[Suzerain of Sheol]

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.