applesaucedream | Can't Stand the Distance, Can't Dream Alone [open to all]

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Can't Stand the Distance, Can't Dream Alone [open to all]

The sleeping rifties might have a difficult time realizing they're dreaming this evening, in part because tonight's dreams are atypically vivid, even compared to the rift's usual efforts. Perhaps that is because it's drawing so heavily from the memories of the dreamers, themselves, and using that information to recreate their home worlds in stunning detail. And that is the real reason the dreamers might not be eager to accept the unreality of the situation: the situation is one that many of them have been hoping for for months or even years. In their dreams tonight, the rifties are going home.

Perhaps they arrive in the same moment that they left. Perhaps months have passed at home, or they might even find themselves arriving before their departure point. But those are small details when compared to the overwhelming realization that they're back where they belong.

They're not alone. Many dreamers will find the rift has given them a companion for the return trip. Well, an uncomplicated return home is probably more than anyone could have hoped for, anyway. And for the unwitting visitor, perhaps another universal displacement will be easier to bear with the addition of a local guide.

[ooc: usual dream party rules apply; all are welcome, and dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Also at the players' discretion: when their character arrives in their 'home universe,' and how many (if any) locals they'd want to run into.]

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Johnny jerks sharply as Illyria's voice enters his head again. "God," he grunts irritably. "Okay, whatever."

The dragon swerves slightly to fall alongside Illyria as she plods up behind them, and Johnny glances down and notices the, um, oddly multiplying pile of monster corpses.

"What the fuck," he mutters, as the dragon dips a little lower, staring at the - is that a human? Or another Illyria type thing? - at the center of the fray. Actually, hang on, he looks familiar.

No. NO.

"You've GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME." He leans back on the dragon like he's trying to guide it back up, but it ignores him, knocking him back into place with an impatient flap. Johnny looks up at Illyria. "It's the fucking DEVIL!"

He doubts she can hear him, or that she cares. What is he supposed to do, man.

It is, indeed, the fucking Devil, and the Devil is going to town on these not-demons that are just all over the place. It's actually pretty cathartic, being able to crush something's skull between his hands and just have the skull-crushees just never run out. He smites these abominable creatures, strikes them down like the terrible weapon of Heaven that he is. This had been his purpose once, destroying what their Father would find hateful in His sight.

His bloodbath is interrupted by the approach of something large and horrible. Another thing that his Father would find hateful, no doubt, but he is trapped still in this vessel. It would be something of a challenge to take down this giant beast while stuck a mere fraction of his true glory.

And Johnny isn't even a blip on his metaphorical radar. Sorry, kid.

They do not quite understand the sentiment of the fucking Devil; Illyria simply knows the thing as the Morningstar, and it has not been seen in a mortal plane for many ages. It seems that in plunging the Los Angeles into Hell, the Senior Partners have dredged up the truly dark and terrible to raze this city.

Illyria is less perturbed about this development than their impromptu Qwa'ha Xahn.

I will eliminate the fucking Devil, they assure it confidently, adapting the awkward terminology for the benefit of mortal comprehension and for reasons they cannot presently enumerate. It cannot match my true form.

They are an armored colossus, slow but impenetrable, truly. None of the demonic ephemera have managed to crack through Illyria's great organic defenses and even fewer have come close to breaching their metaphysical ones. Yet this thing they detect is vast. If Illyria's shell can break and expose the true form, is the Morningstar also capable of such a feat? The thought stirs the latent remains of human emotion that still seem to be infuriatingly trapped in Illyria's ancient mind. It takes them a moment to define the sensation. It is nothing so despicable as fear. It is merely trepidation.

Johnny is perfectly all right going unnoticed, especially while his stupid dragon keeps flying closer to Illyria.

He barks out a laugh when Illyria echoes his word choice, but he's also weirdly comforted by her confidence. Maybe she's right. Maybe she can take Lucifer down.

Distantly he wonders how that would affect Gabe. Gabe doesn't like Lucifer, but they're... family. He won't talk about it much, but it seems really complicated. Like this could hurt him.

But Gabe isn't here, and Johnny's in no position to be thinking clearly. His dragon finally banks a hard right and lands them on a building that has not yet fallen. Like they're spectating. Johnny would laugh if - oh no wait he is laughing. Manically. Sort of losing his shit. Get it together, Johnny.

