Encounterlogs
Victors Odd Encounter Sr Vindicta 241212
In a surreal and menacing encounter within a mystical chapel, Victor faces off against a nightmarish figure at the altar and its monstrous creation, amidst an atmosphere heavy with dark omens and shifting shadows. As Victor enters this hallowed but haunted space, the surroundings morph into grotesque versions of their holy counterparts, with stained glass windows and stone figures taking on sinister new forms. The situation escalates as a dream stalker, a fiend resembling a corrupted priest, confronts Victor, using a hideous beast as a weapon against him. Despite the overwhelming odds, Victor, armed with his unyielding spirit and an arsenal concealed beneath his clothing, including grenades and a landmine, challenges the demonic presence with a mix of tactical ingenuity and explosive force. In a harrowing climax, Victor combats both the monstrous being and the dark priest, managing to use his weapons to critically wound the creature and disorient its master.
The final confrontation sees Victor overcoming the behemoth through sheer determination and physical resilience, snapping the creature's neck in a fight that tests the limits of his strength and endurance. Amidst a backdrop of disintegrating nightmares and a chapel returning to its serene state, Victor emerges victorious but not unscathed, bearing the physical and emotional toll of the battle. As the demonic priest vows vengeance, Victor's retort and subsequent actions highlight his readiness to face whatever darkness may come, underscoring his role as a guardian standing vigilant against the encroaching shadows. The chapel, once a battleground of twisted faith and dark invocations, stands peaceful once more, a testament to Victor's resilience and the transient nature of the nightmares that sought to claim it.
(Victor's odd encounter(SRVindicta):SRVindicta)
[Wed Dec 11 2024]
In inside the chapel
Soft, filtered light streams through stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of vibrant hues across the cool, stone floors of the western vestibule. Intricately carved wooden pews line the walls, offering a space for quiet reflection and contemplation. The faint scent of aged wood and polished brass lingers in the air.
It is morning, about 21F(-6C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
The chapel is cloaked in early morning light, its pews stretching endlessly in both directions, fading into a haze of dim light. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old wood and faintly burning incense, though no candles flicker in the sconces. A silence deeper than any Victor had ever known pressed against the space, broken only by the faint creak of settling timber and the slow rhythm of his own breath.
Stained glass windows, impossibly tall and unnervingly detailed, lined the walls, their images flickering and shifting like scenes in a film reel. One moment, they depict saints and angels in radiant splendor, their faces serene and familiar; the next, their features twist into something dark and grotesque, too fleeting to grasp but too vivid to forget. Shadows dance across the pews, their movements chaotic and alive, as if something unseen flitted just out of reach.
The altar ahead seems impossibly far away, shrouded in a faint, unearthly glow. It calls to the eye yet refuses to resolve into clarity, remaining a blur of faintly glowing gold and deep crimson. A single figure stands there, indistinct but present, its silhouette unnaturally tall and thin, arms spread wide as if in mockery of an unseen congregation.
Above, the vaulted ceiling looms impossibly high, disappearing into a void of shadows that seem to ripple faintly, as if stirred by unseen currents. The chandeliers sway gently, though no breeze passes through the space, their glass pendants catching the faint light and casting eerie, prismatic reflections on the stone floor.
The longer the silence lingers, the more oppressive it becomes. The chapel itself seems alive, its presence pressing in on all sides, as if the building itself were aware of Victor's every breath, every heartbeat, every fleeting thought. It wasnt a place of worship, but a space suspended between realms, waiting for something- or someone- to tip the balance.
Naturally, Victor isn't the one to tip the scales here. He waits, he waits as he has done before, in silence, in quiet reflection that is him. His hands are held together in front of him, bearing the wintry weight of his gaze directed at the thin, metallic seams that connect every digit at the joints. He flexes them idly, unaware of the transpired change - unaware of the weight, the sheer volume of oppression that hangs in the air and at his throat like a jagged blade.
He's too busy, tracing his thumb through his palm, follow a seam all the way to his wrist. Something clicks with it, and the next clack spreads his fingers, longer than they should be, the seams stretched to reveal the metal within hidden underneath the skin. They click back, just as idle, but not oblivious. With silent prayers and introspection interrupted, his eyes rise up to watch the glimmer of light falling through the glass panes. The motion behind them, whatever it entails, and that distraction is enough for him to miss it.
Miss the thing that stands at the center of the chapel he resides within. Victor makes no sound, that balance remains precarious, but even while he stares, and stares, and narrowed eyes take the view in detail, the obscured visage, the spread-open arms in mockery of a mass. His tense jaw stays as it was, but still he doesn't move, even if he seems like he's reared to leap out of his spot at the drop of a pin, with a strange, metallic hum of creaking steel rising alongside his breathing, alongside the subtle forward tilt of his body where he sits.
Just as the world, the silence waits for him to do something;
Victor waits, too, for it to do it first.
The chapel remains still, though the tension in the air thickens, palpable and heavy. Light from the stained glass windows filters unevenly across the room, now shifting hues that seem less natural and more deliberate, as though they are alive with intent. The intricate images in the windows twist and distort; angels weep rivers of molten glass, their serene expressions melting into anguish. Their halos flicker like dying embers, casting fragmented patterns across the stone walls.
At the altar, the figure stands, its presence dominating the space without movement or sound. It is featureless yet profound, its edges blending into the wavering light as if it's part of the chapel and yet separate from it. Arms outstretched in a grotesque mimicry of welcome, it exudes a quiet mockery that fills the air. The shadows around it pulse faintly, breathing with a rhythm that is not of this world.
The stained glass trembles in its frames, the vibrations sending ripples through the multicolored light pooling on the stone floor. Shadows behind the glass stir, shifting and writhing, pressing against the fragile barrier as though testing its strength. Their forms are indistinct, fluid and unnatural, but their presence gnaws at the edges of perception, hinting at something primal and wrong.
The pews seem to stretch into the distance, their ends disappearing into shadow. The wood grows darker, as though stained by unseen hands, and the faint scent of iron wafts through the air. The rows on either side are now empty, stripped of the quiet warmth that once marked this as a place of solace. Instead, a hollow coldness lingers, wrapping itself around the room.
The figure at the altar remains eerily still, yet the world around it shifts. The crimson light pooling from above intensifies, filling the space with a sharp, invasive glare. It refracts off the metallic seams of the rooms fixtures, amplifying their reflective surfaces to cast warped reflections back into the room. The warped images ripple like water, mimicking movement where there is none.
Above, the vaulted ceiling grows darker, its grand arches obscured by a thick, spreading blackness that seems to devour the faint light reaching upward. The chandeliers sway ever so slightly, their movements imperceptible at first but growing more pronounced. Their faint creaking adds an unsteady rhythm to the silence, a sound that drips with unease.
The oppressive atmosphere grows denser, pressing against the space with a malevolent presence. The walls, once adorned with carved reliefs of saints and saviors, shift subtly, their forms twisting into grotesque parodies. They writhe beneath the stone as if alive, their features warped into expressions of terror and rage.
someone The air itself feels charged, thick with static and the faint crackle of something unseen. The tension stretches, growing taut like a string on the verge of snapping. Somewhere distant, a low, guttural noise hums through the space, a sound that seems to vibrate within the marrow of the stone.
The stained glass finally stops trembling, though the shadows behind it seem to gather strength, coalescing into sharper forms. Their shapes press against the glass with greater force, distorting the patterns until they almost burst. Yet the glass holds, barely, as if the room itself refuses to yield entirely to whatever waits beyond.
The figure at the altar begins to glow faintly, its edges defined by a pale, spectral light. It grows brighter, the glow expanding outward in slow, deliberate pulses. Each pulse seems to press against the chapel, making the room feel smaller, the air heavier, the silence louder. The space waits, on the cusp of revelation or ruin.
And something grows nearer, threatening to pierce the veil between nightmare and reality. A hunter. A fiend.
The chapel remains still, though the tension in the air thickens, palpable and heavy. Light from the stained glass windows filters unevenly across the room, now shifting hues that seem less natural and more deliberate, as though they are alive with intent. The intricate images in the windows twist and distort; angels weep rivers of molten glass, their serene expressions melting into anguish. Their halos flicker like dying embers, casting fragmented patterns across the stone walls.
