Astra/Phil

[Queen of Hearts]

Astra/Dama: Alice
Lane/Phil/Tempo/Rallentare/Babylon: Clint


Astra:

Gazing into the warped reflection in the shined piece of metal that stood in for a mirror in places like these, she focused on the empty socket where her eye had once been. It had been gone a very long time and she never missed it. Astra was aware that even the sight of it intimidated even the hardest of criminals where she was, especially those that knew the story. She, though, regarded it as the most beautiful thing on her face. It was the very first thing she had done for him. He had spoken to her in her mind for as far back as she could remember. It wasn’t until grade school that she had heard the story of Joan of Arc from the nuns there and finally discovered that it was God Himself telling her things. She had asked the voice that night if it were true and he confirmed it, and gave her the first assignment. To prove herself to be a true warrior of god, she must gouge out one of her eyes. He warned her though, that once she did so, she would be taken away from her family, so she must take the day to say her goodbyes and then complete the act.

She had sneaked into the room her two little brothers shared before bed that night. Pulling the baby from his crib, she had cuddled him in her lap and wrapped an arm around the other one, who was old enough to understand what she was telling him. The words came back to her, memory fresh as newly spilt blood. “Tomorrow, Momma is going to take me away and I won’t be back.” The young Astra had turned to the older of her brother and kissed his forehead. “Don’t forget me, and tell the baby about me.” That had been the last time she had seen the two beautiful little boys. For she had completed her assignment that night. Or as far as she had been able to. She had passed out on the floor of the bathroom before she had completed it, but the hospital had finished it for her. As soon as she was healed, she had been taken to a children’s asylum where they tried unsuccessfully to convince her that it was not god who required her to do this thing to herself.

Astra knew better and eventually, they had taken the step of sending her to the nuns full time. It had been explained that maybe they could show her better about god. She spent the last few years of her childhood with the nuns, and instead of dissuading her, it only firmed her belief. The sisters were hard women, and sparsely loving and Astra thrived in their order. They -believed- her. She didn’t exhibit any other signs of the mental illnesses that were frequently attributed to her and eventually they stopped making her see the doctors. It did no good, she believed god had spoken to her, and upon reading more and more of the history of the church, she realized that god had required similar things of many of his chosen ones. She had done many things for the voice since that first one proving herself, but it was the last year with the nuns that she had committed her first murder.

She regretted having to leave them but they understood and were happy to see her when she visited. It would be her first stop upon being freed. She was in a woman’s correctional facility at the moment, and today was the last day of her incarceration. She had been here a long time, and truly hadn’t minded it other than the loss of god’s voice. He never spoke to her when she was confined. She might have been the smallest of the inmates, barely scraping five feet and her frame was also small, but they all treated her with respect and even brought her gifts, things they had made or traded for, a nice rug, scented candles, the like. They came to her for absolving and for blessings, for many of them believed that god spoke to her as well. She turned from the contemplation as the automatic lock clanked open and she was let free for “recess” as the inmates called it, and almost immediately, some of them began to follow her, and by the time she sat on the bleachers, nearly every woman there was in a semi-circle around where she sat.

For many minutes, there was sheer silence, and then she reached out a hand to the two women who were seated closest to her and clasped their hands. A ripple of handholding followed and she began the twenty third psalm, the other reciting along with her, and then she gave a quiet benediction. And that is how she was when they came for her. Looking up, she smiled to the guards and nodded, for even they were fond of her, Joan of Arc complex notwithstanding, and some of the women there were openly crying. She turned for one last look and then meekly followed the guards out, almost unable to sit still as the paperwork was slowly completed. Her lawyer was there, and he had brought her a small gift, which she opened under the watchful eye of the guards and it was a set of nice clothing and her jewelry and eye patch. “Oh!,” she gasped as the last item came out. Her rosary! She grasped it tightly and began an automatic Ave Maria, speaking the traditional Latin, which her lawyer patiently waited through and then handed her the patch, helping her affix it over her disfigurement.

The other woman smiled softly at her and then they left the prison, arm in arm. Astra stepped outside the fence and then fell to her knees as the voice of god struck her. “You have two days to visit your nuns and then you must go to New York City.” Then his presence withdrew and Astra wept at the welcome return of him in her head. It felt as if a part of her that had been missing was returned. After a moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder, the lawyer’s, and Astra nodded and rose, climbing into the limousine after the woman. She was handed a slip of paper detailing her flight plan, a private jet as always, and quietly tucked it into the interior pocket of her new suit. She knew that god occasionally spoke to this woman as well as other than she had met over the years but she was his primary receiver and never felt any jealousy for the other. At least in that capacity. They were allowed to be wives and mothers and she was not, this was the only resentment that she ever felt and she accepted it as a character flaw and hid it as best she could. The woman lawyer reached out and squeezed her hand and then Astra slid from the car and entered the gates of the nun’s retreat.

There were no exclamations or group hugs, merely an eyebrow or two rose in surprise as she made her way to the “Closet.” Emerging from there, encased now in the appropriate robes, all her things would be held there in safekeeping, even the jewel encrusted patch that she was so proud of. She wore a simple flesh colored cloth one here so as to prove as undistracting as possible. Again without saying a word, she presented herself to the woman in charge who quietly asked how long she would be here. The reply was a soft, “Two days.” And within minutes, she was handed her duty list for the next two days, the first appointment, as always, at the confessional.

Afterwards, she knelt at the bench and said her devotionals as her practiced fingers followed the pattern ingrained upon them, the black diamond beads of the rosary comforting to her fingers. God provided her with these things and while she appreciated the gesture, the meaning behind the massively expensive prayer beads was more important to her than what it was made of, and the current patch was the same to her as the diamond encrusted one. She never disputed god’s wishes and if he wished that she wear jewels, she would do so. She sometimes thought that he was trying something new, being that he had demanded severe austerity of her sister-in-spirit Joan. Post penance, she went to the garden where she cleansed her spirit in weeding and pruning until dinner time.

After her two days, she made her way to the airport, immediately ushered by more of god’s people to her plane, blessing them quietly as she entered the jet. “Twenty minutes to takeoff, Ms. Wynters,” the pilot spoke over the intercom and she nodded to herself and quietly sat on the embedded couch. She spent the whole flight, embedded within her memories, the scant memories of her familial childhood, the time with the nurses, the missions she’d carried out since then. She stroked the black diamond rosary beads as she recalled the string of victims who had felt its bite around their throat. Gently touching the rose engraved upon the front of the relic, she smiled softly, then turned it to look at the eye upon its back. Speaking softly aloud, “Extra Ecclesiam nulla salus,“ she spoke the memorized Latin phrase that she knew was engraved upon the backside of the crucifix. For a moment, she relived the pleasure of that final struggle when god’s strength suffused her small body and the much bigger victims breathed their last. God always rewarded her afterwards, and she’d never felt anything that was as wonderful as the wash of his approval after completing his tasks.

