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AaronShadows (Offline)
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Hand Drawn
Posts: 3,925
Join Date: Aug 2007
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Rating: 9 Votes / 3.00 Average
Default 03-06-2012, 10:58 AM

Ooc: Curse all character limits and the heathen who invented them.

The flare he'd been waiting for happened. Revenants had the potential for strong arcane senses, and with Morbidia's help, he'd developed his skills quickly enough to sense the dark magic resonating from under the stage. He immediately began slipping towards a side door sunk into the ground.

This, however, was difficult. The crowd had started beating the tar out of eachother, as was custome, and getting through the melee wasn't exactly easy. Cyril dropped and swept the legs out from under a tall guy brandishing a knuckleduster, then bolted on before he could get up and look for revenge. He socked a burly skinhead who charged at him in the mouth, then fell back before a return swing could break anything. It took him two or three minutes to kick his way through the fighting like this, and he might not have been able if it wasn't for the fact it was easy to take people by surprise in the chaos, but he eventually found himself standing near the door. Nobody noticed him forcing the latch and slipping inside, closing it behind him.

Inside, the sound of the mayhem was unnaturally subdued. Cyril wondered about that for a moment, then figured that the summoners must have silenced the perimeter so they could chant without distractions. The interior was a large, dim cement affair, like an underground car-park, and was dotted with cement pillars. It was full of loads of crates of different sizes, and a yellowy-orange glow radiated from deeper in. Towards this, Cyril stalked, weaving in and out through the jumble and keeping sound to a minimum by standing on his tiptoes.

He found a chink in the crates that opened onto a clear space, near the center of the cavernous room. It was lit by countless black candles, and surrounded by sleeping bags and camping equipment- it looked like the summoners had been living here for a while, setting up the ritual in advance. This wasn't odd. Magic like this often required lots of preparation.

Six figures stood at the points of a six-pointed star, but outside the circle that surrounded it and behind the black candles. Not stupid, then. The summoning circle was much more complicated than that, however, with other patterns superimposed over the primary one, and lines of symbol language along them. The whole lot was drawn onto the cement floor with blood. He could see the empty jars off to one side, crusted with congealed gore. The scene would have been something from a cheap witch movie if not for the medical bags of anti-coagulant lying around, which was a surprisingly common piece of paraphernalia where blood and magic were concerned.

The head summoner was obvious; she stood bolt upright in electric blue robes, with a peaked hood attached. He found the way the point of the hood curled towards the back of her head silly, but didn't laugh. It cast her face in shadow, except for the eyes, which burned bright red. A tell-tale sign of powerful black magic. Her attire was also trimmed in symbols stitched in with darker blue thread, that shone in the candelight. Fancy, though Cyril.

Cyril pulled the switchblade he'd been carrying around both as a weapon and a part of his cover from his pocket and released the six-inch blade, then slid it up his sleeve, so he could use it as a surprise. Apart from that measure, he decided that subtlety was boring, and calmly stepped out into the candlelight. The mages faltered in their chant, staring at him, until the woman told them to continue. Her voice was surprisingly calm and husky.

She continued her spells with gestures, but stopped chanting. She stared at him. A smile spread across her barely-visible lower face.

"Oh, hello. Have you come to assist us, young man? I was just about to send someone up for help, actually." She purred. Obviously, she mistook him for someone who'd been informed by her cultist minions. Cyril nodded eagerly and grinned, stepping forward. This would help him get in striking distance.

The blue-clad woman nodded at a diamond-shaped space in the middle of the circle. "Stand in that diamond, please, and repeat after me..." she then recited two lines of profane language. Cyril couldn't catch it all, so he asked her to repeat it. She did, going slowly, and still smiling.

Cyril repeated it slowly. "Urell dag var'duk mar-li travmwe, da-ver akmaggag ferkloy-" the Revenant stopped momentarily, feeling queezy. The summoner urged him on. "A little dizziness is normal, dear. Don't pause."

"-Forufd dund fmerlag tor." he finished. She smiled brightly at him. He smiled back, then tried to take a step towards her. His legs wouldn't move.

"What the..." he muttered, surprised. The summoner's smile turned into a peeling laugh.

"Oh please, don't act surprised. You've done a shoddy job of hiding your presence. I've had you figured since Fidorellian caught you casting those spells." she explained. Cyril became aware of movement behind him, and turned his head to see Fido emerging from the mess of boxes. The chanters continued ranting their harsh spells, ignoring the events transpiring around them completely. Fido grinned at Cyril, showing too many teeth for the Revenant to be happy with. The woman made a flicking upwards gesture, and his illusion disintegrated.

Cyril wasn't beaten yet, however. He couldn't move, but he was sure the binding trick the had tricked him into casting on himself would expire soon. It might be powered by her, but cast by him. Such a short incantation would have been broken in a heartbeat by the likes of Morbidia, but Cyril didn't possess the expertise to figure out what the blue-clad hag had done. He didn't need to be in striking distance to inflict damage.

He started a chant of his own, curling is fingers into the positions his tutor had drilled into him. She hadn't taught him many spells in the short time he'd known her, but she had enlightened him to the bread and butter of every necromancer's arsenal- the shadow bolt. As he finished the eleven-syllable chant, the tiny shadows in his palms enlarged, became tangible, and darkened. A purplish tinge appeared around their edges as they swirled in his hands. The lead summoner watched him casting his spell impassively; she made no attempt to run away, duck, dodge, or otherwise avoid the incoming attack. Cyril clapped his hands together and threw the bolt like a baseball. It flitted across the three meters of space between them within seconds.

Then everything went to hell. The bolt slammed into a blue-white shield that materialised over his target, then rebounded back and narrowly missed his head, disintegrating the corner of a box on the other side of the clear space. The woman almost dismissively waved her hand, releasing yet another of the pesky precast spells she had up her sleeve. His vision began to dim. He let his knife fall back into his hand and tried to hurl it at her, for all the good it would have done, but he was becoming paralyzed. It was all he could do to reach into his pocket and press his BPRD panic button before his vision died completely. The last thing he saw before it ceased was Fido, eyes now yellow, walking towards him. Then he felt the disguised demon picking him up with one hand and pulling him clear of the circle, careful not to smudge the patterns on the ground. His consciousness failed completely and he plummeted into something deeper and darker than sleep.

“I mean a weapon you hold. You have a gun, Tanith has a sword... I want a stick.” ~ Valkyrie Cain
“I’ll buy you a stick for Christmas.” - Skulduggery Pleasant

Last edited by AaronShadows : 03-06-2012 at 11:03 AM.
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