\ Haven:Mist and Shadow Plotlogs/Rhapsody Of The Undying
Plotlogs

Rhapsody Of The Undying

In the chilling environment of Pushkin, a group of agents experienced a harrowing encounter within a church. Carlisle Baker, representing the Watchers, tasked the group with an investigation into the church, seeking information about Rasputin and a mysterious artifact.

Tomas Inigo, the group's muscle, and his assistant Yasmin Ahmed, were initially chilled by the daunting atmosphere but determined to push forward. They met Martin, leaning on his cane for support, as well as a man named Deacon, bearing a duffel bag. The group was cautious, aware of the hostility that seemed to seep from the church itself.

Attempting to engage with one of the clergymen within led them to a bizarre situation where the congregation was in a prayer trance. Not wanting to incite a reaction, Tomas instead tried to offer financial appeasement and requested a tour of the church. But before long, a sinister truth surfaced. The clergymen weren't ordinary; they were husks controlled by something else, revealing themselves as a threat.

A violent confrontation ensued, revealing that the attackers were barely human, impervious to pain, and unrelenting. Desperately, the group tried to fend off the undead assailants. Yasmin, overwhelmed, briefly attempted to flee, whereas Deacon valiantly but rashly engaged the threats, even venturing bold and aggressive direct attacks.

The hostile force, a creature using a woman's mangled corpse as a vessel, displayed terrifying powers, controlling the environment with supernatural will. The corpse-creature laughed mockingly as it advanced on the group.

As the dire situation escalated, Deacon managed to find a path through shadow and wood, leading the team out of the church but not without a last terrifying confrontation. As they took the opportunity to escape, Yasmin tried to take a book, believed to be vital to their mission, with her. But the creature, in a final attempt to hinder their efforts, pulled the book from her grasp just as the path closed, leaving the group and their prize severed from one another.

They returned to the rendezvous point only to find a perturbed Carlisle Baker, eager for news but taken aback by their grim appearance. Deacon passed notes taken during their investigation, but they had lost the book in their escape. Despite their battered states and the incomplete mission, they had survived the nightmarish ordeal in Pushkin.
style="color:#008000"> (Rhapsody of the Undying(SRSarah):SRSarah)

[Sat Nov 11 2023]

At A Street in Pushkin
The streets of Pushkin, once the seat of the Tsar of Russia, are barren. Endless rows of dull, gray buildings, occasionally interspersed with historic sites - each poorly maintained, peeling paints with graffiti slogans, none of which pleasant. This is not a good neighborhood, further given away by the consistent bags of rotting garbage laid out in-front of the doorframes.
A small church, however, stands clear. Far too tall - and regal - for the rest of this street, this historic structure has dim, stone walls in Russian pink. Perfectly maintained, as if untouched by time. There is no garbage, no graffiti, not a mark on the sidewalk. It looms over the street, dominating it with eerie contrast, as if it had sucked the life out of the rest of town.

It is morning, about `d20F(`d-6C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's snowing.

A rather studious looking man paths in, followed by Martin. Well-kempt black hair, thin and greased flat onto his head with a single curl, reading glasses and the most dull, brown suit one may seem in a lifetime. He bears the sigil of the watchers on the lapel of a thick winter coat, which he immediately closes around himself as he steps into the cold weather of Pushkin.

Some weather, too. It is freezing, the streets covered in a thick layer of snow. Barely anyone is on their way in this icy morning, but those who are are united in one thing - they take a wide, wide berth around the church. A church most not at home here, far too well-kept, too /new/ for this decrepit old town. As if time itself had given up on it.

"Carlisle Baker" the bookish man introduces himself to Tomas and Yasmin, sticking out a hand. "I represent the Watcher's in this venture, we're waiting for one more man..." he looks at an old pocket watch, furrowing his brow. "...Did we give him the wrong time?" he doesn't seem to care much, instead giving the church a nervous look. "They have a gathering today, in another site of theirs. It should be more quiet than normal, but caution is advised. I will keep my distance... This... Danger... stuff, is not for me." he explains, it doesn't seem like a lie, looking at him. Yet he can path - he may well have some tricks up his sleeve. "...I will take questions now, before this f-freezing cold gets us all."

"Thank you," Martin is about to offer to the bookish man as he limps out of a space seemingly bended and distorted to give way to them, then the cold Russian air hits him like a truck, immediately taking the pleasantry out of his expression as he shrinks a little onto his jacket and holds onto his cane tighter, "W-well I wasn't expecting it to be *this* cold," Admits the wiry man, adjusting to the new air as he lets the others speak.

Somewhere down the street, tucked from within the corners of an alleyway where the shadow still grows despite the rising sun and the morning's light coalesces another path through shadowy wood to bring another party to the dance. It's a few minutes longer, but a man who looks like he might as well have walked right off of the closest overseas base puts himself to slowly walking down the street, in the direction of the church. The man has a duffel back slung across Deacon's shoulder, carrying it vertically, hooked over a shoulder.

Tomas doesn't much seem to care for the cold, either - he scowls against the chill, zipping up his jacket. He hadn't pathed in - he and Yasmin appear to have beaten the others here by just a little, having waited at the rendesvous point. "Pleasure, Baker. I'm Tomas Inigo. I work with Lowe." He continues on, jerking his head aside to the diminutive woman and gives her introductions on her behalf. "Yasmin Ahmed, my assistant. I'm muscle." Nothing given for Deacon, so he probably doesn't know him. "I'm here to provide a little safety net while we investigate, yeah?"

Yasmin's hands leave her pockets just long enough to pull up the hood of her coat, letting the fur-lined warmth envelop her head. Maybe getting in the way of her peripheral vision a little, but that's a small price to pay for warmth. She offers the Watcher a nod in greeting - no handshakes, alas for his poor, outstretched hand - and Martin gets a smile, even if it's a half-frozen, slightly-shaky one, and Deacon gets a look of absolute non-recognition. The Arab woman sticks close to Tomas for the most part, her eyes finding and lingering upon the church while she lets the others ask any questions they may have; it's hard to miss that particular building, and she's just barely-informed enough to have an idea of what they're doing, definitely not enough to be asking questions.

As he approaches more closely, there's a hint of recognition for Martin actually but it's vague and faint. He pauses as he nears a small collection of people clearly meant for the meetup. He remains silent for the time being, just offering a lift of his chin toward the others as they offer introductions. The cold weather takes some time to huddle and hunker into, but the man makes do with the confines of his leather jacket. Alas, no headwear for the man leaves ears bright red even through the weather tan on his skin. Deacon just rubs his hands together briskly and blows through them with a thick plume of steam-breath before shoving them back into pockets.

Carlisle Baker brightens up as he spots Deacon, nodding. "I see! I see. Very well! Very well indeed. Most excellent. It would appear - well, it would seem we're all here!" he exclaims with a gesture to the man. "Deacon here will also be providing support." he explains in a most cheerful mood, which is then instantly soured by a chill wind piercing the bones. He shivers uncontrollably, crossing his arms, making himself smaller against the cold before speaking in his suffering. "T-this p-place. W-we believe the prev-previous party made i-it s-somewhere d-down stairs." another shiver and he tries to control himself. "...A-as such, we believe our goal may be in there. We want a f-few things. T-the location and a-as much as p-possible on the dead R-rasputin. A-any information t-they have on the a-artifact." He sneezes. "I-is that c-clear? G-good! F-first, you m-must m-make it inside"

He gestures with the now-freezing black curl on the top of his head towards the massive wooden doors of the church, each featuring a large, heavy-looking doorknocker made of stone. "G-good luck, I-I want to go somewhere... warmer..." he mumbles as he starts pathing. If there's questions, better ask them quick, seeing the man's intention to leave.