But the reverie was halted by the touchdown of the plane and in short order, she was released from the jet and she stretched on the sidewalk before being approached by a man who politely asked if she was Ms. Wynters. Upon her acknowledgement, he directed her to a car and she was driven to a hotel. She trusted in him to provide and so far he had. Her hotel room was one of the finest though such comforts were nothing to her. She usually slept on the floor on top of the folded up comforter anyways. Settling her small bag of things on the chair, she showered quickly, and then spread out the blanket and laid down for sleep. But before she could delve into that realm, her mind was once more taken over by god and she was shown a path through the maze of New York’s streets, a building to which she would enter, and a face, a man’s face. His presence then withdrew and she breathed again, in the morning, she would find this man and see what he had to tell her.

Phil:

All his life, there had been a force there. A presence. Despite the disturbing inner workings of his twisted mind, there were moments of clarity. But in those moment of clarity, he did not sense that force. It was almost as though in all the mayhem and carnage he wrought, he felt a silent force pushing him on. In the midst of his tormenting of others, he could hear it as clearly as anything else in his life. Amidst his killings, he heard heavy, almost labored breathing as though there were another standing behind him, breathing in his ear, and seeing what he saw. The breathing grew louder as he killed, and perhaps this was why none but his brother could ever truly calm his rage…his brother shared the same “fingerprint” in his breath. But it was always there, at his worst…or finest depending on how you looked at it…egging him on. He killed for that breath. And tonight it seemed to have found him as he lay in bed. A cold sweat broke out about his body as the feminine breathing awoke him from slumber, calling him to kill. Tossing his legs over the wooden bench he used as a bed in his self prescribed cell, he sat up and looked into the inky blackness about him only to hear nothing but his own breathing and the labored breath of a demon’s dreams in his ear. Instinctively, he stood to his feet before pulling on a pair of jeans, a chain mail t-shirt, and slid his feet into his boots. Fastening the straps on his books and buttoning the jeans, he walked to the locked door before placing his hand to the wrought iron handle. Summoning the force of his own magical prowess, superhuman strength, he pulled the solid metallic door from its hinges and leaned it against the wall of the cell. Looking around, his right eye seemed to take on a murky darkness as it changed color from the other…it had the color that was of the sister he never knew..and what he had yet to learn was that it was her breath driving him forward through his life. He was not a sadistic machine, but rather a vessel by which her own rage was passed. He held the violent behavior of not only one Wynter…but two. He was the wrath of his sister’s vengeance, and tonight that wrath was called forth once more.

Exiting the cathedral silently by way of a side door, he walked to the main street and hailed a cab. No sooner had the cab stopped than Phil opened the driver’s side door and pulled the driver from his seat before smashing his head into the roof edge of the cab killing him instantly. His body twitched in Phil’s grasp as he dropped him and took the seat. Driving through the city streets, he stopped finally at a Antiques shop. Parking the cab haphazardly on the sidewalk after jumping the curb, he exited the vehicle and entered the store. The electronic beep alerted his arrival to the store employee that stood behind the counter and looked more than bored with no one else in the store presently. Phil walked to the employee and stated simply, in a deep threatening voice “The Back” With a silent nod, the employee pushed a button under the counter that unlocked a secret passageway against the far wall before returning to read the newspaper. Walking through the opening, Phil descended three stairs to a secret room full of magical items. Seeing an old woman seated there and writing in a journal, he spoke too with her.

“I need transportation. Quick transportation, to Iceland…and I need enough to return.” With a nod, she began to rummage through a drawer full of small canvas bags of powders. Pulling two from the drawer, she handed them to Phil with a warning ‘These have a side effect. When you get to the other side, you will feel drunk for whatever time difference there is. From New York to Iceland there is about a five hour time difference, so you will have trouble focusing for about five hours. Return before those five hours, and you will go blind. Set your watch accordingly’. With a nod to indicate he understood, Phil paid her with the money he had as well as a promise to return with more to clean his debt. Nodding, she seemed to agree to the terms of payment. Pouring the powder into his hand, he tossed it to the ground and looked around still seeing himself in the shop. Looking to the old hag with a snarl upon his lip, she shook her head as though tired of dealing with amateurs of potions and powders. Taking another bag from the drawer, she limbed over to him ‘Try not to dirty my floor anymore, this time, try putting it in your mouth and letting it soak.’ Doing as instructed, he felt the bitter sickness as his saliva mixed with the powder and ran down his throat. Blinking, he found himself in the courtyard of a prison though his eyes were as she stated…hazy and shaky. Unable to clear that feeling from his eyes by blinking a few times, he began to walk towards the inner cells…driven by a force he could not understand. He rounded corners and ascended stairwells as though he knew where he was going, though in truth he had never been here before.

Stopping at last at an empty cell, a heavy rain began to pour outside and beat on the concrete roof above his head. Looking in, he could see religious art painted on the wall in Byzantine styles depicting the saints, the prophets….and in the center with great detail, a armor clad woman on horseback. The scene continued around the cell until on the opposite wall the same woman was strapped to a stake and flames licked her body. Growling, he summoned forth the strength of magical rage before moving to the next cell and tore it noisily from its hinges. The woman inside barely had time to scream before he grabbed her by the back of the neck and shoved her into the bars with such force that her skull was fractured and shoved through the narrow opening. Her body flailed helplessly as nerve endings continued to fire off while she died a slow death. By this time, other inmates were screaming and yelling wildly not sure what was going on until he showed up to each of their cells individually and killed them in equally grotesque fashion. Alarms began to sound while he continued the rampage against the sinners and purged them from this plain of existence. The guards, thinking it was a riot from the amount of noise, did not come in right away. They assembled a Security Response Team in riot gear and stacked up on the door preparing for a breach into the D wing of the prison where the riot was occurring.

