RP:And Then Quite Suddenly An Eldritch Abomination

Part of the To Haunt A Hero Arc

Summary: Kasyr's strange powers render the return of the malevolent being Ahkall. A battle ensues as the hour of the wolf gives way to dawn. Direct continuation from the previous RP, "Burning Questions."

Vailkrin City Road

Kasyr nods, at it all. It was the same old dance they had been doing, day after day after day, for the last few years – the specifics changed, but at the core, it was the routine that had as much become them as anything else. Maybe something along the way would slay them, or perhaps they would prevail, but for once that ceaseless grind forward wasn't quite looking as daunting. “ I..suppose, then, if I'm going to help you, and you're going to help me- I ought to ask if you're embroiled in anything else. Maybe we'll, ...uh, ...we'll...“ Kasyr, for not the first time this evening, feels ill- that churning in his guts from before growing all the more insistant. Akin to earlier in the evening, there are those familiar feelings of rage, and hunger, and something far more sinister laced through it – Khasad and Gospels dread energies tugging at the revenant. And as before, not quite managing to seize hold. But this time, it doesn't quite need to. Something else in the revenant responds, and the churn in his guts only grows more potent, “..Second. I ...feel..ill?” He's a vampire, why would he feel. And then that unpleasent sensation courses up his gullet, viscous, shuddering and far too wrong, and even the hasty placement of a hand can't stop that black tide of abysmal fluid, scale, and what could only be described as slithering abberations from spews forth, pooling into a caustic puddle near the Kensai's feet.

Grailan :: The viscuous, mercurial darkness that spewed forth from the maw of the kensai pooled and built in a puddle-turn-pile before him as it jerked and jiggled like some abominable gelatin. Then, it ascended; it didn't leave the ground but rather grew upon itself, churning and bubbling all the while it climbed taller and taller. The growth only stopped once it was roughly the height of a man -which, appropriately, the ichorous obsidian substance, like black tar, began to resemble. Features were blurred and contorted, not-quite-there as if it lacked finishing touches, but that all ceased abruptly. In fact, its entire gelatinous movement halted with a vigor that was startling. Just like that, with a hesitancy preceding like a deep breath, it exploded! That black substance flung everywhere and away from its origin point -where now stood an actual man. Sandy-colored skin, sun-kissed and leathery, were taut and wiry, corded muscles rippled visibly beneath; dusty-brown hair was shaggy and unkempt every which direction above saurian-yellowed eyes that were tinged with spiderwebbing veins of black and red on the backdrop of natural whites. His mouth, cracked lips that seemed chapped and starved of water, split to reveal several rows of small, razor-sharp teeth -that viscous darkness was present in blackened veins spotted around his body. But every muscle was tense, every cord taut, and that body shook with a palpable rage and visceral hunger that was so utterly and impossibly intense that it was feasibly recognizable to the primal instinct of everything, everyone around it -like how prey is aware of a predator. Gurgled sounds began to form into a synchronized growl -Khasad's taint emanated from this creature, much like Lionel, and his clawed hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists so tightly that his fingers drew blood from his palms -black, ichorous and inhuman blood.

Lionel doesn’t really have much to say after an incident like this one. His eyes are almost to bulging and his muscles tense and he sprints posthaste for his destined sword. It is a one-two run; first to Hellfire, then, in a sort of spin, in front of the fallen Kasyr who has sprung forth this monstrosity. Blade’s point for the creature’s head. Left leg bent at the knee. Right leg fixed. Free hand curled into a ball, defensively. Red protective aura to cover he and Kasyr alike. It is all so simultaneous, so automated. Blue flames burst over his weapon to coat it in terrible heat which bounces near-reflectively off of the remnants of that obsidian nightmare from which Ahkall has been birthed.

Lionel said to Kasyr, “Something you ate?”

