Kinn let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. He had to try and heal the dieing Shewolf himself, Atticus had taken the priority of questioning the mortally wounded Nixie and Mr Hoyle had offered his assistance in helping his sister. Kinn had to try and call on his own powers to draw energy from himself and Mr Hoyle. It would have to be enough to save the elderly sister of his boss.

"Mr Hoyle, I am going to try and ask the Earthmother for her blessing, I will need to take some of your energy and channel it through me to your sister, hopefully it will act as the same way as I had planned with Atticus's help."

The Old Wolf nodded his assent and extended his hand to Kinn. The Druid took the weathered hand and shut his eyes, falling almost immediately into communion with his Goddess. he silently conveyed his thoughts, asking for her blessing and guidance. As he felt a warmth flow through him he understood that Gaia had heard his plea. There was a slight tingling in his and Mr Hoyles hand. The exchange of energy had begun. Kinn focused as the Old man's energy flowed up his arm. The ancient power of the Wolf brought with it vivid memories from Mr Hoyle, Kinn had brief visions of running through a dense forest, howls echoing all around him, he clenched his jaw against the sudden urge to howl in response. The overwhelming scent of pine forest assaulted his nostrils, then came a hunger he had never experienced.

Kinn was finding it harder to hold onto his own identity, the Wolf in Mr Hoyle was ancient and powerful, it knew that Kinn was trying to syphon off some of it's power and was attacking the offender. Kinn brought up images of Mr Hoyles sister, the wound and what he hoped to accomplish with the help of the energy from Mr Hoyle. He had to show the wolf that he was trying to help it's kin and not stealing the power for himself. He felt a slight build of pressure in his head, it felt like it would explode, and then just as suddenly it stopped.

Sweat beading his forehead, Kinn placed his other hand on the open wound of the Shewolf. He felt the press of energy in his palm and gently coaxed it from his body, expelling it to fast would have killed the wolf outright. He mentally counted the seconds as the last of the energy flowed out of him. He felt hollowed out by the experience, his own being had almost been lost and he did not even know if the whole procedure would be a success. He nodded to Mr Hoyle and gave a wan smile. The whole process had taken about ten minutes, but to Kinn it felt as if he had run a marathon. He caught snippets of conversation and turned to look for Raleigh.

His vision blurred and he flopped heavily onto the floor, the travel from Africa to Ireland, then from there to this cave in Alaska and the unusual practice of energy transference had left him utterly drained. He was asleep in seconds.

“Why the long face, Master Golem? – “ Nestor calls to the creature as he notes the trio's approach – Golem and his pair of uncerimoniously dangling passengers, one locked beneath each arm – “That throw was positively splendid!” He gives an encouraging smile at this, the look eventually vanishing in a favour of an involuntary grimace, pain splashing itself his face and leaving him leaning against the wall, chest heaving as he draws in a long breath.

Taking a moment to steady himself, the Demonspawn eases his uninjured shoulder against the stony wall of the great arched gate, silently watching the approach of the others and the ever advancing swarm of Scarab beetles. (Bugs; I had never much liked bugs I found myself thinking as I coughed again, retched up something thick and grotesquely nasty in the back of my throat, spat as discreetly as I could onto a floor already strewn with debris. Beetles – shit eaters – and I'd be damned if they ate me too. I found a hand slipping involuntarily toward that particular spot beneath my jacket. Found the flask. Took a sip. Not enough. My 'medicinal' case and a little bottle followed, and one by one I watched as several pills found themselves following one another down the hatch; then another sip – maybe closer to enough now. The pain began to ease. Marginally. I reach for the flask again – gone!)

The Demoness chortles softly to herself, holding Nestor's flask delicately between both hands – as though it were some holy chalice being reverently brought to an alter – and plants herself right in front of the Golem as he reaches the shelter just within the vault gates. Cocking a thin eyebrow upwards in the looming creature's direction, she announces: “Don't suppose it would do -you- any good, Aluminium Asshole that you apparently are --” She pauses here, sidles up a little closer to him and whispers slyly “Though me myself? I think... I think... you make for a positively gorgeous example of true manhood...” The words are followed by a bit of snickering, and perhaps too much emphasis on the last word, and then her attention shifts – as though she'd never even been speaking to the Golem in the first place – words now directed toward the Necromancer, flask extended in her direction: “Now, now – Nestor's been cut off for the time being – drink up Missy!” A look of careworn sadness somehow forces its way her icy features, eyebrows lowering as she adds “ I do so hate to see my dear companions suffer”. The seriousness of her words might remain very much in doubt – caught on the edge, just barely kept from teetering into outright mockery.

My thoughts had wandered elsewhere – seeing that the party had (by all appearances) waded through the devastation of the ancient Anubi with the same number of members as we had begun, I turned my attention to the hallway of the vault beyond. What lay within, I wondered? And more directly, how in the blazes we were supposed to find this Ankh; Birdwoman Senior – if she'd made it through the horde alive – I assumed could give a little guidance. I couldn't help but smirk at my own minor blasphemy, but they were my own thoughts after all, weren't they?

So, that was it, then? They won? Two...or three...or four? -- where the hell had the actual giant come from? -- huge ass statues, a little supernatural bowling, and poof? All better?

Well. Daisy knew better than to complain...though she was still pretty pissed they hadn't gotten to reek havoc on both of the freaky Egyptian pair. The first had taken a Grand Slam-esque swing at Artie -- and if the elf thought Daisy was just going to let go whatever she'd done afterward, she was sadly mistaken -- and the second had left him with a sizzling gash of back and red spread across his shoulder blades. For as much as the hellhound pissed her off, she wasn't so deluded as to think she had a great number of friends outside his bulky as. She liked Henry, and she really like Veti. But she never saw Henry, and Veti had Tiny Vamp, and soon enough she'd have Max back, and Daisy's debt would more or less be paid, and then it would just go back to being her and Artie, and that shit would be boring as hell if Artie was dead.

But everyone seemed to be heading in one direction, away from the remaining Anubi and the giant stone beetles waddling alarmingly quickly in its stead, so Daisy followed, settling on throwing a heated glance at the thing that had tried to cut her dog in half. Bitch.

On the other side of the portal, things were all whining and good fortune, clinking glasses, bleeding all over the place, blah blah blah. Daisy didn't take much interest in this. She knew she could heal Artie once things slowed down, and as long as Veti wasn't hurt, not much else mattered to her.

Except fucking C3PO.

It had taken her a long time to sort through his little comment about Transformers and Girl Scout cookies, and afterwards, she wasn't quite sure how to feel.

For one thing, she'd been out-snarked, and she had the creeping suspicion that hadn't even been on purpose.

For another, she was pretty sure the Aluminum Asshole had just referred to her as a fucking Girl Scout. And she didn't even have a comeback!

She just sort of stared at him, gaping in an uncomfortable combination of disgust, admiration, and shock until she realized she had nothing to say. For, like, once in her life. Death. Whatever.

And then she realized she liked him, which was just fucking terrific, because she only had room for about three people/werewolves/things in her life she didn't completely despise, and she was not at all in the mood to make room for another.

Finally, exasperated, she threw her hands up and ran them through a mass of debris-filled pink curls. "This is the lamest vacation I've ever taken," she muttered. "And that includes Demon Fox Island."