Walking towards the door where the guards had formed up, the door flew open and a tear gas canister was fired over his head before a stinger grenade follows and landed at his feet. The guards looked as surprised to see a single man as he did that they were standing in front of him. Kicking the grenade back at them, it exploded sending rubber pellets hurdling at them causing those in the back to drop in pain while the two at the front with electric shields advanced. Running towards them in battle with his large form shaking the steel catwalk, a third guard unaffected by the stinger fired a shotgun loaded with a non-lethal round, a wooden dowel, at Phil’s chest. The round impacted his chest and he felt a rib break, but his devilish rage did not slow as his fist flew at the first shield and cracked the plastic shield with the force a man with a sledgehammer could not have mustered. His fist impacted the corrections officer in the chest and sent him flying back on the catwalk and spitting up blood only to writhe with the others that had been hit by the stinger. Feeling the arch of electricity pass through his as the second guard rammed the electric shield into his massive body. Bringing his fist straight down on the man’s head, the helmet cracked and the man’s spine compressed causing a sickening crack as he flopped to the ground dead. As the third officer fearfully and clumsily tried to reload another round, Phil reached out and grasped the man on either side of his head. Squeezing, the man began to scream as Phil’s thumbs pressed in the man’s eyes and his fingers had an accordion compressing the skull. In less that five minutes, he killed the rest of the SRT, taken their wallets, and began to kill the inmates one by one as they were unable to run in their locked cells.

For thirty minutes, the mayhem continued as the prison leadership began to assemble another team assuming the first had failed and was captured by the rioting convicts. Seeing he had done all the damage he could do here, he walked back to the peculiar cell and looked around once more before walking to the window and pulled the bars from their concrete seating. Exiting the new hole in the wall, he dropped to the ground two stories below him with a grunt of pain from his broken rib before walking to a propane tank that supplied heat to the building. Using the magical strength focused through his rosary, he tore it from its bracketed space and placed it against the outer wall of the prison. Pulling a lighter from the ground, he lit a piece of cloth and placed it to the ground before turning on the valve and walked away. The lights of the prison were all on, sirens sounded, and guards rushed into the wing looking for the rioters. Moments later, as the guards stood there surveying the horrors that were left in Phil’s wake, the propane tank exploded like a bomb and shook the very ground on which he walked. Unable to shake the dizzy feeling, he stumbled to the gate and climbed over only to find himself tangled in the razor wire. Growing angry, he tugged to release his torso, arms, and legs leaving deep gashes therein as he made his way towards the countryside and wait out another four hours so he could teleport back. No sooner had this been completed than the rage subsided, and he no longer could hear the ghostly breath haunting him.

[Queen of Hearts]

Lane:

Seated in the living area of his hotel room, he rotated the beads of his rosary while on the phone with the priest from the church Phil was locked in. “And you say he is gone? Fuck me. Alright, thank you Father. And a word of advice, find somewhere else to sleep tonight. If he comes back, you don’t want to be there.” Closing the cell phone, he placed it on the stand next to him and continued to rotate the rosary in deep thought. Where would he have gone? The highway, upstate, one of the Burroughs. Nodding, he stood to his feet and made his way to the closet of the hotel. Pulling out a pair of leather pants, tanker boots, and a underarmor shirt, he dressed himself quickly before exiting the hotel. Descending in the elevator, one of the guests quirked a brow as though confused by his fashion, tilting his head to the old couple, he spoke out with the thick Icelandic accent “I’m a fucking rock star. Wanna get laid lady? Is that why you are staring” Shocked at his words, the old man pressed the button to let them off on the next floor, and Lane was able to continue the elevator ride to the lobby. Crossing the lobby, he exited the hotel and the attendant hailed a cab for him. Giving him the address, the cab drove the few short blocks to another hotel. Paying the man, Lane exited the cab and entered the hotel.

With a nod to the concierge, the man’s eyes went wide to the unusually garbed man entering the hotel. Coming out from behind his desk to intercept Lane, he spoke out ‘Can I help you Sir?’ Tilting his head, Lane looked aggravated as he nodded and replied “You can get the shit out of my way. I am here to see Ms. Wynter. Problem. The concierge shook his head and stepped out of Lane’s way and permitted him to pass. Standing in the elevator banks waiting for a car, the doors finally opened before he ascended to the top floors where the VIP suites were located. Exiting the elevator, he walked directly to her room and knocked on the door. Awaiting the door to open, he knew it was late and she was most likely already asleep. Knocking again, he heard the chain unfasten and the door open to reveal a woman whom he felt he did not know…but at the same time knew on a cellular level. “He’s missing…where is he?”

Astra:

Reaching now to her bag, she pulled out a small case that held her eye patches. She removed the diamond one, settling it gently into the case, then withdrew one of the leather ones, much easier for sleeping and slid it on before closing her eyes. These, also, had been sent to her by god, just as everything that came her way had. One day she had been given a package and it had contained two leather patches with designs on them. The one with the dagger was prettier, but the other was more comfortable and so she wore it more often, but only when she slept, for she still preferred the look of the diamond one. The inmate delivering the package had said to her, “From him“ in an awe filled voice. As she closed her eyes, she had a brief moment to wonder how many people god spoke to, and then she was asleep and the dream overtook her.

Anger. She was angry in her dreams and where she could control it during her waking times, she let it reign in her dreams, knowing the it was only imagined damage. In her dreams, she was much more powerful than her tiny form suggested and she let herself revel in the feeling a while. There was no sound here in the dream world and she found the slightly detached part of herself wondering what was happening even as she found a grim joy in the smashing of a taxi driver and the wild careening through the streets. She didn’t know how to drive after all, though it seemed as if her dream self had some sort of ability in that. Her spirit cringed a bit at entering what seemed like a voodoo shop of some sort, and the dream faded slightly and then she was back in the prison where she had been incarcerated for so long, and her rage at finding herself there exploded.

She exploded into motion, allowing her fury to expend itself on the hapless others that were still there, knowing that her dream could never harm others in real life, also aware that expending her pent up ire like this would leave her calm and collected and allow her to let go of the disastrous feeling. As her dream self went on with the murderous rampage, a faint knocking at the door caused her body to move slightly and almost awaken but the dream was strong. Her detached mind was slightly amused at the way she set the propane tank to blow. A little bit of overkill but the explosion was pretty and reminded her of the flames to which Saint Joan had been consigned. Her dream self found razored wires wrapped around and the symbolism of that and the thorned crown of Christ was not lost on her as she rose from the dream to a noise.

A pounding on the door awoke her and she shook her head, shaking the dream off. Replacing the leather patch with her usual diamond one, she left it lying on the coffee table, next to the other one, each with their own symbols, and the nondescript one which she wore when she abided with the nuns. Astra extricated herself from the folded comforter on the floor, crossing herself as her elbow bumped the statue of the Madonna upon the same table and setting it upright. She ran a hand through her hair and stood fully, her sleeping garments consisting of a tank top and her underwear. That was all she was used to wearing due to the recent imprisonment. It was that underneath the jumpsuit and at night it could get really hot in those cells. And that’s how she answered the door, not really paying attention and still somewhat asleep in demeanor.

