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

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?"

[affal]

The mortality that was offered to them as Aions as opposed to the perpetuity that they were locked into by their natures and essences as demons was a temptation that Makoto had initially had to make a concerted effort to ignore. No, he had never gone so far as to contemplate shattering his own shard — he might be darkly in love with the idea of his own cessation, but the strength of that was not half of that of his love and obsession with the idea of bringing about J's end instead. He had soldiered through his first few months in Horos with the baseless conviction that he would see the man again, because he had to. It was the only way any of this would make sense. And then he had found him, dragging his bloodied body out of a crevice in the Shrine of the Visionary; everything had started to make sense again, even when all the rules around them shattered and rearranged into new fractal configurations. It didn't matter, it didn't matter. None of it mattered unless he had him in his grasp, and then the only way it mattered was how it formed a staircase up to what Makoto ultimately believed he wanted from him.

But — what is it that he ultimately wants from him? The image of that eventuality seems to shift and change like shadows in deep fog depending on the scenario in which he's considering it. Like now, crushed to the demons' battered body and surrounded by the debris of his tattered wings, he can't help but hold his face in his hands and reject any notion that he might be taken away from him (did that also apply to if he was the one ensuring that?).

He draws in a quick, short breath of air that lodges in his throat as J pulls himself up onto his elbows and leans in to press their lips together. For a long moment his eyes are still flung wide, half-frenzied in their confusion and concern, before half-lidding to lean forward into it, less to deepen the kiss but more to dedicate himself in this moment to it. There's a characteristic fervency to it that seems half-split between his nerves and adrenaline at having survived the fall together (even if J is worse for wear) and the lingering afterglow of his feeling of personal victory against the Sanctifier, both Estinien and the Innocent entity both. These entwine in a way that is perfectly characteristic of Makoto, filling himself both with his twisted affection for J but also his obsession with growing in power to contend with him. His body still occasionally shakes, wracked with shivers that run down his spine in a way he can't control, but it's at least a welcome distraction from the gnawing sensation of impending doom — he tries to wrap him up in the kiss, in the warmth of J's breath on his face, in the plaintive question he poses in answer, but... he knows they are flimsy and paltry defenses in the face of everything around them.

His breath hisses past his teeth in an exhale that's half a laugh and half an admonishment. He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "That can't be the bar, here." Even though he says it with a grain of humor (bizarre to inject in a scenario like this, but J brings out the bizarre and impossible in him), his expression is shot though with real and apparent concern. "Do you think you can move?" You know, once Makoto's no longer on top of him, essentially. Otherwise, he'll have to go find someone who can attend to him...

[1/2]

[tohell]

"Fine, then!" J's expressive features draw into a ridiculous pout, lips pursed tight under the gloom of an aggravated squint and furrowed scowl. His expression one of overblown bitterness, exaggerated to the point it looks like he's swallowed a gallon of lemon juice. "Do I look all right to you?"

"My poor wings, they've been practically stripped bare." Muttered as the shattered portions of J's sparsely feathered wings stir to life, roused along with an impish squirm that feeds off of a wild swing in mood towards full-blown petulance. Animated as they are in their sudden attempts at flailing to punctuate his irritation, their struggle resembles the death-throws of a windshield-battered bird.

Feathers litter the surrounding space, snow-white and reminiscent of a winter wonderland, with the prolific number that blanket the ground. If only the scene wasn't interspersed with the remnants of war, marked by the rubble and shrapnel strewn from nearby buildings or faint traces of blood where the protective shield of J's wings led them to suffer the brunt of the impact.

And then that too dies down. The childish, borderline tantrum is swallowed up with a shift in his touch. Fingers slide away from where they had cradled the back of a head, moving to stroke over the lobe of one shell of an ear, which J then abruptly tugs. The act is teasing, flirtatious, and lined with an air of warning that colors J's honeyed words, like the delicious promise of an arsenic-laced treat. "What a selfish child I've saddled myself with."

[2/2]

[tohell]

An inhuman tolerance for pain siphons away what little of it he notices, numbing the issue till it's forgotten, along with the slow-going knit of ravaged skin and bone that won't mend until sometime after the invading forces pack it up and leave. That way, J isn't hindered by either while drawing himself up into a fully seated position, to regard his ward plastered so close against his front, J might as well be holding onto him. Battered as they are, the tattered mass of his wings can shuffle around to prop him up even further, with their main joints braced like knuckles upon the ground at either side of him. Like this, there's some dignity to be found when he musters up a rebuke that turns Makoto's concerns around to aim them back in his direction. Words murmured quiet and low as J leans in to shore up the wreckage of a body that may recede from its adrenaline high at any moment. Drawn together this way, he can absorb and steady every tremble that shakes through Makoto's system until such a time as they might disburse.

"You only ever consider the consequences after the dust has cleared on some reckless gamble with your life." There is an edge of criticism in his assessment, as J ignores the prompting to move any further than he already has. Either too petty to budge until his point is made, or too immersed in his firm disapproval of Makoto's choice of attack. Such an assault might have easily rendered the Sanctifier's flesh his ward's coffin, had anything at all swung an unexpected wrench into Makoto's plans. Childe's finishing blow could have come much earlier, for one thing, and prevented this conversation or any reunion at all. And that's but one potential risk that was evaded by the skin of his teeth.

"Do you ever stop to think what might happen if you lose such a wager one day, and have to pay the piper with a piece of this?" The mutilated fingers of Makoto's left hand are gently coaxed away from J's cheek. Then ushered up to be relocated behind the nest of his ward's scattered hair, so that they might press against a shard J knows better than to touch on his own. Makoto is cagey enough about his sense of agency, and contact with someone's shard takes the invasion of personal boundaries to another level. In his time here, J has discovered that the owner of a manhandled shard derives little pleasure from the act. The crystal is hardly any sort of erogenous zone, but more reminiscent of a gaping wound that agonizes over the nearness of any potential foreign touch. So, steering them away from the risk of a meltdown as swords fly and dragons fall within earshot of where they currently are, J allows Makoto's fingers to settle where his would otherwise have drawn themselves, to emphasize the severity of his point.