A squeal of surprise escaped her as she felt a strong solid arm close around her waist, lifting her up effortlessly. The way in which Adam held her tickled and Mila could not hold back a fit of giggles. Especially as he was running towards the gate, the Rusalka was giggling like some fangirl of a teen pop star. She couldn't help it, the situation was anything but funny. As she glanced over her shoulders she saw the feet of the elven necromancer dangling on the other side. It was too much...... She broke down into hysterical laughter, quickly covering her mouth with her hands. Mila was aware that laughing like this would probably make her look like some sort of psycho. It was probably the excitement and the fear of fighting statues ten times her size. Laughing about it felt better than crying. Despite her long life and the hardships she'd faced, she liked to think she was a happy girl over all.

Adam must have misunderstood. The Golem was a curious "man" He acted like a human but Mila wondered if he had started out like one. None the less she could get used to being carried around. The bolted past the other employees of Bain & Hoyle. They were trying to make it to the gate too. Mila was glad they weren't taking their sweet time, she didn't want anyone to be left behind. If this quest was going to be as dangerous as Isis had told them, they would need everyone on board.

When they jumped for the portal Mila quickly closed her eyes. Hopefully there were no swinging weapons or huge statues on the other side.
"Please tell me when to look" She said having no idea if either Adam or the elven necromancer could hear her.

Atticus kicked at the melting body of the Nixie. Fetid water splashed as his boots struck the amorphous blob, only angering him further. The tips of horns began to sprout from his forehead, and the skin beneath the rampant tattoos was morphing to a deep red. His fists clenched and unclenched, seeking to grasp and to damage, to strike and to tear. Atticus would have sought to further expel his rage save for the quiet sound he perceived behind him.

Taking giant lungfuls of air and holding them in his chest, Atticus forced the anger and futility back into his stomach. The growing horns ceased and retracted, and the color of his skin returned to its natural hue. With the crimson of his eyes still glowing brightly, he turned at last to face the noise, and the scene of controlled chaos.

His eyes first alighted upon Siya, and instantly his demonic heart jumped into his throat. She stood there, half bent with pain, clutching delicate arms tightly about her slight frame. For the briefest of moments he looked to her, unsure of what to do. Beyond the tiny vampire was the severely wounded Aislinn Hoyle, apparently alive from the ministrations of the unconscious Dr. Blair. Reginald Hoyle appeared well enough in spite of it all, though even in the dim light the powerful werewolf seemed ashen and dazed.

In the end Atticus’ heart made the decision for him, and he moved forward to scoop Siya into his arms. He clutched her tightly against him, sitting down upon the stone floor of the cave with consummate care. With his shoulder and bicep he pressed her face beneath his jaw and beside his neck. With words spoken with a gentle urgency he breathed into her alabaster ear.

“Siya, you must feed.”

Atticus pulled lightly upon her chin, pressing the pulsating artery of demon blood against Siya’s tiny fangs. He knew of her aversion to feeding, of her hatred of its incessant call, and the disdain of her very nature, but he cared not about that now.

“Don’t be stubborn now, not now,” he whispered with a mirthless breath of laughter. “Siya you must, if not for yourself, do it for me.”

His ruby eyes looked down, imploring her to take all she needed from him, all that her beautiful, tiny body required. In a moment of weakness he added one last word, one last uttered syllable, filled with as much enchanted persuasion as he could muster.

“Please?”

---

Reginald Hoyle

The world still spun to Reginald Hoyle. It hadn’t ceased since the Doctor had released his hand from him, and had collapsed into a wakeless stupor upon the cold earth. Fighting his way from where he sat, Hoyle crawled to the still form of his sister. His hands crawled up the thick furs around her body, and he willed his knees to press him forward to her face.

Through watery eyes he gazed upon Aislinn’s placid expression, and as tears began to stream down his cheeks he pressed an ear gently to her lips. Like the frail brush of a butterfly’s wing, he felt her breath tickle his ear. In that moment Hoyle began to sob. Mighty, body wrenching sobs of relief and joy. His tears flowed and dripped in irregular cascades, and into Aislinn’s mated grey hair. For a time he could not move, not release his touch upon the only person in the world that shared the blood in his veins.

At last he freed himself from the clutches of his relief, and lifted himself off of her. He wiped the tears from his eyes, and he traced the white scar that smiled upon the flesh of her neck. The sensation threatened to send him into another fit of emotion, but he fought back the potent elixir of rage and solace. Instead he turned upon his knees to face both Raleigh and Henry.

“Please,” Hoyle said. “Please, help him.” His fingers pointed to the exhausted Dr. Blair.

The effort to plead care for the Doctor was too much for Hoyle, and he slumped back down against his sister. He closed his eyes, his mind sifting through the happenings of the recent past. Somehow he recalled the concerns voiced by both the Dryad and the Siren, and bringing a steadying hand to his nauseated face, he attempted to answer them.

“The mark…” he began, “…yes, it had to have been the Solas na gealaí. Somehow, they must have been…” Reginald trailed off into silence.

He grimaced, wracking his brain for an explanation for it all. Never had he heard of the water spirits of the North quarreling with the children of the moon. Werewolves were often a warlike race, but not in recorded history was there a time when conflict had broken out between the two groups. It made no sense. Why would a Nixie care at all for the life of long lost werewolf…?

Then Hoyle heard the words of the Siren, and a memory thrilled through his mind. The Lady of Ice

He forced himself from his back, resting upon his elbows as he looked to Henry. “The Lupus Naturae, they have come to some horrific axis with this Lady of Ice.” Hoyle’s voice was hoarse with disbelief and fear. “They are working towards similar ends, they must be. There is no other explanation.”

With a grunt and a slight stumble, Hoyle levered himself to stand. He called upon the wolf inside of him, and he rapidly transformed into his natural, massive form. Gleaming jaws snapped, and thick slabs of muscle rippled beneath his mottled silver fur. Somewhat more stable, Hoyle bent to throw his sister over his shoulder.

“We must go.” He said to them all, his guttural voice echoing within the cave. Without a glance back to the others, he stalked away into the darkness of one of the rough-hewn tunnels of rock.

The Vaults

Beyond the darkness of the gateway, bright sunlight greeted the members of the Bain & Hoyle Company. Around them the sky was a vivid blue, as beautiful as any summer day seen upon the Earth. Skyward, wispy clouds drifted. It was through these clouds that an observer would see the distortion in the otherwise pristine sky. The clouds themselves appeared to be drawn down at the ends, the cotton tails curling as if being viewed through a fish-eye lens.

As the eye travels down from the cobalt blue, it lands first upon a great green expanse of lush earth, seemingly suspended like an island in the globe of the sky. The island of green is completely flat, its surface only obscured by brilliant flowers and vibrant grasses that sway in a gentle, almost imperceptible breeze. Below this island, rooted to its earthen base, descends an almost infinite tangle of wooden tunnels. Conspicuously tree-like, the tunnels end in clusters of spherical chambers, hanging from the passageways like grapes from a vine.

Still further, descending along this upended tree, the sky begins to change to a deeper blue, followed by a hue of purple, then rich indigo, and at last a color that is wholly black, save for the tiny pin points of stars shining upon its face. The light from the stars warps at the polar opposite of the blue sky above, completing the orb-like effect of the environment.

