\ Haven:Mist and Shadow Plotlogs/The Web Of Shadows Sr Emmanuel 241014
Plotlogs

The Web Of Shadows Sr Emmanuel 241014

In the once picturesque town of Port Angeles, an insidious force known as The Weaver wove a web of shadows, thickening the fog and claiming the souls of its people, leaving fear and chaos in its wake. Within this web, Margaux, a psychic with a history of surviving The Weaver's sinister grasp, became the key to unraveling the darkness that enshrouded the town. Euphemia and Lilah, alongside Fallon from the Order, embarked on a perilous journey to face this entity and save Port Angeles from being consumed entirely.

Descending into the depths beneath the lighthouse, where an artificial ley line powered by the lives of countless eidolons fueled The Weaver's strength, the group encountered the corrupted Templar at the heart of this machination. The confrontation that ensued was a maelstrom of power, revelations, and transformation. Euphemia, cloaked in the ethereal light of her angelic lineage, wielded fire and fury with wings of flame, embodying the wrath and justice of the archangels. Lilah, morphing into a formidable Kelpie, unleashed the might of ancient fae, her every kick against the corrupted altar shattering the final chains that bound The Weaver's power.

The clash was visceral and filled with bloodshed, as Euphemia's righteous flames consumed the cultists, and Lilah, in her Kelpie form, tore through The Weaver himself. Yet, in their hearts, a question loomed – what to do with the false ley line and the seductive yet corruptive power it held? Despite Fallon's pleas to harness its energy for the Order, Euphemia and Lilah knew better. The altar and the tainted ley line it harbored were demolished, their decision echoing the harsh lesson that some powers, too rooted in sacrifice and sorrow, must be destroyed lest they corrupt further.

In the wake of their victory, Euphemia and Lilah emerged changed. The makeshift angel, once winged and fearsome, now bore the weight of the souls she judged, her sight taken but her resolve unshaken. Lilah, transformed first into a force of nature's wrath and then into a gentle deer, grappled with the remnants of magic coursing through her veins. Together, with Fallon leading through a tear in reality, they stepped back into the world they fought to save, leaving behind the ruins of ambition and power for the promise of a dawn free from The Weaver's shadow.

Their success was not without cost, but through courage and sacrifice, they ensured that Port Angeles, though forever marked by this ordeal, could begin to heal. The story of their confrontation with The Weaver, the destruction of the false ley line, and the preservation of what remained pure in the town would be a testament to the enduring light against consuming darkness.
(The Web of Shadows(SREmmanuel):SREmmanuel)

[Sun Oct 13 2024]

On Port Angeles - Washington State
Port Angeles, once a quiet coastal town nestled along the rugged shores of Washington State, has been transformed into a place thick with unease. Its narrow streets, lined with weather-beaten buildings and shrouded in the perpetual mist that rolls in from the sea, now seem haunted by whispers of the unknown. The fog, once a comforting veil over the sleepy harbour, has grown dense and unnatural, wrapping the town in a suffocating grip that blurs the line between reality and nightmare. The woods on the edge of the town are awash with eyes in the dark, and the sounds of unseen people. People walk its streets with hollow eyes, their faces drawn, as though something unseen has stolen pieces of their souls in the dead of night.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.

Port Angeles, once a picturesque seaside escape on the edge of Washington's rugged Olympic Peninsula, has always lived in the gentle embrace of fog and saltwater breezes. Tourists from across the state and the wider country would come for its charm-the quaint waterfront, the hiking trails that wound their way through dense forests, and the stunning views of the Strait of Juan de Fuca that seemed to stretch forever into the horizon. The lighthouse, perched like a guardian at the cliff's edge, had long served as a beacon, guiding ships through the mist and welcoming visitors to the town's sleepy streets.

But something has changed.

Over time, the town's once-idyllic nature began to unravel, as though an invisible hand had tugged at the delicate threads holding Port Angeles together. It started with the fog-an ever-present companion for the coastal town, yes, but one that had begun to thicken and darken in ways that felt unnatural, out of season. What was once a calming, coastal mist turned into a dense, suffocating shroud that clung to the streets and alleyways, blotting out the sun for days at a time. The fog was no longer just weather, it became a presence. The streets, once bustling with life, seemed to empty as if the town itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

It wasn't long before the disappearances began. In the dead of night, without warning or sign, people simply vanished-taken from their homes, their beds, or the familiar paths they walked every day. Days later, some of them would return, but they came back changed, diminished. Those who were once vibrant, full of life and energy, now wore haunted, gaunt expressions. Their eyes, wide and hollow, were filled with a deep, unsettling fear. It was as if something had reached into their souls and left them only half-alive, their minds wrapped in an invisible web that no one could fully understand.

Whispers spread through the town like wildfire. Rumours of an otherworldly force-an entity known only as The Weaver, began to circulate through the supernaturally aware and ignorant both, whispered over empty cafe tables and in dimly lit corners of once-lively pubs. The Weaver, they said, was the one pulling the strings. A creature of shadow and silence, weaving threads of fate that ensnared its victims, binding them into some dark, terrible design. Those who disappeared were not just abducted, they were claimed. And when they returned, they were no longer fully their own. Fear took root in Port Angeles, turning the town's close-knit community into a fractured shell of suspicion and paranoia.

The changes didn't stop with the people. The very essence of the town seemed to shift, as if something had begun feeding on its spirit. The vibrant colours of the storefronts dulled, the flowers that once bloomed in window boxes withered, and even the air itself seemed heavier, weighed down by an invisible force. The lighthouse, that beacon of safety for decades, now stood as a looming, shadowy figure against the grey horizon, its light flickering weakly as though struggling to fend off the encroaching darkness. The sea, too, had grown more treacherous-its once gentle waves now seemed to roar and crash with unnatural fury, as though the ocean itself had turned against the town.

Desperation set in. The local authorities, baffled and overwhelmed by the inexplicable phenomena, turned to anyone who might help. But it wasn't until the Order, who had had a presence nearby on an unrelated (or so it seems) exploration, became involved that the true gravity of the situation was revealed. The disappearances, the hauntings, the sense of Port Angeles being devoured piece by piece-it all pointed to something far older and darker than anyone had anticipated. And now, with the town seemingly on the brink of being swallowed whole, a call for assistance was sent out beyond the town's misty borders. The Order's contact revealed that a psychic named Margaux, who had once encountered The Weaver and survived, might hold the key to unravelling this dark web of fate. But Margaux had gone into hiding, fearful of the entity that still pursued her. Rumours suggested she had taken refuge at the abandoned lighthouse on the edge of town, a place once thought to be a sanctuary for those fleeing supernatural forces. Now, it has become a beacon for those brave enough, or foolish enough to seek the truth.

As those who answer the call arrive, through the Path in the Forest Between Places, you are greeted by a town that feels almost hollow, as if its very life force has been drained. The streets are eerily quiet, save for the whispers carried on the wind, and the once-beautiful harbour is now a place of ominous silence, where even the boats seem to sway with a foreboding weight. Port Angeles is no longer the peaceful tourist destination it once was. It is a town under siege by forces unseen, its people haunted, its heart withering under the grip of The Weaver.

Now, the task is clear: find Margaux, uncover the truth, and break free of The Weaver's web before Port Angeles becomes nothing more than a ghost town, devoured by darkness.

Lilah steps off the path, brought along by someone of the Order - for she cannot path herself - and pauses there. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself and tipping up her head as if to try and get a sense, from the air itself, of what's going on. But her gaze soon enough fixes on the lighthouse in the distance, while she waits to see who else will arrive.

