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Fiona's exultation sang in his veins as the knife bit deeply once more into FEAR, and she drank it in, as she always did, but this time the raw excitement of his weapon became indiscernible from his own. He drew back, stumbling away from the chaos, or more precisely from its epicenter: from Medea.

Medea. Mighty. The Hunters scattered like less-than-roaches before her, before the smallest of her pawns. They were outmatched, perpetually outdone: they were cattle pointlessly rebelling at the slaughterhouse door, picked off by beings unspeakably superior.

Conquest, War, Death, and Famine. Famine. The world tipped up strangely; his senses quaked and shifted. Who was he to challenge forces so absolute? The gold stripped off the blade of his weapon, peeling back, the dark metal beneath tarnished and fly-specked and ancient. The sudden lighting of a moth on the bare, sharp point of his shoulder was a comforting touch; he leaned into it as he might have leaned into a loving and affectionate hand, closing his too-bony fingers over it, trapping it against sun-brown, freckled skin swirling with dark tattoos.

He laughed, a laugh full of bells and of the hum of a locust's swarm, at the sudden ache beneath his ribs. He knew better than any that hunger was a weapon--no, hunger was a whetstone, he was the weapon, forged in deprivation and wielded against those delusional enough to challenge the rightful superiority of his kind.

He had spent so long cringing, flinching, huddling, hiding: he stood half-bare now all skeletal angles and the shape of starvation itself, back straight, proud: his form was the form of a certain kind of power, and he had been wrong to shun it.

It seemed natural that when he lifted his eyes, dark, kohl-rimmed, they fell almost immediately on America, whose name no longer mattered: she was control now as he was hunger, and though the thick veil of tattered and embroidered black silk covered over his mouth, he smiled at her anyway, because she, near-death and wearing violence like a skin, had never been so close to perfect.

Lock summoned multiple shadow whips for his hands, long tendrils of darkness that he used as mere extensions of his arms. They were weak, but for Lock's age they were powerful. What he lacked in skill he made up in pure ferocity thanks to Amrita's "gift."

"That's what a traitor would say!" He would interrupt any conversation, so long as his means were met.

So far so good, he had managed to stay under the radar for the moment. Zascha was being a little bit more careful now and paying close attention to those around him.

He made another run at an attack in Medea.

Chris breathed a little easier, glad to be able to think clearly now. He looked around wildly for Chel, but his eyes landed on Shun first. Dude didn't look so hot.

He ran up to him and slapped a bandaid on his forehead. "Heal up, buddy. You're lookin' like s**t."

He had no way of knowing there had been anything to change, but there was a feeling, a strange one, uncertain at first and than sure. He just felt… peaceful. Never knowing that –something- have burned away inside him. He felt…just a bit like an intruder hearing that voice. But it was a beacon of white, and for once white seemed a wonderful thing.
He wanted to protect, and it spoke to that in him.

“I will carry you if you fall”…
His wings dropped to his sides slowly, like a colorful sigh.

“I’m no hero…” He said anxiously at the second thing it said. “I’m no HERO… but…I want to help.”





Damage done do Media so far 17
((with zoo’s permission…merlin seed bunt away))

Eye was tired of arguing with this crazy boy, and his judgement of her annoyed eye as well. She took the blow and dashed forward and attacked with her scythe. She yelled "Stand down you fool"

The daggers tore a wide path across the Heir's ribs as she stood, peeling a wide strip of dark, husk-like skin away from the bones underneath, and then that was it. The Insane light in her eyes began to fade, even as the crazy grin spread grotesquely across her equine face. For a second it looked as though the dead Heir would collapse with yet another earth-shaking rattle.

But just as she began to droop, the desiccated flesh began to writhe across her bones. It was like maggots wriggling under the thin hide. The bones seemed to sag, held inside the skin, and then the belly split. It tore open and the skin began to dissolve into cicadas. Millions of them. The skeletal corpse was covered with them, the insects crawling on the bones, crawling on each other, a fluid swarm of bugs becoming the flesh of the 50 foot tall horse.

When they began to hum, it was like the whisper of all the voices inside her head. Life or death, in this world it was all the same thing. The writhing, bug-covered skeleton lashed out once again, this time with bony jaws snapping, the Insane grin frozen on that skeletal face.