Scene #6781: Lover Clad in the Raiment of Tears

Owner	Pose
Bloody Revelations	The use of some liberally applied Crypt Grip circumvents the no doubt extremely convoluted set of seals at the last stage of the Lover's crystal tower of nightmare navigation, opening the suitably, grandiloquently gigantic onyx doors inward --with a great deal of pushing and straining, to the point of audible metal stress, as if they weren't really meant to be opened physically. The dual slabs of black crystal apparently serve a function to keep in as much as to keep out, because the tremendous amount of invisible energy that washes out from the gap goes beyond merely electric and into electrocuting. A palpable, painful tide of Death Essence surges through your nerve endings, pricking and burning like little candle flames all over. It takes a while for the 'pressure difference' to normalize; until then, each breath is like inhaling dry ice. The whole camber beyond, gushing out that kind of power, reverberates with a heavy, dizzying hum, tricking the ears in a way that makes you feel like you're standing inside a centrifuge. It's not what one would expect inside. The absurd lavishness and overdone hedonism of the lower floors, starting to taper off into the upper, heavily defended reaches, abruptly terminates on the threshold. The room beyond is entirely built on a perfectly (really) circular and level floor of semitransparent obsidian engraved wall to wall with sigils that'd require a magnifying glass to read, concentrating lines of pulsating power through layers of geometry inward towards the center. Giant pillars of black iron and ghostly blue-white crystal vibrate quietly with static energy, branching like trees into elegant, incredibly dense networks of braided wires, glittering with lights that dapple the ground like walking through a forest. The whole perimeter of the room is dedicated to an almost contiguous set of desks and shelves arranged in multiple tiers that hold uncountable books, scrolls, and ancient data crystals at eye level, displays of hundreds upon hundreds of places in Creation --live-- in mirrors up above, and deconstructed automata, partially dissected non-human corpses, elaborate soulsteel gizmos, and exotic Wyld-bartered reagents of frozen lightning and melted dreams at a desk level. The half-assembled chassis of a warstrider even larger and more elaborate than downstairs stands in one spot, surrounded by a hyper-compact sort of factory assembly and scaffold. Tubes of floating people, these ones unearthly beautiful and physically perfect, stand in another. A triple fountain arrangement of three hundred skulls scribbled with the entire contents of a book takes up more space. The inconsequential, hedonistic joke has been insanely busy. Busy for a long time, by the looks of it. Everything in the room is beyond cutting edge. All of it radiates crackling power or palpable unease, subtly warping factors around it or existing in some impossible state. The center of the room is a ten meter wide, circular dead drop, that goes down who knows how far, which hums with its own, localized gravity.
Bloody Revelations	The ghost woman herself is with the tubes. Specifically with a summoned table, holding up an incomplete body. She is surrounded by elegant black automata of various shapes and sizes, handing over various Essence-powered engineering tools and syringes of strange compounds. She hums to herself as she works, practically dancing back and forth between each side with unearthly grace. There's some sort of crystal implanted in the body's lower skull cavity, spreading soulsteel wires out into the pale, perfect flesh. Speaking of which, it probably shouldn't come as any sort of surprise that a ghost as ancient and powerful as a Deathlord, and yet as vain and flighty to name herself as she did, has taken the opportunity to give herself the flawless, mythological ideal of an appearance --the face and figure and air of a woman of legend whom historically dubious wars were fought over. That, in fact, applies to everyone. That is, each individual person, looking at the same figure, each sees their own, keenly accurate ideal of 'the most beautiful woman they can imagine', exactly to preferences they might not even know they have. They all share a common enough thread to be 'the same person', but perversely enough, there doesn't seem to be anything particularly depraved about her. At least not from appearance's sake. "Forcing your way in like that was a little inelegant at the finish, wasn't it? You were doing so well at the start. I'm disappointed now. A couple of you were thinking of some suitably epic feats to breach that last seal, weren't you? I'll make something up later. Something that ends the story in a more interesting way." She turns away from her bioengineering project. The perfect, soulless female body on the stretcher is filled with a number of tiny components. She sets down a surgical laser, and a chair-like automaton rushes up behind her where she sits down on the spot. "Your friend isn't with you? That's even worse. Well, it worked thrice before. There's no reason to think you couldn't do the same thing. Butt right in and fight 'till your dying breath. There's fewer of you than before, though. Still. I feel as though I'm being underestimated by someone I expected to see through that."
Haguro	"Somehow, I'm not surprised at this... All of this." Haguro comments as the crew makes their way into the tower, frowning slightly at the overdone spectacle of everything surrounding them. She might have been impressed and even stunned by this sort of display in the past, but the need to finish what had been started with that odd circus pushes her past that. It doesn't mean she won't come back later to try and find interesting reading material later, of course, but Haguro has her priorities straight right now. Plus, those floating tube people has her squinting and wrinkling her brow in disgust too much to gawk at anything else in awe. It's only when she comes across the Lover that the Cruiser has to stop and stare, first in shock, and then in visible anger. For Haguro, the face she wears is all too familiar. "Not all of us are interested in the theatrics. But... Is this the part where we should be asking why you look like that? Why you seem so relaxed? Because..." Her hand clenches and unclenches a few times, her temper visibly flaring for several long moments even as the Deathlord takes a seat. Her turrets twist and turn, they point at the Lover, and then they do absolutely nothing. Shooting at the Deathlord would be just what she wants. It's probably what she's already prepared for. Instead, Haguro glances at one of the chair machines. She doesn't quite know how to beckon it or if it'll even listen, but she gestures at it. If it does come, she'll sit. "... I'll humor you. Why shouldn't we be doing what we normally do?"
