Solomon Kane

Out of the frying pan... (Brief interlude)

Sun, 29 Mar 2009 19:07:58 GMT

It's going about as well as I can expect, chasing the lich through his own portal. The darkness that sits in the soul of every Gatewarden means that it doesn't matter to me that the room we enter is still dark. I can see him, clear as day, and when his teleportation is counterspelled, I can see the look of panic cross his face.

He's wild-eyed, not at the cluster of mages that have come hunting him, but at something else... and that's when I smell the scent of gas in the air. It doesn't quite register to me, the metal tables and metal walls - near as I can tell, this is probably his torture chamber for the souls he's stolen.

And then there's a blur - the wash of temporal magic clinging to Moira like sand on a wet beach. One moment ago, she was fine; now her clothes are tattered and smoldering, and she's burnt over most of her body.

"Fire," she calls out as she falls to the floor, crying from the pain.

That's when it hits me. The gas in the air... the metal tables. We're standing in a fucking incinerator. The lich ain't panicing because we're here for him... he's panicing because we prevented him from escaping his own trap. Been caught like a damn fool, not noticing enough of my fuckin' surroundings.

I trust Gab to handle the counterspelling as I feel the compulsions of the psychic oaths in my mind - fire means my Heiarch can be hurt, could be killed, and I swore I'd defend her to my dyin' breath. I feel the godfire dance in my veins as the imago appears briefly before my eyes and my hands rise up, fingers curving into the mudras of the Dragon's Claws. My hieghtened sense of awareness in these moments show me the six nozzles that spark the gas to fire, and that had done so a moment before Moira shifted time backwards to warn us.

Everything seems to slow down in that moment. The mages around me pulling their guns as if in slow motion, Gypsy spinning through her ipod as she counterspell's the lich's third escape attempt, and Moira laying on the ground, burnt alive.

It's as if everything stops for me, and I know that Moira won't survive a second blast if the incinorator activates.

The Atlantean rolls off my tongue as I feel the weight of my oaths backing me, feel my small and minute destiny to bring light into darkness, and feel my damn fool stubborn will dump power into the spell. The godfire erupts from my hands as the six nozzles sputter; their very patterns falling away from the fire which harms but does not burn.

And then it's done... there's no fire. The lich's panic because much more acute as the mages close in on him, the sheer number of the Mighty present meaning there's no possible way for him to escape again. Everything from that moment is simple, it's the aftermath of a bridge crossed.

Still... nice work, kid.

Paying it forwards

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 22:13:46 GMT

He lifted the smaller girl into his arms as she began flagging from even holding an arm around his shoulder. Giving Jester a quick nod, Solomon could only chuckle to himself as he thought about how well Sally might fare against Isobel when he, himself, had been tanked.

Granted, he mused, that was before the body control. They'd have to give it another go.

In this farewell
There’s no blood
There’s no alibi
‘Cause I’ve drawn regret
From the truth
Of a thousand lies

So let mercy come
And wash away
What I’ve done

Laying the slender girl down onto the bed at EPIC, the warrior-mage pulled the covers over her. Watching her sleep a moment, he felt that he might just come to understand how Gypsy kept going, or where Fee got that longstanding wellspring of hope and understanding.

It was like talking to himself when he was that age, and he knew it. As if he could keep coming back at her, trying to get her to make the wiser choices than he did, and avoid the pitfalls that he'd stepped in over and over.

When she'd asked him why he kept at her, kept trying to cajole, harass, and convince her on the path of wisdom, he could only shrug. He was paying it forwards, just as the woman who'd became his wife had asked him. It wasn't something you could ever pay back, this helping hand onto the path of wise actions and responsibility... but you could pay it forwards.

I'll face myself
To cross out what i’ve become
Erase myself
And let go of what i’ve done

Put to rest
What you thought of me
While I clean this slate
With the hands of uncertainty

Taking a seat in the room, he watched her for a few moments. They'd spoken of faith, of God, and of eventual fates... of how she knew that her fate would be to pave the way to the supernal with her body, to be punished for her sins by fighting and dying in some cosmic wars.

"But that ain't all there is," he murmured to the empty room, "God ain't just about punishment."

So let mercy come
And wash away
What I’ve done

I'll face myself
To cross out what i’ve become
Erase myself
And let go of what i’ve done

For what I’ve done
I start again
And whatever pain may come
Today this ends
I’m forgiving what I’ve done!

"That ain't all there is at all," he said as he rose, moving over to smooth back her hair from where she tossed about in the height of her intoxication, "for as much as I am Obrimos... the sword of St. Michael and St. Samael... I'm also His love, too. Down here in the gutter, keeping eyes on ya."

What I’ve done
Forgiving what I’ve done

Solomon smiled as he closed the door to the guest room, moving silently away to let the girl sleep.

"Sleep tight, girlie."

The Consequence of Hate

Tue, 27 May 2008 14:48:42 GMT

OOC: Warning - Long. ;)

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?

Joy

Fri, 23 May 2008 20:56:35 GMT

The warrior slammed his fist through the computer screen monitor in front of him, some rational part of his mind noting that the temperature of the room started to grow in heat before he took a slow and deep breath, regaining control over the aethir fire within his soul and spirit.

He'd been at the computer all day, pounding messages back and forth with Sally, trying to find some way of getting through to her that her vengeace would not bring back loved ones, would only end with her own falling, her own demise, or worse.

The young girl'd hear none of it, focused only on seeing her justice done. The Nameless was again amazed at how much like talking to himself it was, only that'd been him before he'd met Gypsy...

"Goddamn, Gab..." he said to the empty air as he lifted his jacket and moved for the door, hoping the cool florida rain would calm his temper, "... I don't know how you keep us all from fallin' without loosin' it yerself."

Have I no control, is my soul not mine?
Am I not just man, destiny defined?
Never to be ruled nor held to heel.
Not heaven or hell just the land between.
Am I not man, does my heart not bleed?
No Lord, no God, no hate, no pity, no pain, just ME.
Comprehend and countermand.
Synchronous guidance. I choose my way.
Never to be ruled nor held to heel.
Not heaven or hell just the land between.

And am I not man?

So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?
Why am I lone and why do I feel that
I carry a sword through a battlefield?
So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?
Why do I fight and why do I feel that
I carry a sword, that I carry a sword?

Like the path to heaven or the road to hell
our choice is our own consequences bind.
We are the kings of wisdom, the fools as well.
We are the gods to many, we are humble men.
We who build great works just to break them down.
We who make our rules so we never fail.

So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?
Why am I lone and why do I feel that
I carry a sword, I carry a sword
through a battlefield?