Kasyr , the very goddamn moment he can speak, is compelled, obligated even, to respond, “...Really? Now?” There's something uniformly ridiculous about it, and it helps to cement every single thing they'd just spoken about and shared. This is what they did, and who they were. They sought out evil, or it sought them out, and in rare times, it even came about through their own machinations, by their own hands. Wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, the Kensai comes to an unsteady and lurching stand, his fingers spasming for a moment, before he forces them still and reaches back to grasp at the hilt of his sword, “...But, uh. Also. Yes.” It's only then that the revenant stares at the creature freshly reborn, darker now, than it had been before – hunger incarnate turned walking blasphemy. An unseen wind picks up, coiling the revenants scarfs behind himself, “...It's been a long time, Ahkall. I'd have preferred longer. ...Like, never, say.” ...There's something about the monstrosity that the Revenant can't place, something different than before, that the revenant can't place. ...Other than that it -hadn't- usurped control of his form.

Grailan :: Ahkall's yellow-coated irises, flecked with the cracks of ebony and crimson in the form of jagged veins, affixed to Kasyr with the uncontrollable, form-quaking rage that shook every fiber of his being -that tensed every corded muscle with the coiled desire to literally rip the man apart limb from limb. With his bare hands he'd do it. Then he'd devour Kasyr; he could already taste the Kensai in his mouth, feel the flesh rent by the jagged, sharp, and multiple rows of teeth in his mouth to tear the skin from muscle, the muscle from bone. Yet his was a hunger unquenchable, forever hungry -forever devouring. But there was something different now about the 'man'; stronger, faster, perhaps even more brutal, and it would become clear as Lionel attacked. Mainly, it might become clear to Kasyr that Gospel had its hand in this remanifestation. The creature, this 'man', exploded into motion upon the oncoming thrust of the blade called Hellfire (aptly named, no less, in its burning glory); the only defining adjective for the way that Ahkall moved could be 'violent'. Every motion was an explosion of corded muscle fueled by a palpable pair of visceral, brutal emotions; those were hunger and anger. These were the defining traits of the Wyrm, created to its state of consciousness because of the lingering energies when Khasad crossed the Nameless Desert, manifested into an everpresent nihilism. The blade came and the Wyrm was a fury of motion -his body lowered to a crouch and pushed forward with a brutal force that straightened his legs before sending him airborne. Lionel was his target; this creature, not of corruption, but of hatred and fury and hunger and everything primal that might very well be destructive, sought to spear his prey beneath the thrust sword and take the fallen hero to the ground. The ground where the hungering 'man' had the advantage, and could feast upon him with emblazoned fury.

Lionel lets himself be carried forward by Hellfire’s magical momentum in response to that sick leap, a trail of orange left in his wake and coming within a stray meter of Kasyr’s whereabouts as he veritably surfs beyond the reach of Ahkall’s deadly strike. Even still, the incredible speed at which this thing moves rivals all the forces of Halycanos and Khasad akin, and rightly so – for here is a being of that self-same taint. Claws like talons take Lionel at the collarbone, rending fabric and skin and burning flesh. He feels it mid-warp, stopping almost instantly only half as far as he’d intended. There is a scream, followed by a quick turn as the flames constructed through his roadside travel dissipate. He observes the opponent, azure eyes brighter than even the moon, and then he observes that same roof he’d used in the fight against Corruption. Hellfire surges. At once, two things occur: a billowing maelstrom of fire bursts toward Ahkall’s backside as it touches the ground, whilst another, straighter and more direct volley of heat guides Lionel’s trajectory up that building, up to its very top, the second of three elemental warps, courtesy as ever of the fully-tamed violent spirit Halycanos. Now the man is so far away, up there on that perch, and he swings his sword in a three hundred sixty degree spin, both hands firm to the hilt, and he spits, his face soaked in sweat, his chest throbbing at the wound he has suffered, Khasad’s dark energies swift to seal and dispel the worst of the wicked infliction. When Hellfire’s spin is complete, the third and final warp takes place, bringing an increasingly-beleaguered Lionel O’Connor clear across the battlefield in this most unfortunate Vailkrin street, so sudden as to give even Kasyr a run for his proverbial coin. He sets himself upon Ahkall with a mid-air slice for its neck, right leg extended to kick it in the thighs. He comes down now at an angle that will surely leave him gasping and rolling at best, but still his red protective aura permeates, seeking to rend the foe’s skin with its intensity even as the Catalian comes in for the kill.