Starbound Flotilla	George takes a careful step onto the floor. "Watch it, guys." He mutters. "That's Perfect Level." What? They move on. He eventually reaches the tube room, clearly ill at ease when it comes to what the woman looks like. "J, what the hell are-- Wait, no." He stops himself from breaking into something rude, realizing that they only LOOK like someone he knows. "Well, fair point, fair point. Honestly, wasn't expecting to get this far, or if I did, I was hoping our multipasses here would cover things." George says. "Usually, you know, bring my gang around to fill things out. But nah, naw." He shakes his head, lighting up a fresh cigarette. "Our benefactor won't be coming around. I dunno what she does that isn't help us, honestly, probably phoning her boyfriend like she's always doing." "Bring down some defenses and I'll bring in the rest of the Captains, huh?" He flips a little teleport-beacon around his hands. "Yeah? No? Your choice." Is he seriously asking her to lower supernatural defenses that might otherwise be preventing the Flotilla from joining in the battle wholesale? He's worried, admittedly; usually it takes full Flotilla Power to take on a Deathlord. Might just try the beacon once things start no matter what. His helmet slides up over his face, and the cigarette smoke fills the visor, making it impossible to see his eyes. "Alright, Ms. Never-Finish, looks like you're thinking of finally wrapping up a project instead of leaving it rolling. This ends the way it ends, not much that chatter and chill can throw off that track." His shotgun is in the off-hand, the beacon in the other, with George fiddling with it just enough to see if he can bring in the gang and fill out the assault with those numbers she was craving. Can he bring more heat if he /needs/ to? Because he probably will. If that science project makes a move that looks menacing though, he intends to pump it full of military shotgun fire from the word go without waiting for it to complete its ominous rise. The Deathlord, at least, doesn't seem like one who will be standing up soon.
Azure Armature	The Crypt Grip shoves through the door with an inexorable force, more than equal to the task of applying pressure +1 to the necromantic barrier, the sealing talismans, the door, and even pushing through 'the waves of Death Essence' past it, an unbroken rock of stability and solidity that was already at home in the dark dimension of the Lover's undercroft. The rest of Azure Armature recoils lightly, though mustering her expression back to neutrality is a practiced art of focusing. "Elegance is for civic planners and those artists chosen to uplift. Not for combat operations - efficency is the highest goal, after completion of operational objectives." Armature's burning pyreflame arm flakes away, the digitized copy of the power having expended its energy and fading back to normalcy. "Suitably epic feats would be a drain on time and resources. The point of a door is to delay. The point of a breach is to enter with the least necessary force." The room is taken in with a slow pan of the eyes - no quick saccade but the mechanical swivel of a camera - acompanied a soft whirr of optical adjustments as her eyes telescoped and focused on this and that. The 'perfect' creatures have a chilling familiarity, a kinship with the Alchemical, even if the Lover is distant from the techniques of the Great Maker. She's not as distant as Armature would like. In fact, in many ways, she's all but caught up, and were she to inspect them, she would most likely find some small improvements in the necrotech arrays and techniques. Even so. A near-silent hum of power, of gathering Essence and executing subroutines and personal enhancements 'charging her shot', emits from the tactically geared Alchemical as she paces horizontally around the room. "If you wonder why we've left the screaming, inefficent rabble behind, then you can reflect on the foolishness of the Mask of Winters and his defeat at great cost, and then the destruction of Eye and Seven Despairs, without the chaff. There are two mistakes to any engagement planning - bringing too little." Armature levells her right hand, gloved palm up and braced at the forearm by loose fingers. "And bringing too much." Instead of going 'ok so tell us your plan', Armature's eyes flick between George's teleport beacon and the Lover herself. It's hard not to look, really. Even as cold as Armature puts on it's certainly hard not to look at Appearance: Yes.
Lezard Valeth	Lezard has no desire to get BTFO of his flesh again. As most people know, having a proper anchor is essential for spiritual entities to avoid various Important Necromancer Problems. His body is currently that anchor. Therefore, when Azure handles the problem with Crypt Grip, he relaxes. Slightly. The wave of concentrated Death Essence washes out, and Lezard immediately thrusts the Manus Catalyst forward, the Essence washing around him and preventing the necrotic caress from building up further around his body. Too much exposure to the energies of death can cause unfortunate side effects to a living body and these are /not/ cheap to reproduce, damn it. It's not like putting on another cheap suit. The sight inside is... Impressive, really. Lezard takes notes. This is the kind of geomantic layout he can get behind for the most part. He doesn't have much time to examine or commit much to memory, however. They are walking into a proper laboratory. There are various setups here that are simply universal amongst those who attain a certain level of research. Looking upon the Lover, however, immediately causes Lezard to clench his teeth, eyes widening as he sees the subtle curves, the features of the face, as if he sees someone he is intensely familiar with. For several moments, he is silent, the voice enough to break the momentary spell that her appearance might have cast over the Sorceror of Midgard, the man raising a gloved hand to his face and shaking his head, wrenching his eyes away with a visible effort of will to instead gaze upon the beings in the tubes. "My, you /have/ been busy. One must admit that you are far more intellectually inclined than I had given you credit for. A mistake I will be sure to apologize profusely for once this is all said and done. After all, it is poor form to speak ill of the dead, is it not? What do you seek to accomplish here, truly? Are you not already effectively immortal?"
Bloody Revelations	As far as George can tell, breaking the door's sealing has regained him a green light from the teleport beacon. Well. A yellow one. They are, after all, still in Creation proper, even if it's a Shadowland. The Fortress of Crimson Ice exists 'on the surface'. The spatial positioning is shaky and uncertain inside, but the uncovered chamber is a big, blinding beacon of energy to target teleports at. Yet, still, despite being menaced with most of an array of firepower that took out three Deathlords already, the Lover doesn't seem all that antagonized. It's bizarre. One would probably expect the full Lady Villain Act being played out to eleven at this point. Instead, she seems remarkably patient about the whole thing, reclining in her overly plush mechanical chair, passively exuding sulty and desirable body language even in the act of leaning back, folding a leg and resting her head on her hand. "Don't bother apologizing for it. It's what I like. Who would think to care about a 'rival' whose only holdings are silly little things like a goat shaving kingdom or a traveling circus? Knights who seem only to lose artifacts to enemy hands. A tribe of barbarians instead of any kind of military. Teensy weensy territory and no holdings but a Manse to speak of. It's an optimal state of zero distractions, you might say. Nobody would bother with someone so vacuous and shallow, with no accomplishments to her name, while there are armies at their doorstep and spies in their court. Oh, but please don't tell anyone though." She drums her fingers on the arm of her chair. Somehow her gaze is exactly like that which Lezard has always dreamed of capturing from his Valkyrie. She isn't even putting on a spell to do it. It just is. "Of course I am. Theoretically, we all are, but I'm afraid too many of the others take it for granted. They don't seem to realize that they were given their power at their masters' sufferance. After all, they're ghosts, aren't we? Were were only Exalted in a previous life. Those shards have new masters now. Outside of our millennia of experience, why should the ghost of one human be greater than any other? Used to being all-powerful in life, desperate to have it again, maybe they've forgotten that they have it only by striking that bargain when they were betrayed and killed all those years ago. So eager to think of it as their own. As earned, instead of given, oh well." "What I'm saying is that the Mask of Winters, Eye and Seven Despairs, the Bodhisattva Anointed by Dark Waters; I'm very much aware of them. I was already spying on everything they were doing before you killed them. And that's fine~ Normally, that would barely be an inconvenience to them. A year out of action, perhaps. But you know what? I doubt any of them are coming back. Why? Because all of them were in tremendously poor standing with their masters, and too self-centered to notice~ I bet that's why your cute little friend targeted them first. Even as Deathlords, at the deepest circles of the Abyss, they are almost persona non grata. Votes of no-confidence. They've died and been returned to the Void, but, well . . ." "You saw the Eye's Manse yourselves right? If you were his master, would you give him back a huge portion of your power, bring him back to life, and send him back into the field again? The Neverborn are oh so very distant and irrelevant to you, I know, and the acquaintances you've met have cared so little that they answer to them, it's unsurprising, but I'll share with all you a secret."