Mon, 07 Apr 2008 03:44:56 GMT

The room was silent around him as he sat in what he'd started to jokingly call the "Hall of Heroes". The beers sat in the cooler, waiting for Cloud to wander in as his eyes fell on the brass plate that bore the writing "Bob Keel - The Nightstick". Solomon leaned back in the chair, spinning Lucky Number Seven across his knuckles as he did so. The large shotgun shell spun evenly, the number seven carved into the edge of the bullet.

"No shit, there I was man," he said as he reached down to pop open the first beer, "riding in with Brigade and Gypsy because Fee called saying there was some odd sounds comin' outta this Westgate Resort place..."

So we get out of the car at this place, and no shit, I see this flicker over the Westgate of this large fuckin' winking Wizard and the next thing I know I'm in the suburb of Sleepyville USA. Cars still there, Gypsy and Brigade are still there... but we're in bumfuck nowhere and what's worse... can't feel shit coming from the Supernal. No sheilds... no sights... no fuckin' nothing save the Daewoo in my hands, my doublebarrel in its holster, my normal gear and the lucky seven in my jacket.

Now normally, this wouldn't bug me too goddamn much, except that I hear this moaning coming down the street and there this... get this, 'Stick, this fuckin zombie comes shamblin down the road. It's a nice feeling knowing that shotgun blasts to the head still put those fuckers down.

So we high-tail it into the house, only to find another one of these fucks clawing at the door, and Fee screaming her head off inside the room it's clawing at. We clear the house, board up the place, and dig out one of the survivors. Now, i go to take a stock of what we got, get a general sitrep going, just like ya taught me man... one house, six folk who ain't got one shit of magic in em left, some guns, and a metic fuckton of zombies rolling around outside.

It was after dinner that the lights went out, though. We'd managed to find some of the guy who lived here's notes... he was that zombie clawing at the bedroom door, by the by, and he's telling us about this fucking zombie plague all over the goddamn place, and how FEMA and the CDC suck ass. They say it's something with a gland, and he thinks otherwise... this guy who had to bury his wife and kid out back for getting grabbed by the zombies. He ain't sure why, but kids weren't as succeptible.

That's when it started. Like... a fever, 'Stick... only the worst fucking dear-lord-why-am-I-in-the-Sahara fuckin fever. Now... I know the mods that Sensai did to me, way back when. I can not feel pain when I don't need ta, and never mind the common fucking cold, let alone most poisons, toxins, or much of fucking anything else. And here I am, feeling like ten pounds o'hell in a five pound bag.

Things started getting a bit blurry, then. I remember looking up at Gypsy and, sure as I'm fuckin sitting here, seeing Chance hovering over her fuckin' shoulder. Only... Gab's all normal... and she's walking towards me, telling me to put the gun down. I... I almost went to shoot him again, 'cept that ain't no one else reacting to him. Coupla tall breathes later, he's gone and I'm starting to figure just how fucked I am.

Now... the shit's getting worse, and even all my self controls' having trouble keeping the coughing back. It was when they were patching up one of the cuts on my head from a fuckin' zombie taking a leap at me that Fee gets close to bandage it. I... I nearly shot her, man... she looked like she had this mouth fulla razor sharp teeth and was about to start a snackfest.

That's where I start loosing things. I know... I know that I'm hitting the point where walkin and talkin at the same time ain't gonna happen, and that we've gotta go outside to get the fuckin' recipe for the antidote because this guy buried it with his goddamn wife.

I figured my number was up, brutha. So I pull my ass up by the bootstraps and get back to my feet, though every fuckin nerve in my head was screaming. All I knew was that I had... I had a duty to perform and that I wasn't gonna let no B movie rejects stop me from it. Gypsy was going out there, and by god I was gonna protect her.

It... it was hell, brutha. I'm leaning against the wall because I can't barely fuckin stand on my own. But the guns are going, Daewoo firing until I ran out of shotgun shells and then I've got the nine-mils in my hands. I... I don't even remember much of it, save when Gab screams out behind me... and I just had to trust her. The gun turns in my hand and I hear the thud behind me - it's always like that with us. We watch out for each other.

Next thing I know... I'm coughing blood. I know that's the last step before I'm expired like a fuckin milk carton. We learned that from the guy we took in, who died a bit afterwards. That's where the bite came from, ya see?

So anyways... I'm digging through my jacket, hoping to find one last shell because I'll be damned if I'm gonna make Gab shoot her own husband in the head. I'll wander off while they're working on the cure and blow my own fuckin head off.

Sure enough, 'Stick... I been a Sentinel in O-town for three fuckin years, ain't never had to touch the lucky seven shells in my jacket and I'm thinking I've used all of them... only it turns out, Lucky Number Seven is still there. I glance over, and Chance him-fucking-self is sitting there now, telling me to come on down to hell with him, and even though I sent him down there, there's always a way back... and that there ain't no angels where I'm going.

Gypsy's pouring this foul tasting shit down my throat as I look from her to the already starting to fade Chance. Only thing is, the joke's on him because it's always been this way with Gab and I. Angel of Heaven... Angel of Hell. Gabriel and Samael. Heaven and Hell.

The effects wear off quickly, and I got one shell left with dozens of zombies tearing down the wall. It's... it's that time, I I make a quick peace with my maker before cocking the shotgun.

Then these slips of paper start falling, and the one I grab has this saying my mentor used to say. It was a quote from Buddha... that hatred does not cease by hatred, only love - that is the eternal rule. And I remember the theory that Fee and the others were kicking around that the capacity for hate is what made the zombies turn... and I know it's only me and Brigade who's slippd far enough from the Path of Wisdom to feel this sickness and evil burning inside our viens.

'Evil only has the power you give it', Fee said.
'One drop of hatred left in the cup of joy turns the most blissful drought into poison', Brigade read.
'When love is surpressed, hatred takes its place', I heard Kellin say.
'One joy shatters a hundred griefs', Gypsy said as she sat down next to me.

The zombies had broken in... one shotgun shell ain't gonna do it... and really... I'd been holding onto that anger for too damn long. I drape an arm around Gab's shoulders as I let the shotgun drop to the floor. It's... that's when I felt it... the smile come to my face and I swear to god I feel tears rolling down my face.

The first zombie vanishes as Kellin starts tickling Fee, and I'm grabbing at Gypsy as Brigade's doing the same. The house filled with laughter and no shit, the zombies are just... gone. Cake's taken it's place, with this writing on it about how the Wizard's congratulating us....

One of the slips caught my eye... and I lean down to pick it up.

Fallen Angel's get to feel god's love, too, man. Sure as I'm sitting there, this slip of paper's got this quote written on it... 'Give not over thy soul to sorrow; and afflict not thyself in thy own counsel. Gladness of heart is the life of man and the joyfulness of man is length of days.'