Positioned before the group as they haphazardly descend onto the soft grass of the island, a twisted monolith of stone is set, rising several feet above the flat ground. Before it, almost hidden amongst the flora, is a creature of strange aspect staring coolly at the new arrivals.

This creature stands, and his form becomes clear. He stands roughly seven feet tall, with a body that is humanoid in nature. His arms are exceptionally long, and large hands brush the ground as he stands erect. The skin of his body is covered with a fine coat of fur in a rainbow of colors, all reflecting a hue of the flowers in which he sat. His legs are deer-like, and they end in broad hooves lost behind the grass. Around his left leg curls a short tail, tufted with a bright blaze of cerulean hair.

His face however draws the most attention. With a large, triangular head, reminisce of a strange cat or bear, the creature’s muzzle protrudes slightly. The lines upon the face denote age, and the curl of the black-lipped mouth harkens to kindness. Four wolfen ears perk up from above a broad swath of cloth that completely obscures the creature’s eyes, and a mane of the same cerulean cascades down the head and neck.

The creature raises one enormous hand. Long fingers outstretch, as if trying to encompass the group before it. Upon its hand is a mark; a crude eye painted in the style of henna. At last it speaks, and its voice is slow, warm, and deep.

“Welcome to the vaults, travelers. I see that you seek within, and I will gladly take you to your destination.”

The creature bows slightly. “My name is Vos'o'los, and I am the Keytaker.”

The second hand reaches out, the palm raised to the sky as if ready to accept something. “First, before I take you into the depths, you must provide the key.” Beneath the cloth, the eyebrows raise. “I trust you possess it?”

“Calm, Henry.” Raleigh placed his hands on the siren’s shoulders and channeled his natural energies into him. His voice was soft and rhythmic. “Nature is clear and sets its own pace, like the spring that issues from a mountain. Remember those springs, Henry; they flow through your veins.” The dryad’s rectangular eyes implored the Näck’s spirit to relax. This situation required clarity and focus.

He heard Dr. Kinnon still hard at work saving Aislinn’s life and Atticus kicking the Nixie’s remains in frustration but remained concentrated on soothing Henry. He’d only known the water spirit the best part of half an hour and already his life was indebted to him. If the Nixie he had silenced had screamed as Raleigh speared through her, at that close proximity and hearing greatly enhanced, the bones in his ears would have shattered in an instant and lodged in his brain like shrapnel. Chilling his saviour out was the least Raleigh could do.

Atticus’ breathing had become noticeably heavy. Raleigh knew he was turning. Pull it together, Atticus! the voice in his head shouted. He was no telepath, but the message seemed to get through. Raleigh listened as the incubus’ exasperation died down.

His mind now mulled over any details Henry had revealed about this ‘Lady of Ice’. “Sorcery”. “Sovereign in the North”. “War”.

A light bulb flashed at the last tidbit. Niffelheim. The realm of the jötnar, or frost giants. There was a link, no matter how tentative.

“Now, Henry, you mentioned the Lady of Ice is the spawn of Niffleheim, correct? You may need to help me with my knowledge of Norse mythology but isn’t there a story that the personification of the moon, Máni, had relations with a female jötunn? The jötnar hail from Niffleheim, right? Could this so-called ‘Lady of Ice’ be somehow related?”

Raleigh became aware of the insanity of his words. “I know this sounds farfetched, but all stories come from somewhere. Just hear me out. We all know about the link between wolves and the moon; werewolves and the moon. If this Lady of Ice holds some kind of power over the moon, then…” he paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, “she would, in theory, control the werewolves.”

Raleigh turned to Mr. Hoyle. His words could be inferred badly and it was not his intention to insult his host and employer. The lycan was in deep concentration trying to save his sister and appeared not to hear the dryad. Then, Dr. Kinnon opened his eyes and fell to the floor, drained of energy from the transfusion.

“Please, please, help him,” came Hoyle’s plea to Henry and Raleigh.

Raleigh swiftly cantered over to Dr. Kinnon to check his breathing. “He’s alright, Mr. Hoyle. Just sleeping. You should rest too, sir, it would be unwise to move about after imparting such a large amount of energy.” The ancient werewolf had already slumped down, hand over face. He began to talk, of the Solas na gealaí.

The Solas na gealaí. ‘The Light of the moon’ – ‘Moonlight’. The image of the bone implement blinked in Raleigh’s mind. His stomach rolled like the tide and washed feelings of dread and nausea through him. He was right. He knew the object was a bad omen from the moment his eyes clasped upon it. And he had a dreadful suspicion he knew where it had come from. Or rather, what it had come from.

There wasn’t time to voice his suspicion as Reginald rose to his feet, transformed, and set off into the shadows of the cave with his weakened sister, miraculously alive, slung over his shoulder.

Raleigh peered around him to his companions to see if they would follow. His gaze fell upon the demon and vampire in a tenuous embrace and met Atticus’ crimson eye.

Max in the world of Death

Bored. Endless time to sit in the damn tree like thing and just, just, well thinking was not an enjoyable pastime for Max. He did not contemplate. That was Thadd’s job. Wherever the hell he was. But even the thoughts of where the fuck Thadd was didn't settle Max's time. In that terrible state of nothingness Max picked at the bark of the tree. It wasn’t really bark because it wasn’t really a tree but just like indepth analysis was not his thing either were analogies or metaphors. The bark peeled like a cord or a thick thread and Max began to make a sort of rope from the sort of bark of the sort of tree.

And listened. From below, if down was down, there had been howls and growls like feral cats after one scrap of meat. Some battle of some kind was going on and on below him. Deep snarls and shrill cries drifted around him from somewhere he couldn’t see. It was not curiosity that made him tie the bark around the trunk and then around his chest under his armpits. It was boredom.

If there was fighting down there it had to be more fun and time consuming than just sitting here. It was just he wanted to get back just in case at some point, well maybe sometime, Veti would pull him out. He needed to stay close to the top, if this was the top. Well, fuck, that was his plan and he was sticking to it.

Still a little side adventure couldn’t hurt nothing.

So with a grin, the long bone in his hand, and the bark rope tied tight Max jumped . All that time sitting flew past him as he fell through pockets of fog and warmth, clear spots and thick smoke, with sensations that woke Max and shook his boredom. It was fun. For awhile, time still messed up for Max, he laughed and flew. Until he landed, with a bounce on top of a herd of strange, strange things. Some looked like half human half cats, some had faces of dogs and legs of men. As luck would have it, and Max was always one to seem to find luck - he had been with Veti after all - the long battle had taken its toll on all of them.

Max sung into the end of the fight and began to hit everything he could reach. His pent up need for action exploded in kicks and hits at the startled strange things. Oh yea, it was just what Max needed. It might have gone on longer that Max was really ready for but then the exhaustion was welcomed as the cries began to fade and the things to hit disappeared.

There at the center was something wrapped in torn faded purple cloth. Ah, Max picked it up, a prize. He wasn’t looking for anything but something to pass the time but still an object collected and fought for made it even better.

Max began to pull himself back up to the tree. It was much more of an effort back up than the flight down and more than once Max wondered if the he would make it. But he had time, so he stopped a few times and dangled catching his breath and listening. No sounds seemed to follow him. Luck again.

