usually tan complexion had turned a sickly gray, not that anyone would notice in this dim light. He had fully intended on his his breathing even, to not make it apparent that he was awake, but his breath now came in muffled ragged gasps buried into his scarf as he tried stem the flow of tears that were threatening to flood out. He drew a long breath in, sat up, and clenched his left fist onto the bookshelf.

"...I can hear you, lion," he growled, eyes shadowed over. He was, for the first time in a while, being consumed by a black murderous rage that left his sanity partially in place. "Why can't you...leave...the dead...in peace?!" he managed to spit out in between breaths.

Jeanne thought for a moment, then nodded. "Not so much good as interesting." Although the writing was merely passable, it was obvious how much expertise and time was behind the writing.

Hearing the first few of Fee's next words, she nodded, though inwardly she was a little annoyed that because she was most likely to survive while around them, she couldn't bring herself to leave them. This especially applied to Fee; though arguably the weakest member, she reminded Jeanne very strongly of her older brother. So at her next words, she was pleasantly surprised.

"Of course I don't mind," she said with a smile.

Lion. If only blind man could see how true he was! True! Lion of Tsavo!

Lev twitched, the name Dante spat evoking the whisperings once again. He turned his head slowly, small black pupils staring down the blind man's flesh. He spoke in a clear voice again, not at all like his usual halting speech.

"So the truth is out. Desperate times, blind one. Your mind is still sharp. You know what I am, to a degree. You know some of the things I have done."

Lev pulled the trigger on his revolver as it hung by his side, letting the soft click of the first empty chamber echo as the hammer hit air. He pulled the hammer back, cycling to a live round. Somewhere, a whispering started again.

Incite! Prod! Violence begets violence. Flesh, wasted flesh. Better repurposed. Processed. Digested so the strong may survive!

"Perhaps I have fed on the flesh of those slain. Maybe I reveled in the rot, consuming the putrid carcasses of the damned. Maybe Gabriel is in a smaller piece than you left him."

He grinned at Dante, knowing the man would never be able to appreciate his smile, blind or not.

Climbing slowly, calmly to his feet -- noting fully the incoming disaster, Shealtiel opens himself to the power of Sheol. Fully rested, the power surges through him. Even as both men descend within themselves, awakening to bestial fury, he conjures the essence of the realm of the dead and projects it in a focused current toward Dante.

Corpses, withered to bone yet profoundly alive; buried to their chests, mouths stuffed with tar. Dead and undying, perfectly cognizant.

The sensation seeps deep into the man, past his thinking brain, into the primal depths of his self, bypassing choice, eliminating will, striking to the very soul.

Winds over plains, a low moan. But the plains are naught but crushed bones, the compacted remains of a thousand legions of dead... and the wind is only the breath of tortured souls, the sigh of lost hope, of lamentations abandoned for silent despair.

Only a theurge or another Servant could resist the crippling despair this power will conjure. Despite being directed at Dante the others will feel its effects as well, though not to any debilitating degree.

Evenly, quietly, Shealtiel addresses the woman from Babylon. "Muzzle your dog, dear. Now." His tone betrays the complete lack of concern he has for himself in this situation, not even the slightest whisper of fear. Let her read that, if she thinks to defy him.

The quiet click-clack of the gun resounded in Dante's ears, like a guillotine being set into place. How had he not been prepared for this...?! Soft...too soft. You've grown too soft, assassin! a voice inside him laughed. You're protecting your brother, true, true...but what has he brought to you? Only the end of your life!

The essence of fear sank deep into him, piercing through his mind. He had been sane before, yes, but sanity ran from the deepening pool of black despair that was emanating from the purple aura. It also scored a direct hit on the assassin's mind. He doubled over from the mental assault.

The shame that had threatened to overflow from Dante's eyes spilled out, and Dante drew his left hand across his face. Stop...stop laughing! He was sick and tired of being constantly reminded that he should've been the one to die, he was the weaker one, he was blind. But instead a cruel twist of fate had poisoned his brother, not him. You wanted to die at the time, right? Well, here's what you wanted~ A barrel point right at you, you murdering, sinning bastard!

And he couldn't deny it. How many people had he killed for the money? And what was the money for? Women, drink, gambling~ You know it, don't you. You deserve to die!

In his mind's eye, he saw the executioner pull the rope; he saw the blade descending, slowly, ever so slowly...And he was helpless at the bottom, tied, cornered, shunned...

The voice of his will screamed at him. How could he die here? He had survived the riots, the fires, the ghetto, the death of his parents, then of his brother...How could he die here, of all places? He was a survivor. He was named for being a survivor, ever since he had narrowly escaped death at birth. He was Dante.

His sanity returned, and in self-defense, he grabbed his guns from three feet away and held them up, both pointed at the gunman, ready to shoot at the slightest movement.

Michael listened silently as he continued to eat his breakfast: artificial "egg-sandwich" that doesn't really have eggs in it and powder made orange juice. "It's good shit, very filling."
He didn't even bother offering some to the psychic and her friend when she took the succor capsule. "I guess they'd rather have twisted stomachs."
He patiently listened to the other around him wake up, noting down the blind man's sentimentality towards the now cannibalistic gunman's latest meal. Hearing the first click of Lev's magnum made Michael pause. Leaving the sandwich in his left hand, he pulled out the laser from his right and pulled it out in front of him, aiming for the man of Tsavo. Dropping the psychic block, he pulled up his shield behind his gun. That was a mistake.
Within a moment that seemed to be less than a second, Michael fell into a state of insanity that has only been evoked before by the courage capsule.
"Back so soon, my child. I knew you wouldn't keep me waiting."
"Dammit, Jez'ebel. Let me live my own life," Michael yelled out to the presence, but before he finished, he could hear the voice of Jez'ebel laughing.
"Hahahaha hah. My child, your life belongs to me. Whether you choose to live it is up to you." Jez'ebel's presence drew so close that Michael could see her face in her mine. "Come back to me," she said before disappearing.
Michael's eyes returned to normal view before he realized the horror of this event. His mind was left open, and anyone who wanted to see this event could have read his mind and looked in that moment.

Lev stared between the two men for a few moments, wondering if he really should open fire. These two just might be able to overpower him. But if he succeeded? If he could take down both Dante and Michael? The two were both powerful in their own right, and the two would truly be a feast. They would be worthy of fueling his ambitions to-

He jerked, looking around quickly as some sort of feeling weighed down on him. The dull whispering that had been in his head faded back. What was he doing? He had seen weapons pointed at him. He knew he had been doing something that had severely affected Dante. He looked around the room for answers and found none. Taking a step back towards Rue, he addressed the rest of the room.

"I require to abandon most of you soon. Danger is present."

The moment of hesitation and slightly dimmed aura made Dante raise an eyebrow, lost under the blindfold. "You, artificer...I need no help from the likes of you. And you, old man...you have no idea as to the scale of the headache and pain you've just given me."

The corners of Shealtiel's mouth twitch in what might almost be a smile. "The idea was to cripple you -- and mostly for your own good, I might add. You're strong, we can all tell, but I wouldn't bet on you against this one." He gestures absently with his cane towards Lev. "Apparently, though, your soul is naturally resilient to such manipulations, or... I'm losing my touch, which is of course a possibility."