The warrior-mage’s knuckles gleamed in the sudden flash of lightning across the sky. The sheen of rain pounded down over skin and mud, highlighting the deep luster of blood. His heart pounded in his ears as the man came at him, again and again, with his mind trying to reconcile the unmitigated hatred present on his opponent’s face with the simple gold cross that hung below the face of hatred. His leather jacket, his dog-tags, and his guns lay to one side; bearing his shoulders to the chill Florida rain that soaked his wifebeater and forced it to cling to his body as if a second skin.

Am I not just man, destiny defined?

Hands wound around his neck, muscles straining their cord against the being that wanted nothing more than to kill any and every mage it could get its hands on; the tee-shirt tore as the two men grappled and fought on the muddied grass. Some, more rational, part of Solomon’s mind noted that they were almost evenly matched in physical strength, but it was clear that Francis wanted him dead far more than Solomon wanted the priest.

Never to be ruled nor held to heel.
Not heaven or hell just the land between.

His right eye began to swell shut as the snarling face saw an opening and began smashing his fist into the right side of the bushi’s face. Taking as deep a breath as the man’s iron grip would allow, the warrior-mage mustered as much force as he could manage and slammed the palm of his hand into the false priest’s nose. His foe’s eyes widened for a moment as the grip on Solomon’s throat slackened, before going limp as the same eyes rolled backwards into the priest’s head.

Am I not man, does my heart not bleed?

***************

When the gun had been delivered to Reliquary with the note, written in Lo Pan’s Japanese hand, Solomon had known it was going to be a long night. As the various mages of the city began swarming over it, looking for the being that they had been trying to find for months, he’d made himself ready – loading the shotgun that was his ritual tool. It had been a habit of his, of late, to keep it unloaded. He carried enough other guns, and the act of loading the gun was a preparation for events to come, and he knew it was well as everyone else.

The motorcycle hummed underneath him as he followed Noel through the city, trying to track down the arms merchant who’d been selling the guns to Father Francis’ followers. It was a form of moving meditation for him, some parts of his mind still thinking about Sally and their conversations about hate being an all consuming force and others focused on reviewing the information known about Francis. They’d been finding his followers everyone, normal folks with guns, but tracking him had proved the difficulty – he, as far as they could tell, hadn’t existed to the supernal. Any attempt to track him met with failure, or one of seven different descriptions.

Solomon frowned around his cigar, remembering the conversations with the one they’d captured. He’d been completely unable to accept any chance that he might’ve been wrong, damning all the mages he’d ever met as infernal demons sent to tempt him. Cool eyes glanced skywards briefly, as the warrior uttered a silent prayer that the man he’d met before would not be there. He recalled, all too well, the promise he’d made to that man, saying that he’d set him free once… but if the follower of Francis kept coming after him, he’d put him down.

It was not something he was looking forwards to having to do.

Like the path to heaven or the road to hell
our choice is our own consequences bind.

***************

Solomon crossed his arms as he looked over the table at Gypsy. He knew it would come to this, knowing the look in Francis’ eyes as they’d captured him, thankfully free of any violence or collateral damage. He knew, even if his wife didn’t want to admit, that there was no redeeming Francis, that the man’s hate had turned him into nothing more than a vessel for that hate.

He looked at the needle that appeared in Walkabout’s hand, and then back to Gypsy.

“This ain’t his job…” he said, as he turned to Francis, “so I can offer ya either the dignified needle way out through him, or to go out fighting.”

He knew what the answer would be even before the false priest said it, and even more so before the look on Gypsy’s face fell.

“I think I’d like to go out trying to kill one of you… but it has to be a fair fight. None of your devil tricks.”

The bible slammed down onto the table with the purple Rosary as his Heirarch and wife glared at him. “I’m a better fighter than you.”

Something in the back of his mind locked away, knowing the duty to be done even before it was so. “And I’m the Sentinel. It’s… my responsibility.”

Before she could express her hatred of that thought, Noel interjected quietly. “He is, Gypsy. You can no more break your own Lex than he would.”

Gypsy frowned, before giving him a brief hug. “Please… just be careful.”

***************

He laid the body back down onto the ground, closing his eyes as Solomon moved his fingertips over the eyelids of the false priest. He knew that it would matter little, but he uttered a silent prayer amid the broken ribs and swollen shut eye; praying that the soul of the man who had let himself be consumed by his hatred would finally know peace.