Once back in his perch, feeling the strain of something to fill his time, Max unwrapped his prize. It was odd shape he had seen before, on some tattoo or new wave earrings. A cross with loop made Max think of a key ring. A key ring? Max waved the thing in the air. Now where the hell is the fucking door?

Rage was overflowing. But neither his friend nor Hoyle seemed to pay him much mind. Again he was feeling betrayed by these people, and his patience was running thin. They had dragged him into what was escelating into a nightmare. And yet they would not answer him, his best friend would not answer for what he had done. He was seething, brimming with anger. He was about to lash out against Atticus again when a hand rested on his shoulders. Strange, yet familiar sensations ran trough him. Natures own, like roots of trees that slowly encroach on the river, taming it's flow. He eyed the Dryad, listened to his words. There was a lot that made sense, and it actually annoyed him a bit. This man had no idea why Henry wanted to punch his best friend and his boss both. But maybe that was a good thing.

“Niffleheim merely birthed the very first ones as far as I know.” Henry relaxed visibly, the Dryad was right about anger not solving anything and the energies ebbing out inside him was somehow able to quell the raging river that currently screamed bloody murder inside him. “Niffleheim is the realm of Hel now, the Lady of Death. It's the place of the afterlife for those who died of sickness and not battle. It's also the realm of eternal frost.” He paused. From what he knew, the Lady of Ice looked and felt elven. He looked to Atticus and his petite vampiress and sighed. He would give that man a piece of his mind later, rest assured. But for now they needed to get going before more things came for them and the only one who could help Siya was likely the Incubus. So he turned back to the Dryad and the doctor who was out cold.

“Help me with the good doctor here. Sleeping or not, we have to move. The lady of Ice can trace me now that I have decided to step out of my disguise.” He carefully hoisted the unconscious mans arm over his shoulder. “Oof, Dr Kinnon needs to ease up a bit on the food.”

“As for the Frozen Lady. Once we are safe, I will thell all I know is about her. But I can tell you right now is that her name is Ylva, Someone I used to know, referred to her as a scandinavian Dökkálfr, commonly referred to as a Dark elf in common tongue. Granted, I can tell you about seven different kinds of Dark Elves, all from different mythos. I met her once, a long time ago and paid a terrible for refusing to serve under her. But from the looks of it, she found others of my kind that were willing to do her bidding.” His eyes darkened as he spoke, the memories vivid still to this day. How close had it not been to a repeat of those very events. He began to follow the Werewolf

“ Dark Elves are supposed to be subterran and stick to their own realms however, not born in Niffleheim. So you got me there, I have no idea what she is in truth. I suspect the usual godlike mischief took place to create her, for no other creature I have encountered is as cruel as her. Only she knows what her ambitions and reasons are.” Henry was, quite honesltly as clueless as the Dryad about the whole thing. His entire stay with the company, he had tried to research her, but they had next to nothing on the wicked ice witch. And the past year he had been unable to sleep in fear he'd see the bitch in his dreams.

Adam’s rock-hard, shapely man-derriere remained oblivious to the scrutiny it was receiving while the golem toted his two charges through the gateway into … somewhere else. The Vaults, Isis had said. Adam was not sure what that meant exactly, but it did not truly matter. It was simply the next step to the Ankh, a necessary step, Adam assumed. The first step had proven dangerous enough. He could only wonder what this step would bring.

Along the way, Adam nodded with nigh expressionless golem politeness to Nestor. “Thank you, Nestor,” Adam replied genuinely to the fellow. Though, a frown passed the golem’s onyx brow as Nestor collapsed against a wall in visible suffering. “Perhaps you should seek medical attention,” the golem suggested in a concerned golem-ish rumble.

Then Adam found himself face to face (or chest to face, given his height) with Nestor’s Demoness. The golem blinked at her words in puzzlement. Had some evil magic transformed him into a giant metal sphincter without his knowledge? Worried, Adam glanced down at himself, his large arms and hands that were still holding a giggling Mila and Anastasia, at his legs down there, at the trim waist and his ensemble of dress clothing. No… Everything looked right…

But then Adam caught the Demoness talking to Anastasia, which reminded him. He set the two women down gingerly, making sure each of them had their feet under them (injured or not) before he let them go.

“You may look,” the golem murmured absently to Mila.

He had finally taken a moment to look around himself, and his glinting black eyes were met with quite an unexpected sight. Bright blue skies, oddly distorted clouds. Lush greenness and fields of beautiful flowers. Adam sighed in silent appreciation. Drawn by the scenery, the golem forged ahead slowly, his head slowly turning side to side, but soon centering toward the stone monolith ahead.

Adam was marveling at the twisted shape of the structure when his vision lit upon something living, which happened to be staring right back at him. The golem blinked in mute surprise, and then his eyebrows slowly rose. The being was … strange, to say the least, but were not they all strange? Privately, Adam suspected he had found the elusive Chupacabra that the National Enquirer magazines oft mentioned. Some of the descriptions Adam had read seemed to fit, but the golem contained his excitement at the discovery. No doubt the Chupacabra would think it rude to make a fuss.

After the Keytaker spoke, Adam mimicked the creature’s slight bow, then said, “Hello, Vos’o’los. I am Adam.”

The golem considered the creature’s request for a moment or two, then he dug into his coat pocket. Key? Adam produced his house keys in his big dark hand and offered them politely to the Keytaker. Perhaps those would suffice.

“I will need those back when you are done,” the golem admitted.

Semyon offered a grateful nod towards Tamarind as they made it through the archway with the rest of their companions. Unlike the smaller missions he was used to undertaking, none of the others here were ones he had fought beside... much at all, really. He knew of some, by reputation or having overheard conversation within the Boston Branch, but 'knowing of' was not 'knowing'. He still didn't know the names of some of his comrades -which would need to be changed- and it made fighting together more than a small challenge.

Which made the Wight doubly grateful that Tamarind was here. Even if they had rarely worked together, she was someone he knew, someone he could easily trust to act fast when needed, and who trusted him to do the same.

It reaffirmed the thought that he needed to know his other comrades better. In case those constructs weren't the last things they fought on this mission.

With that in mind, Semyon turned his attentions to his surroundings, and more importantly, to his companions. This place was strange, certainly, a pocket of... world... within a library. But his eyes saw tactical value before beauty, and with the only inhabitant appearing docile for the moment, beauty fell behind companion assessment. His pale gaze swept to Nestor first, then, most of their comrades standing nearby the man. He was injured still, without having taken the time to tend to it himself.

Well then, that was step one.

Semyon moved to store his weapon without removing the suppressor, snapping open the bottom of it's leather holster and carefully sliding the pistol home. Not a good plan in the long term -the wrong movement could end up damaging the suppressor- but it would do for now. Besides, he'd need both hands to dress a wound, no point wasting gauze by being clumsy, and he'd likely need it if that young lady's hellhound-something als-

Speaking of the young lady... her hand held something... barely visible, as if a minor glamour were concealing it. It was hard to look at, but now that he saw it, it seemed to resemble a...

...

