EVENT #6: BY HEAVEN OR HELL

[aionmods]

By Heaven or Hell

THE BURNING

Achamoth, as it turns out, is no stranger to public killings... the burning of two Pleroma, however? That's special. Abel and Himeka's upcoming execution date seems to be regarded by the city's populace as something akin to a holiday, with the upper crust of the social stratum fighting for positions of prominence in the festivities, including the best possible seats. It's been decades since any Pleroma have been brought to heel in Achamoth, and it would only be prudent to place yourself at the forefront of this exciting new trend. There's a sense of pageantry to it: ritualized ceremonies, public sermons, and strange religious 'décor' are all part of the process.

The city is in the throes of these preparations when the two Pleroma captives are finally brought to a central square not far from the Citadel's front gates. Two burning pyres have been set up for them, about ten feet apart. While Abel and Himeka's bodies are chained to their stakes, their shards will be handed off to Silco, Ciel, and Makoto to be brought along separately. The set up of the execution is thus: while their bodies are ravaged by flames, their shards will be bound to an altar in advance of the pyre. Via a kind of alchemical 'fuse', the pyre being lit will trigger a reaction that will gradually result in a explosion on the altar just large enough to destroy the shard in turn. The shards will be bound in position with a series of jewelry-like metal prongs that could be pried away, but would take some time to do carefully.

As the Pleroma make it to the city, the sun will be setting on the 17th of Firaseri, with the execution about to be underway. The pyres will not yet have been lit, but are fully prepared. All Kenoma will be called upon to guard the city, with the warning that the Pleroma are mounting a raid to rescue their imprisoned comrades. For Kenoma both new and old, it's a time to test your mettle. Those that defend Achamoth valiantly can expect to be rewarded.

INNOCENCE ON FIRE

The city of Achamoth looms ahead, a seat of power in Horos in every fashion. It sprawls outwards, claiming the lands around it in a lazy confidence. The spires of the city grow up and up like a mountain, dragging the eye towards the Citadel. The walls that surround it are modest in height as if offering a challenge to any foolish enough to attempt to climb them. Who would? The Regent's eye is ever-present and the guard towers that line it like beaded pearls on a string are reminders that nothing goes in or out of the city without notice. Openings in the towers and the walls threaten the use of projectiles while dark, shimmering crystals float above with the quiet hum of protective magics. Only a fool would breach these borders.

Initially, getting into the city unmolested will be a considerable struggle for the Pleroma. It's military is robust, its fortifications solid, and even without the Kenoma's added resistance, the sheer numbers could be considered insurmountable. Stealth could get them some of the way, but its sentries are watchful, and immigration is strictly controlled. With faith alone driving the Pleroma towards their goal it's fortunate, then, that something is there to answer their call.

Estinien will feel the presence of the Innocence Entity rise up in him again, and this time it is offering him a choice. He may utilize its power to save the ones he loves, while risking both the brutality of the Regent's defenses and the threat to his own soul by channeling such power. It will stand with him against the darkness, it says, if it is truly his will. Emboldened by the power of the Firebrand and his love for his comrades, it is no surprise that he accepts.

Light will flood the sky above Achamoth, an ethereal aura combatting the encroach of the night. From a great miasma of wings and flame, a colossal dragon emerges, coiling above the city skyline. Its luminescence rains down upon the city, and all Achamites exposed to it will be enchanted into finding the idea of committing acts of violence unthinkable, at least so long as no violence is brought against them in turn. With much of Achamoth's defenses having lost the will to fight, only the Kenoma will stand in the Pleroma's way as they penetrate the city, making their way to Abel and Himeka's pyres.

As the Pleroma forge ahead, this draconic being that was once Estinien Wyrmblood will guard from the skies, drawing the attention of the Kenoma towards it and it threatens to bear its might against the Citadel itself. Fortunately for the Kenoma guarding the city, they will know that the Regent has a plan. All they must do is hold off the beast long enough for the Regent to wield their own strength in turn. The battle against this creature will take place here, with combat rules being explain in this OOC post.

As the power of the Innocent washes over Achamoth, those of its Legacy, or those marked by its Promise or Touch, will hear it speak on the winds in a chorus of voices:

Aions of this new dawn... I have honored your choice... fight... if you will... and I will follow...

FIREBRAND RISING

Beneath the moon of Firaseri, however, the Innocent isn't the only force at play. Firebrands of both sects will find themselves spurred on by a rush of Legacy-based power, as if inspired by the tumultuous environment of an anti-authoritarian raid. How precisely this manifests will depend on which side they are fighting for.

❖ PLEROMA
The Firebrands among the Pleroma raiders will feel a sense of vindication and rightness come over them, set as they are to challenge the Regent's rule. Their powers will be amplified during the battle, and those that witness them and are inspired may find their performance boosted. The nature of these enhancements is fairly flexible. For the Firebrands, the use of their regular skills and abilities may be amplified beyond normal boundaries, whereas those following in their wake may find themselves with usual endurance that allows them to push their their usual limits.

❖ KENOMA
The Firebrands of the Kenoma's inspiration is more complicated in nature, given their roll in defending Achamoth's status quo. However, they will find themselves bolstered while facing the pacifying might of the Innocence Entity. Firebrands will experience a natural resistance against any Innocence based attacks that would stop them from fighting, and will be able to use this blessing to rally NPCs that would otherwise be rendered useless to their cause, in defiance of the entity's command for peace. In general, they will see a boost in strength while fighting the raid boss in particular, unable to be deterred from their goals.

In general, all Firebrands will feel untethered by their regular inhibitions, fighting for their desires at all costs. Abilities intended to bind them or control their will, will be largely ineffective, and they will find shields both physical and magical particularly easy to break through.

