[Espy]

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.

[CupcakeDolly]

Rue turned to Lev and studied him, then very plainly chose to ignore his first request. "If you know of where to find more munitions, then by all means, we can fetch them for you. Unfortunately, I do not keep weapons hidden in my underwear." The statement had been meant to make a point, of course, and she didn't feel that anyone in the room needed to know that she didn't actually wear underwear.

"But are most Saints not?" She said to the assassin without looking toward him, replying to his loudest thought, simply to let him know that she was keeping watch over him. His negative energy toward her had not gone unnoticed, after all.

[Funkduder]

"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."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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."

[Espy]

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.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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.

[Espy]

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.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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.

[Sage]

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.

[Salone]

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."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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."

[Espy]

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.

[Funkduder]

"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.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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."

[CupcakeDolly]

Laying back and resting an arm over her forehead, Rue closed her eyes and attempted to block out the men's philosophical banter. Though she was struck by hearing more reason and sense than she had ever heard from the lips of men, at her core she just didn't care. One thing that they had said, however, got her thinking.

"Where did you say that you were going again?" she asked the old man and the Artificer. She was hesitant to continue on in a group for any longer, as she was certain that being burdened by them was in part to blame for her physical weariness. However, churches had great knowledge of both fallen kingdoms, even if they only served one.

[Espy]

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.