Kasyr was waiting for that burst of killing intent, a brief charge flickering through his hand in response- seeping into his weapon so it can be drawn free of it's scabbard in a singularily swift and smooth motion that altogether defies it's considerable weight. And yet, it's not the revenant who was the target of the Wyrms assault – the swordsman instead finding himself intuitively shifting his body to broaden the distance between himself and the unexpected burst of flame to his side. It's trajectory is noted, as is Lionel's reappearance and spin, which is about the point Kasyr taps into those primal elemental energies he so deftly wields – surge of electrical energy pushing through his body. An already distorted sense of perception dilates further, Lionel's tertiary attack registered and relative intent registered – and yet, there was something wrong. Bits of the Kensai's arm flecked off of him, flaking off before dissipating into electrical energy, and with a pain the man can't remember feeling. It's enough that he almost hesitates- but he remembers. He remembers distant islands where the wyrm was let free for moments, caverns here, where it skulked and laid waste to the unwary – and always, and ever, he remembered the sibilant whispers of the creature which had made a pact with it. That hesitation is quelled, and the Kensai slams across the street in a burst of light and speed- the swordstroke appearing to distant onlookers as though a bolt of lightning had gotten itself falling down drunk and proceeded to light up the Alley. Repeatedly. Thrice, the Kensai would slam across that twilit road, those breakneck speeds only halting when he reaches the wall of a building and kicks off again- the full back and forth ending as abruptly as it started- and hopefully having provided an ample distraction for Lionel. If it didn't, well, Kasyr is going to feel awfully stupid, because his arms are bleeding an awful lot for some reason right now, it hurts like a bitch, his lungs are burning for some unfathomable reason. And whatever thought or bit of internal monologue/whining that was going to follow is abruptly ended by the trio of thunderclaps that effectively sound of. Daedria, preserve him.

Grailan :: Hunger. It needed to eat. It felt the hunger like a gnawing on his stomach, persistent and endless; it was a void aching to be filled, and yet could never be sated. Anger. It was furious. Caverns here, moments there. It had been locked away. Raging and furiously banging against the walls of its cage; the mind of Azakhaer was its cell and warden all at once. Hate. There was a feeling of hatred in it so deep, of all the world and everything in it. It did not wish for a better world for anyone. Its world was filled with pain, anger, hunger, and suffering; it wanted to inflict its suffering upon others. It wanted no one to escape. Pain. The mind of the Wyrm faintly registered the physical pain of burning -it was burning along its back- over the perpetual torment of suffering that was hunger. The pain was a faraway feeling, even as its back burned and filled the air with that stench of singed flesh. The scent was closer than that pain -which was felt as if separated by leagues of ocean from the creature, though that isn't to say he wasn't affected, because he was clearly roasted along his back by the billowing maelstrom of Hellfire's flame. It was simply that he didn't -care-. Pain was far less than secondary to the eternal hunger and rage that the shaggy-haired 'man' felt. Spittle flew from his own mouth, not forcefully but rather accidentally like drool flung, as he whipped his head and body about to focus his gaze on upward upon the building's roof. His muscles, strong cords that rippled beneath his taut flesh, some of which was seared now and literally smoking, tensed with the apparent intent to chase after his prey. But the flashiness of Kasyr brought his attention toward Azakhaer. Hatred. A deep and unyielding hatred that ate at his very being like the hunger that he perpetually felt. Every motion was an explosion of violent movement, calculated yet fueled by a visceral and homicidal desire of carnivorous malice, and the Wyrm was on chase. There was no lightning, or lighting at all in his movement, but rather streaks of darkness that burst with every forceful eruption of momentum caused by the exertion of his muscles. Chasing -he chased. Hunger -he would sate it, he began to believe, with the consumption of Kasyr, as well as sate that hatred he felt for the revenant. But this did not come to fruition; Lionel interrupted him.