At the altar, the figure stands, its presence dominating the space without movement or sound. It is featureless yet profound, its edges blending into the wavering light as if it's part of the chapel and yet separate from it. Arms outstretched in a grotesque mimicry of welcome, it exudes a quiet mockery that fills the air. The shadows around it pulse faintly, breathing with a rhythm that is not of this world.
The stained glass trembles in its frames, the vibrations sending ripples through the multicolored light pooling on the stone floor. Shadows behind the glass stir, shifting and writhing, pressing against the fragile barrier as though testing its strength. Their forms are indistinct, fluid and unnatural, but their presence gnaws at the edges of perception, hinting at something primal and wrong.
The pews seem to stretch into the distance, their ends disappearing into shadow. The wood grows darker, as though stained by unseen hands, and the faint scent of iron wafts through the air. The rows on either side are now empty, stripped of the quiet warmth that once marked this as a place of solace. Instead, a hollow coldness lingers, wrapping itself around the room.
The figure at the altar remains eerily still, yet the world around it shifts. The crimson light pooling from above intensifies, filling the space with a sharp, invasive glare. It refracts off the metallic seams of the rooms fixtures, amplifying their reflective surfaces to cast warped reflections back into the room. The warped images ripple like water, mimicking movement where there is none.
Above, the vaulted ceiling grows darker, its grand arches obscured by a thick, spreading blackness that seems to devour the faint light reaching upward. The chandeliers sway ever so slightly, their movements imperceptible at first but growing more pronounced. Their faint creaking adds an unsteady rhythm to the silence, a sound that drips with unease.
The oppressive atmosphere grows denser, pressing against the space with a malevolent presence. The walls, once adorned with carved reliefs of saints and saviors, shift subtly, their forms twisting into grotesque parodies. They writhe beneath the stone as if alive, their features warped into expressions of terror and rage.
The air itself feels charged, thick with static and the faint crackle of something unseen. The tension stretches, growing taut like a string on the verge of snapping. Somewhere distant, a low, guttural noise hums through the space, a sound that seems to vibrate within the marrow of the stone.
The stained glass finally stops trembling, though the shadows behind it seem to gather strength, coalescing into sharper forms. Their shapes press against the glass with greater force, distorting the patterns until they almost burst. Yet the glass holds, barely, as if the room itself refuses to yield entirely to whatever waits beyond.
The figure at the altar begins to glow faintly, its edges defined by a pale, spectral light. It grows brighter, the glow expanding outward in slow, deliberate pulses. Each pulse seems to press against the chapel, making the room feel smaller, the air heavier, the silence louder. The space waits, on the cusp of revelation or ruin.
And something grows nearer, threatening to pierce the veil between nightmare and reality. A hunter. A fiend.
This pristine chapel remains still, though the tension in the air thickens, palpable and heavy. Light from the stained glass windows filters unevenly across the room, now shifting hues that seem less natural and more deliberate, as though they are alive with intent. The intricate images in the windows twist and distort; angels weep rivers of molten glass, their serene expressions melting into anguish. Their halos flicker like dying embers, casting fragmented patterns across the stone walls.
At the altar, the figure stands, its presence dominating the space without movement or sound. It is featureless yet profound, its edges blending into the wavering light as if it's part of the chapel and yet separate from it. Arms outstretched in a grotesque mimicry of welcome, it exudes a quiet mockery that fills the air. The shadows around it pulse faintly, breathing with a rhythm that is not of this world.
The stained glass trembles in its frames, the vibrations sending ripples through the multicolored light pooling on the stone floor. Shadows behind the glass stir, shifting and writhing, pressing against the fragile barrier as though testing its strength. Their forms are indistinct, fluid and unnatural, but their presence gnaws at the edges of perception, hinting at something primal and wrong.
The pews seem to stretch into the distance, their ends disappearing into shadow. The wood grows darker, as though stained by unseen hands, and the faint scent of iron wafts through the air. The rows on either side are now empty, stripped of the quiet warmth that once marked this as a place of solace. Instead, a hollow coldness lingers, wrapping itself around the room.
The figure at the altar remains eerily still, yet the world around it shifts. The crimson light pooling from above intensifies, filling the space with a sharp, invasive glare. It refracts off the metallic seams of the rooms fixtures, amplifying their reflective surfaces to cast warped reflections back into the room. The warped images ripple like water, mimicking movement where there is none.
Above, the vaulted ceiling grows darker, its grand arches obscured by a thick, spreading blackness that seems to devour the faint light reaching upward. The chandeliers sway ever so slightly, their movements imperceptible at first but growing more pronounced. Their faint creaking adds an unsteady rhythm to the silence, a sound that drips with unease.
The oppressive atmosphere grows denser, pressing against the space with a malevolent presence. The walls, once adorned with carved reliefs of saints and saviors, shift subtly, their forms twisting into grotesque parodies. They writhe beneath the stone as if alive, their features warped into expressions of terror and rage.
The air itself feels charged, thick with static and the faint crackle of something unseen. The tension stretches, growing taut like a string on the verge of snapping. Somewhere distant, a low, guttural noise hums through the space, a sound that seems to vibrate within the marrow of the stone.
The stained glass finally stops trembling, though the shadows behind it seem to gather strength, coalescing into sharper forms. Their shapes press against the glass with greater force, distorting the patterns until they almost burst. Yet the glass holds, barely, as if the room itself refuses to yield entirely to whatever waits beyond.
The figure at the altar begins to glow faintly, its edges defined by a pale, spectral light. It grows brighter, the glow expanding outward in slow, deliberate pulses. Each pulse seems to press against the chapel, making the room feel smaller, the air heavier, the silence louder. The space waits, on the cusp of revelation or ruin.
And something grows nearer, threatening to pierce the veil between nightmare and reality. A hunter. A fiend.
In spite of all the change, the rising tension, Victor begins to stand. It's slow, deliberate, just as deliberate as the swelling power that is radiated by the obscured figure of doom and gloom. The creak of old wood beneath him when he leaves the pews isn't very loud, but it is loud when the chapel is as quiet and vacant as it is. If it was any other man, maybe they would've shirked away, and certainly he does too. The tell-tale signs of fear are subtly evident within his eyes, just a tad wider, at his pulse, just slightly quicker at his throat.
That doesn't deter him from trained, practiced motions, of checking every exit while the once Holy images are warped and bleed, while molten gold streaks the ground, makes puddles of the tears of saints and the guttural sound trembling is as if a far cry in comparison to their imagined agony. Victor takes point, right at the center, between all the pews, facing forward towards the grim sight outright increasing whatever power it has.
And he is but one man, and just a man.
His fingers clench into fists, groan in steel, harsh and unforgiving, righteous, but defenseless against the predator that found him. No weapons, no armor, none in a place of God- and though he's not as frail as the common man, evident by that repetitive, agonized and distantly faint hum in his flesh, he is still just a man. With one of his hands rising to clasp the cross hanging by his neck, clutch it for whatever it is worth, he first murmurs some verse. A prayer, short, Italian, then asks- in plain English, glaring wintry daggers ahead.
"Whatever you are, you're in the wrong place."
Just one unarmed man never did anything, right? Perhaps it is irony that Victor stands here in a chapel whilst Hell itself breaks loose. The home of One Unarmed Man doing many, many things. His silent prayers cause the forming of the creature to halt and ripple momentarily as the figure with arms outstretched in a mockery of the Crucifixion of Christ speaks in gutteral, garbled speech. "Tell me," he bids the Italian Templar, the faint glow of red within the shadows of his face as they focus on the lone man. "Where is your God? I stand in His own home, disturbing the peace of His Sanctuary, and yet He is nowhere to be found. He will not help you, Victor Valentin."
Another ripple of shadow in the beast's formation before one long, massive, well-muscled arm slams its clawed paw-hand onto the chapel's flooring, claws like jagged stone scraping along its length, tearing up tile and wood alike in long slashes as deep as half an inch. Another arm, a crude amalgamation of man, monster, and beast, with too many elbows and wrists, and a red-eyed skull with no flesh peeling itself from within its own chest, yellow eyes with red rings spinning wildly in their sockets, unfocused as a tongueless, bleeding maw splits into a wide grin and grimace, spilling crimson and ebon bile onto the floor of the holy place. It drags itself from the shadows further and further, a gargled rumbling within the tattered, puss-weeping confines of its chest as it makes and unmakes itself time and time again, like its creator's mind is ever-changing on its concept, altering its form in the moment to fit their liking.