Fumbling a bit with the unfamiliar latch, she finally got the chain to fall free from the door, and she opened it, momentarily confused by the gentleman standing before her. This was not the one who she had been shown. Then he spoke and she relaxed slightly. Another lost soul in need of her help. Many times, people had come to her asking her to interceded with god for them. She never promised but she always tried her hardest and once spent three days straight in prayer trying to heal a woman with cancer that was dear to her within the prison. And now this young man needed her help and she smiled soothingly at him. “Do not worry, child, I will help you however I can.” She stepped back to let him in, and letting him close the door behind him as she grabbed the suit which was the only piece of clothing she owned at this juncture and calmly pulled it on.

She turned and gestured towards the couch, while she herself took up a kneel on the floor, amidst the rumpled mass of bedclothes on the floor, her hand hovering over the pillar candles settled to either side of the statue of the Blessed Virgin. The quietly blossomed into flame and she knelt back and reached into the bedroll to pull out her rosary, grasping it tightly and only then returning her attention to the younger gentleman. “Now then, my dear,” Astra said gently in her most soothing priestess voice, “Who is missing and where was he last seen? Perhaps we can find whoever you are looking for by starting there.” She settled her hands upon her thighs and gazed at him serenely.

Lane:

Entering the spacious room and seating himself on the couch offered, he still could not place the features of the woman before him, yet he knew she was the one The Nephilim had instructed him to secure the room for. At this point, he had no idea it was his own sister with whom he sat. Looking around the hotel room, he noted there were postcard sized pictures of artistic renderings of the catholic saints pinned to the walls as any good catholic might have…yet upon closer inspection one would not the cards were not the simple Byzantine styled pictures of paintings, but with them were mixed symbols of Tarot. But then that was to be expected of any in the Blaque Tear coven. Openly they were catholic, muck like their Medici cousins, yet beneath the surface they served a much darker force. They were the shadows of the Medici, and as such they also were the shadows of the religion. Pagans they were often called for warping Catholicism to something much darker and mixing dark rituals in with the sacraments, yet they were a necessity to the Medici and thus often just ignored. The scent of incense lingered about the room as the ceremonial candles on either side of the Blessed Virgin burned and iluminted the statue in an eerie glow. Upon the statue, it too held the views not consistant with the catholic faith. Instead of merely a Virgin Mary peacefully holding out her arms, the statue bore a stigmata of Christ’s wounds on the statue. Her robe shredded from the whip, her head bore marks of a crown of thorns, and her hands bore wounds of the nails. At her side, there was an indentation to depict the sword thrust into Christ’s side…yet mysteriously, the statue had a dark secret about it as black blood and water dripped from the wound and into a goblet at her feet as though it were indeed alive. Looking up from the statue finally, Lane’s cool voice called forth his purpose

“My brother, Philodendron Wynters. He is missing….and I think, for some reason, you would know where he is currently located. Never before has he left a city without me. Never. And the very night the Blaque Messiah, our Nephilim, contacts me and tells me to secure this room for you…he leaves. This is not by happenstance. Nothing in life is. There is reason to this. Tell me then Sister Superior of the Blaque Tear Coven….why has my brother departed? What have you done?”

Falling silent, it was clear to see that in all their lives, the brothers ha never been separated. Though they lived their own lives an tended to their own missions, they were always together. Never more than a few blocks from one another. Yet tonight Lane was unable to feel the presence of his brother’s rosary. Tonight his brother had for the first time, left on mission without him. Pulling the rosary from beneath his shirt, the unique symbol of his birth bore engraved image on the relic before he turned it over to show her the coven symbol of the Blaque Tear to indicate he too was as she. He too was of the coven. Laying the rosary to the table, a cool wind enveloped the room. Blinking to clear the haze as though he knew this feeling, he looked out the window to the clock on the bank across the street to verify his suspicion only to note his watch was almost two minutes behind. Looking back to her, he commented simply “They are here”

Tempo:

Bowing before a shadowed figure on a throne amidst a stone room, pools of inky black liquid rippled on either side of the walkway he currently knelt on. Not a sound but that of the liquid was heard in the chambers, and yet Tempo continued to nod as though receiving instructions. After a moment, his voice answered out to the inner messages to his mind “Your will, not mine, be done.” Rising to his feet, he backed out of the throne room they called The Tabernacle through a high arched door while careful still to bow in a penitent nature until the solid door closed leaving him in silence. No sooner had the door closed than he removed the druid like robes to reveal a youthful man bare of clothing and whose flesh was scarred from years of self mutilation. All his life he had been in service of this dark force..their Blaque Messiah, and in that time he would continuously take a cat of nine tails and whip his own back to show dedication and ask for sins forgiven from The Nephilim. Moving to a rack against the far wall, he dressed himself in modern goth attire before exiting the preparation room and joining the others in their secret underground monetary. Motioning to Padre Rallentare, Padre Tempo spoke in hushed tones as not to disturb the other two caretakers for The Nephilim.

“It is time. Lantana and his sister are about to meet. Our savior wishes us to facilitate this meeting and show her the way of understanding that she might know the meanings of these images she has seen throughout her life. Come, let us make haste. The youngest has already gone to exact her wrath on the prison. She must be shown the way that he not lose control again.”

Turning on his heels and moving towards a circle of stones in the middle of their cathedral, they both stepped therein only to have their bodies absorbed by the shadows and disappear from sight. Instantly they were deposited on the streets of the New York City amidst a flurry of traffic and people at the end of the alley. Looking around to gather their senses, they made their way through the service entrance of the hotel and ascended the fire escape stairwell to the appropriate floor. The rosaries they carried gave out an audible tone to indicate they were near the other two rosaries, and they exited the stairwell to the hallway of the suites. Approaching the door, everything seemed to slow as the lights dimmed and the two moved through the planes of time effortlessly. Opening the door, they stepped through an immediately saw Lane seated before his sister…both of which frozen in time. With but a nod towards the other room, Tempo and Rallentare cleared the room to make sure no others were with them in the suite. Wearing an overly large rosary around his waist as one might find around the waist of a monk, it dangled at his thigh and swayed with each step. Tempo nodded to Rallentare to indicate his section of the room was clear. Once it was determined the area was secured, both took up positions in the shadows of the room before time was released and they heard Lantana state that ‘they were here’. Stepping forward from the shadowed corner by the bathroom door, a slithering voice echoed out in response,

“Yes…yes we are here my son.”