Martin is quick to zip his jacket up, as well, which seems to have been the most reasonable thing to do considering the cold of this Russian autumn. He flashes a pleasant smile to Tomas once the Inigo states that he indeed, works with him, then that smile is shared with Yasmin, "Wonderful to see you two, here," He shares with a sincere, yet slightly shaky voice as he shoves his free, non-cane hand into his jacket pocket. Deacon is given a smile, as well, "We meet again." He says, seeming to recognize the man more easily than he is recognized, "I am Martin." He then introduces before his attention turns onto Carlisle. He just offers him a nod, no questions from him, apparently, as he stands leaning onto a cane for support.

Deacon himself doesn't seem to be the talkative type, or at least he doesn't have any questions. The lanky man nods at Martin, at the introduction from the older man. "So we do." His tone is serious, focused. Not enough to hide the southern drawl twisted and drawn out by twinges and twangs of French. Then his demeanor shifts entirely, a broad grin splitting across his face. His posture becomes more relaxed, but for his grip on that duffel.

"I heard they have his severed penis in a fuckin' penis museum," Tomas says slowly, absolutely refusing to shiver - at the price of looking vaguely constipated. "In case that'd be any use to you guys, I mean. Wish us luck, Baker." Of course, he doesn't ask any real questions - judging by the way he turns to look expectantly at Martin, he apparently believes the semiambulatory man to have all the details.

There's a visible brightening of Yasmin's eyes at the idea of making it inside - anywhere the bone-chilling wind would stop pressing at them, even if it happens to be a creepy church in the middle of the tundra. "Have a nice day, Mister Baker," she offers to the man before he can leave - a concession for her earlier rudeness in not shaking his hand. "We will make it back fine, I am sure," definitely not foreshadowing anything, nope.

"Guess that was the mark that he left on the world as the Emperor's wife's boyfriend, eh-heh," Martin is quick to joke to Tomas with the little fact that he offers, perhaps a little inappropriate, but he seems quite proud of himself. With the expectant look given to him by Tomas, he blinks, seeming to notice the expectations placed upon him, "Do we even have a plan?" He dares ask, apparently he's not the man with the plan for the day.

Tomas reaches forward to try the door, gripping it with crushing force - but it seems to swing open easy enough, and he frowns. "Well, shit. Okay. I thought it'd be a bit harder than that." He shrugs over to Martin and Deacon, then says to Yasmin, "You're Lights, Ahmed. I can see in the dark, but light's better. Okay. In we all go."

"S-say Hi to Courtney if you run into her." Carlisle mutters wanly to the group before stepping through and into another path - endless rows of dark trees through hazy forest the last that is seen as it swallows him whole.

All that is left is the quiet of the street, the group, and the ominous church. It almost seems to be watching them, somehow. That strange feeling of eyes staring, yet no windows can be seen. Just pink stone and wooden doors.

As Tomas opens the door, it swings open with creaking complaint. Inside, several robed clergymen and women sit and pray in stiff motion. None react. It is a church after all. Even if the group entering looks nothing like the usual visitors would...

Seeing the doors open, Deacon is happy to tag along with the rest of the group but he tries as he can to take up the six o'clock position so he can watch over the rear position. As the group of them will approach the threshhold of the church, the tall southern man bows his head and crosses himself briefly across the chest by way of pure habit, as the door swings slowly shut behind them. In the quiet of the church even the subtle sound of that heavy door closing sounds almost advent in the way it resounds in Deacon's ears. His piercing green eyes are shifting about everywhere now, trying to tag the number of people in the room, and track as many of them as posible. Only made easy due to the fact perhaps they're not moving.

"Yes, Mister Inigo," Yasmin murmurs, voice kept just low enough to be heard above the howling wind as she steps over with Tomas's cue, hands still stuffed in her pockets and her nose reddened from the cold. The next shiver may only half be from the cold, and she exhales out a breath of relief into the air once they step into the church, no acts of reverence involved in the process - it's warm in here, at least. And bright; no need for light just yet, surely. She remains a little on edge though, eyes straying to the robed figures and lingering there for long moments before she turns to give Martin a questioning look. As obviously not-Christian as she is, she's certainly not going to be trying diplomacy with anyone here.

Martin returns that questioning look given to him by Yasmin by tossing his shoulders up in a casual shrug, casually limping along with the group and into the Orthodox Church. His eyes curiously take the interior in, seeming for a moment that he might just be here to admire the architecture, rather than fulfill a mission. "How pleasant, isn't God great?" He says in a very low tone, glancing at Tomas afterwards for the next step, apparently expecting *him* to have the details today.

The mixture of relief and unease is a strange thing is it wars across Tomas's features - he /hated/ the cold, but there's a tangible discomfort at crossing the boundary of a church on the other end of the Schism; even if the Inigo didn't actually practice the Catholic faith. Still, it's not as if he's wearing a cross or anything. He runs the tip of his tongue against his teeth, catching Martin's eye with a faint nod. He takes the vanguard, since Deacon has the rear, and approaches one of the clergymen - ideally one not too bound up in prayer - to speak a little travelogue Russian: "Vi govorit po English?" he asks, almost certainly butchering the pronunciation of his question - did he speak English?

If nothing else, at least Martin's statement is one Yasmin can agree with, a low hum and a nod of her head coming as the answer. She shakes off her hood now, pulling her hands out of her pockets - one comes with a sneaky little snack of dried date that she pops into her mouth - and begins to look around while Tomas starts the questioning, though not straying too far from the group at all, lingering somewhat close to Deacon.

The inside of the structure is moderately cramped, a small pious community, it would appear. Most of the clergy sits in silent prayer, their faces hidden by deep hoods. One stands - some form of leader perhaps, a blank expression betraying no surprise to see the group. In fact, they seem to be expected. He walks towards them in measured steps, hand locked into each other's sleeves. Something is wrong about the prophet in the came glasswork, but putting your finger on just /what/ is wrong about it is another matter entirely. He speaks with a thick, Russian accent, nigh indecipherable. Someone in the know, might recognize it as Siberian. "Da." he responds to Tomas first, then continuing in broken English, "Welcome," he says without really meaning it, "What brings you into Church?" up close, it becomes clear he has a long, unkempt beard. His eyes have a glassy, strange look to them, as if he's not really seeing them. Yet they don't fail to travel from face to face at all, Martin, Tomas and then Yasmin and Deacon, though those two seem to take him considerably longer.

Martin sniffs, observing as Tomas walks up to that priest and speaks to the man in severely butchered Russian, but does he know better? Very likely not, so he just seems content to let him do the speaking as he pulls out that hand within his jacket pocket to rub his fingers onto a palm, warming them up with the assistance of the warm church air. He glances at the Inigo once again to see what he has to say, or if he'd rather leave the speaking to someone ... else.

If God was here in this building, then thank Him for the small mercy of sharing the American tongue with these people. Behind his sunglasses, it's hard to judge whether or not the glassiness is picked up by Tomas - and he doesn't move to take them off, either, even in a Church. "Thank you," he says. "We are travelers. Americans." Even if some of them may well not be. "We were hoping... Eh, would you give a tour of your Church?" There's another pause, then he suggests, "We are told this is a true holy place. Not a fake church."

Now, Deacon isn't the man to be handling conversations, especially not out here where opening his mouth will just advertise his American heritage even more than his attire. He keeps himself casually close to the door of the church just in case, eyes continuing to shift this way and that way while they wait. He lets the strap of his duffel loosen just a tad, ready to sling it from his shoulder in an instant but his ears are on Tomas. He nods as he hears the man speak, smiling briefly as he puts a visual check onto Yasmin and Martin before returning to the priest in front of Tomas.