So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?

For not the first time, Solomon thought about Sally and the iron resolve of his soul hardened. He knew, in that moment, that he had to find a way to save her, from herself, if needs be. Walkabout stepped forwards, gesturing for Solomon to head inside and he’d take care of the rest.

Why am I lone and why do I feel that
I carry a sword through a battlefield?

Limping and bruised, the warrior-mage walked back in, slowing leaning his good side against Gypsy as she wrapped an arm gingerly around him.

“Are you ok?” she asked, softly.

A long moment’s pause greeting her, before he finally let himself relax against her. “No.”

“I’ve never been happier to hear that,” she responded, voice choking.

So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?

Gatewardens: The Nameless

Approval Number: USA-SE-LA-0704-72049

"Do you the devil's work?" - Michael Moorecock, "Von Bek"

The loud rapport of a gunshot; a scream, and then it is over. A loved one, a friend, a colleague, is gone and the only remaining person that stands to remember them has a choice to make. Do they, as an Awakened being, let go of the past, cope, grieve, and move forwards… or do they become willing participants of their trauma?

The Wardens are those who have embraced the pain and anger inside them, focusing it and channeling their fury into an almost physical manifestation of their desire for justice and vengeance. Often these mages will take one of two main styles to their actions, those who strive to enact proper justice, and those who let their anger overcome them and enact a bloody quest for vengeance. Often these mages will begin taking their steps along this path long before they ever even become part of this legacy, by making some form of pact or agreement with a spirit of Justice or Vengeance, often creating from the very trauma that spawns the Magi onwards for aid in their desired cause. The exact nature of those agreements is very personal, and kept only between the mage and their guardian spirit.

It is afterwards, after the pact is done, and the quest begun that a mage of that nature will be brought to the attention of the other Gatewardens, usually by means of the Court of Justice or Court of Vengeance. One of the Wardens will then head to the newly vowed agent of their court to instruct them in how to survive and yet walk the road between the worlds, and between using their rage, and being consumed by it.

For those who are able to walk between, and have completed the vow or oath that originally placed them upon this path, they find that they now have been granted additional powers in order to enact justice and vengeance upon the world, but also to stand a chance of preventing  such from happening to any others. Most Wardens swear personal and private oaths that they will do whatever is within their power to avoid anyone else setting even the first of steps upon this road, but also to protect against the spiritual involvement in those actions.

To that end, the Wardens feel it is their sworn duty, as champions of the Mighty, to stand against the abyss and their forces; sending their direct forces back into the screaming void and their minions into their demise or containment. Though some regard them as tainted by the very abyss they fight, it is simply their willingness to broach the darker aspects of their psyche and spiritual powers to fight that darkness. Like Samael, the fallen angel sent to torment the souls in
hell, the Wardens are those who stare into the darkness of the abyss in order to prevent it's blackness from touching the world.


Requirements: Each of the Gatewardens have two dedicated tools, which instantly become an intimate arcane connection to them; the first is their chosen weapon, and the second is their vehicle or mount. Utterly unsubtle, when acting in any form of vengeance, anger, or justice capacity, they take on the physical appearance of their patron spirit; skin melts away to leave a skeletal and flaming apparition; this change extends to both their dedicated weapon and vehicle. It is entirely contingent upon the paradigm of the mage in question if these fires are the holy fires of judgment, or pure blazing hellfire, and is meant for cosmetic purpose and theme only.

Parent Path: Obrimos

Nickname: Nameless, Wardens, or (informally) Riders

Appearance: Most Wardens favor leather, out of the sheer necessity or habit of wearing riding leathers for their travel. Each will have a chosen vehicle that they take particular care of, which will often be in better condition than they are.

Background: Many of the Riders come from traumatic backgrounds, something that scarred them specifically to the cause of Vengeance or Justice. In many cases, these are young mages in their first throes of involvement in the Supernal world. Often getting far in over their head, these Mages almost universally have made some pact or agreement with a Justice or Vengeance spirit, often upon an oath or vow regarding their specific background trauma. Occasionally, a Rider will have accomplished his or her vow in their past, and now acts as a roaming enforcement of spiritual justice and judgment.