It looks almost painful to the creature, the way ribs snap and seal and shatter and heal and organs spill onto to be slurped back into its insides just as quickly. It's a wolf? No, a bull.. A goat? Some sort of sheep and fox hybrid? Simply looking upon it is maddening. "Your God isn't here."
"My God," Victor starts slowly. The display offered up to him can only leave one distraught, to the point he takes a subtle step back. Skids on his heels, but ever so slowly, his other hand is already making for the holster at his side- skipping over it without touching. With every crack of bone, every spray of blood, every splinter and sound, Victor dares to move more. His hand is at his back, and by the time the amalgamation of many things towers over him, Victor's fingers cusp something tightly underneath his jacket.
"He works in mysterious ways." Conviction is shown with resolution in the calm facade of his tone. A single bead of sweat rolls down the corner of Victor's face in spite of it, glistens the paleness of his mien, and his tense jaw seems hardpressed, a far-cry of the oft casually easy-going expression he often holds. "You think my God is not here, but you're wrong." Another step, quieter than before, but coiled with strength eager to spring. "This is but one location," The words are merely distraction, however truthfully he delivers them in the face of a towering behemoth of destruction and bile-black vigor poised to ruination of him. "And it is meaningless, when he is high above and wields his instruments."
His instrument makes a decisive move, a decision. Victor is one such thing, and in a single step, the ground cracks beneath his feet with coiled strength that shouldn't be in mortal form, but it is. He doesn't retreat. Feared but not cowed, there is the snap of metal that doesn't emanate from him, but from the grenade he's pulled out from underneath his jacket, pin dropped and primed for an explosion that he attempts immediately, by leaping straight ahead. The sole of his shoe seeks a growing bulb, a pulp of flesh swelling upon the beast for balance so he can slam his fist and his explosive straight into the constantly rearranging cavity within the creature - release, and attempt to kick back and away while counting under his breath, six seconds to detonation.
"Futile," says the figure on the stage with an oil-slicked cackle as Victor proclaims the righteousness of his God through all of the blasphemy that spills from the invader's lips, that shifting ground beneath his feet kicked up in wispy tendrils of black as the mortal man leaps through the air and lands on his target, a pustule ready to pop serving as the landing point for Victor's feet not too far off from his goal of the chest cavity.
Meanwhile the weeping angels of mosaic and marble clutch their palms firmly together in helpless prayer, mouths agape as they sob and sing a a wailing song that reaches pitch so high it threatens the integrity of Victor's eardrums. They cry for him as much as they cry for this defiled space, and in a moment of clarity Victor finds an opening in the beat's torso just big enough for both hand and grenade to be deposited. "'Tis not the beast that haunts you, Victor Valentin! 'Tis your own mind that leads you astray and welcomes the demons inside!" he preaches, cackling all the while as the Templar jumps back and out of range. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. The monster coughs and hacks as it tries to peel the explosive from its lung to no avail, those wild eyes skittering in every which direction as the darkness continues to coil about this tainted space.
Six seconds.
BOOM
The monster's chest cavity bursts in the aftermath of the explosion, shrapnel and fragments of metal spraying all over nearby as poorly-formed ribs and their meat drop to the ground and the beast's throat swallows hard.
"GAH!!" shouts the figure behind Victor, a clawed hand having jolted up to clutch at his left eye as his monster starts the disgusting, painstakingly slow process of reassembly. And yet, where wound is on master, so too does it seem permanent on servant. The fiend's left eye has been gouged free, and the figure's, too, by a stray piece of shrapnel. What happens to the summoner, happens to his creation, it seems.
Gore galore. Victor, skidding on his heels, drops within the height of the crescendo of the singing figures, the angels that rise in chorus to him. Wintry eyes are lit with that perpetual determination, harrowingly narrow, intent and focused. A man but one on a mission, one fueled by retribution, simple as. While spewed ichor of a beast most foul taints the corner of his face, drips low in rivulets of black-red hues off of his chin, he only smears it further with a lift of his hand, by wiping it with the back of it.
It appears that even though he bears no arms, no armaments, because this is a place of God, that doesn't mean he lacks in explosives. Quite the number of it, in fact, while slowly, that single Templar sheds his jacket. The half-sighted look of the perpetrator of this crime against all things holy as well as humane is ignored, all while he reveals several more grenades hanging off of his body, strapped to a leather harnesss near expertly concealed underneath his attire. "We'll see," His words are bitten, scarce, and another prayer starts while he leans forward as if to leap-- but it is only to reach behind. The hanging chain, the glint of a cross on his neck glistens with a stain of red while he unstraps an actual fucking landmine from under his shirt, and bluntly drops it on the ground like discarding a piece of useless rubble.
However dangerous, Victor kicks it with the heel of his shoe, into the ever-growing and forming mass of flesh, sliding it to not under but in front of it as if taunting, daring it to step on it, professing it as a holy wall of shrapnel between himself and it, that would surely hurt the both of them if either of them dared to do anything about it. "You caught me at a bad time, 'padre'. I'm not in a great mood, not enough to laugh off this, si?" Bolstered by his initial success, irreverent to horror, Victor lifts his other hand. One that bears a simple, sleek plate. One that fits perfectly over his lower-face, covers his mouth in a single sheet of metal without much to discern what it does. The striations at his throat, however, begin to gleam darker, something whirrs inside of his neck. "Let me put it clearly, stronzo." A pin drops, and his voice echoes metallic, not from his mouth. "I'm not trapped here with you." Then another - and smoke erupts, shading and covering everything but the glow upon the luminescent, sobbing depictions of saints and angel through several smoke grenades, with his voice coming out through it. "You're trapped here with me."
"Darkness..." It is not the figure that whispers this word, but the many hushed voices of false angels in unison with their sudden revelation of the times as smoke spews forth in all directions, blanketing the pews as much as the tattered floor in an impenetrable cloud of all-concealing smoke. "The shadows," they agree with themselves before bursting out into further sobs, their hands grasping helplessly at their own marble and glass faces to drag blunt fingertips down the false flesh in agony. An explosion in the dark, and Victor finds himself hosed down with yet another spray of viscera as the monstero's flailing arm stomps straight down on that landmine and blows the beast to bits all over again.
The air around them all forces th smoke to whip into a frenzy as it blows out from that central point, and then the sharp scream of the faux-priest echoes out again as he finds himself pelted with further debris in time with Victor's threat. Trapped inside? With a human? Those burning red eyes glare across at Victor or at least one of them does, the other gouged from its socket by the initial explosion of a grenade- and now an arm missing, too, from the mine.
"Even now happiness eludes you," he taunts the bionic man through the fog, that voice coming so close to Victor's ear as the two dance around each other and the beast's form begins to bubble and reform once more- albeit, this time with an arm missing, too, oozing black, bile-like blood too profusely to be humanly possible.
Light cannot exist without darkness, and though the greater the light, greater the shadow, from within comes Victor. He might be followed by a single eye through the fog of war, the mist of smoke that hazes everything, but his own eyes peer through it just as easily. Wintry blue eyes rotate within their pupils, flit about in search, in inspection, and every sense is used to its utmost height. The owner of his assailant is untouched- the trick is not lost upon Victor, that he has to do perservere through the monster that returns to dent this abominable captor.
So he does. A piourette, another dance, and there is the sound of a pew being shattered before the monster has fully recovered itself. The sheer speed with which a large portion, sharp and splintered, is thrown dispels a portion of the smoke before its immediate collusion to stab into the pustulating and ever-bubbling mass of flesh straight in the gut, and Victor is close behind it. There is violence in the glint, the passing light of his eyes when he drops another pin. Not a fragmentation grenade, not a smoke grenade, but one made of argentine color.
He doesn't retreat with the imminent explosion of it, jams his fist where an arm used to be, his other fist grabbing hold of a flap of meat to hold on vigorously in spite of the danger, to make sure he stays put, that he stays there in the next explosion that'll happen to sap every ounce of regenerative prowess from the beast. Two seconds, three, four, "Barking up the wrong tree, /this/ makes me happy," That hiss cuts through the sound of bubbling flesh, echoing with all steel.