Here's four for four on people who don't know how to speak Russian - Yasmin seems impressed by Tomas's attempt, at least, for what it's worth, even if her eyebrows subtly arch at the excuse he comes up with, the expression there and gone in an instant. Yes, she's certainly here for a tour of a most holy place. Her kohl-lined gaze lingers upon the glasswork for long moments during her examining, but the leader making conversation is of more interest at the moment, so Yasmin turns back there as well, apparently not having found anything too much of interest - to her, at least - in the immediate vicinity.

The clergyman seems to be struggling to comprehend the English granted to him, then realization dawns. His eyes widen, then narrow to a squint. "Fine. Yuu want tour?" he says in that broken Siberian accent, "I give tour." he points to the altar, "Talk block.", a large wooden door in the back - kept shut by an old-looking padlock. "...Private. Not forr yuu." and then he points down, "Dead." dead? "Burial." is added in explanation. "I give tour, now you sit and pray, then leave." he instructs with a gesture to the benches. Not about to give them free entrance, it seems.

Martin nods to Deacon to confirm his visual check, then his eyes turn back onto the priest, although he does flash Tomas a little, pleased smile with his attempts at diplomacy, seeming to appreciate it. With the priest's brief tour, he smirks some, seeming to find the situation perhaps just a little amusing before he forces that smirk down, perhaps not the most appropriate time, now. He continues to observe the Inigo, seeing how he will deal with the situation at hand.

"Spasibo," Tomas replies, straining for a moment, and - no he can't make himself bow in thanks. It's just not in him. Instead, he pulls a few ruble bills with faded colours from a pocket - traveling by airport instead of the convenience of pathing did have /some/ advantages - and glances around for an offering bowl, stepping back to be among his traveling group. Dropping his voice, he murmurs, "Might be a sepulcher or somethin', if we're lookin' for buried relics. One of us could take a peak in the nightmare."

Regardless of whether or not he does find a place to donate his probably-not hard-earned cash, he opts to take a seat at one of the pews, lowering his head in faux prayer.

"Spasibo," Tomas replies, straining for a moment, and - no he can't make himself bow in thanks. It's just not in him. Instead, he pulls a few ruble bills with faded colours from a pocket - traveling by airport instead of the convenience of pathing did have /some/ advantages - and glances around for an offering bowl, stepping back to be among his traveling group. Dropping his voice, he murmurs, "Might be a sepulcher or somethin', if we're lookin' for buried relics. One of us could take a peek in the nightmare."

Regardless of whether or not he does find a place to donate his probably-not hard-earned cash, he opts to take a seat at one of the pews, lowering his head in faux prayer. (fix)

Having to make a choice in the matter, there's a moment where Deacon stands perfectly still. Then he's turning toward his companions, and while he doesn't have the full scope of knowledge he knows what his gut tells him. "They're already dead - watch for the blades!" He gives a faint heartbeat of a moment, waiting to see if his allies respond, waiting to see what the priests do when he finally does speak up. If nothing heppens in that moment of tension and pause ... he'll just drop to his knees smoothly along with the duffel as he's reaching.

Deacon wanted to write in the pause, so he could backtrack and stuff if people break or respond!

Her hands clasped respectfully behind her back, Yasmin follows the tour given by their benevolent tour guide with a mix of amusement and bewilderment, following the pointing of his hand to the altar, the door, and back - someone talking back to the Inigo is a source of great humor, it would seem, and greater still when Tomas sits and lowers his head in 'prayer'.

Yasmin might've been expecting a fight at /some/ point, but it's definitely not expected right after the very nice tour - she'd been poised to step closer, maybe take a closer look at the 'talk block' - and the padlock on the door nearby, just coincidentally, of course - but the sudden words from Deacon make her freeze. Freeze, and then step back again, closer to what shadows she can find to hide her diminutive self, hopefully out of sight and out of mind, even if a small knife finds its way into her hands - just in case.

Deacon had to try.

Martin doesn't seem to be able to get any more pleased with Tomas, hell, he could almost be *proud* of him. His admiration for the man's diplomatic flexibility is disrupted, however, when Deacon warns them of a possible danger. He freezes for just a second, but it's not that this is his first time being warned of an incoming threat. He quickly throws his cane up a little and catches it, having to place a bit of weight onto that still-recovering leg of his now, that he has to fight. Ouch.

Deacon gets the red prompt for the attack, but no actual combat ensues.

The priest watches Tomas sit down. There is no offering bowl. In fact, a closer look at the surroundings might reveal this place is missing various things of some import - aside from a single candle, the place seems entirely devoid of light. At first the robed figures all seem calm, still, but as Deacon calls out a fight, a choice is made. A knife leaves their leader's robe and he runs straight for him. Between his reflexes and preparation, however, he finds himself in a fight, standing in-front of Deacon, making ready to stab.

Deacon is being asked to try this -

Deacon will not actually throw a blow.

As the cultist begins to move toward him, Deacon smoothly brings a large rifle out of the duffel he's been carrying. He won't have time to scope down of course, but he brings it up to bear before the cultist can fully engage him.

Well, shit - Tomas doesn't have time to draw a weapon, and still join the fracas - not sat down. All his kit's still packed away, and he's the kind of guy that doesn't bother with pocket knives. "Fuck's sake," he swears, then springs up and charges in, unarmed and unarmoured. He brings the edge of his hand down like a knife in a huge overhead blow - easily telegraphed, but hopefully Deacon could get into position with the opening he presents. Fuck, he hated playing bait.

The cultist easily blocks Tomas' chop with a raised arm. Easily? There's a crunching sound, yet he seems completely unbothered. He rewards the attempt with a mad slash that barely misses him Tomas. Unbothered, he prepares for another blow as the other cultists rise to action, gathering towards the altar. One, however, heads straight for Yasmin, dull, dead eyes staring blankly as he approaches her, inching closer and closer.

Oh, nope - Yasmin is certainly not in for the stabbery, even if the knife in her hand is held in a white-knuckled grip, ready to lash out if approached; even if, technically, the people here aren't even /alive/. She shoots Tomas a panicked, wide-eyed look, stepping further away still from a robed cultist attempting to stab Deacon, backing herself up to a corner of the place, and - yes, she /was/ supposed to be the lights. Even if that may - and does - draw some attention towards her, there's a brightening of the area with the glow that lights up beneath her skin in due time, the brightness wavering a little but certainly present while she tries to keep her distance from the approaching cultist.

Martin turns out cripples don't make

Martinurges you to ignore that :)

Turns out cripples don't make the best reservists as Martin proves, he barely dodges a knife before landing the brass end of his cane onto some cultist's head with force. He is not that lucky in the second try, however, as he has to take a painful step or two back, receiving a slash as he attempts to retreat. He allows a quiet curse to escape him, not seeming too amused by his current predicament.

As that cultist comes forward at him with the knife, Deacon tries to stand and launch forward with his foot to plant a boot into the chest of the cultist who may not be prepared for him to advance instead of retreat. Then he's trying to swing his rifle almost like a baton or stick to strike the man if he can, and then he's saying something in Cajun or French (a simple mother's prayer) that seems to envigorate him almost, a temporary reprieve from a blanket of fatige that seems to help him react in the midst of combat.


See society report event 11 2 to continue.
Yikes - even with Tomas jumping back out of range of that knife, it's not so pleasant thing to narrowly avoid having one's throat opened. "You /fuck!/" he snarls, swings with the corpse - if he isn't already, then he soon will be. His fist snaps out to crunch into the cultist's face, though he at least turns onto his side, reducing his profile for any pesky incoming stabbing motions. "Yasmin, get the door," he calls, not seeming to mind the breath it costs him.