Rallentare:

Taking Tempo’s lead, the two wandered the room looking for signs of disturbance or spies. Having found none, he leaned against the far wall in the shadows and watched the interaction. Hearing Tempo speak to the young Lantana, he smirked and shook his head as he thought to himself ‘Tempo sounds just like Alan Rickman, I wonder if anyone has ever told him that.’ Looking from Tempo to Lane, then to the sister, Padre Rallentare pulled back the curtain with a large finger to look out the window through the narrow opening cautiously before speaking while looking out the window. His own voice sounding like Mickey Rourke sounded out to the two,

“It is time to remember my children. It is time your family was reunited in the shadows that bore you all. I am Padre Rallentare….this is my counterpart, Padre Tempo. We are his Messengers.” Looking back to those in the room, he chuckled at the surprise on the features of the two at their appearance “What? You mean you have not guessed it already? Lane, she is not merely a sister of the coven. She is the ghostly dream of a girl that sat with you on the edge of your bed as a child. She is your biological sister.”

Looking over to Padre Tempo, he nodded towards the door to indicate he was going to stand watch outside the door. Slowing time once more, all within the room came to a standstill and even the waves of light slowed to cause darkness to shroud him in mystery. The drip from the water’s faucet hung suspended in mid air, the black liquid pouring from the statue froze and the ripple in the basic lay suspended in time. Lane and his sister sat with silly expressions while unblinking and in a state of suspended animation. Nodding to Tempo whom seemed unaffected by the magic, Rallentare exited the room and stood outside the door with his arms folded as though warding off any that might think to disrupt the meeting. Releasing time no sooner than the door closed, he heard the muffled voices inside as they began to talk once more.

Though they looked relatively youthful in appearance, there was an unusual force about them as though they indeed were actually much older than they appeared. But that was often the case with many of the Messangers…the keepers of the Nephilim. All were time magicians…and all had been seen for generations as though time had no hold on their aging. This, of course, led to much speculation about the Nephilim himself and how old he truly was as well. Padre Tempo and Padre Rallentare had appeared to not only this generation of coven members, but they seemed to know even the oldest of coven members as though they had appeared to them as well….yet this was a force in mystery that none ever discussed openly. Whether they were able to slow their internal mechanics to prevent aging, or they time traveled from one age to the next, none knew for sure. One thing was known for sure though. No matter what the case or how they accomplished it, they seemed to have always been there to guide the coven members to the will of The Nephilim when most needed.

Astra:

Calmly she waited, perfectly poised in her duty as he glanced around at the accouterments within her chambers here, each and every reminding her of her purpose and also a hard won lesson. Especially that of the tortured Madonna, her glance following his to the statue, another gift from her heavenly benefactor. The lesson and its gift. She was a soldier-priest, or at least she thought of herself that way, but the Madonna reminded her that also, she was a woman, one thing she tended to overlook in her personal life. She was still puzzling out all the meanings of the gifted statue and she spoke softly as if to herself, Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae, then her eyes lifted to the young man’s as he at last spoke, her whole being froze though her serene expression and outward demeanor did not change. Philodendron Wynters. The baby. His brother. Her brother. Confusion reigned within, though she simply nodded, mind racing, the only betrayal of emotion the titling of her, Sister Superior. For the short duration of the speech, it contained several bombs and Astra tried to sort them, Nephilim, Black Messiah, her own title, but the young man, no, her brother, pulled his rosary, prompting her to do the same.

The black diamonds sparkled, reflecting the light of the devotional candles, clacking slightly on the glass of the table as she started to speak, pausing a moment, her mouth uncooperative, this now, her little brother, no longer so little but a strong beautiful man, prompted a bursting of pride that swelled her and she for the moment was unable to express the truth of their relation to him, simply silent within her emotion, a sudden flash of worry for the absent one who she had not seen since that last night of cradling him within her lap, kissing plump cheeks of the child of few months goodbye and now she wanted to ask the question of he and then another thought struck her and she glanced at the rosary of the middle brother once more, the flash of recognition she’d received upon seeing it, overshadowed by the familial revelation, now to the fore as she reached out and grasped the two eye patches, his symbol matching the one which she had -not- chosen to wear this past night and with a feeling of dread coiling with her stomach, she lifted the other, the patch which had covered her missing eye for her night’s slumber, symbol side towards brother Lane, in order to ask if this was the youngest’s symbol but his statement interrupted and she glanced about. They? Astra had time to wonder before the answer was evident.

A cold wind shivered across her skin and then the voice coming from the shadows, and she calmed again for she too recognized the signs. Messengers from the heaven of course. All would be explained in due time, or not, as the angels saw fit and so she ceased her attempts at explanation to Lantana, her beloved and long lost brother. The entrancing voice of the angel ceased after he spoke, and Astra was slightly disappointed for she could have listened to him speak a long while. He chose his messengers wisely and she bowed her head a moment in awe of his splendor, then a glance and a flash of surprise crossed her face as another angel spoke. Was any woman so lucky as she to be in the blessed presence of two such divine beings? He though did not have the gift of oratory, though his voice was beautiful to her for the message he spoke and she knew the truth of his statement reflected in her eyes as she looked to her brother Lane, pride in him and affection shining in the singular eye. The angel vanished from the corner of her eye and she blinked a moment and then began to reach out for Lane, movement aborted by the leather still held with her grasp and her chagrin coated her voice as she spoke, eye pressing tightly close a moment. “And as for the third of our number,” a heavy sigh, “I am afraid I know all to well where he might be.”

Truths were flashing at her too fast to handle and her thumb rubbed over the symbol etched with acid upon the patch and she felt the horror swirling throughout her as the dreams of violence and mayhem over the years, the frequent fiercely hot rages which burned, the rare occasions where she was coldly sadistic, all she had thought contain within dreams, what was real, what was fantasy? Steadying herself with the long cultivated patience, she breathed in her pattern, the one the sent her into trance should she continue it and settled these questions aside for the moment. What mattered was baby Phil and she must pierce this mystery for herself. Her being full of dread, she pulled off the diamonds, tossing them casually to the floor, and pulled on the patch, suspected ink to her little Phil and deliberately put herself into the sleeping trance though retaining more awareness than she had ever attempted before. Two rounds of the patterned breath and then of a sudden, she was with Phil, could feel the gashes from the wire, some pieces still embedded within the skin, for the first time aware within what was previously considered the dream.

While her faraway self in the hotel room wept, blood streaming instead of tears from the one socket hidden under the leather, she was attempting to consciously communicate with her baby brother, urging him to find his way back to where she and Lane awaited. Unaccustomed to the manual use of those power, Astra was unsure if she had gotten to him, her body trembling as her consciousness snapped back to it. Reaching a shaking hand to her patch, she removed it, gently settling it next to the one which bore Lane’s own symbol. Astra found confusion where there had always been certainty and she looked to the strangely compelling messenger, Tempo he had been named, for her answers, pulling her exposed rosary to her hands, clenching it tightly. Her eye focused upon him, even as her mind filled with questions and she breathed deeply, momentarily forgetting about Lane as she spoke softly, though she too had the voice of a practiced orator, compelling to listen to. “His messengers,” she stated, “Come to reunite myself and my brothers. Him. The Nephilim.” Something within her faith shifted as the truth of this drove deep within her and she ceased to speak, frozen in silence until the soft echoing of her present brother’s last question slipped from her lips. “What have I done, indeed.”