As Euphemia stepped through the Path, a deep sense of unease settled within her chest. Her wintry blue eyes swept over the quiet streets, the heavy stillness tugging at her instincts. The whispers carried on the wind sent chills down her spine, like the town itself was trying to speak to some phantom fear nestled deep within her mind The harbor, once a beacon of life, now seemed to hold a heavy darkness, the sway of the boats unnatural, as if they too were weighed down by the unseen force gripping this place. Euphemia could feel it in the air -- this quiet was NOT peaceful. It was oppressive, and every step forward deepened her resolve to uncover what had cast this shadow over the town.

"...We should get moving." Her voice rings out from behind Lilah as she marches forth, lowering one hand to rest within the comfort of her hoodie. Euphemia's gaunt expression only adds to the foreboding atmosphere of this excursion... but haunted or not, Euphemia seems intent to take the lead as she ventures towards the Beacon of hope beyond. Time to find this Margeux.

Lilah and Euphemia aren't along out here, in the cold streets of the haunted town, for good or ill, they're joined by their contact from the Order. A British fellow. Fallon Fallington. Yes, that is their real name. They're wearing the heavy brown cloak often worn by members of his organization, with a crisp dress shirt, slacks and a black tie beneath. His armour is hidden beneath the shirt, though can be seen poking out at the edges. His hair is as black as a nightmare, and well-maintained, kept swept out of his eyes, and parted in the middle. Fitting his station within the Order he wears a sword at one hip, and an old, old revolver upon the other. It's scribbled in nonsense. Enchanted, most likely. He plucks a cigarette from inside his cloak, offering the pack toward Euphemia and Lilah, despite her being pregnant, after lighting his own. "Fallon. Sword." He introduces himself to the pair, in the flesh, before nodding over toward the other member who had fetched them, and brought them through the path. Dismissing them. "You ought get moving, indeed. But let's be clear, yes? I will not follow you around like a lost puppy, but you will keep me in the loop if you find anything."

Lilah looks suprised to see Euphemia, but the surprise is apparently pleasureable for she smiles at the blonde, then turns with a chipper, "Fallon! Darling..." cooed out as if she were British high society indeed, accent and all. Does she know him? She's certainly acting like she does, but that's half the redhead's charm. Bluffing. Waving away the cancer stick, she leans in to peck kisses on his cheeks, then turns to do the same to Euphemia. "Hello, lovely."

The order from her Order compatriot has her grinning impishly at him, fluttering her lashes, and adding, "I do so -love- bossy men..."

Euphemia politely declines the ofered cigarette, pushing his hand away with a singular, open palm. Lilah's greeting seems to elicit a small smile from the girl, but the casual flirtation that follows seems to lose Euphemia's interest. She sighs, turning that ice-cold, professional stare of hers to the man who regards them, Sitting on her heels in anticipation of dashing towards the tower beyond. "...Do your own thing, then. But if you are going to be so insistent upon communication, you will provide us the means." Euphemia's voice is stern... her fingers tightening around the phone in her pocket. She pulls it out, flicking it open... and holding it out to him. "And you will do the same. Yes?"

Fallon accepts the kiss to his devil-blooded cheek, then exhaling a long string of the cancer-cloud out from the corner of his mouth, "I am guessing the Chapter thought it might be a nice change for you, Lilah. Being told what to do by a man." He drawls out, all dry and teasing, though it does borderline on unkind. Maybe that's how this devil gets his fix. There's an amused cant of his lips toward Euphemia at her response, before he fishes around inside of the brown coat, producing a two little circles. He tosses one to each of the women, and raises a hand to gesture at the one stuck behind his ear, "And now we can keep in contact, yes?" He drawls out, and raises the cigarette to take another pull of it, "This Margaux? If they're around, and exist? I haven't been able to locate them. Hell, I can't even find the lighthouse. I know where it's supposed to be, but.." He gestures around at the mist, blaming it for his misfortune.

"Oh, it is. It is," Lilah says with a little giggle. She seems amused, really. Perhaps just self-aware enough to know that what she's doing is indeed a bit habitual. But just because she likes orders doesn't mean this redheaded brat is going to follow them. In fact, when Euphemia holds out her phone for contact information, the minx does nothing of the sort, merely smirking and rocking on her heels as she turns to survey the distance again. But after a moment, she slants a smile to the other woman and murmurs, "C'mon, Euphie. It's a job, sure, but relax babe. We're not in a dangerous place yet." Her tone will likely change, sooner than later of course. When Fallon does hand her the little device, she slaps it in place beneath her hair with a roll of her eyes, the smile never fading. "It's probably got some sort of warding spells on it," she says, after a moment. "I know how to tear them down - but I have to be able to find it, first."

Euphemia tucks her phone away after a moment of lingering silence, reaching to retrieve the earpiece offered to her instead. With a momentary pause, and a thoughtful expression... She reaches back to affix the newfound item to her ear. Nodding quietly as she listens to his explanation. "...could be Illusory magic, too. I can't say I have a solid plan to circumvent such things, but if we throw enough of ourselves at the wall... eventually something will stick." Euphemia trails off, adjusting her glasses to more fittingly accomodate the new accessory. "...Testing." She speaks into the device, then. Making a few small adjustments to her headgear. Her eyes settle upon Lilah after a moment, a small smile swimming across her lips. "...This is me, relaxed. This will be a good distraction. I trust I can rely on you to back me up, cherie."

"Moi? Bien sur, mon ami," Lilah rattles off to Euphemia. Her accent's all wrong, but apparently she's learned a few words, here and there, in the language of... Cassanovas everywhere. "We probably can't just burn off the fog, but I'm willing to try. It might help us locate the building." Then, she slants another of those looks towards Fallon and after a moment murmurs, "Will you show us the way to where you think it should be? If we can find the place, we can test for wards and all."

"Uh huh," The British Orderite muses back in response to Lilah, affording her a long look for a moment or two, before sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks, "Nope. Keep in touch, ladies, and do not die, hm? The paperwork is excessive." He drawls out, all British dryness once again. With that said, and done, the Sword makes his way over toward one of the abandoned looking cafes that used to teem and swell with tourists, clearing intending to order a little hot bean water for himself while the others do the hard work.

Fortunately, while the Brit is unwilling to serve as a guide for Lilah and Euphemia, it isn't hard to find signs that point toward the lighthouse. It is another tourist trap in this place, after all. Tough the sunny and bright looking tower in the photos, pictures, and painting seem at odds with the grey that appears to have enveloped the town now. It's a short walk toward the lighthouse, through that thick, sight-skewering mist, but if they're determined to follow the path? They know where it starts.

Euphemia glances around as she nears the pathway leading into the mist, extending a hand -- fingers splayed wide, to pass through the dense fog. She rubs the pads of her fingers together with a pensive expression, relatively silent compared to her usual chipper self. There is... an unusual air, to the Angelborn. Not something one could parse at first glance... but certainly notable in the way she presents herself. This... stern, frigid confidence. "...What are we looking for, Lilah?" She finally asks, wiping the moisture onto her sleeve. "This is your area of expertise. I figure charging in will do me no good."

"Ruuuuude," Lilah sing-songs into her earpiece as the fellow stalks off. He's given her a direct line straight to his ear, and the half-Siren is apparently going to take advantage of it, tapping it on before she says to Euphemia, "Some men. So full of themselves. He's practically -French-, isn't he? Certainly not hot enough to be so rude." How many insults can she dredge into one statement, and how many people can she insult all at once?