Bloody Revelations	The Lover smiles as she brings a finger to her lips. "I'm not bothered by dying in the slightest. The others are tethered by their hatred of the betrayers that killed them, but frankly, I was so unspeakably bored that, in retrospect, I'm glad to have shed the burden of life. Of being Exalted. I've no hard feelings either way~ In fact, it's my greatest hope that everyone comes to understand that. The knowledge that living has only a finite worth, and it's used up sooner or later; that happiness, pleasure, fulfillment, power, have a limited amount of sparkle, and the only answer once they run out is Oblivion. Then maybe they wouldn't make such a fuss about living and dying --preserving and killing. Trying to force the world into the Void is ridiculous on such a fundamental level, when the very innermost nature of humans is to inwardly long for it once they've tasted their fill of sweetness." "Unfortunately for you, you've run out of . . . acceptable targets. The only way for you to go now is through the lords with the support of our almighty benefactors. You've run out of rope, and run out of luck. Even killing me here, I'll be right back. Even if you destroy all of this, all I need to rebuild it is right here." The Lover taps her head with a perfect little smirk of her painted lips. "I thought it might be more useful --more interesting-- to learn some things about you, instead of desperately try to kill you like the others have failed to do so far. I thought I might want to learn more about the little girl putting you all up to it, since she has such a compelling history. Then, I can make a project out of eliminating you later --one you won't have any chance to thwart, of course. Or I can wait for someone else to do it. Or you can just die of age. Honestly, you're welcome to stay. There's more than a lifetime's worth of satisfaction to be found here. You can indulge until you've used up the rest of your reason to live --until you've experienced the heights of pleasure-- and have nothing else left to bother with. That'd be fine by me."
Haguro	Haguro doesn't get a seat, but she makes do. Instead, she crosses her arms while letting her turrets twist and turn, eventually settling down as the Lover speaks and jerking back to life each time she moves around. Haguro knows it's not her, and that just makes the bubbling anger worse. "Indeed, your holdings are... To be honest, I can't see them being of any strategic use compared to what else there is for the same effort involved." She taps a finger on her elbow, starting to pace slowly while weighing the Lover's words. The talk of past kills has her thinking, and the shift to the difference with the Lover solidifies it. "You're different from the others, then. You may not have the same... Visibility that they had, but you also haven't failed your masters the same way they had. Or if you had, not enough to be... Left in the Void?" She's fishing a bit, but that's partially due to what's been outright said and partially due to still not completely getting how this whole Exalted thing works. Damn reincarnation cycles. Glancing over at Lezard and Azure Armature, Haguro finally stops pacing to step towards the Lover. "Do you expect us to really give you that sort of information? If you already know why we're here, then you couldn't have expected us to just volunteer it freely."
Starbound Flotilla	George thinks for a minute. His visor goes back up, his helmet re-folds, and he puts his hand into his beard to properly, significantly think about it. After a while, it seems, he might reveal some information to her. Probably not a good decision on his part. "That can't be right." He comes to the conclusion. "And I don't think it's because there's something wrong with you. I think you don't know what's up. I think it's because there's something right about her. Our benefactor, I mean. Mask and tools like that, that's acceptable losses for the Neverborn, and maybe you're not." He brings the cigarette between his fingers. "But the problem is you don't know spooky's rightness, and I know she's got more rightness in her than you do. Now, sure, I'm just some old man, never reincarnated or heard the will of anything more ancient than bad politics. But I've seen some things, and I know what they mean when I see them, I think." He stops gesturing, and leaves the cigarette in his mouth, taking a long drag of it as if the smoke is something he needs inside him to form the words. "She walks the kind of walk that someone with high backing has. Like she's connected. Or channeling. Or something like that. I may not know my big soul from my little soul, or my essence from my prana, or however the cosmology goes, but..." He racks the shotgun and shifts the cigarette between his lips, before beginning a slow walk forward. "Seen enough of Bloody Revelations to wonder if you'll really come out on top, when it comes to favor. She isn't what you think she is. And god's sakes, girl, aren't you bored as hell of how things are? Running cycles of satisfaction before it all gets used up? You don't get that nihilism without some self-hatred. Don't you wanna see what glorious, better thing comes crawling out of your smoke and ash when all this gets burned down? Don't you wanna know what grows when you plant the ash acres? Hell, lady, doesn't the heat of that bonfire party at the end of the world like that sound like the only kind of good time left after everything else has gotten used up?" "C'mon." George says. His voice is filled with a truly unnervingly compelling amount of motivation. "You seem like a party sort of girl. This might be the last chance we get to shake Creation, hell, shake folks like you out of the First-Age hangover. Only way to do that is to take the coffee and let go of the pain. A little searing black feels wrong going down, but it's the only way to shake off that headache. All the other ones, sure, we had to use the disfavor, or some tricks, or things like that, to really get 'em sobered up. But you know the number. You've partied this party before. Don't you want to /finally/ snap out of the hangover? It's like a cold shower. You wanna fight it, or you wanna take it but disagree with it. But you know it's the only way." He presents the muzzle of the shotgun like a gift. "Just my opinion. What do you think, partygirl?" On some level, he intuits, if he does somehow /manage to kill her/ -- alleged willingness to die or otherwise -- under the circumstances, Bloody Revelations will hopefully be able to somehow achieve access to the ensuing byproduct as it re-enters the pool of available resources. She's amenable to simply dying. George, however, is trying to make whatever enters that pool of resources potentially more useful to Bloody Revelations herself. Either way, he's likely to pull the trigger once the outcome of all this is clear. Or, if he happens to be just so lucky, if Lover invites it. But George has been lucky this whole adventure. He's expecting snake eyes now.