The Wight paused, hand still under his jacket, fingers resting on the grip of his gun. For a second, maybe two, he stood completely, perfectly still. Then his fingers tensed, breaking the stillness, and he closed his eyes. Hands moved to pull the duffel bag off his shoulder and into their grip, and he opened his eyes once more to look for Nestor again, strides taking him quickly over to the injured man.

His gaze didn't so much as flicker back to the young lady who had definitely been the one who's gaze he had felt back in Ireland. With so many people he hadn't met, so many beings of the veiled world, it could have been anyone at first.

But after seeing the lady's scythe, after realizing she was a Reaper, 'anyone' became much more specific. An agent of death, did that make her... did it matter? She was working for the company... did that matter? She helped destroy a construct, and was working to bring someone back to life, that alone made her a comrade.

The thought didn't help as much as he hoped it would.

"Mister... Nestor, is it?" The golem-man was moving off as Semyon approached to speak, his eyes passing quickly over the others around the man. They paused briefly at the sight of a slight woman -and elf?- and the quick bandage wrapped about her ankle, but moved on soon enough. She was standing, not in too much pain by appearances, so likely a bad sprain at worst. Which put her as second on the list to be treated.

"If you don't mind, while out friend there goes to answer... He called himself Vos'o'los? I'd like to make sure your injuries aren't too severe."

Opening his bag with a casual swipe of one hand and laying it on the ground, Semyon drew his medical supplies to the top. His gaze picked out the one who had spoken to him before at that time, now beside the slight elf, then moved back to Nestor.

"Your... friend? Companion?" He gestured slightly to the almost spectral figure of the woman, unsure of the correctly polite term. "She voiced concern for you earlier, and I would like allay that if I can."

The mental whiplash that suddenly afflicted the werewolf was very nearly painful, from utter chaos and mortal danger amidst tons of falling stone and ear-splitting explosions, crashing bookshelves, murderous anubi and then even more bloodthirsty and ravenous man-sized scarabs; to this strangely idyllic, dreamlike paradise, this meadow-like inverted woodlands island within the world.

But where the transition was strained at best, from surface to the promised Vaults, the presence of the wondrous-wise being at the center of this world strangely soothed much of any lingering unease - well, at least for the direction they were taking at any rate. The look on Daisy’s face was about as stunned and disbelieving in this strange world as anyone else’s - though for some reason she simply couldn’t put her finger on, she had a sneaking suspicion the Reaper’s incredulity and unexpected irritation wasn’t entirely wrapped up in their propitious arrival.

And there was still the horrible laceration across Artie's back that Veti knew well she had positively no help for, no matter how well-intentioned and worried she might be. Healing wasn't her "thing," and it never was, and she had no idea what to do for hellhound.

Any more, of course, than she could help poor Nestor who, thankfully, Semyon was already intent on seeing set to rights. Still, she couldn’t help but wish the demonspawn had just a touch more control over his demonic soul, the infernal creature’s lewd suggestions both grating and repulsive to Veti’s already well-frayed nerves. No, the werewolf hadn’t suddenly grown a sense of propriety or prudery, but there was something… Well, cruel really, it seemed, to mock the golem Adam. Oh, she might very well be coarse, crude, blunt, brutal, and far too at ease interlacing obscenity into her everyday language like a master weaver at her loom.

But one thing she wasn’t, was cruel. And she just hated that juvenile high school bully shit. “Psh… Please do feel free to go get fucked on something frosty and spiked, Mistress No-Name,” Veti growled under her breath as she moved to Adam, where he’d just set down the slightly stunned rusalka and the elvish necromancer who, it seemed, was most assuredly worse for wear.

She moved to wrap one arm about the woman’s waist, bending down to offer the smaller lady a muscular shoulder to take if she would. Perhaps if Semyon proved useful to a battered Nestor, he might yet have an idea what to do with the elvish woman. ” Komum þér fast upp, Anastasia,”* she said easily, and then Adam introduced himself to Vos’o’los.

The biggest, fang-filled grin cracked the werewolf’s maw as she chuckled deep and low in her throat. She somehow doubted the golem’s house keys were the true answer to their passage, no matter how he might value them, but… Surely Atticus, or at least Isis Herself, would have foreseen the arrival of a Vos’o’los. There was nothing about the creature that raised a single hackle on her neck, but his words still gave her pause. A… Key? That would be one hell of an oversight, to get this far and then do the adventurer's equivalent of leaving the house with the clothes iron still on, or the oven burners going.

Her thoughts turned back to the mere hour ago they'd left, to the enigmatic parchment they'd been passed by Atticus. She'd meant to pass it on to whomever wanted to take a look at it next, but none had taken her up on the offer. Perhaps this might yet have an answer concerning the enigmatic key, because sure the hell it was... Definitely... Yes, it had to be.... Yes! Rright there in the inner pocket of her jacket, alongside her Harley keys - that she sure the hell wasn't offering up to Mr. Rainbow Bottom. Veti pulled the map out, unfolding it with the free hand left to her after offering Anastasia the other, and staring at it curiously before looking back up to Vos'o'los.

*(( "Let's get you fixed up, Anastasia." ))

His anger was overwhelming and delicious, it pushed at her, battered at her and she leaned into it like the wind, lost and overwhelmed by the sensation. When it suddenly cut off she all but stumbled. Her core muscles which were well-toned and her natural grace kept her where she was, arms tight around her belly as if she could keep contained the pain and terrible hunger inside her. She hated what she was, how her life had been stolen from her in what had seemed like a random assault but which she now knew was calculated and planned though the motives remained unclear. All this aside she could have tolerated her unlife better were it not for the feeding. That she was driven by the base, primal need to feed that was unlike the hunger she’d known as a human. Unlike even the hunger from when she was younger and her mother had kept her food intake small to control her weight, to keep her small. This hunger that filled her was terrible and made even more so since the increase in her power after the theft of the piece of eight.

In the middle of this struggle to hold herself back she was scooped up by preternaturally heated arms and held against a strong body she had not touched in months. It was a body she had not touched since that night. She fought. Not just his arms around her but herself, her very nature. She felt a tingle in her fangs so strong it was almost pain and her mouth flooded with the narcotic saliva that made certain her feedings were pleasant for all. Her hungers were not just about food and she was very cognizant of being somewhere public, her hunger witnessed and not by drunken boys she could make forget her. But her body didn’t care, it smelled him, it felt him and when he whispered into her ear, his voice ringing with his own dark power, power directed at her she felt her hard won control begin to crumble.

He was right, she needed to feed. She’d kept herself dry, feeding just enough to keep herself going, not wanting to glut herself and taint her memories of that night. She’d been too busy tending to Veti to do more than that in any case. But she hadn’t done as much with her powers as she had this night in all that time and she’d run dry. She was a liability if she did not take in fuel. She was a risk. But still she struggled, her tiny body shifting, wriggling in his arms in a futile fight against herself, his containing arms, her very nature.

Then with one word he crumbled all of her defenses. “Please.”

At the brush of that heated word against her skin she made a soft sound of surrender and opened her all black eyes as she looked up at him. It was like her eyes were a screen and across them danced images of that night, as they played across it she parted her frosted rose-petal lips and pressed her tiny fangs into his demonic flesh and began to feed. She drank deep and long, holding herself as still as she could, not wanting to make a spectacle of herself. Despite her efforts and tight control, the restless shifting of her tiny form and the soft greedy sounds that slipped from her mouth spoke of her struggle, of her hunger for him that was more than just a need for blood.