When he's out of sight, she taps the device into silence again, and turns a much less amused expression onto her friend. "Well. Let's go see what we can see, shall we?" Given the haunted, unpopulated streets, Lilah lifts a hand and lets the fire swirl, heating the air in an effort to force away some of the mist as they walk, through simple evaporation.

Euphemia's question has her pausing, then stating simply, "Something out of place. It might be as little as a shimmer, if it's an illusion. Or a seam where a seam shouldn't be. The slightest hint of irregularity where things just don't line up." She pauses thoughtfully. "It's the sea, so perhaps we'll see waves that look right, but don't -quite- line up with other waves at a distance. Something like that. If it's a true ward, we might simply hit a wall, but I think that Fallon would have found it, if that was the case - it's probably an illusion. You're likely right. She's psychic, after all."

For good or ill, there's no response over the comm device, other than a brief burst of static that communicates that the British man had indeed heard Lilah's complaints, and elected to do nothing about it. Maybe he really is rude. The most rude. The pair disappear into the fog, and it consumes them. Deadening the sound of their footfalls, of the sea. Of their speech. Breaking this strange, enforced silence seems harder than it would be usually, as if the very air around them struggled to maintain the relative quiet.

Yet, despite this, they can feel things. Feel words in the fogginess about them. It is a strange feeling, for a type of people so used to hearing rather than feeling. Yet, slowly and surely, the thoughts of others invade their minds, their words soft and quiet. An echo, perhaps, or little more than the ghost of words and feelings shared some time ago. They warn, and they beckon, and they call them closer, all at once. Whispering through them. Speaking into them. Then, though the fog, and dark, and half-blindness, a string, of magic. A hint, a path. Or at least, it seems that way, and oddly enough? Euphemia can feel it too, despite her lack of formal arcanist training.

Seeming to take some inspiration from Lilah, as Euphemia walked through the thick, oppressive fog, a familiar glow began to stir within her breast, deep inside her core. The warmth radiated from her skin, growing more intense with each step. Lilah's words seem to give the angelborn brief pause -- but she refuses to respond. Her eyes remained focused ahead, determined, as the dense fog began to retract. Wisps of vapor curled and hissed, evaporating into the air as the heat pulsed from her. The fog parted around her, retreating as the heat intensified, each step leaving a clear path in her wake. Euphemia, being the skeptic she is... furrows her brow in response to this subconscious pull. But rather than retreat, she reaches back to draw her blade... the shimmering ring of steel resonating in the air as its reflective surface is unveiled in its full glory. "...Comms quiet. Stay close to me." She warns simply, before following this unseen 'path'.

So rude to ignore someone trying to start something. So rude to focus on the mission instead. Hmmph.

Lilah walks quietly along after giving her opinions to Euphemia as to what they're looking for. Still, she seems uneasy when the path appears so damn easily before them, when Fallon hadn't been able to find one, himself. She nods to the blonde, but reaches out a hand and says, "Hang on. Just a moment, okay? Let's look, first." Should the blonde continue on despite her warning, the redhead still pauses to search, first, taking an instinctive precaution and wrapping an arm around her belly as she tries to push into whatever's going on.

Euphemia does pause, turning to regard Lilah with one arm resting upon her hip.

Like a beacon, Euphemia begins to glow amidst the fog. But, much like any other light source, and speech itself? The warmth of her light flickers, and falters, and struggles. There's something oppressive here, something that wants to drown that light, both figuratively and literal, and Euphemia may feel like more effort is needed than might be typical as she leads Lilah through the mist, and fog.

The pair pause as Lilah reaches out with a sixth sense, tendrils of thought and intent coiling out from her as she probes the path, probes the fog around her. A viberation hums through the air, heard by both, like something being triggered, or alarmed. The tension of a web that was struck. Then, there's a rushing in, that heavy, alien, awful pressure that crashes down upon the pair like waves against rocks. Reality shifts and bleeds as the trap falters, and an attack is used in it's place, and in the moment where intent changes from seduction and entrapment, toward assault, there is a flash in the near distance. A beacon of light, by the seaside, only there for but a moment.

Lilah staggers backwards, pulling her flame to her in a blaze of heat. Unlike Euphemia, however, her fire isn't exactly an offensive weapon or a shield. It's just a tool. It's a tool she tries to use, however, holding up both hands and trying to push outward with a force of will. "Euph," she grits out. "Get behind me." Whether the blonde will or not, she's clearly decided that her fire isn't going to be enough, on its own, so one of the redhead's hands drop to her bag, and she pulls out a vial of her staple element - sea water. Pulling the cork with her teeth, she starts to pour it in a circle at her feet. "I'll have to use some spells to fight back," she warns.
someone But maybe Euphemia's particular skillset has this one under control!

Lilah staggers backwards, pulling her flame to her in a blaze of heat. Unlike Euphemia, however, her fire isn't exactly an offensive weapon or a shield. It's just a tool. It's a tool she tries to use, however, holding up both hands and trying to push outward with a force of will. "Euph," she grits out. "Get behind me." Whether the blonde will or not, she's clearly decided that her fire isn't going to be enough, on its own, so one of the redhead's hands drop to her bag, and she pulls out a vial of her staple element - sea water. Pulling the cork with her teeth, she starts to pour it in a circle at her feet. "I'll have to use some spells to fight back," she warns.

But maybe Euphemia's particular skillset has this one under control!

The pressure is not unlike the feeling of heading deep underwater, a building thrumb of force against the pair. It ebs and flows, stealing breath, and thought with each wave. Whatever is causing this is strong, that much is apparent to Lilah as she comes up against it's will. It is a cliff. A sheer, unyielding wall of stone. There's no purchase to be found, no crags to hide within for relief. Her power is impressive, but she is dwarfed by this.

(attempt does not work) Euphemia stands firm underneath that pressure, her heart weighing heavily enough to aid in withstanding its force. There are few things Euphemia is so adept in... and mental willpower just happens to be one of her most practiced skills. The young girl surges with a newfound strength, her eyes whipping around to scan the fog for dangers... and then -- "THERE!" She calls out, pointing her blade into the distance. But Lilah calls for her aid. And Euphemia has little choice but to fall back... only to reach out, grasp Lilah by the wrist... and pull her along. "There isn't time!" She barks, pulling Lilah closer to her. Euphemia is aware of her own speed. And she knows she likely cannot carry Lilah. But she pushes through that unyielding fog nonetheless... pacing herself so as to not drag the pregnant woman over the dirt.

Lilah hits her earpiece as Euphemia grabs her. "Fallon!" she calls, her tone no longer filled with bicker and banter. "Triggered a trap. Moving!" She stumbles after Euphemia, though at least today she's wearing wedge heels instead of stilettos, her body unable to maneuver as easily, though she's not slow by any means. "Euph," she gasps as they move. "It's... running into the heart of it is foolish!" Pant, pant. "I'm not strong enough to fight this!"

Euphemia leads, and Lilah is pulled along, into the heart of the storm, as it were. That pressure builds, and builds yet. Vibrating through their bones. Through their teeth. Through the child that slumbers within Lilah's womb. And then- sudden, sweet relief as the pair burst through the fog, and pressure and stumble out at the foot of the lighthouse. Here, the light struggles against the fog surrounding it, keep it back. Those webs and alien thoughts clutch at Lilah and Euphemia, greedily. Hungrily. They're a prize, and it doesn't want to release them. Yet, they snap, and falter, and eventually the pair are left free of this sudden and malevolant weight.