QUESTIONS

Q: What is the best way for Pleroma to travel to Achamoth?
A: Akua and Estinien are both setting up portals from Godsblood to the outskirts of Achamoth from which to begin mounting the assault. Caitlyn will be providing a back-up in the case either of those portals go down.

Q: Can my character make use of the chaos and try to raid the Citadel?
A: They can try but there will be mod rolls involved for any attempts. NPCs inside the Citadel will not be affected the same way the NPCs outside in main area will be. We do not want it to seem like the Citadel is defenseless otherwise.

Q: If Kenoma cause damage to the city during the raid, how will the Regent feel? Will there be consequences?
A: It should try to be avoided, but the Regent will understand if there is collateral damage in battle as long as they aren't being careless about it.

Q: Is the "no-combat aura" completely incapacitating NPCs?
A: No, it is only stopping them from aggressing the Pleroma. If they or their property are attacked they will defend themselves, and are otherwise operating with a normal level of cognizance. Kenoma Aions can order them out of the area to avoid being hurt if necessary.

BOSS BATTLE:
Q: I would like my character to take part in the battle but want to limit the outcomes in a way that isn't too devastating. Is that possible?
A: We think in that case we would basically only be acknowledging the possibilities between the "The attack either misses, is ineffective, or it triggers a counter attack from the boss." and "The attack hits with moderate effectiveness, as determined by the nature of their action." range. So, you can't get taken out, but you also can only deal moderate hits at best. You could still trigger a counter attack from the boss, but the damage taken from that is more flexible and free form than the 1-5% zone. If you make an attack with this restriction just add a little OOC note to your initial attack tag.

Q: How can a support character engage in the combat?
A: If your character is providing support, you may team up with an attacker to submit a "group attack". This means that your character is putting their effort towards supporting that attacker character that round, and will not be able to submit their own separate action. In exchange, that attack will receive two mod rolls instead of one, and the attack itself will be based on the more favorable of the two rolls. (Sort of like rolling with an advantage in modern D&D.) We will make as many rolls as there there are character combining their effort and select the best of them.

If any character rolls in the 1-5% zone they will still be taken out, however. Click the link above for more information.

Q: Can my character take a hit for another character after a mod roll?
A: We would be willing to accept this in the case of the defender taking the hit for the attacker, which would mean that if it's a 1-5%, they would be taken out in the attacker's stead.

Comments

ROUND FIVE (FINAL)

[aionmods]

As the light of the Sanctifier overwhelms the city, things seem to reach a fever pitch. From a despair laden bow, and arrow of lightning is nocked by Childe, launched at the Innocence and its host as he implores it to join him in death. Little does Childe know, but the as the cracks of entropy spread through the city, the Kenoma is prepared to answer the call of his misery.

The Celestial Voyager, a summoned whale born of water, emerges from Childe's shot, but it is not just that. No, the water has gone dark, like the endless depths of the deep ocean; the Voyager has become corrupted by the Kenoma itself. It more than beckons the Sanctifier towards its demise: it demands it.

The Corrupted Voyager breeches over the Sanctifier, its dark waters threatening to smother the flames of its wings and halo. The dragon cries out in shock and agony, opposing elements clashing. Within it, its souls begin to clash.

The Innocence cries out in grief for the strength of Childe's refusal. Was it truly too late? It had hoped to guide the Pleroma home, but what is left in this world for them, as it is, with sorrows so deep? Had it been wrong to leave its sanctuary... to fight?

The flame within it still burns, however, even as the crash of void-dark water threatens to wash it away. No, the man within roars. He would return with those he loves. He would not surrender, not give in. He will not be the reason for his comrade's tears.

The Sanctifier staggers, its wings flickering, its body struggling to stay aloft. It in this moment of weakness that the blade of the Regent strikes.

Makoto streaks through the air as an arrow of oblivion, piercing through the Sanctifier's chest. Its roars of defiance become choked with blood and bile, its glowing fluids bathing the buildings beneath it. Where the blood touches earth, flowers grow. The Sanctifier presses a glowing claw over the wound, wavering with exhaustion and pain.

It must flee, it realizes. It must lead the Pleroma from the jaws of darkness before it's too later. It bolsters itself, lashing out with everything it has, wild and unyielding.

Meanwhile, those of the Kenoma who have been fighting will hear the Regent speak within their minds:

"The time is now... do not allow the beast to escape."

Across the ground, the darkness swells.

RAID-WIDE EFFECT: ENTROPY'S PLEA
As she shadows close in, and Xishen falls to the ground and goes still, the will of the Regent is heard. As Childe extinguishes the flames of hope beneath the weight of despair, the end is foretold. All Kenoma attacking this round will receive an extra roll, as if they have an invisible supporter.

cw gore ...vore...

[affal]

Makoto clings to the Sanctifier’s back and forces the Regent’s power back through the injury he just opened up.

He hadn’t necessarily been thinking about the possibilities of what might happen. When one’s conviction goes blind, it doesn’t consider alternatives; he had only thought of what he wanted to happen, what he needed to happen, to make all of this worth it. So the interior of his thoughts hadn’t been painted with images of his soul unraveling into the torrent of the Regent’s power, or his body dashing across the armored surface of the creature’s scales. It isn’t until the moment of impact that these thoughts occur to him, and they do so all at once. Fortunately, it doesn’t really matter – there’s the sickening split-second of a deadly force meeting a resilient object, each vying for victory over the other, and then the latter gives out. A wound into the beast opens, and Makoto plunges into it.

Everything is brightly-glowing blood and furious heat for several long seconds before the demon emerges like a bullet through its back, still swathed in viscous darkness despite the dull glow of blood and viscera that coats him in a thin layer. It burns at his skin, but he doesn’t care; he looks down at his hands and sees that he’s still in one piece, he hears the warbling of the beast’s pained roar, and he looks down into the bloody injury that he had caused.