No shit, man... I... I felt my heart fill with this joy that just burst outta me like the rays of the fuckin' sun... and when I managed to open my eyes again, I'm crying like some kid on Sunday... and there she is, that wife of mine.

And though I've spent my season in Hell, I knew as I picked her scrawny ass up and kissed her that it was gonna be all right.

Ok man... time for me to go try and do some good, though this time it's her brother who needs some help. Try not to raise too much Hell up top, right? Been good talkin' to ya...

Miss ya, 'Stick. Take care.

Won't let you Fall

Wed, 16 Jan 2008 16:16:49 GMT

OC: Author's note - Imagine the scenes below with the voiceover of Solomon and Gypsy. Her sections of the lyrics are bolded. Thankee - Mgmt
========

The library of EPIC was cold, and nearly empty, except for the one single figure sitting at the desk. The books that piled in front of him were every treatise that the shadowed warrior could cobble together from EPIC's library and the few texts he'd taken from his mentor's library, those many years ago.

Together, they compromised some of the pre-emiminent texts on the arts of magical warfare, up and and including a copy of Father Michael's "Art of Arcane Warfare". Each line was poured over slowly, as Solomon knew full well that many of the things discussed were so far above his ken as a mage as to be nearly unrecognizable.

Prison gates won't open up for me
On these hands and knees I'm crawlin'
Oh, I reach for you
Well I'm terrified of these four walls
These iron bars can't hold my soul in
All I need is you
Come please I'm callin'
And oh I scream for you
Hurry I'm fallin', I'm fallin'

So engrossed was he that Solomon never even heard Gypsy slip into the room, reading over his shoulder for a few moments. A thin line of a frown crossed over her face as the long red hair poured out onto his shoulder like a an inferno of color.

Glancing up, Solomon smiled faintly as his eyes met hers. "Hey."

"No," she replied, reaching down to close the book.

Show me what it's like
To be the last one standing
And teach me wrong from right
And I'll show you what I can be
Say it for me
Say it to me
And I'll leave this life behind me
Say it if it's worth saving me

"What do you mean 'no'?" Solomon said, standing up from the table. "Those books... they have the things I'll need to try and make this world better, to be able to defend ourselves... and others. Ya know, that hero thing we do?"

She just shook her head. "There's gotta be a better way. Everything in there teaches you how to kill... and that makes us just as bad as the things we fight against."

The roma woman slip next to him, hands winding around the body of her husband to trace over the dozen scars along his back. He leaned his head down, resting it over hers, as he murmured. "I'll show you why we're different."

The godfire that light the library flew over their bodies - the culmination of his training and attempts to find a way to bring the primal nature of his soul together with the spiritual justice that now rode alongside it; with a little inspiration from his friend, Johnny Blaze, of course.

It was unlike any fire that had been summoned yet, primal and burning-white over her skin as the consequences of her actions, the stains on her soul, echoed back inwards on her-

Save that her soul was clean, and the godfire did not touch, nor harm, the gyspy woman.

Heaven's gates won't open up for me
With these broken wings I'm fallin'
And all I see is you
These city walls ain't got no love for me
I'm on the ledge of the eighteenth story
And oh I scream for you
Come please I'm callin'
And all I need from you
Hurry I'm fallin', I'm fallin'

Hurry I'm fallin'

The grimoires of war found their way back to the shelves, in favor of a single book on the creative uses of the Prime arcanum - something, at least, that he was strong in. Slowly, again and again, he tried to form the imago that summoned the godfire, but tempered it with justice - something different from his other project that neared completion.

The trick of it was, he thought, as it slipped away again, to summon the fire but change the way it reacts.

Growling in frustration, he pushed back from the table to meet Gypsy's glance. She could see the aggravation in him, the temper rising to the surface, and she walked over to lay a hand on his cheek.

"Keep at it," she whispered, "because I won't let you go down that road... I won't let you fall."

All I need is you
Come please I'm callin'
And oh, I scream for you
Hurry I'm fallin', I'm fallin', I'm fallin'

Hurry I'm fallin'

"I love you," he said, in the quiet of the library.

Death of Elle

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 17:50:53 GMT

All he'd known as he drove to Tampa was that he needed the space that the open road would give him, the roar of the engine underneath him and the feeling of the air rushing past him. It always struck him, some more reasonable part of his mind noted, how it felt like flying - that last step to mastery of his other ruling arcana that he'd not been able to make.

It had been a few month since he'd asked her if she could still ride the wind, and that was precisely what he was doing now, all but begging more power and speed from the motorcycle underneath him that let him fly through the miles as if he could escape the pain that followed.

I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
'Cause your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone

The bike leaned perilously close to the ground as he banked around a car at the utterly last second, relying on his reflexes and insticts while he mind could not remove itself from the sight of Elle's body... could not shake the phantom feeling of carrying her broken and bleeding form into the offices of EPIC after he'd woken up. The spiritual fire roared to life over his skin even if the normal people he drove past could never see it; only able to recall the feeling of the... thing... that appeared to be Malachai but wasn't. He'd been too slow, too weak, and he'd failed his friend as the blackness had claimed him.

A car honked at him as he drove past, the speeding car still appearing to stand still as whispered magics reduced the friction in the engine and let the speed climb higher and higher. He'd never really pushed the bike this much, at least not since the race against Chance, but he felt he owed her this much, to race the centerline and to try to ignore the hollow ache in the center of his chest where Elle Davenhurst... his hikari, his light... had been.

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

The sake bottle was heavy in his hand, even if it had only been the third one for the night. The pounding of his heart in his chest as he walked into the Tampa consilium house had everything to do with his unnatural ability to ignore toxins, as much as he dreaded the coming conversation with Havoc.

That Gypsy had beat him to that conversation didn't surprise him, but he knew the look in the other man's eyes; the coldness that slowly began to creep over them and the beginning of the emotional scars would eventually cover the same ache that Havoc had within him.

As he sat within their house, his mind slowly turned back to the image of Malachai, and the feeling of her fists pounding into him far stronger than any normal person had a right to be.

"You can't just go kill her, you know," Gypsy murmured, watching him.

"Can," he replied, "and will. I gotta make this right."

You used to captivate me
By your resonating life
Now I'm bound by the life you've left behind
Your face it haunts
My once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away
All the sanity in me

"But that won't fix anything... it'll just make you worse."

The pleading look in Gypsy's eyes fell on deaf ears, the hellfire in his mind was roaring too loudly between bruised pride, broken bodies, and fallen friends. It had taken all he could to not scream back at her, but to keep his voice to enough of a normal tone that even Solomon would have believed he was calm.

"Ain't got a choice in this... I gotta make it right. That meant defending her then... and avenging her now."