Held steady amidst the battle, Victor's own strength is pinned against something that is not a creation of God in the slightest, a battle of wills and much as muscles as he counts down the time to detonation. At first it seems the cyborg might win, then the press fades into being even... And then a massive, too-long arm swings from the right to bash into the man and send him flying through the air in several somersaults only to crash into the arms of a weeping angel who spills her molten tears over his flesh whilst her marble hands crumble to the earth around him, arms broken, and then her body from the collision as rubble rains down around Victor's head.
Then there's the pulse, an electronic heartbeat that bursts over the sanctuary in a single electromagnetic wave that glimmers with a faint, silvery-blue light. The monster falls still, and in a brief moment of clarity, that malformed mouth struggles to speak pleading words in Victor's direction, red and yellow eyes quivering as bloody tears ooze from them rapidly. "Kchtt.. Kch.. Chkchtkkkk... Chkilllhh.. Mheee.. Kkkch..." The neck snaps at an awkward angle as that now half-bird, half-bull face turns to look pleadingly upon the Templar. It isn't just a summoned monster: it's a man. Or at least, it was. Now it is little more than a fleshformed abomination, warped to suit the whims and whimsies of the jailers in Hell.
Heavy chains beat against the Earth, too, as the 'father' steps slowly down from the stage, his eyes paler than they had been, his form slightly less muscular, but his feet still just as cloven and red as ever, one might assume, as he casts his hooded cloak to the side. "Yield," he commands through gritted yellow teeth that seem crooked and fanged from front to back, a glob of spittle dribbling down his chin from the force of his own demand. "Let us have you. Let us have you and make you great."
Disorientation hits him like a brick. An immediate blunder, in the arms of an angel that catches him poorly, just to fall on him as rubble as well. In the haze and cloud, Victor's face is stricken in blood. Not only the remnant, now nearly dried gore of the beast, but as well as his own. Blond locks of hair are slick about his face, smattered with red in framing that masked visage, where blood continues to run over the slender metal, steam when it slides over the hollow of his throat and the mechanic striations. He doesn't grunt, not yet, not ever, not while he starts to unbury himself of the stone and dust, even with the ache in his ribs, in his spine.
Bones aren't broken, only rattled. There is more steel in Victor than it seems, but it shows when he begins to stand upright, hiss out a gout of steam to the side from what may be vents built into his mask while the machine stuffed inside overlocks, burns, sears, and once risen, Victor's voice groans in that distant, detached echo not coming from his mouth. "You're too late for that, stronzo." His fists lift, a loose boxing stance with elbows tucked in. "I could do this all day."
But could he? Truly? The poor suffering of what was once a man is not lost upon him either. It was only something that wasn't considered, up until now, up until this very moment, but sacrifices have to be made. The motive and reason is clear when he takes a step forward out of the broken pews, then kicks one straight ahead with more mechanic strength than mortal, sends a pew skidding straight to collide with the weakened, silvered and neutralized monster. It's a mere distraction. A mere foothold, one that he charges right into and uses as a stepping stone to leap off of and launch himself up and high, straight into the face of his Goliathian foe.
Limber arms and legs seek to wrap around that massive head, twist, lock and contort to then shove his weight and momentum even further onward to try and topple it down along with him in a headlock, with his own back to the ground for solid support should he manage. The task isn't to squeeze the breath out of the fleshformed monster - it clearly has little need of air, or organs therein involved, but to snap its neck in one go, end it before the 'father' can gather the strength to involve itself.
"Then prove it," that cloven hooved figure snarls out from a face that lays in tatters, red skin hanging on by a thread, flapping loosely about his jaw as those yellow fangs clatter against one another during his speech. Perhaps Victor could do this all day- but his adversary can't, surely. He's worn down, bleeding profusely, missing an eye and an arm, and now his trump card is begging to be put out of its misery while he himself breaths hard and fast.
Those wild yellow eyes, meanwhile, continue to spasm in their sockets as the human side of the monster's brain wrestles with the agony it is in as well as its own situation, flesh pulled aside to reveal within the visage of a young man with dark hair and dark eyes, perhaps in his late teens to early twenties, clawing at his own face with a mangled hand before it all starts to slowly seal back over again. The grenade will wear off soon- it's now or never for Victor as his window slowly starts to close, human eyes pleading at him from behind rancid meat, begging for release from its painful existence as it repeats: "Kchhh... Chhhkkilllh... Me..." But the figure isn't going to simply *let* Victor do anything. No, he juxtaposes himself between Templar and beast, reaching clawed fingers into the gaping wound where his arm used to be and gritting his teeth as though preparing to take the cyborg on in hand-to-hand for the duration.
But such are the well-laid plans of mice and men that the moment the demonic priest seeks to set himself between his 'pet' and his foe, that a pew goes flying into the air just above him, and up Victor goes on his self-made stairway to Heaven in the blink of an eye, bolting straight past the 'father', who wheels and snarls, shouting: "Stop him, you fool!!" to the beast that can barely keep itself alive as it bleeds. He launches himself into the air as well, but rather than leap nimbly upon the mid-air bench like a dancing acrobat, his muscular weight only brings it crashing back down to the ground even faster than gravity had already been pulling it.
"NO!!" he shouts as he goes rolling across the floor, though even with only one arm he is quickly back to his feet, or hooves, and trying to make a mad dash for Victor, his singular remaining eye forced to watch his plot crumbled down all around him.
Wintry eyes meet the singular, yellow-red, changing hues of his adversary. Victor doesn't skip a single beat while he has the beast, the last vestiges of it, under the wrap of an arm-bar at its throat that's made of steel, quite literally, pulled taut by his other hand clasping at the wrist. Both legs wrapped around the neck of the monster create the tension necessary, and Victor doesn't even blink when he snaps the neck of the poor, fleshformed soul. The stout neck yanked high in the effort to demolish bone remains in full effect for not seconds, but throughout the entire trashing of his captive. All as he stares, burrows his eyes into the injured, false priest.
Blood gets in his eyes, drips from his chin still, and whatever expression he holds is wrought with fury in only his eyes. The hand he has clasping his own wrist grows lax, and he reaches up to another fragmentation grenade hanging off his harness, yanks it, pin and all gone, primed instantly - an explosive that he chucks almost with distasteful laxness at the man.
"I'll see you in hell, fratello. Save me a seat."
"Oh fu-"
WHOOSH
Within moments of his monster's neck becking snapped, the demonic thing's body twists and contorts into some odd, irrational state of existence, his head twisting around backwards as his eyes strain, bulging from within their sockets. Similar happens to his torso as his spine snaps and crackles like breakfast cereal, his chest now facing backwards but, lo! His head faces the correct direction once more.
"I'm going to kill you," seethes the demon through gurgled sputters of black blood that spews and dribbles from his mouth, causing him to choke out every word as he slowly strangles and suffocates. "When... I return... You'll.." He cannot finish his tyrade. Fragments of hot, twisted metal, debris, and shrapnel suddenly pelt his mangled form, causing it to spasm and twitch until it drops to the incorporeal ground below, the world around Victor now slowly shifting.
It's over, at least for now, and the nightmarishly morbid contortion of the angels and Christ slowly begins to fade into something more normal, something more holy, as the world of the Templar's dreaming begins to release its hold on his reality. The pews slowly begin to mend, as do the statues, and the black blood staining his flesh starts to steam and evaporate, the massive creature he's mounted now slowly collapsing to the ground with Victor still twisted partially around its broken but dissolving neck.
His breathing comes out ragged, slow, hissed in slow bouts of steam through slender sockets at the sides of his mouth. That overlocking, the taxed nature of his body, stiff in every muscle, hurt but not broken, allows him easy release nonetheless when the creature in his grasp starts to dissolve. With it's center-mass on Victor's lap, whatever remnants of it there are, they provide enough fleshy protection from the shrapnel that inevitably pelts towards him too.
When all is said and done, the disappearing carcass is shoved away, and Victor turns with a heave, first on his knees - then up on his feet, and up against a wall by the support of a pew that was previously broken asunder. His mouthpiece is removed, stuffed in his pocket while the regular, deific image of the patrons and saints overlook from both above and the sides, from walls and windows and the arched dome. His assailant's parting words are left as such, ignored, Victor is too busy wiping what blood that remains on his face. His own, while wintry eyes peer aside at the once-shattered angel statue he was flung into.