Finally, her skin glowing with a paradoxically dark light she forced herself to disengage, her mouth slipping from his flesh with a soft, wet, sound. She was breathing heavy, her eyes half lidded as color, a mix of fluster and demonic blood colored her cheeks. Embarrassed she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his chest, hiding her face and her shame momentarily. Her tiny hand lightly resting over the beat of his heart, pale fingers curved and splayed, further shielding her face.

“I’m sorry.” She breathed against him. “I shouldn’t have come so depleted.” She could make excuses, lots of them, Veti, heartsickness, but none of them really excused her and so she didn’t waste his time or her breath.

She didn’t want to get up, to slip from that pocket of him and back into the trouble they were in, or the eyes that would have seen her feed but there was no helping for it. She simply hoped they were too occupied with their own troubles to have paid it much mind. She pressed a soft kiss to the small wound on his neck, tasting the tang of his blood and then slipped out of his arms, swaying a little drunkenly as she stood. She closed her eyes, forced herself to breath slowly and opened her eyes to assess the situation.

She saw that Henry was whole though it looked like he’d had a bit of a pique and that Dr. Kinnon was slung over his shoulder. She saw that that Raleigh was still wearing her scarf as he looked their way, his eyes meeting those of Atticus and she flushed and looked away from him, embarrassed that he’d seen. Her eyes fell onto Reginald Hoyle who was striding away, his injured sister slung over his shoulder who was presumably still alive. His manner was stiff but efficient. As he disappeared into the dark she knew he would leave them if it came down to it. They had best get going.

“Did I take too much?” she sheepishly asked Atticus as she waited for him to stand so that they might follow their employer.

Keys... Keys... Keys... but I hadn't any keys. Strange. Change of Colour. Change of Scenery. Change of Thought. Jump from one train only to board the next; at least it was no case of 'Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire'. And -she'd- taken my flask. Again. I patted my breast pocket just to be sure. Perhaps it was a good thing, anyway. I glanced over – with the golem, acceptable. (She peers into the depths of the metal flask, sniffs and wrinkles a nose – the flesh not creasing, not folding neatly as human flesh is wont to do, but rather crackling and crinkling stiffly, and then her eyebrows shoot upward as she eyes something... someone else) I rubbed my eyes. Very, very pleasant – to ease onto the vivid green of the grass, to run my fingers through the trailing growths of flowers; but the sky was strange – I frowned – she didn't paint it that... no, it didn't -look- that way. I hope I've taken the right pills! But something jogs my train of thought – the gears clang, I find myself drawn to memories of deep leather chairs and pleasant evenings, the woody fragrance of tobacco smouldering into the wee hours of the night, the heady taste of malt and peat singing the back of my nose; we were laughing about something – some witticism – all of us, and then the figure seated just across from me rose and approached through the smoke. Now he produces a black leathern bag, remarks quietly “Mister... Nestor, is it?” I nodded, began to rise from my chair... no!

The sun breaks through the brief shadow of a passing cloud, Nestor starts; one hand had been extended toward the Wight – as if in the midst of offering a greeting – but then springs suddenly back to his side. He stands there awkwardly a moment, blinks rapidly several times, then finally speaks:

“Ah – Master Seymour; you are correct... but where has she... oh god!” the Demonspawn responds in a trailing string of seeming incoherence; his words first addressed to the Wight, then his attention trailing toward the Demoness (Not with the Golem. No longer acceptable. She had seemingly begun an ill-advised interception of the bristling Werewolf, a sly smile etched permanently into her icy skull, a confident sway finding its way into her hips) I wave the Wight off, remarking brusquely and – in retrospect – quite unhelpfully: “No! No, wait... I mean yes! A moment please...”

Closing both eyes, the Demonspawn bows his head, draws a breath.... and in a flash the Demoness vanishes, the soft tinkle of metal clanging against rock as the flask strikes a stone before rolling a little ways and coming to rest in the grass. A slow trickle issues from the open cap, endlessly leaking out into the dirt – and long, long after the time that a flask so small should have since ran dry it continues to trickle. Trickles until a little stream of liquor finds its way filtering on down the hill and vanishing into the dirt. But, no matter Nestor's efforts, she does not vanish without one last parting shot – a quiet whisper issued to the werewolf:

“Some predator you are, Wolf Girl! I've just the thing for you... it isn't pretty...” And then she was gone – and whether her words were cut off mid-sentence, or whether she intentionally left the sentence dangling, remained for debate.

Opening his eyes – crystal blue, icy; different – no longer grey – Nestor finally gives the Wight his full attention. “Self Medication is the best Medicine, I always say... but... I'm willing to make exceptions. I am human, flesh and blood – live and breath, but struggle to die. Do your worst. Can't be worse than I've managed myself.” With that he slumps into the grass, absently pats his breast pocket – frowns – then eyes the Wight, as if waiting to see what he might do next.

All around her, people were bitching and joking and whining and drinking, and Daisy was looking at the interior of a bright-ass postcard, just waiting for Bambi's mom to get shot. Metaphorically. But also real-life-ically, since apparently their new and equally unseemly (though much less attractive) tour guide was part deer or some shit.

There was sort of this unspoken rule in Death -- well, there were several, but this was a biggie -- the more tranquil something appeared, the less trustworthy it was. In other words, if something appeared all coy and saccharine sweet, it was only because it wouldn't have to break a sweat to rip you to actual, candy-coated sprinkle-sized pieces.

The sixth plane of Death was a prime example -- all warm water, ankle-deep wading. Just enough serenity to trick you into relaxing. It was easier to pull your entire fucking spinal column out through your neck that way.

Not that they would be so easy with Daisy when they finally caught up, but that was neither here nor there. Or There. Whatever. The point was things never went from doom and gloom to lollipops and literal sunshine, at least not for this bunch, so while everyone else fretted over the wounded (one of which, Daisy noted smugly, included the elf, so bully for her), Daisy turned her attention to the bear-cat-doe-man standing in the center of the insidious paradise.

And maybe did just the teensiest amount of her own sort of fretting, which generally involved putting down everyone around her. Artie's wound was nothing more than superficial and some, but she was still pissed that stony bitch of a guard dog outside had manage to land so much as a grain of sand against her hellhound. The hound in question waited until it seemed danger was out of the way for the moment -- rookie move -- and shrank once more into something resembling a vulpine ferret. Daisy stooped absently to scoop him into her arms, ignoring the quiet sizzle of his blood on her skin to glare at the giant stone man whose fault this almost definitely was.

And now the fucker was offering this cloven-hooved dickhead some keys or some shit. Daisy rolled her eyes and grunted under her breath. She had to make a trip into Death to heal Artie anyway -- hell if anyone thought they were so much as looking at him the wrong way and getting away with it -- so she might as well make it count.

She strode forward, Artie half dozing in her arms, petulance written all over her face as she planted herself somewhere between Veti and C3PO. She turned first to the latter and smiled sweetly, having so not even kind of forgotten his stupid cookie remark.

"Hi," she said, putting out a hand to push the one that offered fucking useless house keys out of the way, all without breaking eye contact. "Could you maybe just...not? Like, ever again? Because while I'm sure we'd all appreciate the invitation to your weird robot-statue-Transfomer orgy, this is actually not the time. Thanks."