Euphemia pulls Lilah away from the fog, eyeing the amalgamous mists as a mother bear might some unforseen predator whilst standing guard over its cup. Only as the mists snap away... and begin to retract, does the Angelborn seem to relax. Gently pulling her arms away from Lilah and turning her attention to the Lighthouse looming over them both. "...This is exactly where we would have least wanted to go." She reasons, sheathing her sword. "...Lilah. Do you trust that man, from before? You know him?"


"Fallon? No. I mean, I don't know him," Lilah answers and then gives a blithe shrug of her shoulders, far too busy catching her breath and trying to wrap her mind around it all to focus too heavily on what's being asked of her. "And he's Order. I mean, outside of Haven, they're a pretty focused group. I joined them for a lot of reasons... important reasons. I can't imagine that he's got the brown coat and all and isn't trustworthy," the relatively naive girl says. At least she has the presence of mind to ask, "Why?"

Loom is a good choice of word. That is exactly what the Lighthouse does. It towers over the pair, cracked, and faltered by time, salt, and sea, and yet still remaining standing. The light at it's apex groans as it turns about in slow circles, filling the air with the lamenting of it's aged machinery. The gentle movement of the sea starts to bleed through the air as well, as the sounds that had been lacking find some mild sanctuary here too, along with the two women.

A gentle sloping path leads up to the base of the building, where an aged oak door stands. Layered with various wood-working polishes and coverings to lend it some small resistance against the sea-salt, and rain that oft lashes it.

Euphemia says "...I'm just skeptical. I don't trust anyone fully. Especially not if they have been waiting for our arrival." Euphemia offers the other girl an apologetic smile, offering a hand down to her. "...I'm sorry about that. Dragging you along. But i've... felt, pressure like that before. I wouldn't let anything hurt you if I can help it." She trails off, turning her gaze to the tower. "...You can choose to call for him if you want. Just be careful. I would rather withhold some things until we have a better grasp of the situation.""
"I called. If he heard... he probably can't get through here anyway," Lilah says with a small shrug of her shoulders. It's not resigned, exactly, but it seems that she believes they're entirely on their own for this. So, with a gesture to the door, she reaches out to clasp Euphemia's hand in hers. "Let's go see what's inside, hmm?" she suggests, not bothering to comment on the apology whatsoever except to say, "You were right." And then she's trudging up the path toward the glooming, looming tower -- err, lighthouse.

It's true, Lilah had called out to the Order Swordsman, and there had been no response. Whether that means that they were unable to reach him, or he them, remains to be seen. The storm of fog and thought continues to pulse around the modest sanctuary afforded by the lighthouse, always reaching. Always trying. Tendrils reach out for Euphemia and Lilah as they linger, before coiling back and away from the light.

The path is well worn, with stones that had been fetched from the ocean pressed down into the dirt and grass of the modest hill to serve as a cobblestone of sorts, and soon enough the women find themselves at the base of the tower. It's hard to tell if anything is out of the ordinary when you haven't seen the ordinary to begin with, that's for certain. But nothing in the little garden and it's shed outside, nor the door itself, or the greasy, dark windows seems to stand out. Except, of course, for the fog surrounding this place.

"The keeper's doing a terrible job with this place," Lilah muses as she notices the disreputable state of the windows, especially. With a shake of her head, she continues up, admitting, "I'd think it was abandoned entirely, if the light wasn't burning. Maybe it's automated these days?" She looks over to Euphemia, as she reaches for the door to give it a forceful push open, and murmurs, "Well. Let's go in, see if Margret or whatever her name is, is inside. Margeaux?"

Euphemia follows the path with long, even strides... Seeming to acknowledge the curt reply spilled over Lilah's lips with a silent little nod. She squeezes that hand in her own, offering the woman a half-worn smile that doesn't quite reach the corners of her lips. "It might be more polite to kn--" The door swings open, and Euphemia shrugs, stepping ahead to ensure she would be the first to enter. Eyes cautiously scanning the interior.

The door jerks open before Lilah quite has a chance to push it, only a fraction of a second before. Leaving the poor pregnant likely off balance as she paws at thin air, rather than solid oak. A woman stands inside, her hair is a tangled collection of salt, and pepper, and she peers back towards Lilah and Euphemia through rose-coloured glasses. She's slight, and somewhat gaunt, though it seems to be how her body holds her weight, rather than from sickness, or feeding. "Euphemia. Lilah." The woman clips toward them, her accent French (Ugh.), and then gestures inside, where a modest kettle is sat atop a roaring fire, "I have been waiting, you are late." She insists, beckoning them inside as she trots over towards the fireplace.

Euphemia says, rolling her eyes, "Maybe don't give us a complex puzzle to solve, then." She mutters, her tension easing as the French woman finally makes herself known to her visitors. "...You already know our names, then. It's a pleasure to meet you, Missus Margaux."
Lilah was probably not intending to be curt in any way, merely succinct! But she just returns Euphemia's smile, before she finds herself reaching for thin air. She staggers forward a step, pausing just before she actually falls into the woman on the other side. "Margaux?" she posits, without asking how the psychic might know their names - she is a psychic, after all. "Desole, desole," she murmurs in a bit more of that language that she's picked up, after the accusation of tardiness. Looking just slightly awkward, after all but falling at the woman's feet, she moves on into the space they're invited into.

"We have met before, pet." The woman hums back to Euphemia as she shifts to pluck up two mugs, already filled with tea. Sweetened? Black? White? Green? Milk? Sugar? However it is that Euphemia and Lilah prefer their hot weed water? It's here, and it's perfect. She lower herself down onto a loveseat then, sighing out dramatically, and curling her feet up while gesturing toward two other placed armchairs, "Sit, sip. Take a moment to center yourselves." She implores of them, then adding, "It is just Margaux these days, precious things. I left titles behind some years ago." There's a glance over toward Euphemia, "Before you had lost your faith, darling," And then to Lilah, "And while your father was still teaching you yours."

Euphemia nods, settling into the seat as offered... and pulling the teacup into her hands. The scent -- eerily familiar, remniscent of home. The honeyed scent of chamomile... with slightly earthy and nutty tones... and far too much sugar for one girl to handle. Euphemia's hands tremble slightly as she pulls this tea close to her chest... and a single sip was all it took to bring relief. Easing the tension in her shoulders, somewhat. "...You know why we are here, then?"

Lilah wrinkles her nose slightly at the mention of faith. "I don't believe in any of that, any more. They're all evil, in their own ways," she states bluntly to Margaux as she takes the seat offered, reaching out for the tea as well. She sips it briefly, and then looks over once more to Euphemia. There's no surprise registered at the mention of the other's faith, though she does, eventually posit, "Before we get started... mind if I use your restroom? I..." There's a self-effacing little laugh and pat of her baby bump. "It's obnoxious, these days."

"Oui. Yes." The older woman responds back to Euphemia's question with a gentle curl of her lips, and answers Lilah's question before she's quiet asked it, "Second door on the left, love. You won't find anything else in there, and time is pressing," Margaux notes softly, knowingly, and gestures over toward the aforementioned door. "There are always questions, dear thing, but sometimes we must wait for the answers," The woman adds, and leans back into her loveseat to entangle a finger in her hair.

Euphemia nods, lifting both legs to fold over the cushions of her seat... settling back to as much degree of comfort as the tension in her body would allow. "...So i've learned." She murmurs, quietly, gazing down into her teacup... her eyes clouded, and distant.