"Solomon," she said, one hand taking ahold of his leather jacket, "you always have a choice!"

The warrior simply stepped back, taking another shot of the sake from the bottle in his hand. "I failed once, Gab... I ain't gonna fail her again."

I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along

Preparations

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 16:52:43 GMT

Noel had been kind enough to grant Solomon one of the spare rooms for his project, and it had been a simple expenditure from EPIC's accounting office to get the display case, plaque, and mannikin. As Solomon stepped back, he glanced down to look at the words engraved on the bronzed plaque, in flowing script "Bob Keel", and underneath that the emblazoned "Nightstick". As his eyes slid upwards, he settled that damn floppy hat on the manniquin's head, completing the outfit of Nightstick's BDU's and armor.

This ain't a song for the broken-hearted
A silent prayer for the faith-departed
I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd
You're gonna hear my voice
When I shout it out loud

Normally he took his meditations in the spirit glade that Noel had made for him, but it seemed to feel more natural here for the moment. The spiritual warrior knew what was coming, knew the assault they would make this night, and somehow it seemed appropriate to let his eyes move over the armor of his fallen friend as his mind steeled itself for the coming troubles. Bit by bit they'd whittled away the resources of the Seers, bit by bit they'd hunted down the various Seer's held under Geas and turned them away.

Soon... soon he'd need all the lessons that the old bastard in the floppy hat had taught him.

It's my life
It's now or never
I ain't gonna live forever
I just want to live while I'm alive
(It's my life)
My heart is like an open highway
Like Frankie said
I did it my way
I just wanna live while I'm alive
It's my life

The magics wrapped around him, action turned to rote by each day's pratice. For him, his faith was as much theory as it was pratice. His own mixture of Judeo-Christian ethic mixed with the buddhism taught to him by Sensai. The Brilliant Road and Adamant Way, merged with Bushido, rolled through his mind. As the shields and sights settled over him, Solomon let his hand reach forwards to rest on the hilt of the Katana. There was a warmth there, hidden inside the grip of the hilt, that he'd never been able to fully explain; as if the blade itself helped center him to his path.

This is for the ones who stood their ground
For Tommy and Gina who never backed down
Tomorrow's getting harder make no mistake
Luck ain't even lucky
Got to make your own breaks

It's my life
And it's now or never
I ain't gonna live forever
I just want to live while I'm alive
(It's my life)
My heart is like an open highway
Like Frankie said
I did it my way
I just want to live while I'm alive
'Cause it's my life

His eyes came to rest again on the armor in front of him, mind rolling between his own desire to defeat the enemies of the pentacle in the way he had been trained, and yet he had little desire to actually kill. It was the conflict that he had recalled his teacher speaking of, that he would carry it within him for most of his life. How was he to defend his people, his friends, his home, from others without costing his own humanity in the process? Bob... Bob had forgotten that, he thought, and had become the darkness he'd looked into for far too long.

Better stand tall when they're calling you out
Don't bend, don't break, baby, don't back down

It's my life
And it's now or never
'Cause I ain't gonna live forever
I just want to live while I'm alive
(It's my life)
My heart is like an open highway
Like Frankie said
I did it my way
I just want to live while I'm alive

Getting to his feet, Solomon looked at the predominaately empty room and nodded. He had no illusions that he might, himself, be held in a place of honor and rememberance; his leather jacket and shotgun hanging as a reminder to anyone who looked at it of the sacrifices he was willing to make. Shaking his head, and looking over at Nightstick's armor, Solomon could only smirk at the complete paradox of his life... he was certain he could die to defend others... but less certain if he could kill for them.

It's my life
And it's now or never
'Cause I ain't gonna live forever
I just want to live while I'm alive
(It's my life)
My heart is like an open highway
Like Frankie said
I did it my way
I just want to live while I'm alive
'Cause it's my life!

The Aftermath

Thu, 08 Nov 2007 16:40:55 GMT

The snickering of the Roma woman behind him did nothing to ease the brass band pounding it's way through his skull, or the contractions of his muscles as he heaved again; the undigested rum being expelled by his immune system. His rather convoluted physiology didn't care that the three empty bottles of the 94 proof rum was as much for his benefit as it had been for Isabel. All it knew was that the man known as Solomon Kane had ingested enough poison to have killed a lesser man, and the slight woman opposite matched him drink for drink.

His heart raced, pumping blood through his system as it valiently fought off the effects of the alcohol poisoning, much like any other toxin that had been stabbed or ingested into him in the last couple of years. In some way, he thought as his muscles contracted again painfully, heaving, it paralleled the evenings events.

He'd be ready to hate the woman who had killed Bob. Ready to challenge her in the dueling ring and get his ass handed to him, because someone needed to; because giving up was never the right answer. The text on the screen had begun to deflate his anger, all but feeling the pain from the woman on the other side, and as he had made arrangements for Isabel to apport in, he'd blithly ignored the victorious look on Gypsy's face.

Solomon had seen Isabel Michaels many times before. He always walked with the gait of a practiced warrior, and it was something silent and unsploken they'd both shared and never talked about. He knew, in a moment, what Bob had seen in her.

And she looked like utter hell at the moment. The bags under her eyes said she had not been sleeping well, and the pallor of her skin noted to the trained detective that she'd not been eating well and probably drinking too much. As they talked, the spiritual fire that had sparked to light over his skin slowly settled, and eventually extinguished as they toasted, again and again, to their fallen friend. A couple shots of this stuff normally put the hardiest men in the bar down for the count, and Solomon watched as she met him, shot for shot, their freakish resolve lasting for far longer than it should have.

His muscles heaved again, and Gypsy just chuckled.

"Goddam, " he muttered to the jackhammer doing the tapdance on his skull, "that woman can drink."

OOC: Amusement

Thu, 08 Nov 2007 16:21:46 GMT

So who wants to do me a favor and make the Solomon Kane wiki?

Jake

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 21:23:12 GMT

He felt the surge of adrenaline go through him as he read the email, and slowly fought down the need for fire and rage from within him as he read it again.

A third time, to be certain he fully understood the words he was seeing. His vision clouded red, and he could feel the spiritual fire ignite over his skin and face as he reached for the keyboard. His muscles tensed and untensed as if he were preparing for a fight, and on some level of his mind, he knew he was. The message back would be worded carefully... no cursing, this time... so that his message was clear.

One of the few men he considered family was dead; and for no good reason he could see except the world giving up on him. As he hit the send button, the spiritual warrior leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes close over the burning fires in his soul.

The feel of the knuckles on his jaw, a lucky sucker punch in their game of one-upmanship tomfuckery.

The rush of the training sessions, always trying to be faster than the damn old man.