He had done it. And what’s even better is that he feels that he can do it again. The Regent’s power still rages in him like a tempest, and even though he’s not stupid enough to think he’s mastered it, he is foolhardy enough to push his luck. If he still has wick to burn, he would be remiss not to go all in.

His wings beat before he spirals back down to the Sanctifier’s back, right over the wound that he had just moments ago emerged from. Both of his draconic wings spread out wide across the scales there, the talons sinking in to hold him in place as if they were two clawed hands. A wild, frantic smile splits his face in a moment of passionate monstrousness, and he plunges both hands into the gore. Heat, blood – heedless of the energy he coats himself in, he can feel it burning into his hands, starting to strip layers of skin away, down to interstitial tissue beneath. He doesn’t care. Pain and injury are temporary. His left hand closes into a fist, and then it twists, and he wrenches a fistful of flesh free. It glows pale gold, and as he lifts it to his mouth to sink his teeth into it, to chew and swallow and consume regardless of what it might do to him, he begins to call upon the Regent’s essence again. This time, rather than building it around himself, he amasses it within himself, building more and more pressure within his internal, infernal engine. He doesn’t so much taste the flesh as he tastes pain, his own blood possibly just as much present as that of the Sanctifier, but it seems like a paltry distraction, overshadowed by the bone-deep satisfaction it gives.

Oblivion is a gift. He thinks it pointedly, imagining pale feathers and searing, holy light; a specific address. Of course he would think so. It had been one that’d been denied. He punctuates this by once again thrusting his left hand back into the dragon’s flesh. Clawed fingers sink in, gaining as much purchase as they possibly can. One you have been denied far too long. Rest. A wave of bitter fury rises up within him, disappearing into the maelstrom he holds in his chest, raging against his control with every second that passes. It’s more than you deserve.

He takes a deep breath, and he leans down so that his elbows flare out on either side of him; then he shoves forward, shoves back down into the line of injury that he had carved through the Sanctifer’s chest cavity, but this time instead of sending himself into its heart, he instead pours the Regent’s energy within to fill it, to do all that he can to help end this once and for all.

“After all, it’s never been destroyed before.” That’s what the Regent had told him before, when he’d asked about killing this entity, one born of the Innocent’s Legacy – he has to trust in them now, to see what their preparations might have wrought.

And in the last moment, he pictures Estinien – the dragoon, unbowed by the Kenoma in the Throne Room, the image of his broken petrified form almost difficult to picture when beneath the shadow of what a towering threat the man could be in combat. This whole time, it’s felt like they’ve been chasing one another’s tails, perpetuating a cycle of violence that he finds difficult to picture ending so soon.

You won’t let this conquer you, will you?

It hadn’t necessarily been “confidence” that had directed his actions with the Regent’s power. It had been necessity. He is the one who holds it, and so he would enact their will, no matter what might befall him because of it. But now it is done, and whatever structure he had given that power is now buckling from its bolts, rattling loose, and threatening to collapse all together; he feels like a few seconds away from tearing apart into disparate pieces. Exhilarating. Terrifying. Really, he has Estinien to thank galvanizing this transformation of his; would he have taken to combat so readily if he hadn't felt like he had something to prove?

I hope not. There’s no fun in that.

And then he goes empty, spent, ready for the cost of power to claim him.

[aionmods]

The cost of the abyss is MODERATE.

As Makoto attacks, the intensity of the power he is wielding will finally catch up with him. Tremors will go through his shard, as if the darkness sealing its cracks are threatening to burst... but yet, they don't. Instead, an injection of the abyss rolls through his mind and senses, turning on its wielder. The screams of the void echo within him, screams of suffering and futility. It cuts to his core.

He'll find himself uncontrollably shivering, shadows of and images of torment lurking around every corner. A deep sense of ill-ease will follow his ever step, and feelings of safety will escape him no matter where he hides. He will wake at the night from nightmares of horrors both his own and of others.

This effect will last anywhere from a few days to upwards of a week, with varying levels of intensity.

[coerthantorment]

For a moment, it can see the way out.

Everything is falling, spiraling. The bond between Innocent and Firebrand becomes more tenuous as their resolves diverge. The Pleroma screams through its host, increasingly uncontrolled. He wants to live, to escape this, to leave at his comrade's sides. They implore him to safety. The battle is done, they say.

The Sanctifier had born the torch thus far. Now, all it need do is follow then home. For a moment, he can believe.

Then, it begins to fall apart.

Agony wracks its body - a second searing blast of darkest Kenoma rakes through it. The Regent? Makoto? It's impossible to tell. All it knows is that it threatening to tear apart its very insides, the Pleroma within not enough to fully defends it.

The fire in its chest blazes, trying to push back against the dark. Yet, it is not enough to save it from grievous injury. It lashes and roars, striking at everything around it. Yet, nothing can stop what has begun.

[affal]

A mobile proxy for the Regent themself, Makoto sinks as much of their power as he can into the heart of the Sanctifier like a depth charge. Even with his shard rattling as if it were a loose bolt on a rocket, threatening to fail and cause him a catastrophic collapse, here’s a temptation to go further, to go deeper — to drink greedily from power always sought and finally offered, and for a half-second he considers it. But, no. There’s more to be done, and if he presses his luck, he fears he will lose so much of himself that he won’t be able to do what he needs to do in order to make all of these last few years worth it. He pulls his hands free of the wound on the back of the creature, and instead of further cracking open the sieve, he tightens the valve until that unimaginable power slows into a trickle and then halts altogether.