Yikes - even with Tomas jumping back out of range of that knife, it's not so pleasant a thing to narrowly avoid having one's throat opened. "You /fuck!/" he snarls, swinging at the corpse - if he isn't already, then he soon will be. His fist snaps out to crunch into the cultist's face, though he at least turns onto his side, reducing his profile for any pesky incoming stabbing motions. "Yasmin, get the door," he calls, not seeming to mind the breath it costs him. (fix)

The cultists keep moving, desperate to attack at all costs. There's no sense to it, Deacon's hit with his rifle causes a painful crunch to sound loud from the man's skull and he slumps to the ground, dead. As Tomas hits one with a fist, another loud crunch is heard. The cultist falls on his back, his face a bloody mess, then stabbing around him in a fit. The cultist going for Yasmin approaches closer and closer, whilst the last cultist joins the one going for Martin. Bullying the cripple is a hobby, apparently. Or perhaps they smell his weakness.

"Fucking hell!" Martin yells as the cultists start dogpiling on him, taking a few hobbly, limpy steps backwards, and undoubtedly painful. He clenches his jaw and raises his cane, ready to bash in any cultist skulls that might get in his range, "By Mars, if I fucking die like this!" He curses.

One of the doors has a padlock on it, and the other leads to sub-zero temperatures, so as much as Yasmin would /like/ to try her luck with the former, it's probably - unfortunately - the latter Tomas is referring to. Cornered as she's probably going to be very soon though, there's not a lot she can actually do to reach it without getting past the approaching cultist - a fact she lets known with a little squeak of alarm. Surely that'll get the message through. She /really/ doesn't want to see what the cultist wants with her up close, going off Martin's yelling in the close distance.

But hey, at least the girl can run, if nothing else - she tries to get past the cultist with a burst of speed; hopefully, dead people don't have reflexes too fast.

Well, shit - at least Tomas's target seems incapacitated. "Don't think they can fuckin' see without eyes," he calls out, stepping nimbly away from the downed cultist's frenzied stabbing. He takes advantage of the moment to pluck a weapon from his back - a short, but elegant rapier, shining with a metallic gleam upon the black blade as it catches Yasmin's light. He begins to march over to Martin's side, leaving Deacon to fend for himself - he'll be skewering spinal columns in short order, but not yet.

The threat right in front of him taken care of, Deacon breathes an exhale of relief and then he's shifting his gaze with a quck assessment. One scoping toward Yasmin, but Tomas is free now. He drops to the knee, and lifts the rifle. He doesn't take the time to aim as well as he might normally, but he takes the shot at one of the two advancing on Martin, now. The LOUD reporte of his rifle will boom through the church for better or worse because there's no silencer tube attached to the thing. "It's the brain! Their half-dead" but he's yelling because his own ears are ringing so loud there's nothing he else he can hear.

Martin gestures to Tomas with the cane, landing one final hit right into some undead-cultist's skull, probably cracking it quite easily, "Shit, Inigo, cover me!" He signals as he pulls some kind of necklace out of his pocket and fumbles with it, "I am not prepared for this kinda emergency," He admits a split second before he takes another step back; but this time, its a step out of perceived reality, right into the nightmare. (OOCly Marty has to go, and is sorry about this!)

Fuck, there goes the most experienced combatant amongst them - but, eh, he /was/ a lot less useful with his injury. Still - Tomas's less than pleased with having the whole dogpile right at hand as a reward for trying to help the cripple. "Fuck me DEAD!" he hollers, thrusting forward with a stab of his own to try and turn a cleric-skull into a god damned shish kebab. "Okay, try not to destroy the faces! We might need to ID Charlotte!"

If Tomas got the name wrong, there, that would probably make sense, given his distraction.

Zombies? It's unlikely, but definitely /something/ is wrong with these cultists. Deacon's bullet strikes true, splattering brain matter over the pristine walls of the church as Yasmin just barely manages to reach the door, avoiding a lunge at a hair's distance. There's two cultists left now, one turning slowly to face Tomas as his knife cleaves the empty air that once contained someone. The other stumbling towards the outside door, after Yasmin. Tomas' stab finds its way deep into the skull of a cultist, but unlike the others... she doesn't quite die. Her arms move in a sickening manner, twisting in directions no joints should twist, something is controlling her, it seems. The candle flickers out, clouds cover the sun, darkening the room.

Zombies? It's unlikely, but definitely /something/ is wrong with these cultists. Deacon's bullet strikes true, splattering brain matter over the pristine walls of the church as Yasmin just barely manages to reach the door, avoiding a lunge at a hair's distance. There's two cultists left now, one turning slowly to face Tomas as his knife cleaves the empty air that once contained Martin. The other stumbling towards the outside door, after Yasmin. Tomas' stab finds its way deep into the skull of a cultist, but unlike the others... she doesn't quite die. Her arms move in a sickening manner, twisting in directions no joints should twist, something is controlling her, it seems. The candle flickers out, clouds cover the sun, darkening the room.

Charlotte, Courtney, may as well be the same thing for all Yasmin cares at the moment, one eye on Tomas and Deacon, the other on the cultist following her while she attempts to throw the door open and let in some of the light - hopefully there's light, even if it means the cold will be let in, if more is needed beyond what she herself does to light up the room as much as she can, her eyes glowing a brighter amber. She doesn't move further away, the cold of the outside air at her back while she stares, horrified, at the woman skewered on Tomas's blade, looking vaguely green.

Well, as Tomas said - he can see in the dark, so there's no immediate panic... Not from the dark, at least. He recoils away from the twitching, flailing woman, wrenching his rapier free with a sickening crack of splintering bone that signals that he might have just failed to follow his own advice in keeping IDs intact. Poor Charlotte. Or Courtney. Whatever it was. "Deacon," he calls. "You got any fuckin' clue how to kill /that/?" He backs slowly towards Yasmin, his boots thudding heavily against the floor with every footstep.

Being closer to the door, Deacon is turning toward the one that's following Yasmin trying to intercept it with an outright tackle, but the commentary from Tomas has him stopping while the other man makes that chase instead. His eyes whip around and they alight on the one, singular candle that's been placed into the church. "Fire might work!" He calls, and he's running for that damn near vaulting or hurdling over the few pews that may stand in his way. He doesn't sound entirely certain, but he sounds like it might be worth a try at the very least.

The cultist stumbling after Yasmin takes several more steps and then falls to the floor. The glazed look is gone from their eyes - whatever happened to the person - who looks very much human - coming undone, unraveling, but it is no comfort. The possessed cultist breaks its own neck as it turns her face all the way to Yasmin, blood dripping from her chin. There is no coughing, not even breathing anymore. She is dead. The creature pulls back its leg, then kicks at one of the benches, shooting it rapidly in Tomas' direction, thick wood flying through the air as Deacon makes his way to a dead candle.

Yasmin doesn't look any less green, but she's /slightly/ more at ease with Tomas closer to her now, and surely it's none of anyone else's business if her hand trembles around the hilt of her unused hunting knife - certainly just from the cold.

And then - oh, no, she certainly looks one step away from throwing up at the sickening crack that resounds from the cultist's neck, the only thing pulling her attention away being the bench rapidly hurling towards Tomas. "Mister Inigo!" she warns in case the man hasn't seen it coming, turning wide eyes away from the cultist on the floor entirely.