Grailan :: Hellfire, the fallen hero's old friend and compatriot, was suddenly before him and horizontal to the sun-kissed male's neck. Ahkall was violently graceful, and his explosive momentum was reflexively augmented by the dark energies that were the similar variant, if not strikingly similar due to the origin, as O'Connor's own. His back arched, bent backward with amazing dexterity, to mid-stride limbo beneath the particularly deadly weapon. It was a give and take however, because that foot was struck out to make contact with the furious creature's thigh -Lionel would have a limping bruise for a bit from the sheer force of that collision of momentum fueled by such densely concentrated hatred, if his leg didn't snap on contact. But the effect on Ahkall was immediate; he continued forward by a demonstrated Newton's First Law, airborn as his legs went out from beneath him, before dirt and cloud exploded as he struck and tumbled violently along the ground. Plumes of it veiled the creature but displayed his trail, tens, maybe some twenties of yards long as his brutal crash waned and came to a halt. But when the dust and haze cleared, the creature was once more standing, his body a tense thing of perpetual hatred and hunger -coiled, panting with sheer animosity and visually drooling at the prospect of consumption as it faced Lionel. The difficulty with such a mind so viscerally possessed with the dual emotions of hunger and hatred was the inability to keep attentive to its surroundings; Kasyr was, for the moment, forgotten in favor of Lionel, who was most recent to garner Ahkall's attention. And he was a furious explosion of motion once more, in a direct line of a sprint toward the Catalian and his red aura; but he didn't even wait to get near to attack. In fact, he assaulted Lionel the entire approach; burning energies of darkness, the foul sort of magic gifted from Gospel and fueled by Khasad's taint, were repeatedly summoned in his grasping claws and whipped one after another after another at the fallen hero, alternating destructive fastballs at the other all the while sprinting closer and closer -with the intent of tearing the other apart upon a suitable lack of distance between them, surely.

Lionel catches a screech in the depths of his throat as his leg audibly crunches upon impact. To the tune of that crunch is a ghostly whistle. Ahkall’s augmentative black magic sears through much of Lionel’s red barrier at this point, whilst the creature is bouncing wayward at its mortifying pace. In this buzzing, sawing wake of sounds, smoke and dust blankets the Catalian, forcing a harsh choke which blocks out so much of his recognition to Kasyr’s plight. But still a bit of knowledge pervades. Still he senses something dire. “Kasyr?” He cries, falling to a knee and spiraling around in the hopes of willing his damaged leg to reason with him. He closes his eyes briefly as Ahkall prepares for his symphony of attacks, spiritually compelling the dueling entities of violence and wraithen vengeance within him to converge not on his limb but rather his sword. He’s gasping for air that will not fill. He’s covered in fumes and the shear overexertion that stems from a man who is by all rights still but a man in myriad key ways handling so much heat for so long. Lionel has become like a god on the field of battle but he is no god at his core. There is a toll on mortal frames that must be paid for in pain. Ahead, the hungry hating villain is bursting wicked projectile abhorrence by the millisecond. The time is now. All of Halycanos, who resides within the blade. That sliver of Khasad, who resides within Lionel’s heart. The convergence occurs in a shimmer, a brilliant white-hot flash that radiates the liveliest pulse to illuminate the fallen hero as it transforms Hellfire’s appearance from devilish crimson to mother-of-pearl. Still bent at the knee, enveloped in this blinding bright, eyes now lighter than ever, Lionel catches the first of Ahkall’s blasts with his ivory steel, then the next, then the next, and the next, and once more, and again, and each time the sword throbs and reverberates and vibrates harsher, louder, each time building in its vigor, each time that blob of filth simply disappearing against the nigh-unfathomable power of this nexus, this merging of Ishaara’s most destructive fire-elemental and the anger of a Dark Immortal and the man who slew so many. Each and every attack vanishes in light but for the very last, which runs right through the golden atmosphere Lionel O'Connor leaves behind in the wake of a final utterly physically taxing disappearing act which removes him of his present course and takes him behind Ahkall, -still- in his crouch, purified Hellfire so fierce, so impassioned, that the impalement it seeks through the being’s torso will send tremendous ripples of energy coursing over it seeking to ensnare and subdue it before it even tastes the blade. And what of that field of gold before Ahkall? Why, it too will seek to imprison, of course. Two things have been brought forth on this fateful night, two things so strong. Ahkall itself… and a Lionel in complete almighty unabridged harmony with his entire arsenal.