[Queen of Hearts]

Lane:

With a head bowed in humility to Padre Tempo, he felt the father’s hand placed upon his head as though a symbol of imparting dark blessing thereon. Returning to the seat his sister offered, he looked to her as the images of those nights seemed to surround him in a dark virtual reality. He was, at this very moment, in his childhood room. He could hear his mother, still alive, in another room speaking to an unknown person in Italian. Back in those days, he did not know Italian, he knew only Icelandic tongues and no doubt his mother spoke in such ways to prevent her children from hearing. Yet as an adult, he could make out a few words here and there. Their mother spoke of sacrifice, blood, death, apocalyptic seals, saints, and chalices. Things that would make no sense presently, but he listened by the door until it was opened as the girl entered and held he an Phil close to her childish form. Stepping around to see her features, a soft song in a child’s voice she did sing to sooth the baby…twas the song of Pagans and Christians. Tyr and Christ. Odin and God. Loki an Satan. Tyr and the Archangel Michael. She had effectively weaved together the myths of Nordic lore to that of Christian stories in the Bible in song to sing of their strength, the rites of blood amidst battle, and honor amidst warfare. Tilting his head and he knelt before the images of the three children on the edge of the bed, he hummed the song along with the girl child before reaching out and attempting to touch her.

The bluish hue of the room flashed back to reality leaving his hand to the side of the woman’s face he now new as his sister as it rapidly aged from that of a child, to that of a pubescent teenager, to that of the woman before him now. Gently holding his hand there, he spoke a name in Icelandic “Skadi.” It was a statement of whom she had been to him in his mind this whole time. Not his sister, not a girl, but rather the harbinger of Justice, Vengeance, and Righteous Anger. In his mind she was not his sister, but rather a norse goddess. Suddenly all became clear in that moment of revelations. This entire time he had thought his actions were those to bring honor to the goddess that had visited him that night…the goddess he thought was Skadi…but now he knew the truth. She was his sister. A dark voice echoed forth as she called out in vain to reach the fractured mind of their brother while he stated

“The song…he remembers the song. Sing your song to him as you did on the last night you were with us. Take up the mantle of Skadi and he will see you. That is who he knows you as, not as our sister, but as the goddess of winter and hunt….you are his goddess, his matriarchal deity…the goddess of Wynters”

Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he withdrew one from the pack an placed it to his lips before lighting it. The scent of jasmine, cloves, and tobacco filled the air mysteriously about him as he knelt before his sister and slowly removed his hand from the soft flesh of her face and lay his hand atop her own hand resting in her lap. How he had not known this before he was unsure. He knew more secrets than anyone in else in the coven as he was often used as the vessel to set into motion elaborate plans the Nephilim sought to prepare the fields of future coven member’s souls. How had this great secret been kept from him and why, he still did not understand

Tempo:

Seeing the two connect in a way that only siblings were able to, Padre Tempo smiled slightly before with a wave of his hand he washed away the world of the now and took Lantana back to the room of his childhood. How he had known of this very night was a mystery…but one that had yet to be revealed. Leaving Lane to watch the images of himself as a child with his sister on their last night together as a family unit intact, Tempo himself passed through the image of the wall to the narrow hallway of the house and walked towards the sounds of their mother’s voice in the living room. Entering the images of the living room, it would seem that this was not merely a hallucination, but rather he had bent the will of time and the collectiveness of Tempo and Lane were in the actual past though their bodies remained in the present with Astra. Entering the living room, he saw himself almost thirty years in the past speaking with their mother of what the children were to be…the unholy trinity of the Blaque Tear Coven. The past image of himself nodded to his presence in the home, yet when Lane’s mother looked over her shoulder to see what it was her guest nodded respectfully to, her eyes were unable to see Padre Tempo from the present. Walking up to his past self knowing Lane’s mother could not see him, present Tempo leaned in to speak to the paste Padre Tempo

“This woman’s death comes soon at the hands of her own children through the guidance of their sister’s wrath at being sent away. Tell her the babe will be The Apocalypse, the eldest boy a Saint, and their elder sister will be the chalice of blood by which the two are bound and will drink their fill. Tell her the girl is damned and must be sent to the Sisters of the St Raphael Convent.. That is all you must tell her. For you see, the sisters of the convent are in fact followers of the Blaque ways and agents of The Nephilim. They will see to her training and foster this darkness in her, not cure her from it.”

Withdrawing his lips from the ear of his past self, he exited the living room returned to the bedroom where the children now stayed and Lane’s present self hummed the song Astra’s past self sang to the children. With a wave of his hand and the metallic ring of the power focused rosary around his waist, he shifted time again to bring Lane’s consciousness back to the present to be reunited with his body now kneeling before Astra.

Crossing the room once more, he placed a hand to Astra’s shoulder as the ring of the rosary continued and he took her consciousness with him to her own past. But this time they were in the convent where she was initially sent. The bluish hue of the past clouded everything as they walked through the halls of the Convent of St. Raphael. Entering a solitary room, the young form of Astra as a child in her early teens sat on the edge of the bed with a bandage covering her eye. Standing there, it seemed that Padre Tempo and the adult Astra were invisible to the young teen as on the outside of the door, a past form of Padre Tempo walked up dressed as a monk and slid a large envelope under the door. On the envelope there was a unique seal stamped in wax she would note was the one from the back of her rosary. Departing the area, the past version of Padre Tempo nodded to mother superior whom knelt before him and kisses his ring bearing the insignia of the Blaque Tear coven before he entered a vehicle and departed the convent. Looking back to the teenager, the present Padre Tempo that time traveled with the adult Astra’s consciousness motioned to the envelope knowing she would know what it was. As the teenaged form of Astra knelt at the door and opened the envelope, two eye patches fell into her lap. Leaning behind the child, the present Padre Tempo’s ghostly voice called out through time to influence the girl secretly

“Put both of them on and dream. Dream of your mother and your ire to being sent here. Dream of what horrors await your brothers without your hand to guide and protect them. How does that make you feel?”