The price he pays for this further brush with the void hits him like an aftershock. There have been times in his life when hope, pride, affection, or anger have pulsed in the pit of his chest with warmth or heat, but in this moment, something icy and debilitating clutches at his heart and his lungs in a vice-like claw. For a moment, he freezes, eyes unfocusing and mouth falling slack; a deep and all-encompassing dread seems to spread from his very core, causing his muscles to wrack with involuntary shivering as he had suffering through Kenoma sickness in the Throne Room. Physically and mentally, he loses distinction. His wings lose their grasp on the scales beneath him, and in the Sanctifier’s throes, he’s thrown free from it, once more hurtling through open air.

He tries to regain himself. As he plummets downward, his body makes half-hearted twitching motions towards doing so, but each attempt seems to run into a wall — it’s as if the memories of his time in the void have become a real, tangible, extant thing which now shares space with his thoughts within his mind. Every time he fumbles toward focus, they ensnare him, threatening to smother him entirely. His eyes squeeze shut, and horror is written on the backs of his eyelids; even as vertigo crawls up into the back of his throat and violently rings the alarm for his self-preservation, all he wants to do is to curl up and pray for it to end.

But it never will, it seems to say, hounding him, snapping at his heels in unrelenting pursuit, Not so long as you still draw breath. Not until the end.

Which, considering the rapidly-approaching ground, might be sooner than he might want.

cw: Impact injuries, blood, self inflicted wounds

[tohell]

As the Kenoma's embattled forces struggle to hold their own against the Sanctifier, J alternates his attention between that looming threat and the swarm of Pleroma infesting every corner of the square. The unfamiliar faces making an appearance who were decidedly absent from last month's group huddle suggest the Pleroma gained their fair share of new recruits. And in numbers enough to turn the tide, even against the Kenoma's home field advantage. It's a precarious balancing act to face overhead assaults, hanging like a sword of Damocles above the heart of Achamoth, and all manner of spell or weaponry thrown directly in his face as the immediate area is awash in a flurry of overlapping skirmishes.

Right up until Makoto's empowered charge sends him speeding towards the behemoth like a bullet, shot straight into the depth of scales and flesh that engulfs him whole. Lost, for a horrifying moment. J realizes Makoto is entombed alive within the viscera of a monster their forces are actively striving to obliterate. That catches his attention in full. Holds it and J's breath, without conscious thought.

And for a moment J's eternal heart, whirling away by means of a curse or blessing that has kept him rooted in the waking world long after his final breath should have been drawn, comes to a shuttering stop. Skipping in cold, clammy dread.

As if intent on forcing it onward, fate delivers Makoto back into the light with the sight of draconian wings as they flare in a victorious display. Makoto makes his reappearance on the other side, bursting from the dragon's back all at once. Reborn from the impact and engulfed in whatever inexplicable source of power he'd found.

It doesn't end there. True to his reckless nature, Makoto refuses himself the satisfaction of a solitary success, and to J's consternation, he returns for a foolhardy secondary assault. With the element of surprise lost, it is pure stubbornness that sees his ward managing to latch on to land a secondary blow.

J doesn't await the chance of a third attempt, even though it never comes. He takes to the air with single-minded determination to extract Makoto from the area, come hell or high water. With the full length of his massive wingspan drawn to propel him skyward, J strives to ascend to where their mythical foe still hovers, despite the gaping hole exacerbated by Makoto's final assault.

There's a harrowing sense that even as he approaches, J is running on borrowed time. One of the other Kenoma may choose to initiate their next attack, or the dragon might reach back and hook Makoto with a claw. Every second Makoto lies out of reach, J feels the encroachment of an end that isn't his. Something more frightening than death has ever been. It's with the expectation that anything at all could skew Makoto's impossible luck that it happens.

The animalistic sound that tears through the air causes him to waver in flight from the sheer magnitude of that ear-blistering sound. But the bellow is just the start. It's the only warning before the dragon thrashes as if possessed; tormented from within and beleaguered by a pain nothing can abate.

And then Makoto falls.

He's too far to touch him. Separated from his ward by such a wide margin, J suffers a taste of something so old and forgotten it tears through him to a near paralytic degree. Helplessness. He's utterly incapable of doing anything but staring on as Makoto simply detaches from the object of his assault to meet the open air. As it pulls him earthward, J's wings all at once tuck together. And with that, gravity drags him into the same earthbound plunge.

A roll forward and J angles himself to face the ground. There, where debris from blown apart buildings and the swarm of dots that are Achamite soldiers or Aions scurrying like black ants grow ever larger. All of it littering the ground which Makoto will, eventually, meet. Violently, without recourse or hope of the pieces being drawn together ever again.

Seconds tick away, both agonizingly slow and much too fast when there aren't nearly enough as two bodies compete in a race towards the bottom, where the earth meets the sky. All he can hope to do is press wings in closer to his frame with the hope of further streamlining himself. It could be the one thing to draw him nearer, when Makoto's limp form and battered wings offer some wind resistance.

Closer and closer they get, until buildings take shape and landmarks are clear as day. The clock nearly runs out before J even has his hands on Makoto; before he has time to clutch him in those last few heart-rattling seconds and throw his arms around Makoto's torso. J's own nails sink into his flesh until the skin breaks and bleeds. Curling into barbs, those fingers grip tight upon the tissue and bone to make a steel trap of his own limbs.

He has seconds to process that Makoto is in his arms before the ground is there, seconds to throw wide the full span of his wings to catch the air that isn't there enough to buoy them upwards. There's no draft, not enough magic here to simply defy a free-fall mid-plummet. There's only the option of buffering a deadly impact by slowing their rapid descent.