Azure Armature	"I have heard so many words spoken on this topic. The musings of every one of the Deathlords on why we're wrong. On why what they're doing is acceptable. On their plan, their vision for Creation. It's always the same. Some variation on 'and then, eventually, I'll win'. The Mask of Winter's grand campaign. Eye and Seven Despair's designs upon the most exquisite agonies and tortures. Still, both of them were failures, mistakes, fools. Eye, of course, was too limited in scope. Too obsessed." Armature paces, each step calculated and sure, a metering of distance in orbit around the target. She notices that George's teleportation beacon had become active, and a slow smile builds at the corners of her generally impassive lips. "You're all mistakes. You're all failures. You're each broken in a different way, each a malfunction in a process, a design, a blueprint that should have been solved two ages ago. Before you were a ghost. I can sympathize more with the Bhodisattva's reach, his dreams, than yours. But you're all failures. You don't - you can' - align against the things you must. Align yourselves towards not a righteous cause, but a right one. One that goes forward. So obsessed with all of it..." Armature closes her readied fingers into a fist with a deliberate, finger-by-finger close. "You can't go there. You can't go where you need to go, and do what needs to be done. You're defective. Parts like you..." George begins speaking, and his impassioned speech - his scathing-yet-empathetic line - causes Armature to stop circling, to halt her own moment for the old man to bear his own heart out of the barrel of his gun. 'Blue' nods along, a laugh-like snort. She finishes her own thought quietly afterwards. "... get replaced." There's a knowing gesture of her bracing hand, indicating herself. "But if you'd rather I spare you the posturing and dramatic speeches because you've heard them before, I understand. Death happens to heroes. That's why you build cities."
Lezard Valeth	That gaze is precisely why Lezard is caught between two impulses at the moment. Logically, he knows exactly what's going on. But he is still at his core human, and humans don't run on pure logic. So he focuses on her words instead, trying to block out the sight of that expression, stoking the rage in the back of his mind as an antidote to the alternative. When she finishes, he replies dryly, "Unfortunately for you, I fully intend to exist eternally. There will always be something new to work towards." He shrugs. "The failures of the others simply made them easier targets. This does not mean that the rest are not vulnerable. That said..." His eyes narrow for a moment. "If you are truly so bored and exhausted, why stay at all? Surely if you profess this, you have already come to that conclusion. Why preserve yourself? Do your words not indicate that the rest of Creation would inevitably simply fall into Oblivion on a long enough timeline, or are you somehow dedicating yourself to accelerating that situation through your various... indulgences?" Then something... cracks, in his tone, his anger beginning to leak out. "And yet you dare? You dare to continue to persist in this absurdity? You know what you are dealing with, and you continue to present yourself in your belief that you are somehow exempt, somehow incapable of meeting the same fate? Do you believe that I an somehow incapable of bringing an end to you? You are but a shade. What does not grow, falls into decay." The Catalyst strikes the floor with a sharp crack. "How much decay is behind that pretty mask of yours, Deathlord? You swore yourself to Oblivion, did you not? How much did you truly pay for the pleasure? Do you think you have sacrificed more than our patron? Do you think you have sacrificed enough for the ability to transcend what you have come to be /bored/ by?" He gestures. "If existence bores you so, then /craft a new existence/. Are you attempting to simply talk us to death? What are you stalling for? Do you believe you can convince us to spare you before we attempt to consign you to the Oblivion you presumably serve?"
Bloody Revelations	"Why continue?" the Lover croons, yet flutters her eyelashes with genuine, if overly put on, confusion. "I thought that much would be obvious to you. Since I'm done with Creation --done with the First Age and every age since --with life and death, gods and ghosts, the only pleasure left is the visceral joy of indulging in that inner barbarian we all have, no? That intrusive little voice that makes you wonder at what it'd be like to destroy your most precious possession, or harm your greatest love. You shut it out, of course, because it leads nowhere but ruin, but after you've enjoyed the heights of every kind of joy and pleasure it can bring to you, what's left but to feel the pleasure of doing that thing you always forbade yourself from doing?" "The last pleasure to be had from anything is always ending it. And don't pretend like you don't take satisfaction in destruction yourselves. I'll squeeze every last drop of excitement there is out of burning out Creation one bit at a time, and then when that's all done, I'll join Oblivion gladly. That thing the others swore to do, but don't really intend on~" Having all the weapons pointed at her, the Lover outstretches her hand, and another elaborate servitor comes to her, bearing a fine soulsteel rapier in its hands, which she picks up. That is to say, not a daiklave, or artifact energy weapon; it's just a rapier. An exotic, possibly sentimental, mirror of a mortal weapon. That's one taste shared in common. She turns it around in her hand, but doesn't do more than toy with it. "Well if you'd been very polite and told me everything, I'd have rewarded you. I'm perpetually shocked that nobody else seems to realize that people stop so strenuously objecting to the end of the world if they enjoy it. I've gathered plenty of information about you from the places in my domain you've been so far, of course. Especially my palace. Not as much as I'd like, I'll admit. It's a shame that it looks like I won't get the Melkin back. I expected her to slip your grasp, but I've come to find out that that girl loathes female allies of Death almost as much as her peculiar hatred for that certain Realm Dynasty. The Wood Caste one. You should be familiar with Lookshy, yes? I'd wondered if she might have had history while alive, but of all the things that Silence man keeps locked down, that bit of knowledge is curiously one of them." At Azure Armature though, she can only laugh. Not a malevolent cackle or mad, unhinged tittering. The laugh of someone who so rarely ever hears anything amusing that the slightest novelty is instantaneously seized upon. "Of course! You're not wrong little girl. Not even slightly. After all, if we weren't failures, why would we be here? The Sun himself gave us dominion over all Creation and we couldn't even handle that! Human beings, Exalted, Deathlord, or otherwise, aren't meant to fix anything! It's not in the cards, and it never was. Why would we be created to be so temporarily useful if we were meant to matter? Even if you make a human eternal, and give them all the power of the gods, so that they no longer fail from age or weakness, they reach the limits of their heart soon enough. The mind and soul fail, and they take everything around them with it. It's one of the Five Understandings we teach all of our new Knights, though everyone has a different take on it. 'Mortals propel the downfall of Creation."