The clink of beer-bottles on beer-bottles; contrasting the heat and humidity of the Florida weather.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, "Isabel's gonna kick my ass, but someone's gotta fucking stand up for him... even for his memory."

Approved Legacy Notes

Fri, 12 Oct 2007 17:13:17 GMT

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.

Curveballs

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 17:11:01 GMT

His arm and the right side of his face hurt like hell, but the blessed power of Jack Daniel's was quickly resolving that. As the awakened warrior looked along the length of his bruised purplish and black arm, he could only muse at what the thing had been that had attacked him - the same one that had hit Gypsy and Ethan earlier in the week. All Solomon knew was that the guy was blowing up innocents along with what he felt were his targets, and that he needed to go.

Solomon also knew he hit with the force of a mac truck. Swirling the liquid around in the tumbler, he shot back another few drinks in rapid succession. There were times, like when the squid-thing had stung him, that he was glad for the alternations that his mentor had ritually done upon him those years ago. He could feel very little pain, and his immune system would kick out any poisons, toxins, or anything else within short order.

Unfortunetely, that also meant it did so with the booze he was desperately trying to suck down to drown out the pain. He knew, if he weren't used to having his skin hardened by falling waterfalls or rapid punches, he'd probably be laying somewhere screaming in agony.

As it was... he took another shot as the door opened.

He wasn't exactly sure what was wrong with Gypsy, he would muse later as Brigade tended to the damage to his arm and the claw marks along the side of his face. He'd known something was amiss when the expensive Gambara dress had arrived... done in purple and specifically cut to favor her. That it came from a goddamn lick might've gotten more anger out of him had he not been hurting from the nearly fractured arm and sucking down Jack like he was going out of style.

Enough poking, and prodding, and insistance and she'd slammed the rings down onto the countertop before stalking off to sit on the couch. As he'd sat there, watching the two gold rings in front of him, his mind slowly turned over the possibilities.

It took him a moment, the silence filling the air, as he muddled through whiskey-deadened thought patterns to discern that they were wedding rings, and for that single idea to sink into him; he'd known for ages that he'd likely not be able to live a long and healthy life... that he'd likely never settle down and get married because there wasn't much of anyone who could understand that he might just not come back some day.

The rings turned over in his hands, as he glanced upwards to the girl sitting on the couch and pointedly not looking in his direction. He'd known, for years, that there were plenty of reasons... damned good reasons... to fight and die.

But was there a reason to fight and live, he mused silently as he sat down on the couch and wrapped his good arm around the red haired Romani.

"Yes," he said.

Peace

Tue, 14 Aug 2007 16:26:16 GMT

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)

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 18:00:17 GMT

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

Unsung heros

Tue, 01 May 2007 18:50:10 GMT

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.

Sun, 29 Apr 2007 16:32:27 GMT

He stirred from the bed, still not used to her presence in it; she shifted in her sleep and the adamant warrior slowly propped himself up in bed. Wincing in pain, he glanced down to the wrappings around his chest. One broken rib, and one shattered rib, he estimated. All in all, the night had gone well; he'd lived.

And she'd lived, which was suddenly very important to him.

They say it's over
But I have just begun to fight

It may look hopeless
But that's the moment from what's right

Someday, someway, somewhere
I'm gonna take you there
Where angels dare to fly

It was difficult for him, he knew, watching as Gypsy slept; it was one thing for him to risk himself and take chances with his own life... but to put her through that?

Solomon bit his lip, holding the pain in as a muscle screamed out against the shattered bones in his ribcage. They'd talked as she bandaged his wounds tonight, and he did not have the words to express to her how to understand it. Yet she did, even if she did not care for the idea of either of them dead.

But both knew it would come, eventually. There could only be so many close calls, so many chances, before someone's number would come up. What he couldn't say, what he didn't have the words to understand, was that if they could just accept that fact, could accept the fact that this would end in pain, they might be able to keep dancing on the head of the pin long enough.

Some people wait forever
Some people just run out of time
Some people live in darkness
And give up just before the light
You (you), me (me)
No we won't back down
Let all the others wait
I want someday, someway, right now

The modern samurai was used to taking chances, used to walking into a situation and not having to worry about what might happen if he did not walk out; it was his giri, his duty to stand fast so that others did not have to. Now, however, there was Gypsy who seemed so hell bent on saving him from that fate that she stood on that line with him.

A soft murmur came from her as she tossed in a fitful sleep. He knew what she dreamed, and knew those dreams would yet come for quite some time. One calloused hand reached out, smoothing down her hair and trying to calm her as she ran through her nightmares.

The sun is risin'
I see confusion everywhere

The world that's dyin'
There's revolution in the air

Someday, someway, somewhere
I'm gonna take you there
Where angels dare to fly

Some day it would come, he knew, as he kissed her forehead. Some day they would have to face the prospect of loosing one another, but it was different for her. He was an Adamantine Arrow; taught never to surrender, never to falter or fail in his duty. He would stand, so that others would not fall; would willingly sacrifice himself if it meant saving the greater whole.

She would never understand this, he thought. It was not her way. She was not samurai.

Some people cry a river
But never see the other side
Some people bow down broken
And end up swallowed by the tide
You (you), me (me)
No we won't back down
Let all the others wait
I want someday, someway, right now

Some day it would come. Perhaps for her. Perhaps for him. And the other would either fall into grief and despair, or burn with pure and holy light. It was that light that guided him, even as he felt the flames behind his eyes; touched her face and saw Chance's pale white mask. Someday, he knew, he would avenge the pain that was done to her, and possibly die in doing so.

But not yet... he was not yet strong enough to deal with the second or third degree mastery that Chance had, when he himself was not even a first degree master.

Not yet... but some day. He vowed it softly in the morning light, and felt only the burning flame of pure vengance inside him answer that call.

Some people wait forever
Some people just run out of time
Some people live in darkness
And give up just before the light

Some people cry a river
But never see the other side
Some people bow down broken
And end up swallowed by the tide
You (you), me (me)
No we won't back down

Let all the others wait
I want someday, someway, right now

Sat, 28 Apr 2007 21:31:10 GMT

It was the gun that caught his eye; the strange pistol that Gypsy had given to Fiction; while it still looked to his normal eyes to be a standard 9mm handgun, something pulsed wrong about it to his supernatural vision. It felt... wrong; as if something subtly pulsed out of sync with the rest of the world.

There wasn't time to deal with it immediately, however, as the pressing matters of the moment required his focus. The pocket dimension, with Free Council from the last Great Refusal, mages, and Gyspy, trapped inside as the walls of the underwater building were beginning to crack. The fact that they were being attacked by some living tree being did not even register as odd.