Kasyr had been at a loss the very moment things had started to run amiss in the midst of his attack, and now in thewake of those earlier thunderclaps, he found himself growing aware of the after effects of his attack turned distraction. All down the street, the windows had blown out around him, littering the ground with countless jagged fragments which glimmered like an extra set of stars, mirroring the glow which seemed to exude from Lionel. Lionel, who even now was facing Kasyr's personal demons, Ahkall & Gospel combined - pushing himself to exhaustion and beyond to do it. It was all the revenant could do to stand, blood pooling down his arms from the places his flesh had ionized, a long unfamiliar ache coursing through his limbs. Insult had been added to injury, his wounds freshly made now harbouring a number of stowaways in the form of glass fragments, itching at exposed flesh, and making the blade he still carried heavier. ...It was a weird consideration to the revenant, familiar as he was with it's heft, as though he could still draw it from the ground, it seemed to draw more effort from him. The exertion made him ache more, and that unpleasent and distinct burning sensation in his lungs only grew fiercer. And it's only as Lionel blazes down that road, in a conflagration of aureate light, and the revenant feels his heart skip a beat, and becomes duly aware that he's holding his breath – does it all click together. Something -broke- when Ahkall ripped it's way clean of his guts. The goddamn Wyrm had clawed it's essence out from the Kensai, and stolen a few things along the ride, possibly courtesy of Gospel. When the revenant began to move again, it was with purpose- stalking his way down towards the position he'd last seen Ahkall. Maybe it was dead. Luck would be so kind, to strike him down and let those ties those two shared to have what the bastard had stolen snap back to him. But Kasyr? His belief in luck generally leads to a reliance on the singular persistence of the bad stuff. It'd find a way. So plan for your initial plan to fail, and the one after that. And hell with it, a few on the fly strategies are probably the way to go. Which is why, for the first time in a long while, there's a prayer at the Kensai's lips. He was, after all, an Ascendi's chosen Paladin- and if Ahkall was carrying all that darkness inside him... well. “HEY. Ya goddamn oversized hand bag, parading around in a man's flesh. Remember the time when I dunked you in the pool? And ditched you there. Or turned you into ashes, and gave you to that deranged avian of yours. Wait. You were dead then, you might not remember that part.” Kasyr, tirade aside, is doing his utmost to desperately reach his particular divinity of choice, considering- his mouth is currently in the process of writing out a cheque he'd be rather hard pressed to follow through with. But then, Ahkall had been a threat to her once upon a time. And now, more than ever, was a threat upon the realms themselves. The hopes and thoughts made the feeling of his throbbing temples a little quieter, but only just.That, and the flicker of a spark at his fingers, something which coaxes those patches of already bleeding flesh to grow a bit more prominent, skin peeling away like scorched pages spread to the wind. He still had an ace in the hole.

Grailan :: The grip of confusion was frustrating for the 'man' and frustration only fueled his visceral anger to perpetuate further grudge, further fury, that could do naught but persist -persist and hate. Hate. Hate-hate-hate-hate-hate! It wanted to hate, it knew only hate, and it would inflict the suffering that this oppressive hatred so made him inclined to inflict; pain, loss, death, destruction. These things were the result of the utter and raw hatred and hunger that forever consumed the mind of the creature. Confusion at the way those black-fire projectiles were so absorbed, frustration at the sudden blindness of light, and further exasperation by the disappearance of his prey. His damned prey! Gone! 'HEY! Ya goddamn overs-' Words that abruptly culled his attention on Lionel and wrenched the creature of agonizing fury toward Kasyr. Kasyr. Kasyr who it recognized; who cultivated and grew its anger within that mind, who had made one too many enemies for this all to not happen -who pushed the envelope until it fell clean off the table and blew up the earth beneath it. Kasyr-Kasyr-Kasyr. Hate-hate-hate. One hand clenched, and chapped lips cracked as they spread for those multi-rowed sharp teeth to gleam, and the crea- What? There was a pain in his back. It was more prominent than the searing of his flesh, though still somewhat separated and distant from the mind of the creature -the idea of the pain was made more apparent by the entrapment that surrounded and briefly pacified it just beforehand. His back, right at the spine, split horribly open with the rending of flesh and muscle and sinew, to cater to an explosion of black, ichorous and viscous splatters, the tar-like darkness apparently in lieu of true blood. The back, not severed through to bifercate the male but enough to give a (misleading) impression of imminent death by the gruesome display, arched and bone could be seen as it did so. The clawed hands of the beastly 'man' tried in vain to grasp at the wound as he staggered and stumbled forward; veins protruded in his neck as he released a feral, bestial, and primal cry of agony. He could hear it loosed as if it were from some distant origin rather than his own mouth, and the sound echoed throughout Vailkrin. Time seemed to slow in its head, but this neither ebbed nor ceased the perpetual hunger that gnawed at its stomach, or the hatred that propelled him to such viciousness. Yellowed eyes, marked with red and black veins, were cast with a whip of his head to half-fixate and half-glaze over a tightly-corded shoulder upon the saintly man. Another staggering step forward, and another, leading him a few more paces away from the man and toward the field of gold.