Organization: As most of these mages are loners by nature, the Legacy, as a whole, has very little organization. Someone mentoring another into the Path will ride with their apprentice for a brief period, to teach them the basics, and then they are on their own to fully discover the extent of their powers. As the Riders often have already made a pact with some Justice or Vengeance spirit, they already have a guide on their lifelong quest – if such is not the case, often the experienced Rider will administer or oversee the formation of such a bond.

Suggested Oblations: Vehicle riding/driving/repair, high speed driving/riding, vows of Vengeance or Justice, anger/rage, combat, actions that strain the edge of physical endurance

Concepts: Motorcycle vigilante, spiritual bondsman, supernal mechanic, Rider between the worlds, outcast loner

First Attainment: "Warden's Key"

Requirements: Gnosis 3, Spirit 2 (primary), Forces 1, Weaponry 2, Stunt Driver Merit

Roll: Presence + Intimidation + Spirit vs. Resistance

Effect: Upon reaching the first attainment, the Warden learns how to contain and restrain the spirits of the abyss and those that cross over the border into the physical world. With a successful activation, the Nameless may capture a free roaming spiritual entity. The jar manifests of its own accord as a heavy key, which is not Matter but actual solidified Ephemera. Experienced Warden's often carry a ring of keys on them at all times, though no more spirits may be thus restrained than the Warden's dots of Stamina. This acts similar to the Spirit 2 Rote: Soul Jar, and the effect lasts for a number of days equal to the Warden's dots in Spirit.

Additionally, having stared into the darkness of the spirit world and the abyss, the Nameless comes back with an innate and personal knowledge of how that darkness operates. The mage is considered to always have an active "Nightsight", but takes no penalties from sudden changes in ambient lighting.

Second Attainment: “Hellfire Judgment”
Requirements: Gnosis 5, Spirit 3(primary), Forces 3(optional), Occult 3
Roll: Intelligence + Occult + Spirit - Resistance
Effect: With but a look, the rider can bring spiritual justice upon a creature from beyond the physical world, binding it to the Rider's will. This acts similar to the Spirit 3 Rote "Control Spirit."

OPTIONAL: Forces 3
Roll: Dexterity + Occult + Forces
Effect: As the rider calls on the hellfire or celestial judgment that rests within their souls, they are able to manifest such through flames that imbue into their ensorcelled weaponry with the effects of the Forces 3 "Control Fire" rote.


Third Attainment: "Rider between the worlds"
Requirements: Gnosis 7, Spirit 4(primary), Forces 4(optional), Drive 4
Roll: Dexterity + Drive + Spirit – Gauntlet
Cost: One willpower
Effect: At this level of mastery over the dual natured spiritual selves, the Nameless are able to transpose themselves between the physical world and the Shadow, at will. Should the rider find themselves upon a spirit road, they are able to take command of it as per the Spirit 4 rote, "Road Master."

OPTIONAL: Forces 4
Roll: Dexterity + Drive + Forces
Effect: Once the rider comes to this understand of how force and speed interact, they may use this knowledge upon themselves and their chosen mount or vehicle to increase their speed dramatically. This attainment mirrors the Forces 4 rote, "Control Velocity", but may only be used to increase the speed of their chosen vehicle. Each success on the activation roll doubles their current moving speed, but adds a +10 to the difficulty of the Drive check to maintain control and steering of the vehicle. It is recommended that the higher levels of this power be restricted to use only after passing into the Shadow.

The smell of roasting meat filled through the house as the small cluster of mages watched the fire in the pit downstairs sputter and stand defiant against the sudden Floridian rain. The cook-out had quickly become a cook-in, beers and cigars out on the lawn being traded in for beers and video games inside. For a moment... it was just a bunch of them hanging out, getting a kick out of trying to not be under constant pressure. Was it a risk? Certainly... trouble seemed to follow when that many magi got into one place... but they'd tried something different this time - avoiding the use of magic. 

Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher
But I flew too high

Solomon saw some faces he'd been expecting, Brigade, Noel, Elle... Elsa; and had to laugh a bit at some of the faces he'd not been expecting. Abbadon, the local moros... Dave and Robbie, the spirit guys. About the only thing that would have made it all the more strange would have been Ruktis walking in - but somehow Solomon doubted he'd ever go for a good old fashioned, no magical buffs, fist-fight. Magically, Sol knew he was no match for him, but he knew there was something he needed to do to get the apostate to work with everyone and not constantly riled.

Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming
I can hear them say

Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

It was good to see Noel smile again, and the two old friends bounced back and forth as they played on the video game guitars much like they'd done years ago on real ones. He'd never really had the skill for it, and even now he missed notes left, right, and center - but the song just seemed too damn appropriate. How long had he and his cabal mate known constant strife? In-fighting and bickering within the Cabal.

It was time for it to end, peace would only come outside once it was there inside as well.

Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, well
It surely means that I don't know

On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say

Occasionally he and Gypsy would share a glance, a kind of silent wondering that nothing had blown up yet, that even as people pondered and kicked around ideas for a new lex over beers and burgers, that there was some cohesion there. Even if everyone did not seem to agree, they were at least talking.

"Hey, it's progress, right?" She had said once the house cleared out and Brigade went off to do his normal routines.

"A-yup... let's see if it holds."

Running her hands through her hair, Gypsy leaned down on the table tiredly. "I don't know how I'm supposed to do this, Sol."

"Have faith, Gyp... it'll work out. What was that saying you had, from your father?"

"In a state of Grace."

Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
The center lights around your vanity
But surely heaven waits for you

Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry (don't you cry no more)

Breathe... breathe.... in and out, the flow of air through fire as tempered by earth and metal. The bushi's eyes closed slowly as he lost himself in his breathing, channelling that inner fire into something he could work with. Some errant part of his mind again wondered why he did not seek the path of the Perfected Adept, but when he considered the serenity and peace of Black Arrow and Raging Dragon... well, the man that was known as Solomon Kane just simply knew better. His road lay elsewhere, not in finding the peace within him, but in channelling that fire, his anger and rage, into something that he could use.

I feel like there is no need for conversation
Some questions are better left without a reason
And I would rather reveal myself than my situation
Now and then I consider, my hesitation
The more the light shines through me
I pretend to close my eyes
The more the dark consumes me
I pretend I'm burning, burning bright

The mantras were ones he'd not really used in years, one's from his training under Sensai, in the arts of physical and magical war. The first he'd always been adept at, the movement with sword and pistol... but it was the magical ones to which he'd always had the most trouble. Even as he focused on the meditations, on bringing the inner fire to a boil, he could hear the disappointment in his master's voice as he had failed, time and again, to master the roads of the Mighty.

Slowly, the imago burned into his eyesight, memorized and reheased thousands of times by watching Gypsy, by his own failed experiments to try to burn the mana out of his enemies, and by more hours than he cared to admit to, sitting in the library of EPIC and pouring over the tomes on the celestial fire.

I wonder if the things I did were just to be different
To spare myself of the constant shame of my existence
And I would surely redeem myself in my desperation
Here and now I'll express, my situation

The more the light shines through me
I pretend to close my eyes
The more the dark consumes me
I pretend I'm burning, burning bright

His skin warmed as he felt the celestial fire begin burning through him, and even through closed lids he could see the images of the lay lines arcing off the building, feel the warmth of the hallowed wellspring underneath him. The flame sputtered in front of him, threatening to go out and fade as it had so many times before as Solomon's eyes shot open, mouth compressed into a thin line of concentration.

The mantra wore on within his mind; the path of the Obrimos, the plane of the Aesthir.

There's nothing ever wrong but nothing's ever right
Such a cruel contradiction
I know I cross the lines its not easy to define
I'm born to indecision
There's always something new some path I'm supposed to choose
With no particular rhyme or reason

"You dare defy me?" he growled, to the faceless apperition of his own limitations.

"I, who grip the celestial fire and am not burnt?" the bushi murmured through clenched teeth to every time he had not been strong enough to keep his charges safe.

"You do not dare oppose me."

One hand reached out, grasping the imago, and by extension, the corresponding leylines around the building in his hand. White-hot power flowed through him, crawling over his skin and into his mind as if in anger that it could not burn that which consumed it, could not harm the master of these magics.

And in a moment, it was done. The bushi had succeeded.

The more the light shines through me
I pretend to close my eyes
The more the dark consumes me
I pretend I'm burning, burning bright

The man known as Solomon Kane ran through the checklist again in his head. The bikes were prepped, the weapons prepared, rituals done and prayers offered. There was nothing left to do but actually do it; save the world from a fate it would likely never even know about, let alone understand.