And then Fiction fired the pistol.

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

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 black flames that shot from the gun were nothing compared to the black viens that spiralled up her arms; and both the rider spirt and the supernal warrior paused as they saw the effect upon the younger mage. And yet, there was no time; first monsters, and then the cracking of the wall as he felt his magics pour outwards to bulwark the wall.

"Gyspy! Get them out of here!" he shouted to her, uncertain how he, himself, would get out afterwards.

"I'm trying!" she said, uncertain how she was going to get him out, as well.

The beast twitched, and another long gout of black flame poured from the handgun. The viens spiralled up and onto her shoulder; and the warrior grit his teeth. It felt... wrong. It felt... vile.

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

He felt, more than saw, Ruktis' magics pour over them all and the distinct feeling of being in two locations at once, before it passed and they stood back in the hallways of the gathering site; Solomon had a moment's pause to wonder just how many Arcanum that the 'dirty apostate' knew before his eyes widened at the strange portal that manifested itself in Ruktis' chest and the near-human monstrosity that crawled out. He felt the Rider move, as he drew his own shotgun; physical bullet and spiritual fire striking in tandem.

And then the black flame pistol shot again. Fiction's slender form shot across the room in recoil, and Solomon's eyes widened as the black viens coursed over her chest under his supernatual sight. A cry of alarm went through his mind as the beast in front of him fell.

He was Obrimos. Warrior of the Mighty.

And he was no friend to the abyssal energies that slowly began coursing through Fictions' body.

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

There was no time to explain. No time to sit and speak, to counsel and wait - the energies that coursed through her would take her over as certainly as he was standing there. As the beast in front of them fell, quickly vanishing into a pile of ash of gore, his boots sounded on the floor as he stalked over to her; only peripherally aware of the Rider's presence in his mind as they moved as one being; agreed upon course and action. The death's head flamed over his own, skin melting away as bone and flaming grip took hold of the smaller woman, lifting her off her feet.

"Unholy beast!," he growled in the Rider's voice, "Be cleansed!"

They would not have understood why he suddenly bathed the two of them in celestial fire; the aura's around the both of them sparking to light and casting white and holy flame that both harmed, and purified.

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

And in a moment, it was done; the Rider released his grip upon the warrior and the warrior released his grip upon the young girl; only marginally feeling the sapping of one of his years in her terrified response to the flame and pain.

It would come again, he knew, as he stepped backwards and most of the consillium charged in between them; the accusations that he was not in control of the Rider, that he was moving in ways he should not. But he knew... he knew that as much as the Rider used him, he used the Rider to accomplish his aims.

He was Obrimos. Champion of the Might and foe to the Abyss. As he would ever be.

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

Montage

Wed, 21 Mar 2007 22:13:31 GMT

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.

Mon, 19 Mar 2007 13:51:21 GMT

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

Sat, 17 Mar 2007 23:18:04 GMT

Updated Legacy Notes:

Gatewardens: The Nameless

"Do you the devil’s work?"

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 Riders 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 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. A rider 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.

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

Attainments:
First Attainment: “Warden’s Key”
Requirements: Gnosis 3, Spirit 2(primary), Forces 1(optional), Weaponry 2, Stunt Driver Merit
Roll: Dexterity + Weaponry + Spirit
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 within the carrying section of their vehicle (trunk, saddlebags, etc)

OPTIONAL: Forces 1

Roll: None
Effect: 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), Prime 3, 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. As the spirit is wracked by the torments that it has, itself, inflicted, it takes damage to it’s spiritual corpus and, once destroyed, returns to the hell from whence it came.

OPTIONAL: Prime 3

Roll: Dexterity + Occult + Prime

Cost: One Mana

Effect: As the rider calls on the hellfire or celestial judgment that rests within their souls, they are able to manifest such through either direct blasts or their dedicated ranged weaponry. This rote is similar the Adamantine Arrow rote “Bolt of the Heavens” (Celestial Fire, Prime 3); however, it can also be summoned into their dedicated weaponry, adding their judgmental fires to their melee weapons, as well. Regardless of how the fire is summoned, the roll is for activation, only, and the Warden still needs to make a successful combat strike. The blazing fire that travels along the blade or through the gun inflict aggravated damage on anything it strikes, mundane or spiritual.

Third Attainment: “Rider between the worlds”
Requirements: Gnosis 7, Spirit 4, Forces 4, Drive 4
Roll: Dexterity + Drive + Spirit – Gauntlet

Cost: One Mana
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 their speed while on their chosen vehicle. Each success on the activation roll doubles their current moving speed.

Waiting Room

Sat, 17 Mar 2007 14:31:09 GMT

The clock on the wall said the time was just about eight in the morning on saturday. The race had been just over a day ago. Gypsy's body had been dumped after Elle's ritual, earlier that morning. Dumped... and broken.

I shouldn't have brought you into this.

Solomon hated hospitals, loathed them, in fact with such a virulent and vehement distate that he'd rarely stepped foot inside one. It was something about the feeling of death creeping through the halls, silent as the nurses in the middle of the night. They had not questioned the quiet and somber man who stood a vigil over the still and sleeping form of the other warrior; had not questioned what the bruises, breaks, and cuts had been from. The innate occlusion of their normal ways from life helped that, and a few quiet words helped the rest. He knew Elle was currently trying to get her transferred out of the public wards, knew that Lucy and her crew were setting up shop to locate the bastard who did this, knew that Topher, Iovis, and others had ported down and where on their way.

It did not matter. It was all he could do, focusing upon every koan and mantra he knew, to control the burning anger and fury that sat just behind his eyes. Amazingly, it was also the whispers of the rider in his ear that helped, urging him on to avenge what had been done to her, but to wait for the perfect time to strike down those who had treated her like this.

This is my fault... I should have been able to protect you... save you... recover you. Instead... I'm waiting... hoping, on others, to do what I cannot... so I can then blaze a path of flaming hellfire through that goddamn house and....

Patience, son. Justice comes. It'll be ripe soon.

One of the nurses peeked her head in. "Hey honey... it's getting on near lunchtime, you might wanna eat, you know."

He simply shook his head; the nurse gave a sympethetic nod and slipped back out of the room. Looking back over her body, he could only grit his teeth in frustration. The ridden warrior knew some of her past... knew the abuses and the rapes and the beatings. But this... this was spiritual... karmic... rape. This... this was unacceptable. Chance had broken every pretense of his gentlemanly nature, and he knew Gypsy would be a long time in recovering. The feeling of powerlessness, the hurt, the pain....

Solomon closed his eyes as he felt the temperature rise in the room, his own magic and the spirit that stood inside him responding to his empathic resonance. Taking a slow breath, he zipped up the motorcycle jacket to guard off the sudden chill in the room and leaned back, trying not to count the hours and praying for the phone call from Lucy that said it was time to ride... time to do justice.