"I hate waiting," Lilah confesses.

Lilah then pushes up from her chair and hurries off to the bathroom. It's not long, just long enough to ease her body's most intensely annoying need, before she flushes, washes her hands, and heads back to the two women she'd left behind. She certainly wasn't gone long enough to snoop through any cabinets or drawers.

Definitely not going to snoop, not at all. Why then, does the lighthouse dwelling woman afford Lilah a mildly knowing look then as she returns, "I'm not going to ask what questions you have, I already know. I know the answers. I know what you want." The woman assures Lilah and Euphemia both then, and it's without ego. This isn't bragging, it's fact, simple and clean. "You've had my protection extended to you both," She explains, and gestures at the tea that they've both sipped. Without question. Without suspicion. "What comes next? You will follow a path beneath the lighthouse, and deep under the ground. You will find the Weaver, and you will stop him- I hope." There's a pause, and a self-depreciating smile, "For all the things that I can see, and hear, and know, I do not know if you will succeed in this. It is rare."

"It's not a spider, right?" Lilah asks her most intensely debated question aloud to Margaux, as she looks down into the teacup gestured to. With a tiny shrug, she takes another long drink from it, putting her bladder at risk again! Then, after a pause she asks, "How do we beat him? I mean, if you can't do it? You're like... way more powerful than I am," the redhead admits shamelessly, tapping her temple.

There's a long pause then before Margaux's lips quirk ever so slightly to the side, like a smile, only sadder. "Would you have the strength to beat your child, Lilah?" The question is largely rhetorical in nature, and she takes a slow, long breath, "He is empowered by a ley line. My line. I built it myself in my youth. Break the connection. Break the web." There's another little pause, and another turn of her lips as she considers Lilah's first question there, "Non, not a spider."

Euphemia nods quietly, giving a sidelong glance towards Lilah as the woman spoke. There is a conflicted expression, there... veiled behind a soft, warm smile that had become far too practiced to be genuine. "...How do we do that? I mean, Lilah aside -- I don't know that i'm confident enough to face a monster alone. And I certainly can't compete with these magical leylines and such."

"No," Lilah answers the rhetorical question, her hands immediately coming up, protectively to cradle her unborn child. She listens, her intent focus broken only by the flickers of sympathy and concern that slide over her features. "And if we fail?" she whispers the dread question aloud. "What will happen then?" But already, she's pushing from her seat, preparing to leave while Euphemia asks the serious questions, though not without stepping over to try and embrace the older woman.

"No, no," SREmmanuel is rising to her feet, retreating from Lilah as she approaches, putting the loveseat between her and the young woman, "Please, do not touch me. It will not end well." She beseeces of her, faltering for a moment or two before collecting her. There's another grimace-like smile afforded to the pair, "How, dear? You do as your Lady does, Euphemia, and you don't use your eyes." She offers this cryptic sort of advice, and then shifts over towards the other door on the bottom floor, "Time is fleeting. Bleeding. Running down." She doesn't answer what happens if they fail, she doesn't need to. Surely they know, deep down, what happens when terrible power falls into worse yet hands. "You are magical beings, dears. You can do this. Faith, hm?"

"No, no," MARGAUX is rising to her feet, retreating from Lilah as she approaches, putting the loveseat between her and the young woman, "Please, do not touch me. It will not end well." She beseeces of her, faltering for a moment or two before collecting her. There's another grimace-like smile afforded to the pair, "How, dear? You do as your Lady does, Euphemia, and you don't use your eyes." She offers this cryptic sort of advice, and then shifts over towards the other door on the bottom floor, "Time is fleeting. Bleeding. Running down." She doesn't answer what happens if they fail, she doesn't need to. Surely they know, deep down, what happens when terrible power falls into worse yet hands. "You are magical beings, dears. You can do this. Faith, hm?"

Lilah puffs out a sigh, lifting her hands in a show of resignation, to put Margaux at ease once more. "Alright," she states softly.

Lilah looks then to Euphemia. "Ready?" she asks, reaching once more for the blonde's hand. "Let's go find this path, and this Weaver." She lifts her chin, but though her body is steeled for what's to come, her thoughts still whirl, easily noted in the worried look in her eyes.

Euphemia nods... finishing her tea in silence, before taking Lilah's hand... and pushing herself to her feet. The elder woman's words seem to linger within her mind... her distant gaze growing more pensive as she ponders their meaning. But as Euphemia often does -- she shoves those thoughts into the back of her mind, steeling her gaze upon the other women with cold determination. "...Yeah. Let's do it."

"Do not worry about the babe, dear." That isn't quite as reassuring as perhaps it should be, the words spoken by the psychic, by the prophet. There's a quiet edge to her words, even as she pads it with empathy, that the fate of this child has already seen, and spoken to, and that there is no point worrying any further about it. It's this that Lilah and Euphemia are left with as Margaux ferries them through the doorway, and into a twisting downwards staircase. It's cold here. Musty. Lit by little more than bioluminescent lichen that has been grown into the roof, and walls. They lead down, down, down. Beneath the tower. Beneath the sea. Beneath the town itself. Somewhere old. Somewhere chiselled by hand.

"Alright." Lilah gives Euphemia another of those odd looks, briefly, then turns for the door, following after Margaux. "A mother has to worry though," she says, and something in her tone suggests that maybe she wishes she didn't, but she does. Scuffing her heels slightly on the stairs, ensuring her balance with a hand on the wall, she walks in silence for the length of time the French woman leads them.

To clarify, Margaux doesn't lead them, but she sure as heck closes the door behind them. Poor things.

Euphemia continues to walk in silence, offering Lilah's hand a reassuring squeeze as they go. With every forward step... the heat kindling, literally -- within Euphemia's breast... continues to grow. Shining through the skin to reflect the shimmering projections of her veins across the stone walls that lead them downwards. She holds Lilah with soft guidance... but her grasp is firm. Her sword drawn once more as they descend into the darkness below. "...Don't worry." She assures the girl, quietly. "...If something happens, run. I WILL get you out of here."

Lilah chokes out a laugh, kept soft but still holding incredulity. "I'm not leaving you to die. Don't be ridiculous," she mutters, fully confident in herself in that moment, even if circumstances might otherwise dictate if they actually find themselves in such a predicament. She takes in a breath as she looks around, then shakes her head slowly. "We'll be fine."

As they descend that silence seeps in once more, making it harder to speak, or break it. The pressure that had been gnawing at them before in the fog returns, though weaker now, despite them being closer yet to the source. Perhaps there really was a protection extended toward them by the strange woman, perhaps it is simply less powerful as one draws closer and closer yet to it's heart. It takes some time before they've managed to walk all the way down, and as they come closer to the exit of the staircase a soft hum fills the air. A chanting, a whispering. Many voices twisted into one. The staircase opens toward a large, chamber. Hewn out of the living rock and stone, and littered with symbols of the divine. Thor's Hammer. The Eye of Ra. Halo. The scarred gold breastplate of Vildeis. The Pentagram of Legion. All of these old. Ancient. And amongst them, the closed fist of the Hand.

The room isn't empty, and they aren't alone. Perched in front of them, back toward them, and hiding behind some rubble himself is Fallon, watching the inside of the room himself. Further inside are a throng of people, and a miasma of fog and magic tethers them toward the man standing upon a modest altar. The man, the Weaver, watches as the people within his web chant, and are drained of their very life by his machinations. His armour is familiar too, to both Lilah and Euphemia. No doubt they've seen a Templar before, no doubt they recognize the armour of their strike forces, with the familiar symbol of the stylized sun upon it. The symbol, much like the man wearing it, has fallen into disrepair.