And, of course, get through the traffic to actually get out of Orlando. Glancing to his right and left he saw Gypsy and Destiny on the motorcycles flanking him as they made their slow way through I – 4 traffic. Two women as different as night and day, and yet they had put aside any personal choices, differences, or arguments to ride with him, and others. It struck him, in that moment, that the people they maneuvered their bikes around would never know what they were about to risk; would never understand the reasons they were about to place their lives on the line between humanity and a future that could not be allowed to come to pass.

The cars that drove next to them, as the miles stretched out from city lanes to inter-city roads, were filled with people; fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters. All who would go through their normal lives, in normal ways, and never know that there was even the possibility that there was something outside of their normal views that could ever endanger their wholly normal houses and wholly normal lives.

He understood now, he thought, as he opened the throttle and let the beast beneath him roar its approval and respond in speed. He understood the figure from his awakening, with flaming sword and blazing halo.

He was Solomon Kane. Samurai and Obrimos. Champion of the Mighty.

He was Samael. Angel of Hell; who chose to fall form Heaven to punish the wicked in God’s name.

The normal, every day, people that they sped past would never understand them, and would live their normal, every day, lives without ever knowing that heroes walked among them.

And that was just how it should be.

The engine roared loudly underneath him as he wove his way through the traffic. It was a comforting sound, and the quiet of the evening wrapped around the modern age bushi; letting his mind retreat back into a calm and thoughtful setting. Like the cherry blossom tree, he marveled, from his life had gone from stillness to a flurry of motion and life in but a few days. Chaos had brought Order, and Order had brought Chaos, and things had changed.

One hundred plus through black and white
War horse, warhead
Fuck 'em, man, white-knuckle tight
Through black and white

He let the bike slow to a normal pace, enjoying the ride back to EPIC as his mind wandered over the events of the last few days. The roar of his spiritual vehicle settled to a dull and contented growl.

==========

“Can you still ride the wind, Hikari?” He had asked her; miles away from where he’d expected to be this evening. That Elle had barged into his office was not surprising; that she had said she was going to leave the Cabal… well, that was unsurprising, too. The surprise had been the fact that Gypsy was now safe, and Elle had not transformed back into the creature of wealth and suits.

She had not wanted to talk about it at the office, so they raced out towards Daytona beach, where the sand, ocean, and a bottle of whiskey would make the conversation simpler. Unable to drive after her half of the bottle, Elle slipped onto the back of his bike like she had done so many times prior, but so many years prior, as well.

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head
They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed
Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I’m alone
Playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home

So he had asked her if she could still ride the wind, and used the name he had held for her and her alone. Hikari… Light, in the native tongue of his soul. He would never call Dr. Davenhurst that, but Elle… Elle was someone he had rode with; someone who had fought next to him. Elle had earned that right for his friendship.

The warrior could feel the alcohol working through his system, and knew that his naturally overactive metabolism would render him completely sober inside an hour, yet he drove with reckless abandon for the sheer joy of the wind through him and the laughter of the woman behind him. For now, he would let himself feel the effects and enjoy the relaxation it brought from the high wire tension of the last few days.

He knew he’d be heading back to EPIC tonight, but Elle was in no condition to go much of anywhere. The hotel was small, and discrete; besides, who would have expected the famous Dr. Davenhurt to be in jeans and a tee-shirt on the back of a Harley?

Unlocking the door, he ushered the swaying mage in, chuckling as she leaned against the table. She could take anything he could throw, she’d answered. She’d moved with him on the motorcycle; the old motions coming back easily as if she’d never left his bike. His drink slurred mind marginally registered the memories that leapt to the surface as his eyes moved over her hips and breasts. It was familiar, like their travel on the motorcycle, and he wasn’t sure when exactly they started kissing.

But I memorized how warm your body felt
As you lay half asleep beside me
And I memorized the way the sunlight
Filled the room and played upon your body

He had to restrain the urge to laugh as she all but fell asleep on the edge of the bed, her head slumping against his jacket-clad shoulder. It was likely for the best, he mused, laying her down on the bed and sliding the blanket up over her. They’d both moved on in their lives, were interested in other people; understood and were understood by other people.

It was still familiar… still comfortable. How many times had he covered her with the sheets, coming back after late night patrols? Late night missions; bruised and broken; but still alive? How many times had he drank her under the table and made sure she stayed safe?