Stepping back, Padre Tempo rejoined the ghostly image of the adult Astra that stood watching the memories of her own past. The young teenager hummed the song that she sung to the boys the night she was taken from them. Placing on both eye patches at once over her eye socket, her breathing changed to a hypnotic rhythm as she lay back to the wooden bench that served as her “bed” as she closed her good eye and dreamt as Padre Tempo’s spirit form instructed her to do. Tilting his head, he placed a hand on the adult Astra’s shoulder again immediately transporting them back to the present where she would find her physical form now laying on the bed with the appropriate eye patch on her eye and Lane kneeling at her bedside watching her summon Phil through the use of her song to span the distance between the two and the hidden one in Iceland.

Phil:

The time had only just been reached when he would be able to take the other potion that be might return to New York City. Seated on a grassy hillside, he pulled the barbs from his flesh that had gotten stuck in his body in his escape as slowly a haunting voice of song echoed over the plains of his soul and spoke to the inner core of his mind. Closing his eyes, he knew the voice as the manifestation behind the breathing he heard in times such as this. The breathing…her breathing. It had transcended the simplicity of his driving force in chaotic interlude to that of soothing tones of a song depicting warriors of the sword and faith. Taking the potion in his mouth, he once again felt the bitter taste of his saliva liquefying the powder as it slipped down his throat and the dizzy feeling again. Yet this time, instead of being transported back to the magic shop in the rear of the antiques store, he found himself standing in a hotel room. Blinking as the world continued to swirl with the drunk like feeling, Phil caught sight of Lane first kneeling next to the bed. He was about to speak when he saw a form laying atop the bed that shared many features of Lane. Tilting his head, the deep and dark voice called out

“The fuck is that? How did I get here?”

In his confusion, he did not immediately note that the form of the woman laying on the bed sung the song he heard in his head and dismissed it instead as the voice still in his head. He had not yet figured out the voice in his head and the one in his ear were in fact the same song from the same person. Clenching his fists, he looked around and saw Padre Tempo standing in the corner and grunted. It would seem that a grunt was all the respect he could muster for the messenger as he was not one to stand on formality or respect. He respected only death. He felt no fear, only rage. He was, for all intents and purposes, a vessel of killing and carnage. Not one of respect and piousness as his brother.

“Well?”

Astra:

Single eye watched her brother as he knelt before her, a pose similar to that of a penitent, her tears ceasing as his hand reached, then rested against her cheek and she looked into his eyes a moment, those that matched what hers had been once so perfectly. There was no doubting their mutual parantage when they were this close. They could have been twins rather than the years that separated them and she smiled softly as they existed in that moment forever. And he spoke softly, giving her the key that was needed to reach their erstwhile sibling. Take up the mantle of Skaldi, he said, his words speaking to the Nordic core, the wild pagan heart that melded with the Catholic cataechism within the song. Their song. The childhood lullabye of warrior and battle, of honor and revenge, where she as a gifted child had merged the faiths of their father with that of their Medici mother for her beloved brothers, that lullabye that had wound its way through all three lives, and the melody came from him just as she halted in her remembrance of it. She smiled affectionately and hummed softly with him as the messenger reappeared from nowhere and settled hand upon her shoulder.

The gentle smells of the herbs comprising Lane’s cigarettes filled her nostrils and his hand slipped to hers folded within her lap as he faded from sight with the touch of Tempo and she blinked softly upon seeing the convent and silently heeled the messenger as he brought her through the halls until the sight of her younger self halted her a moment and she reached her hand forward in an effort to embrace the poor child, pulling it back to her side as the impulse passed, for there was no changing this past and she was here to see and to remember. Envelope slid across the floor and Astra’s head bowed slightly, seeing the event before her as doubled vision, the hazy memories and the cold reality of the past before her. The patches were placed and the child Astra stretched along the planks, smooth from centuries of similar acolytes taking their rest identically. The song, the mythic blend, poured from the lips gently in that childish treble, words long forgotten by the conscious mind of the adult now emerging from her as well, where her body now lay in the present time under the watchful eyes of her brother.

The adult watched the girl’s breathing even, and closed her eye tightly as she recalled the night withing her mind, and the dream which it contained. Fear and anger mixed and immediate as only the passionate emotions of a child can imagine them, overwhelming and immediate. Then it faded and she was wholly with Lane again, his humming underscoring and supporting her womanly voice, blending together to reach the third. She squeezed Lane’s voice slightly as she felt the magic at long last reach the one whom they sought and she called to her baby brother. She perceived the ’flavor’ of the magic he drank and changed her song slightly to that of homecoming <I>pulling</I> him to them, to where they awaited, his family. She continued her song even as she heard the voice which was the exact tambre and colour of their fathers split the air, eye closing a moment with a wry twist of lips to the use of profanity in the very first words ever she heard the baby of the family speak. His impatience palpable, she let the song fade from her lips, still holding tightly to Lane, her eye slid open and gazed upon the conduit of her ire for the first time in many many years.

And she saw her father, her heart stopping a moment at the surprise of it, then the tiny woman, with the aid of Lane, pulled herself into an upright position. Leaning against Lane, their features so similar, that of their maternal genes, the two gazed at Phil for a speechless moment and then she rose, letting go of Lane and stepping owards Phil, her own hand reaching for him with a soft tremble. As her hand laid upon his, her neck craned to look at him, and she grinned, prideful at the brother she had barely known. Her voice spoke in the old tongue, the Icelandic of their childhood to him, “A mighty warrior you have grown to be, my brother.” He truly was cut from the cloth of their father, but more she would not say. She did not know what they remembered of the man and she would not sully any memories they might have for anything. She turned to see Lane approaching, Pedro Tempo and his companion forgotten in the reunion moment. She reached and once again clasped his hand and for a moment they were all united, and then her vision went dark and she knew nothing for many minutes.

While she was unaware, some hidden gift of prophecy birst forth from her, hands holding the brother’s more tightly than her strength could possibly account for, the language again, that of her birth tongue, whispering out between her lips. The Spirit of the Trinity will become the Mother. The first Disciple must be protected. Without Babylon, Damascus will fall. The Abomination must not be born. The steam of seeming nonsense cut off as abruptly as it had begun and Astra faded back into consciousness, all unaware of that which had seized her and squeezed both of their hands once more before letting go and drifting once again to her resting place feeling so weary in body and soul, more tired than she had ever felt, and she curled her small frame upon the king sized bed, only now recalling the presence of the messengers of the Nephilim, directing a glance to him to see him staring at her, then she looked at the brothers two, their expressions echoing, and a frown of confusion marred her features.