Of course Lilah's eyes catch on the symbol of Legion, before the man that'd met them and brought them this far. But once she does see Fallon, it's a mere instant before she's focused her attention on him, fully, for however brief a moment in time. Then, its on to the Templar, disheveled as he is, and her eyes narrow. Without a word, she gestures to Euphemia, and then slowly toes off her cute little booties, before moving to inch her way closer to those gathered within his web - doing her damndest not to draw anyone's attention.

nods quietly... echoing Lilah's words back to her then. "...We'll be fine." She whispers -- though halts herself as the sounds of chanting become evident in the distance. Like pulling the plug to a lamp... the lights glowing beneath Euphemia's skin fade... the warm hearth of her hand -- once lightly singing the surface of Lilah's palm, dropping near instantly to the comparably cold touch of flesh. Euphemia motions for Lilah to quiet herself, gesturing further down the stairs... and finally slinking into the room proper. Upon sighting the ritual, Euphemia's eyes go wide with a slight degree of shock, and of speechlessness. Counted among them... But how was that POSSIBLE? To collaborate with the HAND? Euphemia immediately silences herself... as much as her lips may want to spew their curses. She lowers herself to follow Lilah's lead... though stopping short of joining her pursuit of the man. Euphemia can dash in, if she needs to. Better for her to hang back, and hide here.

There's a sharp sound of surprise from Fallon as he nearly leaps up and attacks Lilah and Euphemia through reflex alone, only to catch himself just before drawing his sword. His widened eyes dart between each of them, before he shakes his head, and gestures toward another entrance only a few metres from the one that the women had descended themselves. This one is flatter, tighter, more like part of a natural cave system that had been expanded than carved out through the stone entirely. The man shakes his head then, gesturing them closer and then pointing over toward the man at the altar. The Templar. The Weaver.

Around him, this close? Even without being sensitive, they can see it. The ley line. The faint coil of magic and will, that has been entirely dominated and claimed by the man. It isn't natural, in nature, but something artifical. And as the trio watch, the chanting begins to reach it's climax, and the Weaver raises his hands, using the power of this mass of enslaved souls for his task.

In his grasp, weak, and starving, and trapped within a bubble of sorcery, is an eidolon. The spark of potential that might've become a god, or something more- All that potential eaten, as the Weaver begins to unweave it, kill it, entangle the very threads of it's being amongst his own, and grow his own strength.

Lilah nods briefly, taking in the sight of a different exit, a way out of this mess should it be needed, and then she's fixing her gaze on that spirit slowly being destroyed. Her jaw clenches. Her hands fist. The contorted expression reads entirely of conflicted goals, indeed. But eventually, she looks back over to Euphemia and exhales slowly. There's no words, just a gesture to point out what she's seeing.

Euphemia reaches for her sword as the ritual begins to near its conclusion... eyes flicking frantically between Lilah and Jimmy as she searches their expressions for guidance... trying to discern the severity of their situation through the knowledge of those more experienced than she. The ritual brings with it a sense of urgency that Euphemia's body is SCREAMING to interrupt... but she doesn't want to blow their cover, and potentially kill them all. There are so many cultists in this room... could the three of them truly take them all? Euphemia's legs tense... her body shimmering with heat... prepared to spring forth with all the force of a pouncing Tigress. There's a lingering moment of silence... as Euphemia stares down her goal. And suddenly... there's a look of confused realization that dawns upon her, as her eyes slowly come to a close.

And there it is, nestled in the dark and faith alone, the answer. A way forward. As Euphemia closes her eyes, her other senses reach out, and she can feel it. The unraveling threads of this dying eidolon stretch out, toward her, toward Lilah, toward Jimm- Fallon. And in these threads, connected as they are to the false ley line built on the blood of other dead eidolons, there is a warmth that calls out to her. Something not unlike the light that dwells between her ribs, and flows through her veins.

Euphemia says, lowering her voice, reaching down to unravel a length of bandages from her arm... and cutting it off with a knife. Revealing some of the scars along her forearm, "I'm going to dive in. I need you both to be ready, and trust me."
Trust might be a lot to ask when you say you're going to jump into a fracas like this one. But Lilah just stares at Euphemia, then slowly nods. However, as soon as the blonde starts to move, the redhead's not far behind, calling on her fire in a move that's probably more about reassurance for her own self than anything actually offensive - or defensive.

There's a muttering under Fallon's breath that might as well be cursing, but the man is a Sword, and doing sword-things like rushing headfirst into danger is what he does. He draws his weapon, a crimson blade of Godrealms origin, and moves to charge in beside the others.

Euphemia continues this unusual ritual, sliding the very same knife across her wrist, opening a thin slit where the skin meets her flesh... before reaching back, and wrapping the length of bandage around the back of her head. Like a blindfold, she affixes it into place... cutting off her sight, semi-permanently... from the world. Small droplets of crimson roll over the skin of her forearm as Euphemia draws her blade, flipping it around in one hand, and holding her knife firm in the other. "...God, this is stupid." She admits quietly to herself, before her body suddenly EXPLODES into a fiery blaze, launching her towards the centermost area of the ritual.

"Fucking aye," Lilah mutters, watching Euphemia go. She grumbles, the sound almost a growl as she looks around, then darts forward herself. She's not even armed. What's she doing? The flames around her hands aren't going to do a damned thing to help her, are they? But then she's reaching out, not towards Euphemia or Fallon - each of them is left to do their own thing in a moment of sheer impulsivity. She reaches out towards those lines of power.

Time stops. It slows it's flow. It cannot go. It does not pass start. It comes grinding to a halt. The two women, each in their own way, tie themselves into the weave. Into the terrible, corrupted force of the false ley line. They feel it, the power, as it surges through them. Turning their blood into gasoline, and their hearts into engines. Power. Raw power. How many died to make this? How many eidolons were consumed? They are ignited with abilities that lay dormant in their blood. Abilities that might never have come to them otherwise. That flame that burns around Euphemia That blaze? It explodes outwards as her weapon becomes a fiery blade, and twin wings burst through the flesh of her back. The cultists scream, and collapse. Her wings are born of fire, and blood, burning as they carry her aloft with the strength of her progenitors- of the first angels. Of the true angels.

The growl that rumbled in Lilah's throat grows, and continues, nearly out of her control, against her will. Something ancient and deep inside of her blooms into existence, coiling and twisting through her body as it begins to reshape itself, rebuild itself. Improve itself. She can feel the many lights that had flickered out of life in this weave. She can feel their pain, and their suffering, and their strength as it pours into her, through her. Where there had once been a woman, there is now something more, something greater. A true child of the fae, as her magic boils hot and dangerous.

Fallon, on the other hand? He nearly drops his sword, eyes and mouth both widened in alarm and surprise and fear alike.

The Weaver draws upon the weave as well, and the remaining enslaved cultists all wither, and twist, and scream, their very life being drawn into the man as he surrounds himself with shadows and webs, and then throws both hands out, blasting the remains of the eidolons power towards the others!


The choice is made. The cost of it? The cost of it, she'll have to deal with later, because in this moment, there's no thought but of the Weaver and the power that tears through her, shredding what she was once, to ribbons.