Not an awful idea, as they went, but Tomas didn't bring a god damn later to this benighted wastescape of ice and snow. Even Hell had a fucking heat source. He turns towards the candle, following Deacon's gaze - and gets clipped in the back by a fucking church bench for his efforts, falling forwards onto his forearms just a moment after Yasmin issues her warning. At least he didn't impale himself on his brain-greased rapier. "Okay," he wheezes, almost comedic in his delivery. "She, uh - she's strong." He crawls forwards, shaking his head as he tries to summon up that demonic temper again. Fuck the candle - his world becomes the puppet body who decided that furniture counts as weaponry. His back hurt. "They said Rasputin couldn't die," he snarls at the corpse-thing. "They shot him, poisoned him, tried to fuckin' hang him or somethin'. You're startin' to feel like the fucked up version of an Elvis impersonator."

Rather than hurdle across the last one, Deacon tries to smash through it or at least test how tough it is. Reaching the candle, the Cajun stars fumbling around for something in his pocket, eventually bringing out a cigarette case. What cigarette case is without a lighter, if you know what you're doing and so the man grabs for it and takes a half-breath to see what's going down. The one takes care of itself, and the one that's refusing to die know seems focused on Tomas for the time being. Using his lighter, Deacon will try to light the thing and leave it under the pew that's closest to him, keeping himself low so he can find a good time to intervene. It's a risky move, but he doesn't seem overtly broken up in the moment about trying to burn down the church! Then a thought rolls through his head as Tomas speaks aloud. His rifle comes to bear ... and he tries to put a bullet right through the heart of this zombie-like thing rather than it's head if he can. He might have to wait for it to stand to do so, but he remains quiet, not calling out and instead biding his time, unfortunately using the others as a kind of bait.

Not an awful idea, as they went, but Tomas didn't bring a god damn lighter to this benighted wastescape of ice and snow. Even Hell had a fucking heat source. He turns towards the candle, following Deacon's gaze - and gets clipped in the back by a fucking church bench for his efforts, falling forwards onto his forearms just a moment after Yasmin issues her warning. At least he didn't impale himself on his brain-greased rapier. "Okay," he wheezes, almost comedic in his delivery. "She, uh - she's strong." He crawls forwards, shaking his head as he tries to summon up that demonic temper again. Fuck the candle - his world becomes the puppet body who decided that furniture counts as weaponry. His back hurt. "They said Rasputin couldn't die," he snarls at the corpse-thing. "They shot him, poisoned him, tried to fuckin' hang him or somethin'. You're startin' to feel like the fucked up version of an Elvis impersonator." (fix)

The bullet hits the being right in the chest, ripping through soft flesh. For a moment, it seems like it worked, the creature still, but then the came glasswork cracks, letting in a rush of cold air. It gives Yasmin one last look, or rather, the doors behind her. They shut close with a loud thump, taking their escape. With that out of the way, it starts to turn her neck with a nasty, crunchy screeeeeech to look at the origin of its damage: Deacon. The temperature lowers rapidly as air rushing towards the creature while it spreads her arms, then laughs. Softly at first, then louder and louder, before long cackling into the air, unbothered by the damage, gaping hole plain in her chest. A mist starts to flow from its mouth as well as its wound, rolling onto the floor,

Yasmin drops to her knees to help Tomas up, a hand on his arm and her eyes flickering between him and the undying creature upon the ground, letting the words distract herself from the otherwise-impending onset of nausea waiting for her and-- nope, that's definitely a sight that's going to be haunting her nightmares for a while, and the woman takes the earliest opportunity available to scramble back once Tomas is back on his feet, a startled scream escaping her when the doors slam shut, and the Arab almost slipping on a slippery bit of brain matter, clutching at the back of the nearest pew to steady herself. "W-we should look for the artifact- if we can't kill it, maybe-" she points out, breath and voice both shaky - and maybe she's just looking for an excuse to not have to stare at the creature any longer, but it's for a good cause, surely, while it's distracted with Deacon. "Nightmare?" she questions Tomas, "Or- I- I can try the door," Or maybe the fire /is/ the right way to go, if the poor candle can survive the chilling wind that makes it way through the cracked glasswork, Yasmin shivering again already.

Tomas takes Yasmin's hands and hops up to his feet, and he's stepping quickly backwards, now, dragging her along. "The book. Throw the fuckin' book at it - that might help." He's definitely grasping at straws, here - he knew about the /regular/ supernatural, not about weird shit like this. "I don't know any fuckin' Russian. I don't know if this thing can even talk," he says. His raises his voice, yelling, "Turn off the fuckin' fog machine or I'm gonna cut your fuckin' head off and fuck the stump." His features screw up - indecision makes this a bit nastier. "Yasmin, get the door. Try to pick the lock if you can. Weird shit like that's usually stronger in the nightmare - that's your last resort. Lowe will be gone by now. If you can get it open, I'm gonna put in a fuckin' commendation to the Doc on your first day."

Deacon can only hope that candle will continue to do it's work and he's looking around as he hears mention of a book as well, and it distracts his attention. He's trying furiously to figure out what to do about this, but he's not looking to back away from this for better or worse. Another loud report comes from his rifle as the soldier puts another bullet through this thing, as his mind works a mile a minute to try and pick at the thing that's been bugging him and also to search for the book. He means a bible? His eyes cut between the glass came and the lecturn.

"Akh! Segodnyashniy uzhin deystvitel'no vyglyadit vkusno. Poterya moikh soyuznikov - nebol'shaya tsena za eto... Yesli by u menya byl tol'ko yazyk po vkusu, no podrazhaniye podoydet" the woman's voice exclaims in a strangely masculine, russian accent, hollow yet charismatic, a dichotomy that should not be. It starts to take steps towards Deacon, one by one, lowering the temperature with every step. The second bullet hits as well - bone crunching, flesh tearing off of his body. But it keeps walking, as if nothing is happening at all. Not many steps away from Deacon now, Tomas and Yasmin go forgotten, by virtue perhaps of not shooting at it. The candle bravely flickers on, for whatever good that will do... A wail heard from outside as the place visibly starts to degrade, woodrot spreading through the benches, the doors, paint peeling off of the walls. This fight is taking something out of it - it may not be visibly reacting to the shot, but it seems to be causing it to focus its energy inwards, to keep itself going.

No nightmare then, alas. Yasmin steps away from Tomas, knife going back in its hidden sheath - not like she was using it anyway. Her fingers are half-frozen already when she scurries over to the other door, calling out at Deacon along the way, "Bible on the altar." She /had/ noticed that during her initial examination of the room, at least. "I don't know if- I don't have proper tools," she warns Tomas next when she reaches the padlock upon the door, and, indeed, all she's got for this is a metallic common pin, the sort that would be more suited for keeping her headscarf pinned in place than lockpicking proper locks - but it's a good thing this isn't a proper lock at all. The relief is obvious when she finally gets to examine the lock up close, and even shaky fingers can make a good attempt at it, especially when the creature's efforts make it degrade even further.

"Your Russian voo-doo don't scare me!" Deacon almost seethes out during battle frenzy at the thing, his other senses picking up a little bit on that sense of connection between this church and the thing that's advancing on him. He doesn't have time to take another shot, so the rifle is dropped and up comes his knife, "Then get to it!" He finally screams out, and he's stepping forward almost blatently stupid since he clearly isn't going to just easily kill this thing! "Hey /Suka/ .." he taunts out at the thing that sounds too masculine for the body it possesses. He doesn't think about his next few moments - he just acts so that the other two can work. "You want to live forever?" The questionm is just as teasing and he rushes forward. It's sloppy, visceral. He knows he'll take as much damage as he receives, but doesn't think twice about it. Knife stabbing, trying to smash the thing through pews and run it for a full rush.