He glanced up, an unknown amount of time later, as the door opened again and a young man he'd never seen walked in....

Making a Deal with the Devil / Origins of the Rider

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 02:59:02 GMT

"Sanguine," Solomon growls around his cigar, "Get down here to the garage once you're done checking Noel over."

Un-fucking-acceptable. Not again… not ever again. He'd sworn he would not let someone… an innocent… fall in the line of his duty. The motorcycle in front of him was not as well tuned as his bike, but his bike was a pile of condensation on the side of the road; this would have to do and he could fix it up more later. Stock… would be acceptable. For now.

He tried to focus on thinking what changes he would need to make, in the long run. Structural integrity, of course… a nitrous system could be installed, in addition to what he wanted to do. The image of the nightmare steeds flanking his bike sat, like a lodestone, in the back of his mind. He knew it sounded insane, and camp – who followed comic books, after all? But he knew it would have to be done. Gypsy was gone… carried off by a death spirit, because of him.

The smoldering of his nimbus started, and he closed his eyes, pushing it away as Sanguine entered. She would be saved, he vowed.

Saved… or avenged.

Send away for a priceless gift
One not subtle, one not on the list
Send away for a perfect world
One not simply, so absurd

"Grand.. Starting it up again."

Sanguine was dressed much like yesterday, but with a white hoodie on and black tribal this time. He had a hard couple of days, but he was always ready to go again. He groaned at Solomon's determination, always rearin' to go, made him wonder how long the man had been a mage and how old he really was...

He scratched his shaggy hair with curved black claws and canted his head at Solomon. "You know where she is?" As he busied himself preparing to up Solomon's speed again while in their demense. "Never even met her before, but you like her.. good enough for me." Muttering in High speech between spell preparation.

The cigar moves from one side to the next as Sanguine starts the life ritual. "Can that shit," he growls.

Leaning against the workbench, he gestures to the bike. His eyes and his features tell differing tales to his age. The worn nature of his skin and scars along his arms would say late fourties, but there is something a bit more vibrant that someone pushing fifty; too much of a spark in the eyes.

"I want you to bring something here… I want to talk to one of those riders who showed up last night. I got a deal for 'em."

The cigar moves from one side to the next as Sanguine starts the life ritual. "Can that sh*t," he growls.

Leaning against the workbench, he gestures to the bike. His eyes and his features tell differing tales to his age. The worn nature of his skin and scars along his arms would say late fourties, but there is something a bit more vibrant that someone pushing fifty; too much of a spark in the eyes.

"I want you to bring something here… I want to talk to one of those riders who showed up last night. I got a deal for 'em."

He'd smirk in reply and curve his arms behind his back, tilting his head with a snort. "Depends .. are you feelings what you felt before?"

His hands twisted across his back and tilted his head to his strapped weapon, removing the sheath of his lunargent blade and moving to set it down gently against the wall. He'd scratch his head with his free hand, shaking his head. "It'll attract them easier."

In these times of doing what you're told
You keep these feelings, no one knows
What ever happened to the young man's heart
Swallowed by pain, as he slowly fell apart

"Yah. I still got it."

The thrysus nodding, dropping a sheaf of hay and coal onto the center of the summoning circle, and laying old western dolla coins with a revolver on top. His chanting began, slow at first and then increasing until there was a sudden thunderstrike, close and strong.

Solomon crossed his arms. "This it?"

Sanguine only chuckled as the thick fog began to roll in, mist clinging to the two awakened men in clingy moist auras. The scent of sulfer wafted over the summoning room as the two heard the slow and steady clicking of metal shod hooves upon the ground; sparks making mometary lights through the fog; for a moment all was silent until the monster breathed, flames gouting through the air with the distinct order of brimstone. Upon it's back sat the leanest man Solomon had ever seen, black longcoat clothing; even the bandana at his neck was done in black and greys. His face, the bone white of a skeleton as he took off the wide brimmed black hat that rested upon it; freed from the hat, the skull burst into a cacophany of black, red, and blue flames.

"Who summons me?" came the slow, southern, drawl.

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

Letting his own nimbus flare, he felt the supernal god-flames burn over his face and the warrior called Solomon stepped forwards. "I called you, Rider. I got an offer for you."

Focusing on the spirit, Solomon did not have the presence of mind to notice the subtle widening of Sanguine's eyes as he watched the nimbus of his cabalmate, normally superimposed over his physical face and head, slowly settle down into his face. The skin melted away; leaving only the echo of bone from the Rider to the adamant soldier. The scent of burning rubber joined the brimstone as Solomon's coat and boots began smoking and lighting ablaze.

"I'm listening, rider," came the response from the man on the horse.

"You're Vengeance, ain't ya?" he said, throwing the cigar to one side.

"Some call it Justice, son."

Send a message to the unborn child
Keep your eyes open for a while
In a box high up on the shelf, left for you, no one else
There's a piece of a puzzle known as life
Wrapped in guilt, sealed up tight
What ever happened to the young man's heart
Swallowed by pain, as he slowly fell apart

"I got me some Justice to do, then," Solomon said, looking from rider to mount and back, "I caught your attention last night, and you've caught mine. My offer... is this. You need Justice done on the world... means you need a living and breathing body to do it. I need help... I need to be able to bring that Justice... to right the wrongs... to avenge the fallen."

The horse nickered, gouts of flame shooting from it's nostrils.

"What you got for chimmage, rider?" the southern man drawled again.

Stepping forwards, Kane, gestured to the piled items. "Guns and money for you... food and fuel for your ride."

The man clucked his cheek against his teeth. "You keep my mount fed... you keep my holster full, and we got ourselves an understanding, rider."

One bony hand extended from the man, leaning down from the horse. Solomon spat into his own skeletal hand and grasped the other rider, firmly. Blazing hellfire shot down his arm, burning away the leather jacket's arms as his boots exploded fire and the watching spirit master winced; bringing a hand to his face to sheild his eyes from the hellfire.

Quick as the summer wind, the southern man drew his six shooter from his holster and leveled it at Solomon's head. He had just enough time to register the sight of the barrel as the skeleton hand pulled the trigger and the bushi's world exploded into a haze of pain and fire.

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

Everyone's pointing their fingers
Always condemning me
And nobody knows what I believe
I believe

And then it was done, Solomon's flesh returned as he stood in the center of the now empty summoning circle; rubber, brimstone, and gasoline wafting over the room.

"How you feelin, you crazy man?" came Sanguine's smirking answer. He'd known what was occuring... Thrysus occasionally did this... made deals with spirits to act as their fetter... a synergy that profitted both rider and ridden.