Feathers snap free against the swell of pressure suddenly forced up underneath the spread of trembling wings. They litter the air like confetti as downy feathers are shucked away by the handful, while his thicker plumage rips off in every direction. All of it the least of his worries when however they manage to land is bound to culminate in a crash. The only choice in those last few moments is how he plans to greet the eager ground below them.

As if there's any question, when Makoto's soul-bound shard lies at the back of his head. In no uncertain terms will he allow the possibility of it coming to harm. With their current position, how J holds his ward's face against his chest, there's no way he can try to brace for impact by landing on his feet without running the risk of Makoto hitting his head.

A desperate twist sends J rolling as the ground rises up like a gaping maw, wide open and eagerly awaiting their arrival. And as he shifts midair to meet the earth with his back, pale wings suddenly collapse. Acting as a secondary hold, they wrap around the body J cradles against his own, trapping Makoto in a cocoon comprised not just of feathers but flesh and bone, before the sudden impact rattles through him.

[affal]

The aftershocks of his brush with the void make themselves manifest in many different ways; in one, he feels over-sensitive, so much so that when J finally reaches him and clutches his limp body to himself, that body in his arms cringes and nearly cries out at the sudden, sharp, grating sensation of mere physical touch, the sharp fingernails digging into his skin like the points of daggers being driven deep into his flesh. Despite all that’s happened, he almost feels cold to the touch, alternatingly inert dead weight and wracked with powerful spasms of shivers. For a long moment he can’t be sure what’s going on, who had arrived to intercept him, but — information slowly filters past the enormous obfuscation that the abyss has deposited in the center of his mind. Ah, but there’s no body in any universe or any plane of Hell that he would know better than this one, is there? The soft warmth of his flesh, the faint scent of his skin; he doesn’t even need to force open his eyes to know that J is once again here to haul his young ward out of the devouring flames of his own making.

How he feels in the wake of this discovery is lost, swallowed up by another powerful wave of paranoia and fear; he shakes, though he’s finally able to force his limbs to obey his command, or at least enough that he can cling to the front of his master’s clothing and curl in towards him as much as he is physically able to. For all of the depths of his despair, he doesn’t want to die yet, not here and not like this. He wants to feel relief that J had flown to his side, even if the last time it had happened he had more interpreted it as an invisible leash kept around his neck rather than a boon offered in good faith, but he can’t — not with the swimming in his inner ear still informing him that they are destined a terrible reintroduction to the ground, even with J’s wings attempting to catch as much air as they can to slow them down. He tries. He tries to do the same, but the jagged and unrefined movement of his wings isn’t enough to do anything at all, and in the end he’s gathered and bundled up against J’s chest, his hand pressed against the back of his head, sheltered on either side by his wings. In the last moment, out of a wild (and somewhat fortunate) instinct, Makoto withdraws his own back into his back, thinking that if they were going to be no help, he at least didn’t want them tangling up around them and making things worse as they hit the ground.

And they do hit the ground. Perhaps the most gracious twist of fate that is given to them as that J’s endeavoring against gravity and momentum had given them forward motion enough that they do so at an angle, rather than slamming directly into the ground with all of the force of terminal velocity. The initial blow of impact is enough to rattle his teeth (nearly causing him to bite his tongue), jar every bone in his body, and force all of the air out of his lungs. And then it continues — they roll over and over as they skid along the ground until at long last coming to a halt, much the worse for wear but at least alive.

The pain of landing has reignited all of the injuries he’s sustained both from the Sanctifier and his actions shooting himself through its chest, but it has strangely enough had one moderately positive effect: it’s shaken a bit of sense into him, returning more of his own agency to his thoughts and actions. As he opens his eyes and takes stock of himself, he realizes that he’s still in one piece, and he throws his attention to J to try to ascertain that the same could be said of him.

“J…”

His voice sounds far-away, a raspy sort of whisper caught in the back of his throat. Makoto tries to free himself of the tangle of their various limbs enough to get a better look at him, desperation in his darkened eyes, his raw and injured hands searching out various places on his chest, shoulders, and arms until they finally bracket either side of his face. Even having recovered more of himself, he’s still occasionally shaking.

“Are you okay, are you — …”

[tohell]

The eternal rules of Hell have been swept clean away upon J's arrival in this land where death was no longer a pipe dream, but feasible with no greater effort than the destruction of a meager piece of crystal, lodged in like a gemstone upon his forehead. Healing is possible, but there's a limit to even J's expedient rate of recovery. Should someone slip a blade into his beating heart or cleave J's head from his shoulders, he would expire then too. However temporary that oblivion would be depended upon where his shard would be taken. But in the here and now, neither option seems to take shape as air circulates through his lungs, into his blood that still pumps with the thrashing of a heart not yet clued into the fact Makoto did not simply hit the ground like a felled bird; neck broken or shard shattered into glittering pieces.

But much like that muscle thrumming his pulse hard within the arteries of J's neck, something else refuses to let go of the thoughts painted with vivid clarity upon the backs of his eyelids. A horrific scene of Makoto lying irrevocably broken. A reality that had been denied to his ward, no matter his original wish, and held out of reach later not by J's hand but through the immortality Hell bestowed upon its kind that spared them an end by any physical violence.

For the first time in longer than he can recall, the threat of potential loss coalesces in the pit of his stomach. And as his eyes open under the furrow of brows locked together, still frozen as if eternally awaiting an impact that's come and gone, J's gaze finds itself filled with one person. Same as it had when Makoto had been a mortal teen, scrabbling over J's body in a euphoric realization of his deepest desires, begging for reassurances that he wasn't hurting the same creature whose flesh and blood filled his hungry mouth. Part of Makoto, buried in the deepest recesses of his soul, still reaches for J with his well-being in mind.