Then she turned and craned her neck to peer up at the rainbow-deer.

"Dunno if you noticed, but we're down one demonic leader today. We've only got the sub," the jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Veti. "So, if we could get a hint about this key, we'll go get it and be right back, lickety-split, deal?"

Artie was injured, but it didn't make his other-worldly tracking skill any less impressive. Besides, this place was just a little too bright and shiny for her tastes. And she'd been avoiding the other side for far too long.

The Vaults

Vos’o’los canted his head at the offering from the Golem. His hand decorated with the henna eye came up to point up at the giant creature. A slight smile came to the Keytaker’s face.

“Your offering is a genuine one, that much is evident, Adam. It is not however the key required.”

He regarded the strange flock for a moment as they fumbled with their thoughts and the requirement of the key. Vos’o’los knew of course that they held it, but they had to give it to him. Such was the nature of his existence. For even he, with his strange sight, could not know what the key looked like until it was given, and then, and only then would the vault be revealed to him.

Vos’o’los had waited centuries, sitting before the stone, guarding the vaults. Only a few had come in all those many years, and each time escorted by some avatar of the god Set. The Keytaker had thought it strange, but he did not question. The outside world was not his concern, only this realm was his to dwell in.

As he watched them with his ethereal vision, the Keytaker noticed a flash of revelation pass before the werewolf’s eyes. She pulled something from within the pocket of her jacket and held it out for him. The Keytaker’s hand moved towards her, the fingers twisting, giving the eye upon his palm the strange appearance of squinting.

After a time he stepped to the werewolf, and gently took the piece of ancient paper from her hand. Instantly he knew. His four ears perked up, and a smile drew up his mouth until the corners disappeared into the cloth of the wrap that covered his eyes.

“Indeed you do possess the key.”

With his other hand, Vos’o’los produced a brilliant white flower, and he set it into the werewolf’s hand that he had taken the key from. “When you reach the vault,” the Keytaker said, “place this upon the opening. It will open, and once you have finished your business there, the flower will take you and your company to wherever you require. Merely think upon the place or persons.”

Without warning the light shifted, as if warping in a great wind of space-time, then, just as suddenly it came into focus, revealing that they all now stood before a giant tree. The tree’s branches rose high above, and even below the damp earthen ground, forming one of the strange orbs that had been seen hanging from the “roots” of the vaults. Vos’o’los was nowhere in sight.

Upon the tree’s trunk, sitting about the height of an average human, was a conspicuous knot in the bark. From it twisted several delicate twigs that formed into a sort of organic chalice, awaiting the flower and the power it contained.

Atticus felt Siya’s fangs pierce his flesh, and an almost nauseating wave of intense pleasure shot through his veins like molten gold. As she drank, his vision swam, and he fought to remain upright and lucid. His eyes glowed, illuminating the inky black of Siya’s own eyes. The dichotomy was an image of strange beauty, and something that Atticus forced into the fond recesses of his memory.

When she had drunk her fill, he felt her light kiss upon his neck, and the amorous clutches of her predatory embrace subsided. He heard her apologize, and through vision still blurred with the loss of blood, he smiled down to her.

“Don’t apologize,” he said with a drunken smile, “I have missed that sensation more than you could ever imagine. Let’s not wait another year before the next time, shall we?”

He stood in her wake, pausing for a moment to steady himself against the stone wall. Atticus looked up and gave Siya a smile and a wink before forcing himself to fall in behind Reginald Hoyle and the others.

The cave passage was completely dark, but each of the fantastic creatures that travelled within it had little trouble with navigating it. As they moved forward, Atticus realized he had much to address with his friend the Siren. Henry had been thrust into something very personal, and it pained Atticus that he hadn’t prepared his friend more. Atticus moved until he was beside the Siren.

“Henry, I’m sorry. I had no idea it was this bad. All I knew was that there were water spirits of the North involved in the Lupus Naturae’s pursuits of Hoyle and his family. I had no inkling they were this entangled.”

“None of us did,” said Hoyle in his guttural voice. “The breadth of this pursuit is a shock. It portends much more than a hatred from the werewolf clan leaders. I sense dark machinations, and ones that spread farther than the devices of the Lupus Naturae, or even this Ice Queen.”

In the darkness, Atticus saw Hoyle look back to him. The werewolf’s eyes fell to his pocket, where the bone-moon sat hidden within. Atticus’ eyes narrowed.

“Sir?” he said to Hoyle.

The ancient wolf did not answer, merely turning his head and picking up his pace. Hoyle’s silence unnerved him, but Atticus voiced none of his concerns. The bone-moon in his pocket now carried a conspicuous weight, one that Atticus had not noticed before, as if it had somehow gained a note of malice in its revelation. The group continued to move towards the now lightening entrance to the cave system, and Atticus looked over to Raleigh.

“Still glad you made the trip?” the incubus said to the dryad with a wry smile. “Not one of the most glamorous missions we’ve been on.”

* * *

The mouth of the cave was reached without any further incident, and Atticus marveled at the seemingly endless range of mountains that met them. Cold wind whistled beyond the diamond-shaped opening in the rock, heralding an environment much harsher than the chilled confines of the cave.

In that moment Atticus felt utterly worthless. They plan he and Hoyle had initially conceived to protect Aislinn had already been destroyed, and now the Bain & Hoyle group was in unchartered territory. He had no contingency plan for this, and the very thought ground upon his mind like a mill stone.

“The object in your pocket.” Hoyle said at last, turning from the view of the mountains, and looking back to Atticus. “Give it to me.”

Atticus pulled the object from his pocket without question, and placed it in Hoyle’s gigantic clawed hand.

The werewolf regarded the piece for a moment, his wolfen face contorting into an expression of grim contemplation.

“This sacred artifact has been passed down within my clan since before written time.” Hoyle said. “It has offered us hope in so many dark times, but I fear now it has turned into an instrument of a much more dire purpose.”

Hoyle’s golden eyes looked to each of them as he continued. “This was carved from the tooth of Fenris, the wolf son of Loki, and one of the progenitors of the modern werewolf bloodline. In my estimation it is the only way that the Nixie found us here, and since that is the case, it has betrayed those that have protected it for thousands of years.”

Atticus couldn’t contain himself. “Sir, why not destroy it then? Why are we still carrying it with us?”

Hoyle looked to him with a pained expression, as if hurt that he could not or would not answer the incubi’s question. “We need to get to London, and illicit the assistance of Archibald Bain. This is no longer a matter of limited scope. Does any of you possess the means to transport us such distances?” The werewolf growled. “I’m ashamed to admit that I did not foresee such extreme circumstances. The Solas na gealaí,” Hoyle held up the bone-moon, “was to be our ally and our means of escape. It is no longer.”

As Hoyle finished speaking, his silence revealed a soft voice. Atticus listened carefully, initially puzzled by the sounds source. Then it dawned upon him that the voice was coming from Hoyle’s sister. Atticus tilted his head to see Aislinn’s lips moving fractionally amid her unconsciousness. It took a moment for him to understand, until at last her incessant, silent words were revealed, sending a chill shooting down his spine.