Bloody Revelations	"You'll be no different. This world is old. It's tired. It's dying. You can stall it if you like, but every piece of it that dissolves into the Wyld, or slips into the Abyss; it isn't coming back. Even the Underworld slowly slips into the Mouth of the Void, an inch at a time. Stygia itself is the only thing that holds it at bay --destroying it would accelerate that process to a matter of years. The only ones with the power to breathe life back into anything are long dead. People aren't the shepherds of Creation, and refusing to bow out once they're done is exactly how it got this way. There's nothing to replace it with. No matter what, all you can settle for are the least inferior components." It's George she fixes with the most interest, though it's keenly felt in the sense that she barely comprehends his words. It's like he's speaking a language she only knows part of, or an intense dialect that's barely recognizable as the same one. "You really do like her a little more than you should. Especially knowing so little. Not that I fault you for that; even I haven't brought to like all that much. Not enough to have a chat over~ I understand why you might be so enamoured. Inspired, even. It's a tempting proposition. A big promise. A larger than life persona. That 'air' about it is intoxicating. In all this muddy, bloody, burnt out and degenerating world, the feeling of a 'cause' --of a right path-- is a raft anyone would cling to. A sense of clarity and purpose, and a figurehead capable of exuding that rare sort of aura about it. It's almost saintly, isn't it? It its own dangerous, excitingly unstable way. Honestly, I'd like her for myself. 'That man' doesn't understand a thing about her. But I'll say this at least:" "What that girl wants --what she really wants, more than what she says-- is something that might only exist in her own mind. All the Deathknights meet the Neverborn once, early on, and they all come out a little 'broken' after, in their own unique ways. That one, I think, might have been before she even went in. Of course, I'd be oh so very curious to see if it is all a mad little delusion, or if there's any proof to any of it, but that'd necessitate my final death first. Myself more than any other." "She can't stand what I have, you see. The world would end for good before she'd tolerate I keep it." Finally, the Lover rises up from her seat, swishing her rapier a couple of times experimentally. A baroquely ornamented obsidian mirror, black yet perfectly reflective, with eleven sides, hovers up off a vanity to her shoulder, like an obedient falcon. "That all said, are you going to try to kill me or not? I could get some amusement out of running one or two of you through."
Starbound Flotilla	"The things I know about Bloody Revelations are the kinds of things you don't learn from enlightenment, or teachers, history, or even living a long time. You just know." George says. "And you've never not known." He takes up the cigarette out of his mouth, and flicks it to one side. "Thing is, sure, maybe she's wrong, and mad. I'm not here for Wernher Von Braun. I'm here for the bomb. Maybe we plant the ash acres and nothing sprouts. No matter what comes out of this, I get what I want. I'm not here for her, I'm here for what she's here for -- or at least a neighbor. You're not understanding, you're hearing a different language than what I'm speaking. The people don't matter. The enticement, the manipulation, the madness isn't real and it never was. She's in control, but she's still tuned her radio to a channel that's right next door to the..." He takes a deep breath. He's lighting a new cigarette. "Alright, Lover. Let's make this one fun for you, huh?" The beacon slams into the ground behind George, unfolding into a large telepad fast. George moves like water in zero-gravity, shifting and bouncing off the ground to maneuver around an inevitable rapier strike in a way that seems agnostic to gravity. He's marked by a trail of sickly hospital-scent smoke. His shotgun blasts over and over. The rest of the Flotilla are going to try to shimmer into the battle; if they can get a solid lock, they'll charge out with their melee weapons all at once, though Seft and Moonfin will inevitably be on the frontlines of the charge.
Azure Armature	"The Bloody Revelation has a wisdom of her own. One that all the Deathlords prod at, but never seize. Each scheme has been one of bided time and broken things. They fail to act, and in failing, they fail to win. They 'not lose' by inches." Dropping her readied hand - now a fist - to her side, Armature strikes a far more confident pose, her left hand lightly resting on her hip. "Oblivion is inevitable. The void will consume all. The end is coming, all we have to do is wait." "Pathetic." "Useless." "It is a surrender. Fight!" Her voice rises, her posture canting forward. "The end will not come, victory won't come, because you want it to! Because you've given up so much that you deserve it? That the world can't be built? That the builders are dead? It's so easy to see nothing when you're blind, so easy to hear nothing when you're deaf!" An accusatory finger raises. "The very name of our ally is the truth of things. No victory is won bloodlessly, painlessly. You can't wait it out. You're too beautiful to hide away, but you do. You have no passion because you've given up on it. The world's given up on you. Oblivion is entropy, a natural emptying. The Wyld is chaos, an unfulfilled promise, resources yet to be obtained. You were once a golden king! I've read the files. Scanned them personally. You know that life is a resource, and death is a cycle, and all these things are in a balance, but you banished the scale! You refuse to see." "I've only five minutes for the blind. Let's see if you're as pleasing in motion as you are at rest." Disappearing in a clap of unhidden translocating energy, she appears 'above' the Lover, a black spiderweb veil falling over her hair and face. "Show us the pleasures of the flesh in motion, you who found emptiness in excess." Armature 'lands' atop the air, a single black thread stuck across the wall like a tension wire, which she crouch-perches on. Another one is found when the loyal mirror bumblefloats into it, and six are found as the Lover tries to move various limbs - monofiliment wires that shine like black diamond when touched. "I analyzed your earlier trap, and have formulated this Soul Spiderweb." A hand moves down between her perched feet to twang the wire, and sieze a grip of thin threads, which she manipulates like marionette wires that crackle with cracklingly lethal red Essence electricity. Of course, Blue's allies aren't affected. Why would they be? She has magic cop wires.