Whatever notion drives him to action, J props himself upon the support of elbows scraped raw down to the bone. In the process of healing and of not even secondary importance to the dragon above, the battle around them, and the person cradling J's face in his hands. The first of all this is easy enough to identify, when he leans up to simply silence Makoto's stumbling words with a hard press of his mouth.

In the past, these things were given upon request. Parceled out in doses like a medicine to maintain good behavior. Now? Whatever quiet, understood thing that lies between them has taken root to a depth that is beginning to leave cracks in J's facade that parades Makoto's obsession as a one-sided affair. After everything between them, no, perhaps at the start of those lazy days, where the world narrowed down to the four corners of a simple room-

There may have never been a point afterward that J didn't echo Makoto's feelings; unsaid and unknown to any but himself.

He stays that way for a moment, pressed up against Maktoto's mouth and tilted in such a way that paints J's breath across his ward's cheek. It's painful, everything aches and burns in ways it never would have before, but seems so far away as Makoto's form sporadically trembles against his. Without a word, J reaches with his left hand to cup the back of Makoto's head. A point of contact maintained as their lips separate so that he can dredge up an answer with a voice gone momentarily hoarse, "I haven't dissipated, have I?"

[uproared]

A streak of crimson lightning rips through the sky, aimed at the Sanctifier's head.

Mordred wakes from her Ryunosuke-imposed sleep with only one thing on her mind — revenge. Since she can't have it against Ryu, she'll have it against the first thing to piss her off, which the dragon roaring in pain certainly qualifies as. With a roar of her own, she rushes up the face of a nearby tower; the sword in her hands swiftly losing its radiance and warping into something demonic as she nears the top.

"Come, lightning!" Even having been reborn as an Aion, Mordred can feel her body almost tearing itself apart from the strain of unleashing her Noble Phantasm without the backing of a Master... but she channels her pain into the very thing causing it, like some hellish ouroboros of agony. If it cripples her, she doesn't care. If it kills her, she doesn't care. All that matters to her is washing away the utter humiliation of being defeated by someone so pathetic.

"This is my rebellion against my beautiful father!" As she raises her vile, fulgurant sword aloft, her words overflow with hatred, but not for Estinien, or the entity possessing him. No, it's for the one she loves and loathes in equal measure; for the father who would never accept an unwanted child, the king whose rejection destroyed her spirit long before her body fell at Camlann. "Clarent Blood Arthur!"

Her blade descends, and the enormous beam with it, blasting across the empty air between Mordred and her opponent.

[ By popular demand request, Mordred is getting wasted in return, regardless of how well her attack does! 🍿 ]

[aionmods]

Mordred's sword achieves GREAT RESULTS!

[coerthantorment]

The Sanctifier is attacking blindly, similarly heedless of Mordred and what she personally represents. Instead, she is perceived as another blow, another arc of pain and destruction arcing across its neck and jaw, tearing it open and sending pale blood spilling.

Her sword strikes true. Yet, just as soon after, the flailing lower half of the dragon's body crashes into the tower upon which she stands, crushing both her and it beneath it.

Duo Attack

[lachtara]

Emet-Selch uses a large lightning-based attack.

It is better to abstain from setting foot on the ground with a flood of water and black liquid running off the monster and covering the field. Emet-Selch makes good use of his ability to fly and keeps aloft a fair distance away. The creature seems in its death throes - it shouldn't be long now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots ...something. Someone, perhaps? A more focused look reveals the eye-catching red hair of the woman he had briefly met before. She has certainly been involved in this fight. Perhaps she would like to see what they could do together?

For that, he gives her a nod. A silent agreement for cooperation.

Then Emet-Selch begins to concentrate and the feeling of crackling static fills the air. He conjures his mages staff and with one last motion, he brings down a storm of lightning intended for the creature.

( Havoc will tag in next )

[regressor]

Coordinating with Emet-Selch, Havoc opens up her largest sphere of vacuum space yet over as much of Sanctifier as she can cover, focused on the head.

It seems as if the tide has turned... literally. Havoc watches each movement and attack with the hyperfocus that came naturally to Contractors, the quick, survival and profit-based decision making that has kept her alive thus far working to identify potential threats and strategies instead of being inhibited by emotions like sympathy, panic, or guilt.

And as she searches for an opportunity... No, not the chest, it seems that man "M" is still there, digging in... But her eyes find another Kenoma, instead, looking in her direction from the air. Emet-Selch, who she had briefly showed a fraction of what she was capable of in order to allow him to use that information for strategy, should the need arise.

The Regent had ordered defense of the city. Havoc desired to ingratiate herself with the Regent. The need has arisen.

Summoning up the maximum amount of power she was capable of in this place, the largest border in space that shew as able to envision in the eyes now glowing with radiation... Havoc follows the mage's lightning to the Sanctifier and snaps another vacuum sphere into existence, aiming to swell and break vessels, force out blood, and steal the very air needed for a last breath away from the beast that had been designated an enemy.

[aionmods]

Emet-Selch and Havoc's team attack achieves GREAT RESULTS!

[coerthantorment]

The lightning hails across its neck and back, and in its blind struggle, it feels impossible to escape. The Sanctifier is thrashing, raging - and just as it seems it might find focus for a moment, the air is sucked away from its lungs, stilling its breath and sending it further into its spiral. Every direction it turns, further hell is brought down upon it.

Its friends, its comrades, are lost in throes of blood and desperation. It can no longer reach them in its thoughts.

[vapour]

Crazed by the results of what's occurred from his attack, Childe will use his Abyss Form to bring all his strength into impaling the extended lightning lance through the Sanctifier's head.