"We don't speak fuckin' Russian," Tomas yells again - he likes yelling - then charges the corpse as it encroaches steadily upon Deacon, intent on fulfilling the first - and only the first - part of his threat, swinging his rapier more like a longsword. That's okay; there was a fair bit of strength behind the swing, and the sword would probably be useless anyway if this didn't kill the damn thing. Unfortunately, trying to perform a decapitation at a sprint is something of an obvious manoeuvre, and the two-handed grip leaves him mostly guardless - hopefully, the soldier and the thug's paired melee could finish this thing off.

The lock opens with a loud click, exposing an escape, perhaps to the gratitude of the group. The possessed cultist barely reacts as Deacon taunts it, nearing, rasping some words in Russian through the throat of the possessed woman as Deacon stabs her over and over. Blood pools from each cut and Deacon seems to be getting away with it. Then it happens in an instant. As Tomas' sword cuts into his neck, it finds bone. The sword bends, damaged beyond repair, stuck deep into the woman's flesh, whilst her hand reaches out, grabbing and lifting Tomas by the neck with laughable ease. It smashes Tomas into Deacon like a bowling ball, sending them both flying in the wall. Lucky for Tomas, he has something soft to shield him. Unlucky for Deacon, his bones make a sickening crunch, several ribs breaking between the hulk of a man and the wall. Yasmin is left the only one standing, with an open door and the two men not far. A sickening smile makes its way onto the woman's face, flesh tearing in the process of shaping it. She doesn't walk to them, her eyes fixed on Tomas as instead, she raises her hand. The benches start rising in the air, then spinning, faster and faster.

Suddenly, Deacon finds himself being thrown across the length of the church, and SLAM he's hitting the wall. The crunch reaches his ears first, before a soft whimpered grunt is coming from the man as he takes the brunt of the impact. "Oh, jesus" he oophs out as they crash and then slide to the floor. He's groaning, and the impact is enough to put even more ringing in his ears, sending his vision spinning about and for the moment, a sitting duck as those ribs cause his breathing to shift to something shallow and wheezing.

Well, that's unfortunate - Tomas weighs a fucking ton, more than he should, and he makes a grimace even as he tries not to moan in pleasure and pain as he crushes and cracks Deacon's ribcage open in an act of unintentional friendly fire. Sorry, Deac. Still, he's a little stunned, and forcing his body to knit his lesser injuries together takes the rest of the wind out of his sails - for now, anyway. His bow was probably toast, too - it'd been in his bag on his back, between himself and the soldier. "Fuck," he croaks. "Find the fuckin' thing, Yasmin. Run. Fast!" He begins to crawl for what little shelter the altar can present, dragging Deacon with him. Not just as a helping hand, mind - he's gonna help as a human shield.

She can't afford to pay attention to whatever's going on behind her; all of Yasmin's focus is upon the lock, fingers of one hand clasped around the lock and the other around her pin, and the click sounds like triumph on its own - right until the wall shakes with the force of Tomas and Deacon smashing into it. Whatever she speaks in loud Arabic next is definitely a curse as her eyes catch sight of the absolute fuckery going on here - the benches spinning in the air are intimidating enough without the cultist there with half its neck cut off, rapier still sticking out from it, and Yasmin's not-quite-five-foot frame is /certainly/ not going to be able to help carry either of the men away from danger without all three of them dying, likely. She doesn't wait for a cue, only pushes the door open further to make her way through - to the source of this, hopefully.

As Deacon and Tomas begin to crawl to the shelter, wooden benches fly through the air like spears. The first crashes into the stone floor behind them, pushing it up, throwing them onto their side. A second lands right beneath them, splintering into thousands of pieces... and then leading to a loud CRACK! as the beaten floor collapses, wooden foundations giving way. They fall into what seems to be a crypt, away from the fight upstairs - and the woman they left behind. As the smoke clears, the crypt reveals the academics sent before, looking at their clothes, laying on a stone slab. Behind it is an arcanist's table, on top of which a variety of implements - and objects. Including some rather interesting looking bracelets and other accessories and various notes of an arcane nature, maps and other rather interesting items.

Yasmin A loud crash is heard from the church and downstairs, a floor collapsing. The room Yasmin entered is thankfully empty of threats, a singular book laying on the table. 'The True Biography of Rasputin", this may well be what the Watchers wanted them to bring. "

There's a prayer upon her lips when Yasmin stumbles into the sanctum, lit only by the light she gives off. She definitely doesn't know what to expect in a church, whether or not any of this is normal - is there supposed to be a dining table and portraits of what seem to be royalty in a small church? It probably doesn't matter a lot, though; she's already walking around the table, filled with nervous, restless energy, pin still clutched in hand while her eyes rove over the contents of the chamber, eyes lingering on the portraits first, the woman in them - and finally coming to rest upon the one and only book upon the table. She reaches for it, without a moment's hesitation. Hopefully it isn't booby trapped or anything of the sort.

There you go - Tomas had been crawling under Deacon's body to use him as a human shield, so it's his turn to cushion the fall as he lands with a meaty `d*thwack* against the ground. Certainly, it wouldn't be a pleasant experience for the soldier, with his already-broken ribs, but better than landing directly against the ground. "Fuck," he groans, and opts to lie there for a second. His everything hurt. "You doing okay up there, Deac?"

To add more injury to injury, as well as insult - they fall through the floor and the end up crashing through and there's another groan. Grabbing at his side, Deacon is murmuring some kind of obscenity to himself when something catches his eye as he's rolling off of the larger man beneath him. "Fuck .. no. But I'm alive" he grunts before his eyes cut over. "Do you .. know .. why we're here ... ?" He asks what could be the thin air?


See society report event 11 3 to continue.
The Biography seems perfectly mundane in nature, no explosions or strange feelings when picking it up. The only oddity, perhaps, is that is is hand written. Outside, however, bricks can be heard moving. Something approaching the door. That familiar coldness creeping into the room, threatening her, each second more precious than the last. The door seems firmly locked, the stairwell instead having another padlock. Either way, where Yasmin is now, she is trapped, nowhere to go, nowhere to run.

A noise can be heard upstairs, something moving through the destroyed church, heading towards the direction Yasmin fled in. Tomas and Deacon are definitely not in a state to be moving much more, or doing any more fighting today. Certainly not about whatever that creature was.

Tomas gingerly drags himself up onto his feet after a moment to catch his breath, reaching up to grab at the table's edge for leverage. "Fuck this place," he sighs. "Fuck Russia. I think I have a concussion." He doesn't quite offer Deacon a hand - it might be better for him to stay down there, given the cracked ribs. "I'll... have a little poke around," he grunts, pulling out his phone - damn it, it cracked - to try and take a few pictures of the things laid out in the room. He tries to forward them through to Martin and Yasmin, too - but who knows how much reception would reach down here?

Deacon tests something.

Oh no. For once, Yasmin doesn't have the nightmare to escape to. The Inigo had warned her against it, after all, and she doesn't fancy trying her chances with a creature that would be /even stronger/ in there. The walls feel like they're closing in, her breath coming in sharp pants, and her own light making her feel so, so exposed, goosebumps rising along her skin and she's sweaty in her coat despite the cold. She can't hide though - there's no time to hide, her companions are injured, maybe dying - she heard the crack of bone, so familiar - and she can't see in the dark anyway, and she has to run - there's nowhere to run - and Yasmin blinks away a sudden onset of terrified tears from her eyes, mumbling another curse beneath her breath when she scrambles to the furthest corner of the room from the approaching coldness and cracks open the book with trembling hands, willing the words she's looking at to make sense.