Tempo:

Seeing the reunion well under way, Padre Tempo grinned as his purpose was fulfilled and all had seen the images of their past which they were meant to see. The unique calling of their master, The Nephilim, resounded in the base of his mind beckoning the two messengers to return for yet another mission with another member of the Blaque Tear Coven. One called Sister Mary Lucrecia whom Lane and Phil had been sent to the night before. Hearing the voice of Astra call out in prophecy, Padre bowed his head reverently knowing it to be through the will of the Nephilim she now spoke these words. Laying finger to the rosary, time once again slowed to a stand still in the room as Padre Tempo withdrew a Catholic Spiritual card from his breast pocket and laid it to the coffee table next to Lane. Yet the picture on this card was not merely Saint Michael the Archangel, but rather the depiction had been twisted so that a demon baring a striking resemblance to Phil was standing on the head of a fallen angel whose wings were broken and whose sword lay in rusted ruin. Exiting the hotel room, he nodded to his fellow Padre and they departed the area to a new location within the city that the family might reunite in this unholy gathering of forces. Releasing the rosary, the time in the room returned while they might note that he was gone and the hands on the clocks were a little later than they already were from his arrival. Exiting the hotel by way of the back stairwell, Padre Tempo split from his compatriot Padre as they both seemed to have a different mission. With a nod, they parted ways and were quickly lost in the herd of drones called humanity on the city streets and sidewalk of New York City.

Lane:

Hearing his brother’s voice, the strange sensation washed over him again as Padre Tempo mysteriously disappeared as quickly as he had come. Yet now Lane saw the spiritual card at his fingertips, and instinctively picked it up to examine it more closely. Leaving his brother to the skills of his sister to explain, Lane turned over the card and found an address thereon with the message “Welcome Home”. Turning the card back over, Lane held it between his index and middle finger while presenting it to Astra. His deep and cold voice echoed out “It would seem we are all meant to live together for a time. This, I would assume, is the address to our new residence. Odd though, this address is a business, not a residential neighborhood in the city. And there is no apartment number, only the floor number” This of course could only mean that the coven had secured an entire floor in a business building for them to reside in, and yet it was a perfect cover. Why would someone do to a place of business to look for someone’s home? Hiding in plain site as the case may be. Placing the card atop the coffee table once more, Lane stood to his feet and looked to his brother whose eyes were still dizzy with traveling through space and time as he had through the spells and incantations of his sister’s calling. Yet this was overshadowed as Astra fell to blank stare and begat the prophetic musings of the spirit. A look he knew as one to take when the Nephilim himself was contacting his followers. It was not Astra speaking, but rather the Nephilim speaking through her.

Placing a hand on Phil’s shoulder, he calmly stated, “Peace be you brother. You are safe now. You are once again with family. Once you are in control again, go and summon Dama. Tell her of our new residence and bring her there. I want to keep her to meet her aunt as soon as possible, and we need to know if the Medici suspect anything of her true lineage. It is getting dangerous to be out there alone without the protection of the coven. If the Medici should find that I am her true father, they will kill her. So when you go to her, make sure any that see you think that you are being hired by her. We must, for her sake, keep this situation under control. She is our only access to the Medici archives at present. I will find Oleander”

With a nod to Astra, he stated “Sister, I will meet you at our new home in the morning. There are a few things I must attend to before it gets to late.” Leaning forward, he pressed his lips deeply into her own as though they were lovers and not siblings. Yet in the dark and twisted minds of the coven, it was but a kiss and little more. Something few outsiders could ever hope to understand. Turning on his heels, he exited too the hotel and made his way of into the city to play the shadow games he so loved to play while keeping an eye on other coven members.

Phil:

Feeling the closeness of his sister press to him, the anger and rage washed away as surely as the sea smoothed the beaches with the rising tide. Blinking, he still was rather dizzy from magical travel and fought to focus on the woman whom he did not even recall in the least. He knew, through Lane’s stories, that he had a sister somewhere…but he had no memories to recall as she was taken long before he was old enough to remember anything about her. Seeing the patch over her eyes, he reached out with a large bloody hand and placed it to the side of her head before his thumb touched the eye patch gently wondering what had happened and whom had done this to her. Brushing his thumb over her cheek, it left a smear of his blood on her face as he was still bleeding from the razor wire of the prison and cast sharp contrast to her pale features. Yet no sooner had he laid touch to her had she broken into the prophecy and he lets his hand drop while watching her closely as she spoke of both he and Lane’s children. Oleander, also known as Babylon, and Damascus. How exactly she knew of them he did not know, but obviously something had happened to force her to call them by name like that. Half carrying her towards the bed, he laid here thereon to rest while he himself turned to Lane as the instructions were called forth and Lane departed the hotel room. Looking out the window, Phil was still trying to figure out where he was as he had shifted over seas and back in the course of less than five hours. As Astra lay to the bed, Phil looked to his feet and noted he wa dripping blood all over the floor from the razor wire wounds he incurred during his escape from the madhouse of mayhem in the prison.

Making his way to the bathroom, he removed the shredded remnants of his shirt and tossed them into the waste bin before unwrapping the small bar of hotel soap that appeared almost miniscule in his large paw of a hand. Washing over the deep wounds, his expression did not change in the least as the soap entered the open wounds. Either he didn’t feel it, or he was a master of disguising pain. But the truth of the matter was something much more sinister. Pain was his pleasure. Pain was his life. Pain was his joy. Indeed, pain was his purpose of existence and he relished each and every sting the barbs of pain brought him. Soon the basin was full of watered down blood, but the wounds were clean enough to bandage now. Pulling a towel from the rack, he withdrew a blade from the sheath hidden in small of his back against the beltline and began to cut the towel into bandages and bind the wounds. Unable to find a way to secure them from unraveling, he walked back into the main room where Astra lay resting on the bed. Withdrawing a stapler from the ordinate hotel desk, he hinged it open and stapled the bandages to his arm without so little as a flinch of it bothering him. Slowly the blood soaked through the bandages on his forearm, yet the tears on his chest and stomach had stopped bleeding on their own already. Looking up to Astra, he ticked his head slightly to the left “What? They kept unraveling. It is perfectly acceptable to do this you know. I don’t need that look. Consider it this way, if I went to a doctor, what would he do? Sew me up. That required a lot of little holes from a needle pulling threat. I did the same thing..only without the needle or thread. Besides, it is only going to be like this until I can get to the store and get some super glue.” Grinning, this demon’s dream was everything a warrior should be. Blissfully unaware of pain, crude ways of self medication, and the glare of a killer. In times of past, he might have had sonnets written about one such as he..but in the guise of tolerance that was of modern nights he was seen as “barbaric” and “cold hearted”. Yet he is but what he was born to be. A Gladiator of Gore. A warrior of the wicked. A Viking of Venomous Violence.