Lucifer looks at the approaching monstrosity; feels it, the awful, twisting, brute-force power of it, and after a moment or two there is recognition. This is the thing in the stolen girl-body that he'd fought in a dream once, the useless fight that did nothing but provide him with some understanding of its strength and tactics. It is free now, unshackled by the constraints of a mortal vessel, the little hellish vermin that surround it unable to even make a dent in its defenses. It seems to notice them about as much as a human notices the ants they tread on.

The demons still crowd to attack him; Lucifer pushes with his Grace and they are burned out of existence in a wide radius around him. They are less keen after that.

When he speaks, it isn't with his vessel's voice; it would never be able to go far enough for Illyria to hear him. He speaks as beings like themselves do-- directly, without the middle-man of sound vibrations.

"Well, fancy seeing you here, Illyria the Merciless."

There it is.

They recognize it immediately, a savage appreciation for the truth of its being. The Morningstar. The epitome of sin, Hellfire, destruction - or so it is said. It is so small here, and Illyria so vast. Will this be to their detriment?

Slow to arrive, are you not? they taunt it regardless, absolute in their whole form. The city has been cast into Hell, and you have only just begun to wreak small destruction.

"This is not my Hell," he replies, tilting his head at Illyria's bulk. "These are not my demons. They can burn this city and slaughter every man, woman, and child for all I care."

So long as the demons didn't attack him, Lucifer has no investment in these people or their city and no reason to protect it. Let them burn it all. If they knew what's good for them, they would let him pass and he could watch the flames from a nice vantage point. He's always planned to have front-row seats for the Apocalypse, and this is just like Apocalypse-Lite. The teaser-trailer, coming soon to a planet near you.

This brings them pause.

Angel requested they protect the silly things, which is not in their nature and rather an offensive suggestion, yet they have complied with this. It gives them a goal. It gives them purpose. It allows them to wreak complete destruction on the variegated collection of Hellspawn that have risen from the Pit.

To admit this would make them far more deserving of the Morningstar's scorn.

Would you attack those mortals that have lasted so long, even now? they demand, grinding the sentiment with a territorial, predatory challenge. They belong to Illyria, even the yowling thing perched on its unsteady draconian mount. The Morningstar would not do to encroach upon their territory.

"Do I really need to?" he asks in return. "It seems like all I'd have to do is wait."

The demons are many and even if they are killed in swathes, they are quickly replaced by more of their kind. It may be amusing for someone of their power to simply cut them down endlessly, a bloodbath that lasts as long as they like, but for the mortals? It's an oncoming tide that does not seem likely to be turned aside.

He picks bits of demon out from under his nails.

"And even if I wanted to kill them, you couldn't stop me."

That, states Illyria icily, is a failure of perspective.

Being returned to their former glorious state has rendered them incautious. Some distant part of themselves that still clings to the shell-memories is aware of this.

The Morningstar is not incorrect, however. Unless the Senior Partners boast an unanticipated change of heart, all of the Los Angeles will drown in Hell for all eternity, and the demons will swarm over and slaughter every human they see. Those unlucky enough to survive will be enslaved, if they have not already, to endure endless torment.

Illyria knows Angel wishes to save them. It is an utterly pointless attempt, driven by revolting human optimism. There is very little chance that such a plan to rescue so many weak, easily broken creatures would result in anything but failure.

"Which part? That any humans here are dead already and just don't know it, or that if I wanted to make them dead a little quicker, you couldn't keep me?"

His hands are bloody, and he is giving more attention to them than he apparently is the giant mass of eldritch abomination towering near him. He does not fear Illyria; he does not fear the strength in their massive body, physical or otherwise. He is light and glory and ice and chaos all bundled up inside this living flesh, and if Illyria pushes, they may find that he's a little too much for them to chew.

A little too spicy for Yog-Sothoth.

"Let's be honest: it would be far kinder for me to go slaughter them all than to have them wait and hope just to be taken by the demons. I, at least, would kill them quickly."

That marks a reasonable point. This would be Illyria's edict had they not sworn their oath. True form or no, their word still stands.

You speak truthfully, they admit. They stay and they will suffer. But that is my choice. They are not to be touched.

They are not operating under orders. Merely suggestions. It may be that any creature seeking to encroach on Illyria's domain will simply be opposed regardless of the brand of reason it divulges.