It is, of course, pristine again. Beatific and enchanting, with only smidgen of golden tears running rivulets down her features. That's enough for him, enough to stay upright, enough to roll his shoulder in place, nearly dislocated, surely to bruise viciously later. With only superficial injury at the very least, Victor turns, begins the long, arduous walk towards the chapel's doors, to leave it, and today, behind.
The final confrontation sees Victor overcoming the behemoth through sheer determination and physical resilience, snapping the creature's neck in a fight that tests the limits of his strength and endurance. Amidst a backdrop of disintegrating nightmares and a chapel returning to its serene state, Victor emerges victorious but not unscathed, bearing the physical and emotional toll of the battle. As the demonic priest vows vengeance, Victor's retort and subsequent actions highlight his readiness to face whatever darkness may come, underscoring his role as a guardian standing vigilant against the encroaching shadows. The chapel, once a battleground of twisted faith and dark invocations, stands peaceful once more, a testament to Victor's resilience and the transient nature of the nightmares that sought to claim it.
(Victor's odd encounter(SRVindicta):SRVindicta)
[Wed Dec 11 2024]
In inside the chapel
Soft, filtered light streams through stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of vibrant hues across the cool, stone floors of the western vestibule. Intricately carved wooden pews line the walls, offering a space for quiet reflection and contemplation. The faint scent of aged wood and polished brass lingers in the air.
It is morning, about 21F(-6C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
The chapel is cloaked in early morning light, its pews stretching endlessly in both directions, fading into a haze of dim light. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old wood and faintly burning incense, though no candles flicker in the sconces. A silence deeper than any Victor had ever known pressed against the space, broken only by the faint creak of settling timber and the slow rhythm of his own breath.
Stained glass windows, impossibly tall and unnervingly detailed, lined the walls, their images flickering and shifting like scenes in a film reel. One moment, they depict saints and angels in radiant splendor, their faces serene and familiar; the next, their features twist into something dark and grotesque, too fleeting to grasp but too vivid to forget. Shadows dance across the pews, their movements chaotic and alive, as if something unseen flitted just out of reach.
The altar ahead seems impossibly far away, shrouded in a faint, unearthly glow. It calls to the eye yet refuses to resolve into clarity, remaining a blur of faintly glowing gold and deep crimson. A single figure stands there, indistinct but present, its silhouette unnaturally tall and thin, arms spread wide as if in mockery of an unseen congregation.
Above, the vaulted ceiling looms impossibly high, disappearing into a void of shadows that seem to ripple faintly, as if stirred by unseen currents. The chandeliers sway gently, though no breeze passes through the space, their glass pendants catching the faint light and casting eerie, prismatic reflections on the stone floor.
The longer the silence lingers, the more oppressive it becomes. The chapel itself seems alive, its presence pressing in on all sides, as if the building itself were aware of Victor's every breath, every heartbeat, every fleeting thought. It wasnt a place of worship, but a space suspended between realms, waiting for something- or someone- to tip the balance.
Naturally, Victor isn't the one to tip the scales here. He waits, he waits as he has done before, in silence, in quiet reflection that is him. His hands are held together in front of him, bearing the wintry weight of his gaze directed at the thin, metallic seams that connect every digit at the joints. He flexes them idly, unaware of the transpired change - unaware of the weight, the sheer volume of oppression that hangs in the air and at his throat like a jagged blade.
He's too busy, tracing his thumb through his palm, follow a seam all the way to his wrist. Something clicks with it, and the next clack spreads his fingers, longer than they should be, the seams stretched to reveal the metal within hidden underneath the skin. They click back, just as idle, but not oblivious. With silent prayers and introspection interrupted, his eyes rise up to watch the glimmer of light falling through the glass panes. The motion behind them, whatever it entails, and that distraction is enough for him to miss it.
Miss the thing that stands at the center of the chapel he resides within. Victor makes no sound, that balance remains precarious, but even while he stares, and stares, and narrowed eyes take the view in detail, the obscured visage, the spread-open arms in mockery of a mass. His tense jaw stays as it was, but still he doesn't move, even if he seems like he's reared to leap out of his spot at the drop of a pin, with a strange, metallic hum of creaking steel rising alongside his breathing, alongside the subtle forward tilt of his body where he sits.
Just as the world, the silence waits for him to do something;
Victor waits, too, for it to do it first.
The chapel remains still, though the tension in the air thickens, palpable and heavy. Light from the stained glass windows filters unevenly across the room, now shifting hues that seem less natural and more deliberate, as though they are alive with intent. The intricate images in the windows twist and distort; angels weep rivers of molten glass, their serene expressions melting into anguish. Their halos flicker like dying embers, casting fragmented patterns across the stone walls.
At the altar, the figure stands, its presence dominating the space without movement or sound. It is featureless yet profound, its edges blending into the wavering light as if it's part of the chapel and yet separate from it. Arms outstretched in a grotesque mimicry of welcome, it exudes a quiet mockery that fills the air. The shadows around it pulse faintly, breathing with a rhythm that is not of this world.
The stained glass trembles in its frames, the vibrations sending ripples through the multicolored light pooling on the stone floor. Shadows behind the glass stir, shifting and writhing, pressing against the fragile barrier as though testing its strength. Their forms are indistinct, fluid and unnatural, but their presence gnaws at the edges of perception, hinting at something primal and wrong.
The pews seem to stretch into the distance, their ends disappearing into shadow. The wood grows darker, as though stained by unseen hands, and the faint scent of iron wafts through the air. The rows on either side are now empty, stripped of the quiet warmth that once marked this as a place of solace. Instead, a hollow coldness lingers, wrapping itself around the room.
The figure at the altar remains eerily still, yet the world around it shifts. The crimson light pooling from above intensifies, filling the space with a sharp, invasive glare. It refracts off the metallic seams of the rooms fixtures, amplifying their reflective surfaces to cast warped reflections back into the room. The warped images ripple like water, mimicking movement where there is none.
Above, the vaulted ceiling grows darker, its grand arches obscured by a thick, spreading blackness that seems to devour the faint light reaching upward. The chandeliers sway ever so slightly, their movements imperceptible at first but growing more pronounced. Their faint creaking adds an unsteady rhythm to the silence, a sound that drips with unease.
The oppressive atmosphere grows denser, pressing against the space with a malevolent presence. The walls, once adorned with carved reliefs of saints and saviors, shift subtly, their forms twisting into grotesque parodies. They writhe beneath the stone as if alive, their features warped into expressions of terror and rage.
someone The air itself feels charged, thick with static and the faint crackle of something unseen. The tension stretches, growing taut like a string on the verge of snapping. Somewhere distant, a low, guttural noise hums through the space, a sound that seems to vibrate within the marrow of the stone.
The stained glass finally stops trembling, though the shadows behind it seem to gather strength, coalescing into sharper forms. Their shapes press against the glass with greater force, distorting the patterns until they almost burst. Yet the glass holds, barely, as if the room itself refuses to yield entirely to whatever waits beyond.
The figure at the altar begins to glow faintly, its edges defined by a pale, spectral light. It grows brighter, the glow expanding outward in slow, deliberate pulses. Each pulse seems to press against the chapel, making the room feel smaller, the air heavier, the silence louder. The space waits, on the cusp of revelation or ruin.
And something grows nearer, threatening to pierce the veil between nightmare and reality. A hunter. A fiend.
The chapel remains still, though the tension in the air thickens, palpable and heavy. Light from the stained glass windows filters unevenly across the room, now shifting hues that seem less natural and more deliberate, as though they are alive with intent. The intricate images in the windows twist and distort; angels weep rivers of molten glass, their serene expressions melting into anguish. Their halos flicker like dying embers, casting fragmented patterns across the stone walls.
At the altar, the figure stands, its presence dominating the space without movement or sound. It is featureless yet profound, its edges blending into the wavering light as if it's part of the chapel and yet separate from it. Arms outstretched in a grotesque mimicry of welcome, it exudes a quiet mockery that fills the air. The shadows around it pulse faintly, breathing with a rhythm that is not of this world.