"Artifact ... we came for an artifact" Deacon manages, slowly trying to push himself to his feet. He might not be in the condition to fight much more but he's certainly dealt with broken ribs before. He can manage that, at least. "We need to get out of here .. I think we bit off more than we can chew, right now" he groans toward Tomas as he tries to make his feet. "Tell me anything, ugh!" He grunts, speaking to the air, "Whatever you can I'll .. say rites for your body. I'm not a priest but .. I .. believe."

Even if he'd been baptised... confirmed, even, Tomas didn't quite have faith. Nor did he have any godly gifts of clairvoyance or clairaudience; his gifts were purely physical. "You hearin' a ghost, Deac?" he asks, unaware of whether he might be speaking over such a thing. "Or are you just fuckin' nuts? What's goin' on?"

Almost. Alomost Deacon is about to quip back at Tomas with some cocky line but then the pain comes sharply and he just grunts and tries not to double over. "Th- the first one .. but she's almost gone. We gotta .. get the fuck out." He starts looking around, but it's clear he's going to be moving slow.

The cold creeps closer, mist starts pouring into the room, bricks falling to the entrance. Not much time left, now. As Yasmin tries to make sense of the book - she may find something rather disturbing about it - it is written, entirely, in Russian. There is no sense to the book, no point in reading it, no way out between its pages. Yet the cold only creeps closer. This will be her grave if she finds no reprieve, a funeral in the making. A cackle mocks her from outside, it knows. It knows it has her in its trap. Alone.

Tomas' reception is thankfully fine, though an answer seems unlikely, with Yasmin trapped upside, possibly with the possessed creature. It can be heard, rummaging upstairs, through caved walls and broken furniture.

"Can .. can you get word to Yasmin? This .. is all we're going to find" Deacon finally says, looking to Tomas as he points at the notes and bits left on the table down here. He moves toward it, hobbling but already gathering his energies about him. He focuses his thoughts, forcing himself to look past the physical pain and the slightly wet sound that's begun to enter into the wheeze of his breathing. "T .. tell her to get .. out." His hands fumble and move, fingers a little less than dexterous right now as he tries to gather up those papers.

"Give me a few more minutes," Tomas grunts, "And I can drag you out through the nightmare. I just need to..." He gestures vaguely at his head. "I'm a bit fuckin' dizzy. We shouldn't leave without takin' /something/ back. I don't know magic, though - should we take some of these bracelets or somethin'?" He grits his teeth at the occasional reminders of his assistant's impending fate. "We... how strong are you, Deac? You think we could crack the slab before whatever it is upstairs kills my fuckin' - yeah. Yeah, I'll text her." And he does - and he can only hope she gets a chance to look at her phone.

Deacon looks around, "Which?" He says to Tomas then, his concentration momentarily broken. "I c-can probably manage it if I don't have to path too" he admits, before giving a wet-sounding cough. He's slowly looking a little better, but even that advantage won't be enough to put hiim back on feet in time to be useful.

No response comes to Deacon. Maybe she's faded. Maybe she was never there, a mere figment of his imagination, a symptom of his injury. The papers are all written in russian, though a few things stand out. A map of some area in Russia - a village called Prokrovskoye. Formulas, components of some sort of alchemical creation. Drawings of sigils, some of which inscribed on the objects gathered around the table.

Those words that escape Yasmin are definitely nothing polite, even if they're kept no louder than a whisper, and she slams the book shut with less care than anyone probably ought to considering its nature, once she realizes it's really not in a language that will make sense to her anytime soon, no matter how hard she wills it.

No way around it, then - Yasmin kicks the door once, just because, tucking the book under her arm as she goes - definitely not going to let that out of her clutches anytime soon in case it does turn out to be what they need, even if it makes the process of lockpicking mildly more difficult, her breath fogging up in the cool air. There's little finesse in her movements, jerky and snappy, when her fingers are trembling as they are, and it's really more the lock being bad than her own skill when she tries for it again - good thing her pins were already bent into shape.

"By the corpses," Tomas grunts, limping his way over to the cell doors. The outstretched hand has caught his attention, and he approaches it warily, considering giving the thing a prod... but he moves away for now continuing to photograph and send off the details he can back to Baker and to Lowe. "Take your own photo of the map," he grunts. "Probably be useful. I'm gonna try and open up that cell door and see what's in there, but I swear to fuckin' God if there's a walking corpse in there I'm going to piss blood about it."

"Don't .. waste .. time. I can feel it" Deacon says to Tomas, but he nods. Hobbling over he takes out his phon and takes the picture as the man requests, before examining the slab that he points out. There's some trouble with his breathing (no shit!) but Deacon tries to gather himself up. Setting his feet, he uses his training to muster the perseverence to ignore the pain for a moment at least. Letting loose a bellow of effort and pain that screams out of him, he lifts both hands into a double-axe handle and he brings it down onto the thing with all his might. It's enough to bring him down to his knees again, gasping for breath whether he breaks the thing or not.

The lock just refuses to open, shaky fingers failing to find their mark. Time starts running out, behind her, she can see it, skin red and broken, robe ripped here and there. It stares with bleeding eyes, struggling to walk towards her with legs already broken, looking right at her with bleeding eyes, a deathly gaze. The spirit all that is keeping what was once a woman alive, now. It smiles, ripped cheeks wide with hungry mirth as it nears step by stumbling step. It is so cold now, the air freezing, sweat crystallizing on Yasmin's body. So cold... Is this what the embrace of death feels like? Any moment, now... Maybe it will be warmer, if she just... gives... in...?

...click.

"Fuck - hang on," Tomas grumbles, rushing back over to the slab with couple of vertiginous stumbles. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it - bad idea - but he might be feeling that he's up to more snuff than he actually is, soothed as he is by Deacon's pain. "I was thinkin' we'd use a tool or somethin', but fuck it." He mimics Deacon's attempt, rising up with his hands clenched together to bring them screaming back down into the solid goddamn stone - and probably breaking his little fingers in the process.

"Fuck - hang on," Tomas grumbles, rushing back over to the slab with couple of vertiginous stumbles. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it - bad idea - but he might be feeling that he's up to more snuff than he actually is, soothed as he is by Deacon's pain. "I was thinkin' we'd use a tool or somethin', but fuck it." He mimics Deacon's attempt, rising up with his hands clenched together to bring them screaming back down into the solid goddamn stone - and probably breaking his little fingers in the process.

A coldness travels from the stairwell upstairs, whatever is going on there, it is not far anymore. Not far at all. someone' attack is ineffectual, his hands meeting solid stone. Tomas however causes a small crunch, a dent, a thin crack in the stone. But that is all he is granted. It does not break and no magic happens, no miraculous save, no sudden loss of all that is wrong. The slab, it seems, is just a slab. That or it has to break in full. A corpse rolls over as if in mockery, to Tomas's feet.

A coldness travels from the stairwell upstairs, whatever is going on there, it is not far anymore. Not far at all. someone' attack is ineffectual, his hands meeting solid stone. Tomas however causes a small crunch, a dent, a thin crack in the stone. But that is all he is granted. It does not break and no magic happens, no miraculous save, no sudden loss of all that is wrong. The slab, it seems, is just a slab. That or it has to break in full. A corpse rolls over as if in mockery, to Tomas's feet.

A coldness travels from the stairwell upstairs, whatever is going on there, it is not far anymore. Not far at all. Deacon's attack is ineffectual, his hands meeting solid stone. Tomas however causes a small crunch, a dent, a thin crack in the stone. But that is all he is granted. It does not break and no magic happens, no miraculous save, no sudden loss of all that is wrong. The slab, it seems, is just a slab. That or it has to break in full. A corpse rolls over as if in mockery, to Tomas's feet.