Sea green eyes and freckles, that's all that's left of what was once Lilah. In place of the petite, pregnant woman stands a powerful, massive mare with mane, tail, and fetlocks fashioned from flowing, dark green river weed. Her sodden hide - white as seafoam - is speckled with fawn colored spots, and her hooves are huge, her back broad enough to carry even the largest of men. Raising onto hind legs, her front paw at the air with a visible razor-sharpness as the threat of power blasts towards them, and the whinny that fills the air reveals sharp, sharp teeth, ready to rip and tear into flesh that the girl she once was had always refused to taste.

This beast of nightmares and legends, this kelpie, whirls as her hooves hit the ground, offering that broad back to someone, as Euphemia takes to the air.

The choice is made. The cost of it? The cost of it, she'll have to deal with later, because in this moment, there's no thought but of the Weaver and the power that tears through her, shredding what she was once, to ribbons.

Sea green eyes and freckles, that's all that's left of what was once Lilah. In place of the petite, pregnant woman stands a powerful, massive mare with mane, tail, and fetlocks fashioned from flowing, dark green river weed. Her sodden hide - white as seafoam - is speckled with fawn colored spots, and her hooves are huge, her back broad enough to carry even the largest of men. Raising onto hind legs, her front paw at the air with a visible razor-sharpness as the threat of power blasts towards them, and the whinny that fills the air reveals sharp, sharp teeth, ready to rip and tear into flesh that the girl she once was had always refused to taste.

This beast of nightmares and legends, this kelpie, whirls as her hooves hit the ground, offering that broad back to Fallon, as Euphemia takes to the air.

"Christ." The Swordsman blurts out, but things have started moving again, and time is back in play. He leaps atop of Lilah, joining the modest list of people who had ridden the redhead as he draws his sword up into the air, "Onwards!" He's clearly getting carried away as the beast beneath him whinnes.

Euphemia's smile warps, if only for a moment... as this newfound power surges through her. Blood begins to streak out from underneath the bandage covering her eyes... twin streams of crimson spilling over her cheeks with all the somber countenance of a widow brought to mourn. As the blood begins to spread... it stains the bandages fluttering past her form. Droplets flying from the crimson wings that split open her back... The sharp tang of iron and smoke hanging heavily in the air as this newfound form wreathes Euphemia's body in the virtues of fire and flesh. "...Of all the dreams to come true." She murmurs, flapping once... her body brought upright, to loom over the congregation. "Per dolorem, quem portamus, intus tenebras mundamus." Those words resonate within the air as they are spoken... shimmering with untold mysticism. She swings her sword in one wide arc, Bathing the encroaching webs... and ANY who stand in her way... in flames that seem nigh impossible to extinguish.

This cavern is suddenly small, when moving at the speed with which a horse can gallop. Lilah leaps forward toward the weaver, carrying Fallon on her back like nothing at all. Her sides do swell slightly with the child she carries, but he can probably figure out how to hold on, all the same. Hopefully he can, for she leaps towards and through Euphemia's flames, toward the Weaver himself, and the power he wields. Her own power? It seems to be wholly contained in this impressive body, the razor sharp hooves and teeth that she brings to bear, clearly hoping to startle the caster out of his focus.

Flames, blades and an ancient mythological beast are brought to bear against the webs of fog and power woven by the once-Templar at the altar. They burn, and crash, and cut through the threads, their own power turned against them. Euphemia and Lilah are radiant, filled with power, and rot both. They can taste it, the suffering and pain and death that brought this incredible power to them. Does it taste as bad as it might usually? As power races through their veins, and beings, as a fight that might've been impossible becomes that much more easier?

Does it even matter?

Those razor sharp hooves crash against the Weaver, causing the man to stumble and fall back, his spells faltering as his head rings with pain, "How?" He snarls out, features twisted by his own corruption, and power, as he raises a hand and stabs a blast of dark power back out toward them - though it's weaker than the last, he's on the back foot.

The radiance of Euphemia's power, and her words fill with her will, cause a few of the enthralled cultists to break, and fall and collapses to their knees, as the threads that bind them are torn asunder. They grab at their friends, and fellows, trying to drag as many out of this place as they can, running and fleeing, and crying.

A sword is dropped. A hand is raised to direct the Templar to halt. And Euphemia is ENGULFED in a brilliant, blinding light... which suffuses the cavern in its entirety with her sheer, unsightly radiance. "Vasa sint vulnera nostra per quae purgatur malum..." Euphemia continues, her voice echoing with power and authority... shaking those present to her core. The words are not so much translated as the weight of their meaning is FELT, pushing upon the shoulders of the condemned... the weight of those who have sinned, in Euphemia's eyes... by knowingly bringing harm to the innocent. With a simple turn of her head, the knife is swung towards the fleeing cultists now... igniting them ALL in one, single stroke. There is no escape, from this.

While Euphemia goes after the cultists, the Kelpie's sole focus right now is on that Weaver, and given the power (and corruption) that run through the veins of the monstrous, man-eating beast, this is probably a good thing. Lilah has no taste for the cultists and others who didn't die to flood her body with this power, at this moment. And so their flight is ignored as she whirls around, a dancing, prancing step on heavy hooves, designed to try and keep her babe and the man that rides her back, out of the way of that blast. But despite being on the defensive, the Kelpie lashes out again, sharp teeth snapping to rip and tear at the once-Templar while he's off balance.

Euphemia forgot to clarify -- that light is summoned forth to beat back the dark magic brought into its reach.

There's a scream, an explosive wave of fire, flames and judgement, and then the terrible sound of silence as the fleeing cultists are smote beneath Euphemia's assault, their bodies collapsing into piles of little more than melted bone and charred flesh, the scent of long pig filling the confines of the chamber. There's a gag from Fallon as he does his best to stay atop of Lilah while she darts, and dips and prances toward the enemy.

Those dangerous, razor-sharp teeth meet soft flesh, as Lilah catches upon the Weaver's left arm, tearing through skin and bone alike, and ripping the entire arm away from his torso. He screams, as one does when they are disarmed, his eyes going wide, and the tendrils of his web collapsing around him. The man falls backwards, skittering and slipping on his own blood, and hitting the floor hard. "Monsters!" He screams out, without a hint of irony, and splashes his remaining hand in the puddle of his own blood, using it as the needed lifeforce as he tries to weave another spell into being - to strike Lilah, and the babe within her, to steal their very life away.

With that, the cultists are dispatched... left as little more than smoldering corpses writhing within the final throes of their undeserved vitality as it seeps away from their bones. Euphemia's appraising GLARE turns... settling upon the man at their head, her face twisting into an expression of pure and utter rage. He is seen, now. Effectively amputated by the Kelpie... crying out in fear... and striking out towards her unborn child. UNACCEPTABLE. "...Ut mundus integer peccato manebit!!!" She shrieks, like a wraith brought back into the material plane... her wings folding close to her body. With one, powerful flap... she rockets towards the man... passing Lilah with blistering speed and accuracy... and PLUNGING her dagger into his chest. The force of the strike alone pushes the man away from the Kelpie at her heel... Euphemia's eyes remaining firmly fixated upon his own as she watches the hope leave his eyes. There is no rush, to finish him off. But no long, drawn out torture... either. In those moments that his eyes met her own... a hypnotic implant is set within his mind... a sudden, divine revalation of all the horrible things he has done. A desire to repent. To atone. Euphemia lowers herself to the ground... shimmering with unholy light... and offers the man her knife.