“Ragnarök…..Ragnarök….. Ragnarök…..”

"Semyon not an 'R' to be found I'm afraid," The Wight corrected Nestor pleasantly, not at all offended by his -rather common- mispronunciation, or his somewhat eccentric actions. He began switching out his leather gloves for Nitrile as he spoke, the rotted flesh and mottled bone of his hands revealed momentarily in the transition. "And I'll try to do much better than my worst, just give me a few moments."

The man's shoulder was... a bit of a mess. Fragments of stone had torn into him, with more than a few still stuck in the poor man's flesh. His shirt -torn as it was over the wound- still managed to get in the way, damp with blood. Normally Semyon would ask Nestor to remove the shirt, and probably take his time trying to stitch up the wounds. It would leave the man almost good as new, ready to hurl himself into the fray with abandon.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem they had time for anything close to that. 'Do your worst' might have been more accurate than Semyon had wished it to be.

Field patch would have to do, the undead soldier wasting not a moment in drawing out the needed supplies and getting to work. Scissors and tweezers came first, gloves fingers working with cautious dexterity to snip away fabric overhanging the wound, as well as to pull out as much rock as possible.

"Looks like I'll owe you a new shirt." He spoke casually as he worked, switching scissors and tweezers for antiseptic wipes and a length of clean cloth. "And... this will sting."

He alternated wiping away blood and disinfecting the wound, eyes constantly judging the injury before him. Perhaps not as bad as he thought? Stitches would still be the best idea, probably, but it neither looked nor felt like Nestor's bones were broken. More blood than he might like to see leaving the body of a comrade, but that would be stopped shortly enough.

Disinfecting gave way to applying a local anesthetic, while the bloodied cloth was replaced with a tightly-folded dressing to be pressed against the wound.

"Lift your arm... just slightly? Thank you." Semyon wrapped a length of gauze around Nestor's shoulder and across his chest, until he was sure the dressing was secure. "The pain should dull, and that should stop the bleeding... But you probably shouldn't launch yourself at anyone else anytime soon..." Frowning at the bloodied tools and cloths, Semyon kicked a small depression into the ground for the latter, and slipping the former into a small bag filled with peroxide.

"I'll grab your drink... before it floods the place." Nodding at Nestor, Semyon paced quickly over to the spilled flask, giving a curious glance as he picked it up. Not a common enchantment it seemed, though one that many would find attractive. Maybe he'd ask Nestor if it was something he could share. Romanoff would definitely have a use for such a thing.

A quick glance around showed him that things seemed to be moving on. There hadn't been time for a true fix after all then, but given Nestor's apparent resilience, perhaps the patch was all the man needed? He did seem to have control of a... spirit? Demon? Either way, he'd keep an eye on the man, but the danger seemed mostly passed.

"Here you are, and hopefully that bandage works?" Offering the flask back to it's owner, Semyon glanced up once more. "Because it seems we're moving on yet again."

Anastasia felt herself being lifted down from Adams arm as she set down she cringed at the pain that shot through her leg. She watched the demoness offer the flask of stuff to others around her, she laughed lightly at the sight. At least she was trying to be helpful..

Anastasia looked over to see Nestor injured, she was about to hobble over to him to aid him but he had already gained attention of someone else. He was the first person to show her kindness on this trip, so she felt saddened that her new friend was injured. It s an odd feeling sadness, not something she really ever knew in her life. She could feel something pulling at her heart like fingers on a chalk bored. She felt herself sucking her breath in as she tensed, she looked away from him hoping to kill this horrible feeling.

Before Anastasia could do much else she felt someone grab ahold of her. A firm grip lifting her as if she weight less then a feather. She looked to greet her superman of sorts to see it wasn't a man at all. She smiled at the red headed beauty as she helped her speaking to her in her native tongue the sadness disappeared faster then it had arrived. She lowered herself on the ground with vetis's help letting out a large sigh of relief when the pain relaxed in her leg. "þakka þér vinsamlega sakna .... veti."(thank you kindly miss....veti. ) she smiled warmly at her. When she settled on the ground she then remembered something. She glanced over at Nestor as he watched his demon spawn give away his flask, his look mad her laugh slightly. "Ég sá sýn, eina sem sýnd var að mér með draug .. atleast það er það sem það virtist vera. hún sagði "sál illan anda, en hjarta mönnum er .. og biðja úlfinn stúlkuna hvað hún atvinnustöð""(i had a vision , one that was shown to me by a ghost..atleast that is what it appeared to be. she said “A Demon's soul, but a Human's heart"..and to ask the wolf girl what it meant" ) she looked over at veti to see her reaction.

Veti only smiled slyly and shook her head, not even bothering to look over her shoulder as Nestor's No-name demoness made to come her way. Apparently obscenity growled under her breath wasn't too-terribly-appreciated - go figure - and she felt the whisper of her cold, furious chill as she approached. The werewolf sighed with exasperation when she realized Nestor was drawing his wayward soul back.

Maybe it was a 'girl thing,' but Veti had never seem the demoness' charm and - beyond that one small moment with Max's motorcycle boots after he first died - had never understood her appeal to her lover, beyond the obvious extension she was of Nestor's being. Now Nestor? Oh, there was precious little Veti wouldn't do for the guy, ever. He had been one of Max's few friends, friends by choice, and that alone made the man a treasure.

But the demoness? The werewolf chuckled under her breath as she pulled little Anastasia closer. It was honestly not worth the chilled breath, to argue about her proper 'predator' status with a demon like Nestor's soul. The words alone said she knew nothing of what makes a predator - or at least a wolf. Wolves are apex predators - relentless in pursuit, ruthless in the hunt, fierce in defense of their dens - but they were never cruel. To even attempt to explain the difference would have been a wretched waste of time - time they were just a little short on at the moment.

Semyon would see to Nestor, but for the moment, Anastasia had a question for the werewolf. "Wolf girl." That made Veti chuckle.

<"I suppose it sounds cryptic, Anastasia,"> Veti said as she held the map out still, <"But it's not near so strange as it might sound. The ice demon - that's his soul. He is demonspawn after all, but she hasn't even a name. Well, any more than you'd name an arm or a leg, I suppose.">

<"But the truth of Nestor is, that he does still have his human heart. He is a man - an extraordinary man, true, who can wield a great deal of power when he chooses. But a man nonetheless, who is also in a great deal of pain."> Veti nodded toward the never-ending flask Nestor had dropped, with a small sigh, dropping the aspect of the werewolf, the woman with hair the color of blood still easily supporting the elf's slender form.

<"He's a good man of the Veiled world, Anastasia. And I do hope that answers - ">

At that very moment Dot piped in, naming Veti the substitute teacher-type with that eternally sardonic tone of voice the werewolf still found unspeakably endearing from a teenage girl with bubblegum pink hair. The stately Vas'o'los spoke, and took the 'key' that she hadn't even realized she carried, and placed the most lovely flower she'd ever seen in her hand. Pristine white, delicate and precious and, strangely enough, even a little warm there in the palm of her hand.

Her human hand, and gently Veti let Anastasia stand to her own feet as the world dissolved, reformed to the tree. She needed no further instruction at all, the chalice formed especially for this otherworldly bloom as Veti set it almost reverently into the cradle. Yet another key of sorts, into its lock.