One more time in a long list of them.

Solomon watched her from the door for a moment before closing it with little sound.

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

==========

Solomon had watched the bruised form of Gypsy writhe in her sleep. He hated hospitals, but he was loathe to leave her there; even surrounded by the friends and family that had come from the ends of the earth, he was loathe to leave her to those cold walls and colder times.

She gripped his hand in the midst of a nightmare, eyes pinched tight against the memories of her phantom year. Rousing from his own light sleep, he caressed her hair back, murmuring softly into ear, reassuring her. He was here, she was safe. Nothing would harm her.

One hand instinctively reached out for the Pooh Bear that sat next to her, pulling it close to her chest and pressing it there. As the warrior watched on, murmuring into her dreams, she slowly settled, relaxing from the white-knuckle grip she had upon his hand.

And I'm staring down the barrel of a 45,
Swimming through the ashes of another life
No real reason to accept the way things have changed
Staring down the barrel of a 45

It had been worth it… even with the possibility he’d done something he would never be able to fully undo, it had been worth it. The fire still rolled inside his soul, but for now, it was calm. She was safe, and he’d done what he needed to do – at least the first part. Chance was still out there, and he would be the one who brought him down in a fiery blaze of vengeful hellfire.

She murmured again as his hand grew warm, and Solomon focused himself again to calm. There was no point in letting the fury consume him now, there would be a time for that in the near future.

Turn on beyond the bone
Swallow future, spit out home
Burn your face upon the chrome

Watching her sleep, he had been moved to stillness by the perfection of that moment; of the calm and peace that took hold inside him as a bastion against the rage.  Warm fingertips traced along the lines of her face as she slept, memorizing them by sight and sense. It was a meditation, of sorts, as he had let his mind try to define what they ‘were’.

Which was, he had concluded, nothing. They simply were… and they understood each other. There needed to be no further explanation beyond that. His sensai had always told him to watch for the perfect moment, to forever be chasing that moment in time of utter perfection where he would be complete and die facing his enemies – that others might live.

This was not that moment. But damn, was it close.

What I've felt, what I've known
Turn the pages, turn to stone
Behind the door, should I open it for you?

Yeah
What I've felt, what I've known
Sick and tired, I stand alone
Could you be there, 'cause I'm the one that waits for you
Or are you unforgiven too?

==========

Pain. Fear. Anger.

The emotions rocked over him so quickly and with such a fever pitch that he nearly ditched out on his bike. Quickly pulling himself from his thoughts, the spirit ridden warrior felt his eyes grow warm and quickly turned the bike into the bar that sat along the long stretch of State Road 50. He could feel it, pulsing like a beacon out of the building as much as the bad rock and country music.

Pain. Pain pain pain paaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiinnnnn. Anger.

He was unsure what he was about to do as he barged into the crowded and smoky room.

==========

I have to believe them (lies)
In order to attain fulfillment
I have to succumb to (lies)
All my inner fears that tear at me
I will never believe them (lies)
I'm sick of the weakness that controls me-now that I've fallen-

I will not repent

Sunshine broke through the windows of his quarters in the EPIC building. Groaning, he rolled to one side and let his feet hit the floor; only being marginally surprised to find that he was still wearing his boots, leathers, and jacket. He blinked slowly, trying to recall exactly how he’d gotten home, and trying to decipher the strange chalky and ashen taste in his mouth; as if he’d smoked five too many cigars the night before.

Running a hand over his hair, he let his body fall back onto the bed; every muscle was sore and stiffening quickly.

“Goddamn, I feel like hell,” he muttered.

The hallway was cool, as most hospital walls were; the warrior sitting outside with the spirit master, Sanguine, to his right. He could hear the beginning of the ritual inside the room and frowned; this was not how it was supposed to be. The massive working of magic would restore Gypsy's soul to her, but it would not avenge the damage done to her. That... that still remained, like some karmic note of dissonance.

"It's Time, Rider! Time To Do Some Justice!"

With a sudden ringing in his head, Solomon stumbled forwards out of the chair; the room was swimming and he felt warm... hot... hotter than he had ever felt before. It was as if his skull was five sizes too small, one hand propping him up as he reeled against the wall.