Clearly Fallon needs some practice in combat via horseback. But while he struggles to hold onto her wet hide... yes. She is a monster. She absolutely is, and quite clearly she's revelling in the strength, the power, the sheer magnitude of what she is. But perhaps there's enough humanity left within her to stop Lilah from doing what she very well otherwise might. The severed arm is not eaten, it's dropped without further thought, as the equine bears down on the man. Bloody foam now flecks her lips and her eyes have gone distinctly more wild; she isn't in control. The human in her isn't in control, that is, the Kelpie is. The magic is. And so she doesn't see that strike coming, that magic from the Weaver that might well be her undoing. She's far too busy lunging in again, ready to rip into him again, and tear him apart, piece by soft and bloody piece. Sadly, or blessedly, those sharp teeth close only on flaming, fiery wings, shredding through but doing no damage. Thankfully, the nature of the Kelpie and its watery magic keeps her from burning to cinders as well!

Fallon has far more experienced riding demure redheads than giant Kelpie's it seems, he goes tumbling from atop of Lilah, and crashes heavily onto the floor with a grunt. That's nothing compared to the damage afforded to the Weaver, however, as his killing curse is redirected by Euphemia's assault, and crashes harmlessly into the roof of the cavern. The air is forced from his lungs as the angel's dagger bursts into his chest, piercing his heart and lungs both. He falls to his knees, gasping and gurgling for breath. For life. The weave begins to falter, and fail, and slowly but surely Euphemia and Lilah would feel the threads untangling from them, drawing away from them, and taking their power with them - though both women are no doubt changed in some manner or another from this experience.

The Weaver sags on his knees, bleeding, gasping, missing an arm. Defeated. He isn't the type to come quietly though, as the Ex-Templar reaches for the dagger, and clutches it in his hand. It's brought toward him then, disemboweling him as he gurgles out, "Sic semp--" It doesn't finish, but he does. Dropping dead.

Fallon falls, and as the Weaver dies, so does the Kelpie. Not Lilah, though. No, while she's definitely yet again changed, she still lives on. Her body morphs, light twisting around her as the web and the mists that'd infused her powerful form dissipate. She shrinks down, smaller, so much smaller. Eventually, however, she's left still standing on four legs, though the sharpened hooves have become cloven, the stiletto-sharp teeth blunted and herbivorous. The freckled hide remains, albeit inverted - more red than white, and big eyes fix sad and anxious upon the mess, upon the gore, upon the bodies, and eventually upon Euphemia. The beast, just a little deer now, steps backward, feet lifting high, tail and head held in a posture that screams of fear.

// Lilah(Dama dama) did not realize that'd spam her desc. Sorry.

Euphemia stumbles, as the wings upon her back begin to wither away... like material possessions turning into ash... leaving only the insatiable amounts of blood staining her body... and the tattered fabrics of a crimson, cotton hoddie that her wings had torn to shreds. As the angel falls... in her place, rests a pale, and sickly girl. Who -- despite the bandages clearly clouding her vision... very nearly faints... collapsing onto the ground. She groans, pushing herself onto her back... and stares up at the ceiling. Silent as the corpses of the victims that fell by her hand... and silent as the man she had driven towards death. Their lives weighed upon HER soul, now. And there was no taking that back.

They've done it. They've done a lot of things, but now? There's one more decision to be made.

Fallon tries to catch his breath as he stares at the blood, and gore, and bodies, and then back to the Lilah(Dama dama) and Euphemia, the deer and the wingless angel. Then his gaze ticks back over to the altar, the seat of this power. This terrible power that had wrought so much damage against this tower, and those who lived here. "..We could use this," The Order man says softly, staring over toward it, "It might take time, but we could use this. It's power? Think of the good we could do.."

The choice then falls to Lilah(Dama dama) and Euphemia, do they allow this false ley line to continue to exist? To be used by the Order, or do they destroy it, and remove the risk of others falling prey to it's corruptive influence?

It takes the panicked, terrified deer but that first sentence from Fallon's mouth before she's whirling. Lilah(Dama dama)'s body - so much lighter than before, yet so much less powerful now - tenses, and then she leaps, thrusting her back legs into the air while her front remain on the ground. A moment later, she repeats the gesture, over and over again trying to kick the (not so living) crap out of the altar, to shatter what's left of that power, that ley line, into uselessness.

Euphemia stands... pushing herself to her feet with both shaky fists driving into the ground. She walks over to retrieve her knife from the hands of the man who had used it to gut himself... clicking it, flipping it inwards... and tucking it into her hoodie. She steps closer to the Altar, watching the doe with a troubled expression.

The altar begins to crack, and falter beneath Lilah(Dama dama)'s assault, as the deer seems determined to render it inert, and destroy the threat and promise of this false ley line both, "Wait, wait!" Fallon blurts out, taking several steps closer toward it, and her both, "We can't waste this opportunity, if we're careful? We can use it, we can!" The man imparts, and perhaps naively so. He hadn't felt the power. He hadn't felt the rot. He only sees magic as a tool, as something that has intent or purpose beyond that of the person wielding it.

He doesn't know how very wrong he is.

Euphemia sighs, stepping forward to rest a hand against Fallon's shoulder... and gently pull him back. Euphemia unsheathes her sword, and drives the hilt into the altar... attempting to aid Lilah in its destruction.

Euphemia says, pointedly, "As long as power like this is here... It will be used for evil. The Order can find other means."
Deer aren't made to communicate the way humans are, but Lilah(Dama dama) certainly tries. Her hind legs find stability on the ground and she whirls, eyes rolling in a very cervine expression of fear and angst. She stares Fallon down for a long moment, but as Euphemia turns for the altar, the little, pregnant doe whirls back and begins to kick and shatter again, though goodness knows what kind of strain that's putting on her body.

Kick, kick. Stab.

There's a booming crash that echoes through the chamber, and slowly, but surely that terrible, terrible altar begins to crumble, and collapse, and as it does? So does the chamber itself, being held together by the power that had been collected, and enslaved within, "Quick!" There's no time for argument, or disapproval, there's only escape. Fallon cuts through the air itself, opening a path into the Path through The Forest, and salvation - freedom. It's with one last, yearning look at the altar, and it's crumbling form, that the Order member tries to lead Euphemia and Lilah(Dama dama) through, and back to the relative safety of their home.

OOC - Thanks for playing guys! Hope it wasn't too long, phew! Feel free to give your final poses, and we'll do the plot succeed, hand out rewards, and send you home.

Quick, Lilah(Dama dama) can do. What it seems she can't quite figure out is how to break herself free of this form, now that the magic that thrust it upon her is gone. As someone leads the way, she springs into action, hooves clopping on the stone floor as she waves and ducks in that strange way of deer, heading for the exit with the other two. Despite her speed, she doesn't seem inclined to leave either behind, even if she can no longer carry them.

Quick, Lilah(Dama dama) can do. What it seems she can't quite figure out is how to break herself free of this form, now that the magic that thrust it upon her is gone. As Fallon leads the way, she springs into action, hooves clopping on the stone floor as she waves and ducks in that strange way of deer, heading for the exit with the other two. Despite her speed, she doesn't seem inclined to leave either behind, even if she can no longer carry them.

Euphemia needs to train her stats.

Without a moment's hesitation, Euphemia turned and fled, her body agile despite the chaos unfolding. Each step was calculated as she moved swiftly, avoiding the debris that tumbled from the altar above. Dust and stone filled the air, but she pressed forward, the ground shaking beneath her feet. The collapse echoed in the space behind her, but Euphemia kept her eyes ahead, focused solely on escaping the dangerous ruins. With each stride, she distanced herself from the falling altar, feeling the cool, open air as she broke free from the crumbling chaos.