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Incensed by his words and attitude, Cassandra offered a prayer to whoever was there for forgiveness. She was not the kind to let her temper get the better of her, if the time warranted it, she would. Fury boiled in her veins; closing her eyes, she forced herself to be calm and controlled. Never let your temper dictate your fight. You'll only be sloppy and end up headless, Agamemnon had instructed. Turn your rage to ice, and shape it into a weapon.

Agamemnon had died in a rage over Clytemnestra's betrayal and worry for Cassandra herself; his fighting had been sloppy, and he had ended up headless. Cassandra had turned her sorrow and anger to ice and dispatched Clytemnestra's soul to wherever it went when an Immortal's life was ended for good.

One kill had given her the strength of many, and it sickened her.

"Not on holy ground," Cassandra murmured. "I will not throw my soul away. But I will not let you take it, either."

And that was the crux of it - why Cassandra had lived her years in lonely solitude and defended herself against those who sought her head.

She still hoped for her soul.

Cassandra watched Ashley with sharp eyes; she sensed more than saw when his blade whipped out, arcing for her throat... And she did not move.

The only movement she could make, now, with her wheelchair positioned as it was and the angle of Ashley's blade, would be to draw her own. And though the insolent child who fancied himself a great Immortal cared not for the Rules, Cassandra knew that the one he intended to break now was strictly enforced.

She turned towards him, gaze challenging, and waited for the moment of truth; her death, or a severe lesson.

Tyler's own apprehension intensified when the woman, 'Cassie', had wheeled past him and directed a meaningful look to him. He knew then, right in that instant, that whatever happened was going to change everything that he had grown accustomed to since coming to this church. He made to hurry to the children and the teacher, remove them from the place, but his action was swiftly interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn. There was a sudden horror in the faces of those present and Father Tyler turned, taking in the sight of the woman staring down the challenge of the arrogant man from before, and not far was te third immortal who seemed to be barely able to keep himself from interfering. An emotional reaction he was not prepared for boiled up within him, a reaction to Ash spitting on the rules of a game that even Tyler had no concern for, and issuing his challenge on holy ground.

This is what we do. He reminded himself, surprising himself at his own affiliation with others he had spent so long disassociating from.

But when the sword came to bear against her and Cassie made no move to defend herself, her own faith in the powers that had constructed this game so long ago, he could not stand to watch.

"This is Holy Ground!" He cried out in a voice that had not been his own since he walked the battlefields of Babylon's enemies, a voice of anger and pious righteousness.

Lightening arced, and Cassandra closed her eyes to it, turning her head from Ashley and his blade.

Her ears picked up the clatter of his katana when he fell to his knees, and the jarring sound of the blade shattering into numerous pieces. Only when all sound had stopped did she open her eyes again to see that Ashley was gone. What was left of his katana and a charred circle on the stone of the floor remained.

Whether or not he was alive, Cassandra did not know, nor did she really care.

The holy ground had been preserved, the danger passed (for now), and hopefully (if Ashley was still alive) he had learned a lesson.

But the danger was past, so Cassandra settled back in her chair and stared at the ceiling of the church and admired its age and let the sounds and voices around her go over her head like she usually did.

Victor, cringed back as white light rained down upon Ash and a second later he was gone. Victor was torn between actions and emotions. He had become a hardened statue witness to such behavior. He turned to see Father Tyler and questioned him now. Though he was a priest upon holy ground, it appeared that he favored complete and utter peace over the game and his life. Victor had not cared particularly for the game, but he always, except on days of confession, kept his sword at his side. He would never hunt for the power but protection of others and only stayed within his area of residence. Occasionally if he travelled he would run across an immortal and only twice in the countless times he encountered an immortal, did they choose peace over the game.

[ Ilona Szilágyi -- Belle Ile ]

Had Ilona Szilágyi been anyone else, she might've thought the small towns and ports of Belle Ile quaint. But Ilona Szilágyi was no-one but herself, and so she had no opinion of the place. Had Ilona Szilágyi been anything but an Immortal, she might have found the small towns and ports of Belle Ile tolerable; but Ilona was an Immortal, and so the quickening she felt grated on her nerves and the source(s...?) of it demanded to be investigated.

Tall and imposing, Ilona was a docile-looking brunette with long, wavy hair, a regal bearing, and soft features. There was often, now included, a look of quiet contemplation on her features. Even in the heat of a battle, Ilona tended to look calm and non-threatening, though she was anything but.

Simple fact was, Ilona just did not care. About life, or the lives of others - about the Game, nor anything, really. She spent her eternal days seeking out some enjoyment, something that made her feel alive... but she had yet to find something. Killing other Immortals came close, as did the quickening, but neither satisfied her for long so she no longer took to the hunt as other Immortals did.

But when the opportunity presented itself, Ilona couldn't turn it down, especially since dispatching another Immortal meant living briefly and ridding herself of the quickening feeling.

So even in the rain, Ilona walked through the night without so much as an umbrella. Her contemporary clothing - turquoise sweater, blue jeans, red rainboots - were soaked through and through, but she headed towards the Immortal residing in a town on Belle Ile regardless.

[ Ilona Szilágyi -- Belle Ile ]

The rain continued to poor, even has Ilona knocked on the door of whom she believed was the Immortal.

Her silky, wavy brown hair now hung limp and heavy down her back, and her clothes stuck to her from the rain. From the calm expression on Ilona's features, however, one might have thought it was a bright, sunny and generally beautiful day out. The serenity was born of an apathy that ran deep, though, and anyone who mistook it for actual peace of mind (which generally implied some sort of kind, calmness) was an idiot who, if they were of any interest to Ilona, would quickly learn their lesson.

A knock from downstairs, the same stairwell she had just come up, caught Joan's attention and she grabbed for her robe as she stood and passed by her dresser to answer it. This time of night, and this weather, she did not even need the quickening to tell her who was at her door. She knew it was an Immortal and, with her gift, she knew it was an old one. Older than herself and far more dangerous.

The wind was cold as Joan opened the door without hesitation and met the cold serenity of indifference of the woman before her with a calm and peaceful serenity of her own.

"Hello Ilona." She said, tipping her head respectfully to the woman.