The stained glass trembles in its frames, the vibrations sending ripples through the multicolored light pooling on the stone floor. Shadows behind the glass stir, shifting and writhing, pressing against the fragile barrier as though testing its strength. Their forms are indistinct, fluid and unnatural, but their presence gnaws at the edges of perception, hinting at something primal and wrong.
The pews seem to stretch into the distance, their ends disappearing into shadow. The wood grows darker, as though stained by unseen hands, and the faint scent of iron wafts through the air. The rows on either side are now empty, stripped of the quiet warmth that once marked this as a place of solace. Instead, a hollow coldness lingers, wrapping itself around the room.
The figure at the altar remains eerily still, yet the world around it shifts. The crimson light pooling from above intensifies, filling the space with a sharp, invasive glare. It refracts off the metallic seams of the rooms fixtures, amplifying their reflective surfaces to cast warped reflections back into the room. The warped images ripple like water, mimicking movement where there is none.
Above, the vaulted ceiling grows darker, its grand arches obscured by a thick, spreading blackness that seems to devour the faint light reaching upward. The chandeliers sway ever so slightly, their movements imperceptible at first but growing more pronounced. Their faint creaking adds an unsteady rhythm to the silence, a sound that drips with unease.
The oppressive atmosphere grows denser, pressing against the space with a malevolent presence. The walls, once adorned with carved reliefs of saints and saviors, shift subtly, their forms twisting into grotesque parodies. They writhe beneath the stone as if alive, their features warped into expressions of terror and rage.
The air itself feels charged, thick with static and the faint crackle of something unseen. The tension stretches, growing taut like a string on the verge of snapping. Somewhere distant, a low, guttural noise hums through the space, a sound that seems to vibrate within the marrow of the stone.
The stained glass finally stops trembling, though the shadows behind it seem to gather strength, coalescing into sharper forms. Their shapes press against the glass with greater force, distorting the patterns until they almost burst. Yet the glass holds, barely, as if the room itself refuses to yield entirely to whatever waits beyond.
The figure at the altar begins to glow faintly, its edges defined by a pale, spectral light. It grows brighter, the glow expanding outward in slow, deliberate pulses. Each pulse seems to press against the chapel, making the room feel smaller, the air heavier, the silence louder. The space waits, on the cusp of revelation or ruin.
And something grows nearer, threatening to pierce the veil between nightmare and reality. A hunter. A fiend.
This pristine chapel remains still, though the tension in the air thickens, palpable and heavy. Light from the stained glass windows filters unevenly across the room, now shifting hues that seem less natural and more deliberate, as though they are alive with intent. The intricate images in the windows twist and distort; angels weep rivers of molten glass, their serene expressions melting into anguish. Their halos flicker like dying embers, casting fragmented patterns across the stone walls.
At the altar, the figure stands, its presence dominating the space without movement or sound. It is featureless yet profound, its edges blending into the wavering light as if it's part of the chapel and yet separate from it. Arms outstretched in a grotesque mimicry of welcome, it exudes a quiet mockery that fills the air. The shadows around it pulse faintly, breathing with a rhythm that is not of this world.
The stained glass trembles in its frames, the vibrations sending ripples through the multicolored light pooling on the stone floor. Shadows behind the glass stir, shifting and writhing, pressing against the fragile barrier as though testing its strength. Their forms are indistinct, fluid and unnatural, but their presence gnaws at the edges of perception, hinting at something primal and wrong.
The pews seem to stretch into the distance, their ends disappearing into shadow. The wood grows darker, as though stained by unseen hands, and the faint scent of iron wafts through the air. The rows on either side are now empty, stripped of the quiet warmth that once marked this as a place of solace. Instead, a hollow coldness lingers, wrapping itself around the room.
The figure at the altar remains eerily still, yet the world around it shifts. The crimson light pooling from above intensifies, filling the space with a sharp, invasive glare. It refracts off the metallic seams of the rooms fixtures, amplifying their reflective surfaces to cast warped reflections back into the room. The warped images ripple like water, mimicking movement where there is none.
Above, the vaulted ceiling grows darker, its grand arches obscured by a thick, spreading blackness that seems to devour the faint light reaching upward. The chandeliers sway ever so slightly, their movements imperceptible at first but growing more pronounced. Their faint creaking adds an unsteady rhythm to the silence, a sound that drips with unease.
The oppressive atmosphere grows denser, pressing against the space with a malevolent presence. The walls, once adorned with carved reliefs of saints and saviors, shift subtly, their forms twisting into grotesque parodies. They writhe beneath the stone as if alive, their features warped into expressions of terror and rage.
The air itself feels charged, thick with static and the faint crackle of something unseen. The tension stretches, growing taut like a string on the verge of snapping. Somewhere distant, a low, guttural noise hums through the space, a sound that seems to vibrate within the marrow of the stone.
The stained glass finally stops trembling, though the shadows behind it seem to gather strength, coalescing into sharper forms. Their shapes press against the glass with greater force, distorting the patterns until they almost burst. Yet the glass holds, barely, as if the room itself refuses to yield entirely to whatever waits beyond.
The figure at the altar begins to glow faintly, its edges defined by a pale, spectral light. It grows brighter, the glow expanding outward in slow, deliberate pulses. Each pulse seems to press against the chapel, making the room feel smaller, the air heavier, the silence louder. The space waits, on the cusp of revelation or ruin.
And something grows nearer, threatening to pierce the veil between nightmare and reality. A hunter. A fiend.
In spite of all the change, the rising tension, Victor begins to stand. It's slow, deliberate, just as deliberate as the swelling power that is radiated by the obscured figure of doom and gloom. The creak of old wood beneath him when he leaves the pews isn't very loud, but it is loud when the chapel is as quiet and vacant as it is. If it was any other man, maybe they would've shirked away, and certainly he does too. The tell-tale signs of fear are subtly evident within his eyes, just a tad wider, at his pulse, just slightly quicker at his throat.
That doesn't deter him from trained, practiced motions, of checking every exit while the once Holy images are warped and bleed, while molten gold streaks the ground, makes puddles of the tears of saints and the guttural sound trembling is as if a far cry in comparison to their imagined agony. Victor takes point, right at the center, between all the pews, facing forward towards the grim sight outright increasing whatever power it has.
And he is but one man, and just a man.
His fingers clench into fists, groan in steel, harsh and unforgiving, righteous, but defenseless against the predator that found him. No weapons, no armor, none in a place of God- and though he's not as frail as the common man, evident by that repetitive, agonized and distantly faint hum in his flesh, he is still just a man. With one of his hands rising to clasp the cross hanging by his neck, clutch it for whatever it is worth, he first murmurs some verse. A prayer, short, Italian, then asks- in plain English, glaring wintry daggers ahead.
"Whatever you are, you're in the wrong place."
Just one unarmed man never did anything, right? Perhaps it is irony that Victor stands here in a chapel whilst Hell itself breaks loose. The home of One Unarmed Man doing many, many things. His silent prayers cause the forming of the creature to halt and ripple momentarily as the figure with arms outstretched in a mockery of the Crucifixion of Christ speaks in gutteral, garbled speech. "Tell me," he bids the Italian Templar, the faint glow of red within the shadows of his face as they focus on the lone man. "Where is your God? I stand in His own home, disturbing the peace of His Sanctuary, and yet He is nowhere to be found. He will not help you, Victor Valentin."
Another ripple of shadow in the beast's formation before one long, massive, well-muscled arm slams its clawed paw-hand onto the chapel's flooring, claws like jagged stone scraping along its length, tearing up tile and wood alike in long slashes as deep as half an inch. Another arm, a crude amalgamation of man, monster, and beast, with too many elbows and wrists, and a red-eyed skull with no flesh peeling itself from within its own chest, yellow eyes with red rings spinning wildly in their sockets, unfocused as a tongueless, bleeding maw splits into a wide grin and grimace, spilling crimson and ebon bile onto the floor of the holy place. It drags itself from the shadows further and further, a gargled rumbling within the tattered, puss-weeping confines of its chest as it makes and unmakes itself time and time again, like its creator's mind is ever-changing on its concept, altering its form in the moment to fit their liking.
It looks almost painful to the creature, the way ribs snap and seal and shatter and heal and organs spill onto to be slurped back into its insides just as quickly. It's a wolf? No, a bull.. A goat? Some sort of sheep and fox hybrid? Simply looking upon it is maddening. "Your God isn't here."