Slowly the ringing thunder in his ears, that sounded almost like hollow laughter, faded away enough for Solomon to look over at the motorcycle. Immediately, it revved to life, spouting gusts of flame from the mufflers. While it did not move, the egine rumbled it's deep basso like a warhorse looking to its rider.

"Let's get to work."

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

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

Possible Legacy Notes

Thu, 15 Mar 2007 22:21:26 GMT

Will require Global approval... as Custom Legacy with NPC Teacher.

==========

Path of the Ghost Rider

Do you the devil’s work?

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 Riders 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 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 Riders, usually by means of the Court of Justice or Court of Vengeance. A rider 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 riders 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.

Parent Path: Obrimos

Nickname: Riders

Appearance: Most Riders 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

Attainments:

First Attainment: “Keep on Riding”

Requirements: Gnosis 3, Forces 2, Drive 2

Roll: Dexterity + Drive + Forces

Effect: Under this affect, both the Rider and his or her chosen vehicle come under the affect of the Forces 2 Rote “Energy Shield”. The mana cost will cover both the Rider and their vehicle. In addition, with further activation rolls, one per effect, the Rider and their vehicle may violate laws of physics in terms of movement. Their vehicle can traverse previously un-traversable terrain, such as water or heavy mud. Likewise, the vehicle and Rider may travel along any surface wide and strong enough to support the vehicle; however the vehicle must still behave as the vehicle normally would; a car cannot fly, for example, and a motorcycle cannot travel backwards with any degree of speed.

OPTIONAL: Spirit 2 (Primary)
Effect: The fire left behind by the vehicles tires acts as a binding effect upon spirits and other assorted manifestations. The fire cannot be crossed by spirits without them taking damage, in sucesses, equal to the Riders Spirit + Gnosis - Resistance. If the Rider is able to circle the spirit three times, then this attainment acts as the Spirit 2 Rote "Soul Jar", the jar appearing in the vehicles trunk or saddle bags.

Second Attainment: “Rider in Other Worlds”

Requirements: Gnosis 5, Spirit 3, Drive 3

Roll: Dexterity + Drive + Spirit

Effect: At this level of attainment, the Rider becomes able to use their vehicle as an extension of self and travel between the mundane world and the Shadow. This emulates the Spirit 3 Rote “ Spirit Road ”.

Third Attainment: “Blazing Fury”

Requirements: Gnosis 7, Forces 4, Drive 4

Roll: Dexterity + Drive + Forces

Effect: Imbued with the need to overcome, overtake, and bring justice or vengeance to their chosen targets, the Rider can imbue their vehicle with the speed of raging fury itself. This attainment emulates the Forces 4 Rote “Velocity”, and uses mechanics as per that for speed modification.

OPTIONAL: Spirit 4(primary)
When taken under the mantle of the Rider, and focusing the spiritual and vengeful judgment upon an often unwilling target, causes the target to be overcome by the karmic and spiritual residue of their life and actions. The Rider rolls his Presence + Occult + Spirit minus the target's Resolve. Any successes are inflicted as lethal magical damage as the weight of the target's past actions come falling down upon them.

Thu, 15 Mar 2007 22:03:01 GMT

Not again…

The man known as Solomon Kane kneeled in some attempt at mediation; the garage around him was silent as his eyes roamed over the motorcycle that he would come to know. His old bike was now little more than a puddle of condensation, somewhere on the side of the highway, changed by WT Chance to leave no evidence of their catastrophic race. The roar of engines still sounded in his ears, distant and hazy as the dull fury and rage that sat in the back of his mind. It waited, he knew, for an outlet. For the right moment and time to pour out of him so that he might shoot it, like a cannon, onto the place and form of his foe.

He'd felt, more than seen, the two nightmares that rode with him, drawn to his anger and task. He'd felt the battle haze come over him, Chance's taillight's burning like two balefire demon eyes before him. There was too much at risk… too much at stake for him to allow himself to fail. He would follow the Way, and succeed, or die facing his enemy. The miles had sped on, every ounce of him pouring into the race to save Noel, and yet it was not enough. Speed would not succeed, and he'd dimly recalled feeling his supernally bony hand reach back for the shotgun. He'd not violate the terms of the race by attacking Chance, but there were loopholes. His flaming eyes aimed at the road ahead of his foe's bike, calculating the speed of both vehicles, road, and bullet as he fired – it should have been the perfect shot; a pothole in front of Chance's bike would force him to slow down and maneuver.

And then the weight of more gravity than was normal landed on the end of his barrel; his shot was thrown wide and low as the muzzle dropped; flaring with the cartridge as it rocketed out, hitting Chance's bike in the back tire. The man launched from the seat of the vehicle as it begun to spin up into the air after him, and the thought registered like a bolt inside the adamant warrior's mind.

High-side. It was the peril of every biker, an accident that threw the rider up into the air and the motorcycle following. The fall was not what
killed you, nor the skidding upon the ground – what killed the rider was when his bike would inevitably come crashing down upon him.

It did not register to him that he should let the man die; that this was the enemy – only that this was not the Way, this was not an honorable
defeat of his foe. Hell scream echoed from his throat as he steered the bike between his legs, hands reaching out to telekinetically slow the other man's descent.

The bullets from Chance's guns never touched him, as the other man fired over Solomon's shoulder. As he thought about it, he was not sure in that moment if Chance shot away the wreckage of his bike, or was shooting Gypsy for what he could only assume was her interference. Fury built into hellfire rage as he heard the sound of Gypsy's body hitting the ground, and Chance was dropped without any ado – the flaming hellfire motorcycle turning under Solomon's expert hands. There was but a moment's pause as he registered the sickening crack of Chance's head upon the concrete and saw the two wraithlike spirits descend upon Gypsy.

Never again! Not. Ever. Again!

The howl that came from his lips could have been summoned from any pit of hell as the bike rocketed towards the two figures. Fury and primal force shot down his arm and into his shotgun as the runes upon the barrel glowed red hot for a moment and ejected a shell of the purest hellflame; rending and shattering one of the figures that hovered over the fallen Obrimos; sending it back to whatever pit from which it had been spawned.

And then his vision was obscured by the form of WT Chance, landing a fist onto the front tire of his motorcycle. Shock overcame fury and he
rocketed over the handlebars of his bike and the hell-flame died away from him as the nightmares vanished. He was barely able to register Chance's words after he skidded to a stop, eyes staring at the ground where the wraith had taken Gypsy.

In a cold garage, one hand gripped the hilt of a ritual shotgun with a white-knuckle grasp, his senses tracing out over the fate lines and
cross the city to find his fallen friend.

There was so much I wanted to tell you.