Childe's eyes are wide open as he stares at the results of what has happened. He doesn't even understand what is happening exactly, but he feels that undeniable presence as the Kenoma surges forth and corrupts the clear waters of Celestial Voyager into the Depths of the Abyss, an awful familiar female voice he thought he would be ready to face should they ever cross paths again rip through his mind. It's amused, cruel, and begrudgingly proud as if he's barely elicited the approval of his master that resides in the eternal Abyss of Teyvat.

Welcome home, Ajax.

The apathy on his face cracks as he hears the pain from his attack, his mind ricocheting somewhere between delight and mortification. Noticing Makoto going right through the chest of the Santicifer shatters it completely, and clutches his head as he lets out an inhuman scream of rage and despair. Did he do this? (Isn't this what he hoped for? Isn't finishing his goal the most important thing?)

That's not the point.

(It is the point, it's the only point that's ever mattered.)

This isn't the same

(This is exactly the same.)

This isn't the Tsaritsa and her will.

(It's not her, but it is her will. Toppling Celestia for Teyvat to be free is no different than ending this world to free it from its rot and despair. And can't he feel that filthy weight more now that ever?)

She was supposed to take him with her—!

(—but no one wants you, Ajax, you don't deserve death — to be with your loved ones, to follow this dying light into the grave so you don't see the world without it.

That's more than you'll ever deserve.)

"—WHY?!" Childe howls, unable to keep his mind from running away with all his sense and sanity. He feels his delusion eat away at his nerves, the call of the abyss beckoning to crawl forth and manifest itself like never before, roaring like an unchained beast in his mind. Water and electricity burst from around him as he crouches to leap forward, his eyes violet with the rage of being denied once again what he asked for.

This is how it is, isn't? It's really too late, there's nothing, no one that hears his cries but the darkness. A monster, do they want a monster? Childe's form disappears from the rooftop in a flash of movement to send himself shooting for the Sanctifier, only to appear fully clad in the armor of his Abyss Form as he brings up his lance over his head, which has extended to fit the increased size he's taken on in his Abyss Form. With the mask, no one will see what his face looks like, and Childe himself will never have to think about what his expression has turned into, either.

With a yell, he plunges this lance with all his might to go straight into the Sanctifier's head. Straight into the light that offered him the last time he's ever going to feel the warmth of his family again.

Sorry. Sorry I wasn't good enough to come along with you. I'm so sorry.

It's really all gone. This is a bitter win. This... it doesn't taste bitter, though: all he tastes on his lips is salt.

Whether or not his first thoughts are heard in any manner are debatable, but the next is absolutely able to be heard against his will. A faint voice that sounds like a child of no more than ten years old, tiny and alone and sobbing projects from his mind in his moment of mental weakness:

...No, don't go. Please don't leave me all alone in the dark... not again.

[aionmods]

Childe's Abyss Form achieves (another) EXCEPTIONAL RESULT!

On account of Childe's close brush with the Kenoma, he has been granted the following trait:

ABYSSAL HUNGER:
Having tasted Childe's despair, the Kenoma now hungers for more. When returning from his Abyss Form, Childe will find that he has retained physical changes reminiscent of the void, though they may be big or small. These changes may fade over time, but will be regained, if not worsened, whenever this trait is activated.

When Childe succumbs to particularly poignant moments of despair, the hunger of the abyss will be awakened. Please contact the mods when you come upon moments that feel fitting, and will be supply you with what strange sensations of effects Childe might experience as a result. These effects will be context sensitive. The trait may also be called out during certain events.

CHRONOLOGICALLY THE LAST BLOW

[coerthantorment]

Deep within the Sanctifier's dying form, Estinien has become a prisoner of his own flesh, his own mind. There is no escape. Though a short time before there had been hope of reuniting with his loved ones, of escaping this place... now there is only pain. He can't see or hear them anymore, too lost in this crumbling form.

The Innocence is with him, even so. He can feel its soothing presence there, its worries finally dying along with everything else. It embraces him as they fall together, asking for his forgiveness. No matter what it tried, it had failed to save him from the brutality of this world.

He refuses. He's not ready to be mourned. He's not ready for the fight to end. Himeka, Abel, Hayame... he'd told them... he'd told them he would stay by their side.

Is in that state of desperate horror that Childe comes upon him, one last time. Though the Sanctifier's wounded eyes could barely recognize him, it can still see his soul. Yes, this is the one that had beckoned them towards a mutual death. The one that had said it was too late. The Innocence speaks softly.

My children... please... be at peace...

The lance pierces the Sanctifier's skull, driven down through the base of its jaw.

[killandrecycle]

More interested in bringing suffering then immediate death, Majorita fills the skies with magical orbs that aim for already inflicted wounds.

Many present on the battlefield fight for personal reasons. Many of them were suffering anguish both mental and physical. Compared to the suffering that surrounded her, what afflicted Majorita was pathetically weak, scarcely worth bringing up in the same context as those she shared the battlefield with.

What drove her fury towards the creature was as tiny a thing as she herself was. Its power, the calming affect it had over her mind during her first trip to Venera, it had reminded her of something. It reminded her that there had been a time in her life where she had actually been happy. It had reminded her she was once a girl that didn't need to hurt others to feel alive, that at one point she had value for something other then her ability to destroy. It had reminded her that she had once known unconditional love from a family that cared about her. But worst of all, it had reminded her that all of that was in the past. She would never have a life like that again. Now all she had was the Kenoma, and the Regent's orders. And she would follow them without hesitation, no matter how vile they may be. She would kill, and kill, and kill, all for the day she didn't have to do so anymore.

A wild grin comes to her face as the beasts blood begins to rain from the skies. The beast was finally dying. The winged embodiment of all she hated was getting what it deserved, and she couldn't be any more delighted. She points the tip of one finger at one of the flowers that has the audacity to sprout from it's blood, blasting it away with a speck of magical power. There were far too many to wipe out, but it still made her feel good.