"My God," Victor starts slowly. The display offered up to him can only leave one distraught, to the point he takes a subtle step back. Skids on his heels, but ever so slowly, his other hand is already making for the holster at his side- skipping over it without touching. With every crack of bone, every spray of blood, every splinter and sound, Victor dares to move more. His hand is at his back, and by the time the amalgamation of many things towers over him, Victor's fingers cusp something tightly underneath his jacket.
"He works in mysterious ways." Conviction is shown with resolution in the calm facade of his tone. A single bead of sweat rolls down the corner of Victor's face in spite of it, glistens the paleness of his mien, and his tense jaw seems hardpressed, a far-cry of the oft casually easy-going expression he often holds. "You think my God is not here, but you're wrong." Another step, quieter than before, but coiled with strength eager to spring. "This is but one location," The words are merely distraction, however truthfully he delivers them in the face of a towering behemoth of destruction and bile-black vigor poised to ruination of him. "And it is meaningless, when he is high above and wields his instruments."
His instrument makes a decisive move, a decision. Victor is one such thing, and in a single step, the ground cracks beneath his feet with coiled strength that shouldn't be in mortal form, but it is. He doesn't retreat. Feared but not cowed, there is the snap of metal that doesn't emanate from him, but from the grenade he's pulled out from underneath his jacket, pin dropped and primed for an explosion that he attempts immediately, by leaping straight ahead. The sole of his shoe seeks a growing bulb, a pulp of flesh swelling upon the beast for balance so he can slam his fist and his explosive straight into the constantly rearranging cavity within the creature - release, and attempt to kick back and away while counting under his breath, six seconds to detonation.
"Futile," says the figure on the stage with an oil-slicked cackle as Victor proclaims the righteousness of his God through all of the blasphemy that spills from the invader's lips, that shifting ground beneath his feet kicked up in wispy tendrils of black as the mortal man leaps through the air and lands on his target, a pustule ready to pop serving as the landing point for Victor's feet not too far off from his goal of the chest cavity.
Meanwhile the weeping angels of mosaic and marble clutch their palms firmly together in helpless prayer, mouths agape as they sob and sing a a wailing song that reaches pitch so high it threatens the integrity of Victor's eardrums. They cry for him as much as they cry for this defiled space, and in a moment of clarity Victor finds an opening in the beat's torso just big enough for both hand and grenade to be deposited. "'Tis not the beast that haunts you, Victor Valentin! 'Tis your own mind that leads you astray and welcomes the demons inside!" he preaches, cackling all the while as the Templar jumps back and out of range. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. The monster coughs and hacks as it tries to peel the explosive from its lung to no avail, those wild eyes skittering in every which direction as the darkness continues to coil about this tainted space.
Six seconds.
BOOM
The monster's chest cavity bursts in the aftermath of the explosion, shrapnel and fragments of metal spraying all over nearby as poorly-formed ribs and their meat drop to the ground and the beast's throat swallows hard.
"GAH!!" shouts the figure behind Victor, a clawed hand having jolted up to clutch at his left eye as his monster starts the disgusting, painstakingly slow process of reassembly. And yet, where wound is on master, so too does it seem permanent on servant. The fiend's left eye has been gouged free, and the figure's, too, by a stray piece of shrapnel. What happens to the summoner, happens to his creation, it seems.
Gore galore. Victor, skidding on his heels, drops within the height of the crescendo of the singing figures, the angels that rise in chorus to him. Wintry eyes are lit with that perpetual determination, harrowingly narrow, intent and focused. A man but one on a mission, one fueled by retribution, simple as. While spewed ichor of a beast most foul taints the corner of his face, drips low in rivulets of black-red hues off of his chin, he only smears it further with a lift of his hand, by wiping it with the back of it.
It appears that even though he bears no arms, no armaments, because this is a place of God, that doesn't mean he lacks in explosives. Quite the number of it, in fact, while slowly, that single Templar sheds his jacket. The half-sighted look of the perpetrator of this crime against all things holy as well as humane is ignored, all while he reveals several more grenades hanging off of his body, strapped to a leather harnesss near expertly concealed underneath his attire. "We'll see," His words are bitten, scarce, and another prayer starts while he leans forward as if to leap-- but it is only to reach behind. The hanging chain, the glint of a cross on his neck glistens with a stain of red while he unstraps an actual fucking landmine from under his shirt, and bluntly drops it on the ground like discarding a piece of useless rubble.
However dangerous, Victor kicks it with the heel of his shoe, into the ever-growing and forming mass of flesh, sliding it to not under but in front of it as if taunting, daring it to step on it, professing it as a holy wall of shrapnel between himself and it, that would surely hurt the both of them if either of them dared to do anything about it. "You caught me at a bad time, 'padre'. I'm not in a great mood, not enough to laugh off this, si?" Bolstered by his initial success, irreverent to horror, Victor lifts his other hand. One that bears a simple, sleek plate. One that fits perfectly over his lower-face, covers his mouth in a single sheet of metal without much to discern what it does. The striations at his throat, however, begin to gleam darker, something whirrs inside of his neck. "Let me put it clearly, stronzo." A pin drops, and his voice echoes metallic, not from his mouth. "I'm not trapped here with you." Then another - and smoke erupts, shading and covering everything but the glow upon the luminescent, sobbing depictions of saints and angel through several smoke grenades, with his voice coming out through it. "You're trapped here with me."
"Darkness..." It is not the figure that whispers this word, but the many hushed voices of false angels in unison with their sudden revelation of the times as smoke spews forth in all directions, blanketing the pews as much as the tattered floor in an impenetrable cloud of all-concealing smoke. "The shadows," they agree with themselves before bursting out into further sobs, their hands grasping helplessly at their own marble and glass faces to drag blunt fingertips down the false flesh in agony. An explosion in the dark, and Victor finds himself hosed down with yet another spray of viscera as the monstero's flailing arm stomps straight down on that landmine and blows the beast to bits all over again.
The air around them all forces th smoke to whip into a frenzy as it blows out from that central point, and then the sharp scream of the faux-priest echoes out again as he finds himself pelted with further debris in time with Victor's threat. Trapped inside? With a human? Those burning red eyes glare across at Victor or at least one of them does, the other gouged from its socket by the initial explosion of a grenade- and now an arm missing, too, from the mine.
"Even now happiness eludes you," he taunts the bionic man through the fog, that voice coming so close to Victor's ear as the two dance around each other and the beast's form begins to bubble and reform once more- albeit, this time with an arm missing, too, oozing black, bile-like blood too profusely to be humanly possible.
Light cannot exist without darkness, and though the greater the light, greater the shadow, from within comes Victor. He might be followed by a single eye through the fog of war, the mist of smoke that hazes everything, but his own eyes peer through it just as easily. Wintry blue eyes rotate within their pupils, flit about in search, in inspection, and every sense is used to its utmost height. The owner of his assailant is untouched- the trick is not lost upon Victor, that he has to do perservere through the monster that returns to dent this abominable captor.
So he does. A piourette, another dance, and there is the sound of a pew being shattered before the monster has fully recovered itself. The sheer speed with which a large portion, sharp and splintered, is thrown dispels a portion of the smoke before its immediate collusion to stab into the pustulating and ever-bubbling mass of flesh straight in the gut, and Victor is close behind it. There is violence in the glint, the passing light of his eyes when he drops another pin. Not a fragmentation grenade, not a smoke grenade, but one made of argentine color.
He doesn't retreat with the imminent explosion of it, jams his fist where an arm used to be, his other fist grabbing hold of a flap of meat to hold on vigorously in spite of the danger, to make sure he stays put, that he stays there in the next explosion that'll happen to sap every ounce of regenerative prowess from the beast. Two seconds, three, four, "Barking up the wrong tree, /this/ makes me happy," That hiss cuts through the sound of bubbling flesh, echoing with all steel.
Held steady amidst the battle, Victor's own strength is pinned against something that is not a creation of God in the slightest, a battle of wills and much as muscles as he counts down the time to detonation. At first it seems the cyborg might win, then the press fades into being even... And then a massive, too-long arm swings from the right to bash into the man and send him flying through the air in several somersaults only to crash into the arms of a weeping angel who spills her molten tears over his flesh whilst her marble hands crumble to the earth around him, arms broken, and then her body from the collision as rubble rains down around Victor's head.