Deacon gives a last grunt, "Take us. Now" He says to Tomas, his rawest instincts screaming at him. "Or we fuckin' turduckin' .."

This isn't her death. This is not her death. This isn't what the dream showed her, it's not her time, it's not- Yasmin will not die here, her faith tells her, even if the door /refuses/ to open, and her hands are freezing while she's got one eye on the approaching spirit, trembling all over. There's a single tear that's frozen high upon her cheek, crusting in her eyelashes, when finally, finally there's the click and she's all but falling her way down the stairwell upon clumsy, terrified, half-frozen feet, too scared to let noise escape her at all.

Deacon is barely hanging on, having sustained several broken ribs, and had those exascerbated by the crash through. He's close to Tomas, but he's currently in the process of trying to hurry the man into getting them the hell out of here. He's got some paper notes hastily stuffed into his jacket.

"I can't fuckin' /path/, Deacon!" Tomas snarls, turning from the injured soldier to stomp all wobbly over to Yasmin, fire in his eyes as he checks her over for injuries. "Fuckin' roof caved in," he explains. "I've got a concussion. Deac's ribs are broke. Magic shit on the table; we took photos. We haven't got in that cell, yet - you're the only healthy one here, Yasmin." Quick, clipped, rushed - but he's moving past Yasmin as she arrives, putting himself between her and whatever might be chasing her. "Let's say I got one and a half votes. You've both got one. I want the cell, he wants to just fuckin' leave - he's talkin' to ghosts or something. You can outvote me, here - but do it fast."

"Oh" Deacon says blandly, seeming a little out of it. He closes his eyes then, leaning against that slab they can't quite bring down. "So .. sorry, sha. I .. heard you .. wrong" he manages before slumping a little bit into that stone. "G . .go look. I'll try and focus" he wheezes, too weary now to put up much of a fight but eyes the corpse at their feet that twitched and edges away from it.

Deacon says, with a wet wheeze, "She .. said they came here to die. No .. real ... artifact "
Even though Yasmin looks pale despite her usual tone, and she definitely ditched her makeshift picklocks somewhere along the stairwell in her hurry - hopefully no more locks need picking - the sheer sense of relief upon catching sight of Tomas and Deacon is almost enough to bring her to her knees. Almost. She carries a book under her arm where she stumbles in from the stairs, not even bothering to slam the door to the upstairs shut behind her - it probably won't even stop the creepy cultist for even a second. "It's coming-" she tells both of them, terror obvious in her voice, breathless as it is. "No time," And, indeed, she doesn't even take the time to properly take in the entirety of the room and all the myriad horrors it has to offer - is that a fucking hand sticking out from the bars? - only stumbling closer to Tomas with the book she's salvaged clutched close to her chest, nostrils flaring at the stench of the blood. She's trembling from head to feet, and, well, there's a conclusion she's reaching steadily; the door upstairs is where the creepy cultist comes from, and the entrance they used to get into the church is as good as gone, the floor caved in and the door barred, and, again, creepy cultist in the way. "There's no other way out for us," a slow, shaky exhale, a glance up. "There is another door-" And nope, she decides, with a glance at the stairwell door, and tells Tomas "Break the door. We have to- break /something/,"

A mist spreads from the stairwell Yasmin just came from, that familiar cold with it. Is it the air? The spirit? Is the mist mere condensation, or something more sinister? The sign is bad, either way. And indeed - before long, the possessed monstrosity a human-like mass of broken bones and torn flesh, a mockery of proper live and biology ambling down the stairwell with a sickening wet crunch on its every step. Deacon's path better come soon, if he wants to save the group. A wail escapes the being's mouth, a cry of pain? No. Laughter, a mimic of laughter forced through a destroyed gullet, head bobbing side to side on her broken neck. There would be a sadness to it, the woman has no chance of surviving once the spirit's magic leaves her corpse, whatever family she may have, granted a sight none should bear witness to.

If it wasn't for the fact it's about to kill them all.

Any moment now.

Any second.

Whether Yasmin and Tomas come with him or not, Deacon continues to focus his concentration to the point of blocking everything else out. The chill that runs down his spine is outside that little black void in his mind as he tries to summon up the path that will lead them home. It's not the shadow or the mist that hampers him either it's the pain and the gristle poking into his lung on one side. He gasps. "Last .. call .. midnight express.." the Cajun rasps and that familiar sense of Shadow comes and then the silouhette of those dark trees can be seen and Deacon is trying to push himself to his feet one more time. One boot in front of the other. If they stay they stay but this soldier is cutting and running!

Well, shit - no time. Tomas's not about to bet whatever's in that cell against the single best shot the group - or his assistant, at least - has at escaping. He reaches out to take Yasmin's wrist firmly in hand, then out to take Deacon's. "Alright," he grunts, a little glassy-eyed. "Get us the fuck outta here, Deac. I'll buy you a round in town. Let's go."

And like that, Deacon is stumbling along with the pair through and into the shadows praying internally that they're not too late and just focusing his conscious mind on keeping the path stable. That might be a fate worse than the one they're running from if he doesn't!

No real artifact, Deacon said. Yasmin is still clutching on tight to her book, and the cultist is scarily close now. She doesn't seem to know how pathing works, exactly, but the forest seems a better bet than wherever a dead man's arm sticks out from. "Go," she tells Deacon, and - they go, leaving the cultist to the fate of abandonment, broken and left behind in the cold, empty church, not alive and unable to die. Yasmin glances back, one last time.

Another wail, this time deafening, screeching through the crypt. Not laugher - no, rage. Debris from the collapsed sealing - bricks, shards of glass, fly through the air at the group. The path ripples in protest, the creature /runs/ in a chaotic dash, its legs stretching far too much, closing in. They enter in time, and before the path fades, though debris flies after them, at Yasmin. At the book. A strange pull is felt on it, trying to tear it out of her hand, back to the other side of that path, before the final close.

Deacon can't help with this last. It takes everything he has to keep the path stable, and he's never dealt with something like THIS effecting it so directly! He continues to stumble forward, never looking backward.

Tomas doesn't have so much trouble ensuring Yasmin stays close to the pack - he might not have powers of light or clairvoyance, but his is to heal and recover and re-enter the fray. Not that that's what he's doing - but his strength resurges in keeping his assistant out of the claws of the beast, regardless of that pull - the question is more one of her grip, and Deacon's speed.

With one of her wrists in Tomas's grasp, Yasmin only has one arm to spare for the book, and there's a loud yelp in response to the pulling. She's been holding on to it close to her chest, grip tight enough like a lifeline, and her fingers tighten further around it now, but she's still just a girl with little in the way of actual strength - at least compared to the supernatural vitality of the creature. Still, she does her best, pressing close to Tomas and letting him push back against the brunt of the pressure.

Martin(OOCly)has departed a while ago and is looking for an exit, ignore that he exists.

The book is ripped from Yasmin's hands with supernatural force, flying out of the pathway as it closes, the prize lost forever. Yet a small victory - or perhaps a rather large one - is won, safety, survival. They arrive at the rendezvous point, where Carlisle is having himself a nice cup of coffee. He spits it out as he sees the state of them, staring at the three, eyes falling especially on the severe wounding Deacon went through. "...Do you have- the location? The information? Do you have it all?" he asks of the group once he recovers, eyes lingering on the wounds. Expecting a Watcher to prioritize bloodloss over investigation might be a tough call, at least, with this one.

There's a handful of hastily stuffed papers of notes that Deacon can pass off, but he's not in the condition to do much else. (he apologizes for the shorter drops he's at the end of his line)