Haguro	Although the Lover had made sense earlier, the longer she speaks, the more skeptical Haguro looks. It's not even a confused skepticism where she might be entertaining the idea, but a thoroughly convinced skepticism. "Y... You could just not destroy the things you enjoy. Perhaps in your mind, that really is how things work, but... No." Haguro's expression has shifted drastically, and she almost sounds like she pities the Lover. "And even on the few... Some occasions I've destroyed things, they had mostly been necessary rather than for enjoyment. A weapon made for war doesn't have to enjoy destruction, as you don't..." She pauses. She's not quite sure how to proceed from there, the attempt at sounding wise not quite catching up with her mouth. The Lover is called the Lover for a reason. "... Need to enjoy only pleasure." That helps put things in perspective for the cruiser, and it's not a revelation that's all too comforting. Then again, considering their objective in coming here in the first place, wouldn't that make things easier? Still, maybe there's some sense that can be talked into the Lover. Haguro isn't all that confident about it, but Bloody Revelations did ask for some time. If nothing else, understanding the Lover's mindset would be useful in understanding that of any other Deathlords or targets. "You've given up too easily. You keep talking about how things are pointless, and that we should simply accept things, but when was the last time you attempted to bring life back to the world? To bring lasting changes that people will have no choice but to remember?" Haguro takes a moment to adjust the admiral's cap on her head, keeping her arms raised and moving ever so slightly to keep attention off her legs as the armor covering them glows in the back faintly. "I've already started it, and I'm not nearly as immortal as you. What's your excuse?" She doesn't wait for a response after that, though, as George springs into action with the rest of the Flotilla possibly appearing afterwards. Despite just standing there with a neutral and upright posture, Haguro suddenly jerks forward with a burst of speed as the thrusters kick on, hurling her towards the Lover! Except she's not going to ram right into her even if the Lover doesn't move. Haguro blips out of existence as she moves forward, phasing right through the Lover if she doesn't move. It's only when she's behind the Lover that Haguro pops back into existence, twisting around suddenly to try and put her into a full nelson hold, keeping her still for her allies' incoming attacks regardless of whatever harm may be inflicted on Haguro in the process. Sure, she could get maimed this way, but it'd probably hurt the Lover more. Or the person whose face she's wearing. Maybe she was right about the destruction thing.
Lezard Valeth	"This is what it looks like when even the gods themselves fail in their duties. Mayhaps it is only fitting that it is consigned to the darkness and obliterated... But you are far too shortsighted. I am no mere mortal for you to make such certain pronouncements upon. I have no /intention/ to /save/ this pitiful world. You lot have already damaged it beyond repair. I have much less grandiose plans for the moment for this incredible pile of incessantly apocalyptic conflicting powers." The Lover stands, and George is the first to decide to strike. Lezard nods, both a signal and a measure of respect. "Now, do enjoy your final revel. One does deserve one last moment of joy before their end, do they not?" Perhaps it is to Lezard's benefit that every time he sees Lenneth it tends to be her attempting to kill him. This is pretty familiar territory. One of those days, really. "Now, perish! FIRE LANCE!" He unleashes a barrage of burning, twisting spears through the air towards the Lover, but he does not stop there. He is expecting the mirror is something of a defensive artifact, and the Sorceror moves, lunging forward, attempting to predict the actions to follow. Should the mirror move to interpose itself, it will swiftly find Lezard bringing the heavy soulsteel-crowned Catalyst down upon it with terrific force, attempting to crush down upon the mirror with a disturbingly heavy blow from the weapon.
Bloody Revelations	"Next door to the what?" The Lover Clad in the Raiment of Tears almost snaps a little bit. Oddly enough, she wanted to hear the end of where George was going with that. As if it were getting to something important, or something from which she could intuit an answer she'd been seeking from. "Isn't it so that the ones before me, who were so eager to fight you, were destroyed right away?" she says to the Alchemical Exalted, though. "This world is all too full of people ready to make war. The age itself is approaching its end in a war that will dwarf any other since the revolt against its very creators. A million armies who will all gladly join against the first to poke the hornet's nest. War is the choice of an eager fool, and no one who lives this long remains that for long." 'you don't...need to enjoy only pleasure.' 'When was the last time you attempted to bring life back to the world? To bring lasting changes that people will have no choice but to remember?' The Lover, hearing those words, loses her patience instantly. Not just her patience. Her composure. Her bearing. Her lucidity. It's as if Haguro said half the words necessary to activate a sleeper agent, or turn a Dr Jekyll into a Mister Hyde. The Lover's pose hardens, she kicks aside her chair, and then advances upon the Kanmasu in a stiff stride of barely repressed fury. "What the hell do you think you know? A naive, idiot infant, simpering and whining about how she 'doesn't get it' and why the world isn't handed to her already. What is that ridiculous, sick little love of those ideas that took you hostage, huh? Giving things to other people? Sacrificing your own enjoyment? Wasting your finite life 'making memories' and seeking things that only make you unhappy? You're all taught that, and you'll all the same. Ridiculous! That's the vile, manufactured lie that hides the real progression of life and death! The absurd idea that you should live your life for some convenient purpose instead of enjoying everything you can while you have it! Girls like you disgust me! I'll make sure to kill you first, since you don't seem to appreciate what you have!" Despite her thematic apparently being along the lines of master manipulator and secret genius project architect, with only a rapier for a weapon, those things don't seem to preclude the Deathlord from being a menace. One additional step carries her across the room to Haguro like a stop motion slide. She thrusts her hand out towards her, and a slithering snake of ebon shadow shoots down the length of her arm and strikes at the Kanmasu, passing under her flesh and biting at something within her that inflicts a horrible, searing, numbing, existential cold, poisoning her soul rather than her flesh. She raises the rapier, and then Azure Armature's buster threads catch her. "When did you-?!" she snarls, suddenly caught up in a web of wires that immediately electrocute the living fuck out of her. Smoke rises from the charred lines in her perfect skin, which then begin to . . . less heal, but more turn into red welts, like burns from a candle or lashes from a whip. She goes from paralytic spasms of electrical agony, contorting herself into some sort of martial arts stance even halfway tied up, almost huskily declaring "Oh my, you'll have to do more of that." Haguro grabs her in that hold regardless, opening her up to repeated shotgun blasts from George, though they hit her as if he were firing rubber bullets, leaving scatters of red bruises rather than blowing her apart. He deploys the teleport beacon successfully, and the rest of the Flotilla has a moment to close in while she's occupied.
