[Suzerain of Sheol]

The power is enthralling, narcotic, even as he can feel it sliding against his bones, tonguing the backs of his eyes, brushing death-cold fingers along each alveolus of his lungs... sensations never meant for human experience.

And he has nothing to use that power upon. The priest gone, his body broken and blackened, his soul scorched and sent screaming off to whatever afterlife awaits him.

But it begs release. He cannot contain it, now that he has called it forth to this world. The demon? Not a sound idea, who knows what effects an infusion of Sheol's energy could have on the creature? Certainly not Kasdeja, much as Shealtiel might wish to smite the foul Nephilim. Not these hapless souls who call themselves his companions... then...

A scream escapes the old man, like shearing steel, echoing upon itself as though ten-thousand voices speak through him. Ash-black whorls of power gyre around him madly, whirling so fast as to cocoon him, then they break their momentum, shrieking out in every direction like missiles of darkness, each unerringly piercing one of the crucified Dybbuk.

A wave of silence rolls outward across the field, denying any noise as the bodies fall to dust from the crosses and a cyclone of tattered souls rises skyward, dissipating before it breaches the clouds.

Shealtiel falls.