Besides, she had been given an order. "Don't even bother trying to get away, you insufferable beast. I, Majorita, shall make you suffer for your crimes!" Her hands raise to the skies, an arcane circle so large that it obscures her form appearing over her head. Yet for all of her confidence, there seems to be no effect.

That quickly changes. The first few probably go unnoticed in the chaos of battle. But before long, it becomes impossible to ignore what is happening. One after another, small orbs of magic the size of the demonic girl's fist appear in the sky. Like the stars her magic was named after, orb after orb flashes into existence. After a few moments, the skies over the battle are so littered with them that there are enough to cast their own light even when having to compete with the flames of the Sanctifier's wings. In a different context, it might be possible to consider it pretty. But there was nothing pretty about the wicked look on the girl's face as the arcane circle fades.

"Now, suffer for all you've done. Die and know the world is better off without you!" The barrage begins slowly, a few of the small orbs seeking out vulnerable points, but before long its an explosive rain. The girl does seem to have enough wits about her to avoid aiming too closely for a fellow Kenoma, but other then that she seems lost in the joys of inflicting pain. Her eyes widen, not wanting to miss even a single impact. She was engaging in her one true joy, after all. She'd enjoy herself to the fullest until the rebellious beast finally perished.

[aionmods]

Majorita's barrage achieves GREAT RESULTS

[coerthantorment]

The shower of explosive stars devastates the Sanctifier's already reeling body, each tender wound causing another jolt of pain. It's blinded, grasping for purchase, but its wings are faltering and there's nowhere else it can go. In the moment, all it can do is suffer.

group; w/ liem

[expiera]

Using her Scripture's segmented sword form, Ciel runs up the Sanctifier's neck and attempts cleaving a complete circle around its nape. The goal is to tear away its protective scales and expose its flesh, so that Liem may fire an arrow into it.

This is it, and what timing. No sooner had she finished contacting Paul over arrangements to take Xishen's shard to safety that direct order from the Regent themselves comes. The devastation caused by Tartaglia and M are impossible to miss, and it's under the cover of that chaos that Xishen's shard is entrusted from one Martyr to another, carefully wrapped in dark cloth torn from the hem of Ciel's own robes.

With one duty complete, the other resumes. She takes a brief moment to survey the scene, and catches Liem preparing the next shot for his bow through her sweep. It's immediately obvious there's something different about the new arrow he's nocking; their eyes briefly meet, and with that, her own course of action is decided.

Switching the Seventh Holy Scripture to its segmented sword form, she launches herself off once more towards the Sanctifier's towering body. Running along its back towards its neck this time, a more slender section beneath its head to be precise, she forcefully hacks the blade into the dragon's nape. And that's the start: once the blade finds purchase, it's dragged sideways before seemingly detaching piece by piece. Each jagged part of the blade forms its own section, strung together to normally look like a large and particularly edgy cleaver. They can also separate to functionally serve as a sword whip, and Ciel plans to make use of both forms for this assault. Through her own reinforced strength paired with the pull of gravity, she rounds the Sanctifier's neck and attempts carving a full circle though its scales and flesh, as if drawing a macabre necklace around its nape. (The irony doesn't occur to her in the moment, that she may be returning the favor of what the Elezen had done to her during their first encounter.) It's not feasible to make the cut too deep, she's well aware, but that's not necessary as long as enough of its natural defenses are breached. As long as it bleeds, as long as there's nothing in the way anymore for a particularly potent bolt of arrow to find its exposed mark.

((Liem is tagging in next.))

[sterngaze]

Activating dragonbane magic to infuse his bow’s projectiles, Liem shoots a volley into the wound Ciel leaves on the Sanctifier’s throat.

The power of this foe is beyond anything Liem has attempted to face before. Even working in concert with others, benefiting from other attacks, vantage points, and magic, he’s struggled to land a decisive strike against the goliath’s armoured body. And now that the Sanctifier is in full retreat, he has no choice but to use every tool in his arsenal against it before it can escape. He only has a limited well of the magic he’s used to hunt everything from ghouls to drakes to nightmare creatures from the lower planes, but he can’t delay any longer in drawing on it. If he only has one assault against the beast left in him, he has to make it count.

Perching atop the clearest vantage he can find, Liem draws a trio of arrows from the quiver at his hip as magic begins to thrum through the polished curve of his bow. Mechanical golden designs wrap it atop a sheath of shadow that clings to the weapon like a tenebrous skin, infusing the bow with magic that is the very bane of whatever creature he has in his sights. In this case, the bane of dragons. When Ciel meets his eyes from atop her own perch, he gives a curt nod her way—and, as she switches her weapon into its bladed form, he alters the shape of his tactics to accommodate hers.

Whenever someone attacks a foe, be it with blade, with bow, or with fang and claw, they make openings that the practised can exploit. As Ciel sinks the teeth of her sword into the Sanctifier’s scales, Liem nocks an arrow and watches it flare to life with the same magic infusing his bow. Then he draws back and looses—once, twice, thrice, shooting a trio of magic arrows straight for the wake she leaves behind.

[aionmods]

Ciel and Liem achieve a GREAT RESULT that was never anything else!

[coerthantorment]

Ciel's blade carves away scales and flesh - and though imperfect, it is more than enough to allow a penetrating attack from without. While its scales had been enough to deflect many an arrow, with then shorn there is nothing stopping each through from streaking deep into the flesh of the Sanctifier's neck.

Its throat constricts, the arrows trapped in its windpipe. Its roar is truncated and broken, the sound of its torn cry almost pitiful in the way its cracks and bleeds.