Then there's the pulse, an electronic heartbeat that bursts over the sanctuary in a single electromagnetic wave that glimmers with a faint, silvery-blue light. The monster falls still, and in a brief moment of clarity, that malformed mouth struggles to speak pleading words in Victor's direction, red and yellow eyes quivering as bloody tears ooze from them rapidly. "Kchtt.. Kch.. Chkchtkkkk... Chkilllhh.. Mheee.. Kkkch..." The neck snaps at an awkward angle as that now half-bird, half-bull face turns to look pleadingly upon the Templar. It isn't just a summoned monster: it's a man. Or at least, it was. Now it is little more than a fleshformed abomination, warped to suit the whims and whimsies of the jailers in Hell.
Heavy chains beat against the Earth, too, as the 'father' steps slowly down from the stage, his eyes paler than they had been, his form slightly less muscular, but his feet still just as cloven and red as ever, one might assume, as he casts his hooded cloak to the side. "Yield," he commands through gritted yellow teeth that seem crooked and fanged from front to back, a glob of spittle dribbling down his chin from the force of his own demand. "Let us have you. Let us have you and make you great."
Disorientation hits him like a brick. An immediate blunder, in the arms of an angel that catches him poorly, just to fall on him as rubble as well. In the haze and cloud, Victor's face is stricken in blood. Not only the remnant, now nearly dried gore of the beast, but as well as his own. Blond locks of hair are slick about his face, smattered with red in framing that masked visage, where blood continues to run over the slender metal, steam when it slides over the hollow of his throat and the mechanic striations. He doesn't grunt, not yet, not ever, not while he starts to unbury himself of the stone and dust, even with the ache in his ribs, in his spine.
Bones aren't broken, only rattled. There is more steel in Victor than it seems, but it shows when he begins to stand upright, hiss out a gout of steam to the side from what may be vents built into his mask while the machine stuffed inside overlocks, burns, sears, and once risen, Victor's voice groans in that distant, detached echo not coming from his mouth. "You're too late for that, stronzo." His fists lift, a loose boxing stance with elbows tucked in. "I could do this all day."
But could he? Truly? The poor suffering of what was once a man is not lost upon him either. It was only something that wasn't considered, up until now, up until this very moment, but sacrifices have to be made. The motive and reason is clear when he takes a step forward out of the broken pews, then kicks one straight ahead with more mechanic strength than mortal, sends a pew skidding straight to collide with the weakened, silvered and neutralized monster. It's a mere distraction. A mere foothold, one that he charges right into and uses as a stepping stone to leap off of and launch himself up and high, straight into the face of his Goliathian foe.
Limber arms and legs seek to wrap around that massive head, twist, lock and contort to then shove his weight and momentum even further onward to try and topple it down along with him in a headlock, with his own back to the ground for solid support should he manage. The task isn't to squeeze the breath out of the fleshformed monster - it clearly has little need of air, or organs therein involved, but to snap its neck in one go, end it before the 'father' can gather the strength to involve itself.
"Then prove it," that cloven hooved figure snarls out from a face that lays in tatters, red skin hanging on by a thread, flapping loosely about his jaw as those yellow fangs clatter against one another during his speech. Perhaps Victor could do this all day- but his adversary can't, surely. He's worn down, bleeding profusely, missing an eye and an arm, and now his trump card is begging to be put out of its misery while he himself breaths hard and fast.
Those wild yellow eyes, meanwhile, continue to spasm in their sockets as the human side of the monster's brain wrestles with the agony it is in as well as its own situation, flesh pulled aside to reveal within the visage of a young man with dark hair and dark eyes, perhaps in his late teens to early twenties, clawing at his own face with a mangled hand before it all starts to slowly seal back over again. The grenade will wear off soon- it's now or never for Victor as his window slowly starts to close, human eyes pleading at him from behind rancid meat, begging for release from its painful existence as it repeats: "Kchhh... Chhhkkilllh... Me..." But the figure isn't going to simply *let* Victor do anything. No, he juxtaposes himself between Templar and beast, reaching clawed fingers into the gaping wound where his arm used to be and gritting his teeth as though preparing to take the cyborg on in hand-to-hand for the duration.
But such are the well-laid plans of mice and men that the moment the demonic priest seeks to set himself between his 'pet' and his foe, that a pew goes flying into the air just above him, and up Victor goes on his self-made stairway to Heaven in the blink of an eye, bolting straight past the 'father', who wheels and snarls, shouting: "Stop him, you fool!!" to the beast that can barely keep itself alive as it bleeds. He launches himself into the air as well, but rather than leap nimbly upon the mid-air bench like a dancing acrobat, his muscular weight only brings it crashing back down to the ground even faster than gravity had already been pulling it.
"NO!!" he shouts as he goes rolling across the floor, though even with only one arm he is quickly back to his feet, or hooves, and trying to make a mad dash for Victor, his singular remaining eye forced to watch his plot crumbled down all around him.
Wintry eyes meet the singular, yellow-red, changing hues of his adversary. Victor doesn't skip a single beat while he has the beast, the last vestiges of it, under the wrap of an arm-bar at its throat that's made of steel, quite literally, pulled taut by his other hand clasping at the wrist. Both legs wrapped around the neck of the monster create the tension necessary, and Victor doesn't even blink when he snaps the neck of the poor, fleshformed soul. The stout neck yanked high in the effort to demolish bone remains in full effect for not seconds, but throughout the entire trashing of his captive. All as he stares, burrows his eyes into the injured, false priest.
Blood gets in his eyes, drips from his chin still, and whatever expression he holds is wrought with fury in only his eyes. The hand he has clasping his own wrist grows lax, and he reaches up to another fragmentation grenade hanging off his harness, yanks it, pin and all gone, primed instantly - an explosive that he chucks almost with distasteful laxness at the man.
"I'll see you in hell, fratello. Save me a seat."
"Oh fu-"
WHOOSH
Within moments of his monster's neck becking snapped, the demonic thing's body twists and contorts into some odd, irrational state of existence, his head twisting around backwards as his eyes strain, bulging from within their sockets. Similar happens to his torso as his spine snaps and crackles like breakfast cereal, his chest now facing backwards but, lo! His head faces the correct direction once more.
"I'm going to kill you," seethes the demon through gurgled sputters of black blood that spews and dribbles from his mouth, causing him to choke out every word as he slowly strangles and suffocates. "When... I return... You'll.." He cannot finish his tyrade. Fragments of hot, twisted metal, debris, and shrapnel suddenly pelt his mangled form, causing it to spasm and twitch until it drops to the incorporeal ground below, the world around Victor now slowly shifting.
It's over, at least for now, and the nightmarishly morbid contortion of the angels and Christ slowly begins to fade into something more normal, something more holy, as the world of the Templar's dreaming begins to release its hold on his reality. The pews slowly begin to mend, as do the statues, and the black blood staining his flesh starts to steam and evaporate, the massive creature he's mounted now slowly collapsing to the ground with Victor still twisted partially around its broken but dissolving neck.
His breathing comes out ragged, slow, hissed in slow bouts of steam through slender sockets at the sides of his mouth. That overlocking, the taxed nature of his body, stiff in every muscle, hurt but not broken, allows him easy release nonetheless when the creature in his grasp starts to dissolve. With it's center-mass on Victor's lap, whatever remnants of it there are, they provide enough fleshy protection from the shrapnel that inevitably pelts towards him too.
When all is said and done, the disappearing carcass is shoved away, and Victor turns with a heave, first on his knees - then up on his feet, and up against a wall by the support of a pew that was previously broken asunder. His mouthpiece is removed, stuffed in his pocket while the regular, deific image of the patrons and saints overlook from both above and the sides, from walls and windows and the arched dome. His assailant's parting words are left as such, ignored, Victor is too busy wiping what blood that remains on his face. His own, while wintry eyes peer aside at the once-shattered angel statue he was flung into.
It is, of course, pristine again. Beatific and enchanting, with only smidgen of golden tears running rivulets down her features. That's enough for him, enough to stay upright, enough to roll his shoulder in place, nearly dislocated, surely to bruise viciously later. With only superficial injury at the very least, Victor turns, begins the long, arduous walk towards the chapel's doors, to leave it, and today, behind.