Bloody Revelations	The mirror doesn't seem to be exclusively a defensive thing. The Lover glances at her own image, and a gigantic amount of energy shoots from the eyes of her reflection and into her own, immediately surrounding her in a blazing aura of necrotic white mist, dissolving the spider wires. The mirror does move to her defense, but the extra web catches it regardless, leaving several of the flaming lances to skewer the Lover, who lets slip a scream that is uncomfortably close to a squeal. The mounting injuries caused by the Flotilla starting to beat on her as a group increase the coherency and strength of that aura, until it starts burning fiercely at Haguro holding her. At the time her body is thoroughly patterned in bruises and marks, it coalesces into something close to an Anima, and explosively propels the group away. She accelerates, and begins parrying weapons, magic, wire lashes, gunshots, and everything between, flowing through what look like eastern sword katas, done with an impossibly thin and translucent rapier. Each time she does, the sword rings in a strange way only the parried fighter can hear, and the effect of her appearance becomes overbearing. Overwhelming. The intense, overpowering feeling that they are attacking something perfect --something they love-- assaults them with every defense. It's the guilt of suddenly realizing one is viciously beating their sobbing, profusely apologizing fiance just loaded up into a syringe and injected raw into the brain. Likewise, where she thrusts and cuts, the rapier seems to deal no real damage to the flesh, but inject a second kind of poison to the heart: intense, fervent, maddening love and devotion to the Lover. Not 'the wielder'. Her. It's clear as daylight that the purpose is simply to sway the hearts and minds of everyone here in a brief skirmish, so even if she loses, when she comes back, they'll all be pliably vulnerable, if not torturously wracked with grief, guilt, and longing, until they come to her side when she resurrects, but it doesn't help the feeling in the slightest. A surge of whispers exudes from radio pieces, with the static white noise people listen for ghosts for in un-tuned electronics. "Good work, sorcerer~ The manse overloads in ten seconds. Please be at least five miles away~"
Azure Armature	At first, the whole battle takes place below Armature as she manipulates her tension wires, dancing above it all, stepping from razor wire to razor wire like a great mechanical spider. Ironic she has to buster a technique like this when her anima's mien is exactly that. The wave of ashen energy dissolves her spider-wires binding the Lover, and the secondary blast from the mirror drops her into the fray to engage in CQC. For all her absolute mastery of hand-to-hand and starmetal knife fighting, the Deathlord is most threatening because trading hits or making contacts fills her body not with injuries, but needs. Somehow, her cybernetic eyes soften, her clay-like skin brightens with heat, flush with need, and shines with exertion. It becomes more than a fight. It becomes abuse. And for long moments, as she closes in close combat in a lightning fast flurry of strikes, parries, reposts, and traded blows and points with the rapier of mind-poison, Armature gets more into it. Her feverish pace becomes a panting, sadistic rictus grin. "I'll break you, porcelain doll. You're the very worst kind of leftover. The one who doesn't understand!" A booted foot snaps - not physically, but via a point to point momentum-retaining zip - right into a thrust kick, shoving the Lover clear and away from Lezard, Armature heaving with unrestrained emotion as she tosses her knife between hands and shakes out her hair. She doesn't sweat, but she practically shines with the unearthed brutality of her deepest nature. "Loyalty to the process. To the state. Not to one person, not to the self, but to building and maintaining the great machinery. You can never know. But I'll give you a tiny hint to it." She translocates again, appearing behind (or, if Haguro maintains her hold after the ranging blast, besides) the Lover, but it's not to strike her. Her hands are empty. Her gloves, gone. Bare, tender palms embrace at the waist, under the arm, snake around possessively and tightly like a lust-maddened lover for the Deathlord. It's everything the effect is supposed to do, and more. An unshackled, rampant, greater-than-human, augmented, refined 'humanity'. "I'll show you what it is to love the state more than yourself." She breathes, and plants kisses up the Lover's neck, before her lips brush against the ghost-lord's earlobe, and she nips there before--- Absolutely all the color, all the need disappears from her voice. All of that humanity, the superhumanity, the transhumanity, comes crashing back down to an utterly flat, utterly emotionless monotone that's buzzed into the Lover's ear like radio distortion. "Your five minutes are up. Goodbye." Extricating herself in another translocating flash, Armature grabs Haguro on the shoulder, brings up her right hand, and closes it into a fist. Both her, and the ship-girl, disappear in a flash of unsatisfyingly perfect mathematical equasions rendered into a shock of cyan light.
Lezard Valeth	Lezard is no hero and does not expect the response of one. He is here for purely selfish reasons and perhaps in some ways is hardly any better than the Deathlords themselves in his continued presence in Creation. But in this instance he is currently harnessed to the goals of Bloody Revelations and the others, and so it is the useful poison. It is more that he sees the almost petulant response to Haguro, and he almost laughs, taking a sick pleasure in the dismay and petty anger that manages to crack through the visage of the Lover. "My my, one should have known that someone suggesting a measure of restraint and self-sacrifice would be the one to get under your alabaster skin. I can commisserate, really. A pity it is too late for such things!" The vile sorceror continues to take little vindictive amusements as the battle is unleashed, and the masochistic response to the wounds upon her frankly should have been expected. "I should have used an alternative method of attack." Lezard mutters to himself as he hears another cry. When she begins to exercise her actual power, however, Lezard grips his head and reels for a moment, the intense emotion assaulting him... And yet it rings distinctly foreign. for some reason, like a dissonant note in a perfect symphany. Perhaps it is a reflection of Lezard's aberrant psychology that it seems to agonize him... But not for the reasons one expects. Similarly, as he is cut, the emotional poison that seeps into his mind and soul immediately wars with the obsessions that are the core of his being. If Lezard had time to analyze this he would probably find this quite fascinating. However.... Bloody Revelations precludes that, informing them of the situation. Lezard instantly aborts his attack, backing away and throwing out his hands. Runes of power etch themselves into the air around him as a teleportation circle forms... "And now for the climax you deserve." Lezard states, moments before he vanishes... And everything goes pear-shaped.