"Sanguine," he growled hoarsely, the cherry on his cigar superheating to a bright and furious red, "open a door... to the other side... now!"

Gimme fuel, gimme fire
Gimme that which I desire

Turn on, I see red
Adrenaline crash and crack my head
Nitro junkie, paint me dead
And I see red

He all but fell through the spiritual door that Sanguine had opened, the white-hoodied Thrysus watching him with a slow chuckle. Once in the Shadow, a low and keening wail escpaed Solomon's lips as skin faded away to bone, eye sockets sparking from the combustion of the waiting motorcycle and lighting his skull in blazing fire.

The bike roared it's approval; the mounted spirit inside it gunning the engine in eager anticipation. Without a second thought to the man behind him; the rider stepped forwards and dropped into the saddle of his metallic and monstrous mount. A flash of hellfire from the mufflers, and the bike was moving; tearing through ephemeral dirt and gravel - leaving flaming debris in its wake.

One hundred plus through black and white
War horse, warhead
Fuck 'em, man, white-knuckle tight
Through black and white

On I burn
Fuel is pumping engines
Burning hard, loose and clean
And on I burn
Churning my direction
Quench my thirst with gasoline

It did not fully register to him as he rode, fire blazing from himself and his bike, that he acted under any form of compulsion or influence. It did not occur to him to consider if it was himself, or the Rider, who directed his actions as he rode through the Shadow; nor to ponder why the small of the death spirits that he rode past ran in terror as the chain from the back of his bike found his hand; superheating to a red-hot blaze as swinging a path of spiritual destruction before the furious rider.

It only mattered that he finally saw it... saw the death spirit that had claimed Gypsy; and saw with new spiritual eyes the souls it housed within it - one of which was hers.

It was not Chance.

 But it would do for now.

The shotgun all but flew to his waiting hand, the chains of the Rider shooting outwards towards the spirit of death and pain. The bike; flaming, chrome, equine skull mounted upon the fork, roared in a gout of flame and steered the bike for its rider. A warhorse in chrome and bone, the motorcycle ran unerringly towards its rider's target.

It was not Chance.

But, oh, would it do for now.

So gimme fuel, gimme fire
Gimme that which I desire

Turn on beyond the bone
Swallow future, spit out home
Burn your face upon the chrome

Take the corner, join the crash,
Headlights, head on, headlines
Another junkie lives too fast
Lives way too fast

Mysticall removed vocal chords echoed his keening wail throughout the Shadow of the area as supernally charged energy rocketed out of the ritual shotgun to match the spiritual chains that shot from the flaming rider that flew with him. 

He was, above all things, a Warrior of the Mighty. He had failed once, and she had been fallen; and now was the time to do justice, or avenge her fall - the darkness stood upon the world and he, if no one else, would cleanse it in celestial fire.

"Die...." was all he could recall screaming, his throat burning against the acrid scent of gasoline, fire, and gunpowder.

Round after round of primal force; burning and blazing celestial fire, shot from the shotgun as the flaming motorcycle circled it; moving of it's own accord. Round after round lost in the haze of combat - no normal shells would be used for this; they would not suffice.

Tonight, Solomon vowed, as he focused his primal magics to burn and strip away the spirit, this being will sleep in hell.

On I burn
Fuel is pumping engines
Burning hard, loose and clean
And on I burn
Churning my direction
Quench my thirst with gasoline

So gimme fuel, gimme fire
Gimme that which I desire

White-knuckle tight

And then it was done; the door that Sanguine opened bringing them back to EPIC. The garage was silent between the two men as the rider and his ride rose from the flaming motorcyle. The eyeless sockets regarded the lean and wolfish man who slowly grinned.

"How's it feel, you crazy burning headed man?"

The skeletal figure breathed slowly, as the transformation from the spiritual world to the physical one became evident; as the manifestation left him, Solomon Kane dropped to his knees in exhaustion. The bike behind him quieted as the hellfire mount spirit took it's well justified rest inside the metal chassis.

Tiredly, he grinned, the expression rare on his craggy face.

"Felt good, man... but it ain't over yet. There's more to be done still."

Gimme fuel
Gimme fire
My desire

On I burn
Fuel is pumping engines
Burning hard, loose and clean
And on I burn
Churning my direction
Quench my thirst with gasoline

Gimme fuel, gimme fire
Gimme that which I desire

On I burn