Grailan :: But there was no imprisoning of the hellion this day, neither definite nor brief end to the destruction; carnage was imminent. Kasyr knew -Lionel, who'd not met the Wyrm before his untimely 'end' being consumed by Azakhaer, likely had no idea. Ahkall changed. It was a gruesome, violent change that lacked all the grace and fluidity of elegant creatures; unnatural, and the reasoning for it was rank with Khasad's dark energy. The chest of sun-kissed man exploded outward in the fashion of something within having torn its way free in a single, grue-some eruption- what came out continued to emerge. With a body that girthed out to some measurements of the width of a school bus and rounded like a worm, the length continued and continued. Its head was an abrupt end in a cavernous, circular mouth lined all the way around with stalagmite-sized teeth as it lofted hundreds of feet into the air with a deafening and primal cry -its body arched on the apex of its ascension and began its descent. The length continued to emerge, roughly a football field and a half long, as it dove toward the earth -specifically, toward Kasyr. Its mouth was open and it sought to devour the Kensai amidst its tunneling; it would crash into the earth with such quaking force to tear through stone and rock like gelatin in a disastrous calamity of horrible proportions.

Lionel said, "I wish I hadn’t dropped that cigarette last night."

Lionel is left to slide through thin air and fumble unceremoniously into a mud which bathes him whole, his unhealed leg sending shiver after shiver of dulling pain to cascade. His eyes widen in confusion at the failed attempt to dish death – so many times that sort of heroic has worked in the past and now with this ethereal glow he’s never even seen Hellfire make! He spits out dirt and blood and misses half of Ahkall’s grizzly transformation, but certainly receives a once-in-a-lifetime obscene front-row view of the rest of it. When that colossal wyrm, free from its yoke, and from the yoke of that yoke, takes to the air, Lionel can think of only one immediate course of action. It just so happens he is really not all that far from a cigarette he dropped hours ago, so he lifts it, blows on it, lets the radiant Hellfire’s white flame kiss it, and takes a drag. And so it is, with that cigarette between his lips, the legendary hero thrusts his sword deep inside the earth to pivot himself back up, then yanks it high into a sky which harbors now its first streaks of dawn, and he screams. “I need to be crystal clear! It was not so long ago that I had a glass of mead and there was an elven woman, pretty in a way, playing a song on a piano! I have lived quite a life, you terror! Quite! A! Life! I have fought things you couldn’t imagine! I have danced with devils and loved angels! I am not good at poetry! All! I! Wanted! Was to drink that mead and enjoy that song! But no! I can’t do that! Because Kasyr here – rightly so, no worries –“ He pauses long enough to offer a nod to an ally who is about to be devoured if no action is soon sprung – “—wants to kill me! So! He almost kills me!” The wyrm is descending rapidly now, so rapidly. “And then Caedan appears! From the east, if I recall! And it is all very dramatic and important things are learned! And then suddenly your unholy ass decides that now is a good time for us to have ourselves a duel!” Still the wyrm is gaining. “Well alright then! I am always up for a little game of kill-or-be-killed with a shade of Arrecation! What I am not okay with is a two-kilometer penis trying to eat my friends!” The entire city’s population can be seen, heard, smelled, fleeing as fast as their legs of life or undeath can take them. Beneath Lionel’s feet, skeletons literally rise from their slumber and bolt. This is not a pretty sight. This is a Vailkrin, interrupted. The wyrm is fewer than fifty meters from ending Kasyr Azakhaer. Hellfire’s bright light is charged. A beam emits from its very tip, shoots through the distance, and ignites upon every reachable tooth in that impossibly wide maw. It spreads out in some last-ditch do-or-do eleventh-hour plea to force a field in front of the tiefling, to block a godlike entity from his person, to send shockwave after shockwave of pure raw heavenly energy into shredding at the nooks and crannies of every achievable piece of this endless insatiable bastard. And then Lionel takes in that cigarette once more, and shakes his head in disbelief.