Haguro	Haguro was expecting a reaction from the Lover. Just not /that/ reaction. It's a sad one to watch, but she can't feel too sad about it considering who it's coming from. After all, the Lover is launching a snake into her, and that pain spreading through the shipgirl's form rapidly has her howling rather than mulling over just how broken this woman really is. It's not the normal type of pain she'd expect from a flesh wound or magic, either, but something completely different. Something wrong in a bad way. She's pretty sure it'll pass, though, or at least that's what Haguro tells herself as she latches onto the Lover for as long as she can maintain a grip. The flesh wounds are actually something of a relief even as she feels that burning sensation hitting her next, offering her some small distraction from the gnawing feeling of wrongness at her core. She's forced to relent after a few more moments, though, as that mental assault telling her to let go works much too well. Simply looking like the former admiral was one thing. Actually feeling like she's fighting her sisters is another. The Cruiser even backs off to start firing at the Lover with her turrets, conflicted between wanting to avoid staying too close to the Lover while simultaneously wanting to just grab on and never let go. Without actually looking at her enemy and with those mounting wounds, however, she's not in the best shape to continue the fight for long or even avoid those repeated stabs and cuts. She doesn't notice that poison seeping in, too focused on the pain from the snake earlier, and also focused on the more immediate threat of hearing that the manse is overloading. How the heck is she supposed to get that far away so fast?! She leaves that to Azure Armature, once again conflicted on how much she even wants to leave. It's going to take some doing to get all that out of her system.
Starbound Flotilla	"..." George shifts into business mode. Which is concerning, because in the span of this entire campaign against the Lover, George has yet to shift into business mode. "Pained. I can't! I can't do this! We can't do this!!" "Star Three, pull back! Star Two, report!" "I suspect a foul measure of psionic nature." "Focus! Dammit, /focus/! Smite her, don't let her parry!" "Ghhhhh, Floran having tough time! How isss she like a floran?!" "..." Seft is the first to be downed by the effort, having to pull back, filled with grief and pain that aggressively intrudes into her software and overrides her ability to disable her own guilt processing. Biteblade and Moonfin both succumb at the same time, filled with stress and pain as they lose momentum in their melee barrage. Albert is the next to lose the will, as the hammerblows need a force of will he suddenly can't muster, and he winds up suffering a brutal cut that kills all the momentum. Pavo is the last to lose her nerve. Somewhere, buried in her mad manic head, is some connection to normal humanity and even the idea of love or kindness. George takes a cut and moves faster, strikes harder. A parried shot just makes him move faster. Of the Flotilla, he's the only one who would kill the person they love with a /greater/ will than someone they hate. These are feelings the man has such a toxic, horrid, monsterous way of processing that when they wash over his mind and his soul, the worst things happen. Deep parts of the brain with names like "amygdala" or "dorsal posterior insula" react with a neurological lightshow and drive a hideously violent response. Whatever George's history is, the way he psychologically handles the feeling of love is through causing pain. This isn't an advantage; his brain is falling apart in that state, overloading badly and in need of certain key medical help, but it doesn't slow him down. He discards the gun and tries to move in with a hard gauntleted grip on the rapier, move in for an efficient grapple, and kick hard enough at the Lover's knee that it might shatter or tear just one important thing in it. The goal is to kill opportunities to use some pre-calculated charm of supreme speed. "...She's close to the Grey Tide." Blood will spill onto her from his ears and nose. Then he silently pulls back, dropping a thermite grenade onto the teleportation pad that the Flotilla is leaving through. The moment he's gone, the thing blasts apart, eating through the platform, boiling away exotic tele-matter.
Bloody Revelations	It's definitely not the kind of fight that this team is used to. Ever. It's exactly the type of fight that explains why the Fortress had harassed, but not obstructed, them on their way up, and why the Lover had made no preparations but flashing half of her hand and picking up a sword. Getting beat on fuels her supernatural martial art as much as inflicting the pain, growing stronger as Haguro and members of the Flotilla are twisted with anguish, and being unhealthily into Azure Armature's sudden, freakishly sadistic interest, until George starts getting too singularly, unromantically, blood-mindedly violent, for it to hold. Strangely enough, it's his blows, delivered 'with love' but without conscience, that causes spectral bones to crack and blood to spill, until the Lover begins to look absolutely furious, starting to wrest herself free of Azure to chase after. The group fizzles away all at once. The telepad blows up just as the Deathlord reaches it. Reappearing miles away, you're treated to exactly the reasoning behind those cryptic instructions. The sun rises in the shadowland. A blinding white glow rises over the horizon. Then, it becomes ten times hotter, brighter, more radiant, than any sunrise could ever be. The flash shoots miles up into the clouds, and expands in every direction in a spherical fireball, consuming vast tracts of land in a singular wave of white hot destruction greater than a nuclear weapon, burning off into a conflagration of rainbow-coloured fire, leaving behind a charred crater a mile deep, exposing crackling rainbow 'veins' in the earth like smouldering embers. Even another ten miles away, the boom that eventually arrives is almost bone-breaking, carrying with it pieces of debris, both from the ground, woods, and fortress itself, that launch up into the air for many minutes before coming back down, or streak past at bullet-like speeds. There is absolutely nothing left --certainly no ghosts at least-- that isn't one of a handful of highest tier artifacts, smoking under so much rubble. All that weirdly specific, symbolic, sympathetic sabotage of the Manse's features, seems to have resulted in such a catastrophic cascading system failure that there was absolutely no possibility of dealing with it. Perhaps not even detecting it, unless the Lover assumed she would be only inconvenienced by dying to it. Lezard's desire to sabotage the place had been directed above and beyond into a level of geomantic fuckery that has completely bleached the landscape of any and all of its natural magical energy, as far as he or Armature can tell. The voice on the other end of the radio fades back into focus as the boom subsides, in the middle of laughing. She's been laughing since you teleported out and still hasn't stopped.