Kasyr isn't quite sure where he picked that one up. Nor is he really certain why his inner monologue is focusing on that, or whether any sort of self referential comment as vampire or revenant is accurate - ..or rather, anything other than contemplating that he effectively spewed forth an unhallowed hybrid of Gospel And Khasads power, neatly contained in the package of a goddamn Sand Wyrm, whose solitary purpose in existance (beyond devouring and devastating whatever happened to raise it's infinite ire or appear appetizing), was killing Kensai's. Of which there is like one of. “...I wonder if he would have done that if I had kept qui-.” There's something like awed wonder at how something so hideously bulky could rupture forward and hurtle itself with such celerity, the swordsman transfixed as the yawning abyss which swallowed the night sky above him, and ...was now in the process of swerving down towards his position by virtue of gravitys inexonerable pull.

Kasyr 's body tenses, his eyes locking on that chasm of fangs which awaited him- and promptly pushed off the ground to meet it. For a brief moment, the Kensai's jump seems futile- the manic machinations of a madman, doomed to be dinner. Until a sharp cry of outrage and pain rips out of his gullet, and the revenants back deforms and splits open near his shoulders- a pair of wings shearing clear of a pair of neatly concealed slits in the back of Kasyr's trenchcoat in a spray of flesh and blood. Paler, certainly, for the change- the flap began what the revenant hoped, suddenly shifting his momentum to one side just moments before that energy he'd been charging up is invoked to it's fullest potential. Whereas Ahkall descends as a odium incarnate set to engulf the swords, Kasyr ascends wreathed in a field of cracking energy and Daedria's divine energies. After all, what goddess, whose forte was theatrics, drama, and matters of the stage- could resist an opportunity to show off at such a grandiose time. For just a brief moment, the former-tiefling ascends as a holy lightning bolt, seemingly destined to hurtle directly into the Wyrms mouth. Blink. And you really would miss it. Lightning charged as he is, the revenant would push that combination of holy might and energy into his weapon, abruptly changing it's momentum sideways in tandem with the revenants earlier wing flap-fueled trajectory, essentially dragging him just outside the cusp of Ahkalls most-anything-encompassing mouth. By which point the Kensai's second wing flap, and another jolt of electrical energy is tapped into. The distance is minute, in the end, a simple precise adjustment to reverse the revenants direction, and send Vesper crashing into Ahkalls flesh with a devastating amount of force. Holy energies, and lightning drawn forth from that primal channel the Kensai could tap into, and now focused, poured into Vesper- the broadsword Satoshi had gifted onto the revenant, it's design meant to focus and enhance the very element Kasyr was imbued with. The intent is simple enough. To muster every single iota of power and strength those divine and electrical energies could impart on him, to dredge every reserve of strength both mortal and unnatural which resided in him to bury the blade in the Wyrms flesh, and run it upwards as it fell downwards. Maybe, just maybe he could aim it towards the eye. The only thing he knew, really. Is no matter what his time was limited, whether or not he managed to wreak the havoc he desired – if only for a few key factors. A) He could feel those wings on his backs peeling away into oh so many flecks of electrical energy, literally coming undone just moments after they were called into being. B) He was pretty sure he was losing a bit too much blood to be comfortable, and whilst a regimen of not eating that much or sleeping often was find for a vampire, having it all loaded on someone that was in a halfway point between being and not ... yeah. No. C) Kasyr was also pretty sure even if he does strike home, there's a halfway good chance that if he messes this up, the Wyrms downward velocity on it's own might heavi...- wait. No that might be a good thing. Because really, if it doesn't manage to slow or even somewhat negate his upward momentum, it's going to be a pretty lousy landing. ...Maybe he could catch a nap on the way down.

Kasyr in fact, has a pretty damn good view of the city from on high, now that he thinks about, he can even get a good glimpse of some of Vailkrins shoulders getting a good hard look at the horrific abomination at the street, the people that are engaged in it, and their decidely prudent action to just 'nope' right out of the immediate vicinity. Possibly to find reinforcements. Possibly, to find a drink, or some bones (literally or figurative) to jump. Or to say whatever unhallowed prayers they may wish to Vakarash, in the hope for whatever dark Salvation he could provide. Whatever the case, however, the Kensai has an ephiphany. One which comes sputtering forth in the wake of Lionels heroic tirade, and the more vivid awareness that something decidely holy and solid looking was being coaxed into being beneath him. Specifically, the moment Kasyr's situation turns to fall, or fly? That's the moment the revenant desperately grasps towards Ahkalls form, and does his utmost to grab on. Some half deranged impulse on his behalf hoping that whatever agony both he and Lionel have wreaked upon his form, it might be enough for him to temper and tame the darkness that once served him so well- to coak forward just enough shadow stuff to anchor himself to the Wyrms body and ride it down like some demented roller coaster, cooked up in a lunatics nightmare.

Lionel can only hope his and Kasyr's combined attack is enough to trample this eldritch evil. It just so happens that from his desperate stance he can see the thing crumble, veil, and sunder just meters off the ground. Vailkrin -- hell, the entire region around it -- is saved in the nick of time by two unflappable survivors who had been at one-another's throats just prior. Of Kasyr's fate, Lionel cannot yet say, but he can see plain as approaching day that Ahkall's wyrm-thing has been subdued. Somehow. All endless kilometers of it. And he knows in his heart that Azakhaer will soon come down from on-high, alive. "Business as usual," he mutters dryly. Too dryly. Water is fetched. Lionel is dizzy and falls, somehow gracefully, back into the mud. Townsfolk slowly return, their faces in clear disbelief. Hellfire's white glow instantaneously reverts to simple steel and the Catalian sheathes it slowly, every motion a thousand aches. "Business. As. Usual."

Kasyr isn't sure if he should be giddy that he's somehow managed to latch onto the creature, having managed to wrestle the barest parody of that unfathomably marriage of Elazul & Khasad's curses that he so deftly wielded when at his peak to into a claw like limb coating his hand and latched onto one of the inordinately durable portions of Ahkall 'tail-ish' area. But, well, the revenants relatively resigned himself to 'I'm-going-to-get-wrecked-now', so, there's very little harm in a combination of nervous and manic laughter allllll the way down. At least, until he feels Ahkalls tail flicker- a sudden jerk of the creatures body courtesy of the twists and turns it now takes in subterreanean tunnels. And which are more than adequate to dislodge the revenant and essentially redirect his momentum sideways. “Daedria, preserve me.” A quick prayer, which is -sort of- heard. In the sense that the revenant isn't dead following his dynamic entry through someones roof, through their attic, and into their bedroom, crashing handily into a bed that collapses beneath the strain and sends the Kensai skidding to a halt near. ..Erm. Well, the bed wasn't in use. But the room certainly was. Whatever the case, Kasyr ends up one part helped, one part shoved out of the lodgings he find himself unwittingly introduced to, by which point he manages to walk just far enough to reach the nearest bench. So that he can sprawl out across out and bleed profusely in pea- Is that city guard giving him a look for laying down on the bench in a bleeding heap? It's not like Kasyr's a hobo, or going to sleep here (Unless he passes out). He has the castle, for gods sake. The swordsman manages an unintelligible response to the unasked question/statement/request – and then promptly plants the back of his hands over his eyes. He'll find, medical help. Later. Sleep now.

Kasyr is briefly startled awake by a clatter, as Vesper is promptly pushed out from the second story window by the pair he'd inadvertently intruded on. The weapon hitting the ground with a crunch that's more indicative of the pavement than anything else. Kasyr, for his good fortune, is likely going to be able to at least count on someone from the castle investigating, finding him, and dragging him home. The sword gets addressed shortly after they get someone to fetch it, the damnable thing too heavy to retrieve lightly.

Lionel rubs his eyes and steadily comes to terms with the fact that as ever his life is a string of absurdist life-or-death struggles with ungodly creations. Then he orders a damned replacement mead. He’s not surprised to discover that Steadmen insist it’s on the house. Payment made for a job well done.