"It's a foolish choice."

And this is why Lucifer doesn't make oaths; they get in the way of what should be done, what would make the most sense to do. It's a very human thing.

"Is this why you were called merciless, Illyria? Does it give you greater pleasure to make them wait for death? To know the exact moment when their hopes are crushed, when they see the inevitability of their fates?"

There is disdain in every word.

"If you're trying to protect them, you're doing it wrong. They're cattle in the slaughterhouse, Illyria, and you're letting them stand among the corpses and fester in the terror of it."

Human it is indeed, and that is precisely what worries the God-King. Worry - a ridiculous concept, thoroughly mortal in nature, and it has begun to infect them in earnest. They have spent too much time walled within that shell. It has damaged their very foundations. They wish they could squirm away from it but it persists, horribly. Humanity has that cursed effect, so inherently virulent that it even creeps to seep into the minds and thoughts of its elders.

I am doing, they begin, the doubt nonexistent, and hesitate. What Angel has requested? No; this would sound as if they bow to some form of control. They follow no orders. They have simply taken that request under advisement. I am doing what is necessary. For my own amusement.

That is their only motivation. It must be. They are Merciless, endless, ruthless. They do not simply obey, blindly. They do not show mercy. They do not.

Something is... off, about that answer. Lucifer does not believe it; he thinks this abomination is lying to him. Or, at the very least, not telling the whole truth. It's the hesitation, perhaps-- so called God-Kings do not hesitate. They shouldn't hesitate, anyway.

So, Lucifer pushes the issue.

"You will have to find your amusement elsewhere," he says. "I will grant mercy where you will not."

Try it and die, vermin, they snap back with significantly more ire than their coldly serene air has warranted. They are mine.

They protect the humans for their own purposes, not for the benefit of any other. Yet they have - offered to defend them at Illyria's own expense.

Despite their true, hulking form, Illyria does not recognize themself anymore.

The thought is, abstractly, terrifying.

Terror. Human terror. They are experiencing human terror.

No.

They need violence. Violence will stop this. Violence will remind them of what they are, how little mortality really is to them. They will take pleasure in their violence.

"I think the abomination protests too much."

He is completely placid, standing there with his vessel soaked in gore and speaking to a towering monster. His expression has not wavered from its mild neutrality, like a pond full of still water.

"You know what I can do, Illyria. You know that if I want to, I can be among them in an instant and you cannot follow me without crushing them all beneath you. Your threats are empty and you are toothless. Please, stop your posturing-- it's embarrassing."

Your efforts will result in failure.

Yet they are steeped in doubt. In doubt.

I have my own loyalists. They will stop you.

But they are a small army, hopeless against the Morningstar, whose devotion can be easily bought.

You will not get far, Pit-creature.

The building behind them cracks unexpectedly, and Illyria's great eye sweeps around in time to play witness to the many-tentacle horrors attempting to uproot it. They look to be succeeding. Illyria swats at them with a clawed, whiplike limb but the damage is done and the construction will soon fail completely.

A spurt of - of - is that best categorized as annoyance? - shoots through them to realize that the human they most recently swore to protect has not made its path to the city's outskirts but rather elected to stay and observe the proceedings.

I suggest you move, human, they order it darkly. Lest you perish.

Any thought of fleeing long ago abandoned Johnny, along with most of his animal instincts and all his human ones. He's frozen up there, his dragon slithering back and forth uneasily. The way these two have been carrying on, their voices filling up his head, resonating bone-deep within him, he feels like he's going crazy (again), and like he is definitely going to die (again). He can barely even track the argument, though it seems to at least laterally involve him.

Then the building is shaking. It's collapsing. Fuck. Fuck!

Illyria's helpful suggestion does not even register. He leaps up on trembling legs and backs into the dragon, which is already taking off, not caring just how well he's holding on. He has his arms around its long neck, sort of dangling like an ill-placed proverbial carrot. Almost immediately something hits them, and he almost loses his grip; another fireball, from another dragon, just seared right on through his ride's wing. Well that's just fucking spectacular.

It spirals down with a deafening screech and crashes heavily into the broken pavement, managing to land with Johnny on top of its shuddering bulk.

He reels up, staring at the heaving, grounded thing, then up at Illyria, and then, finally, turning around to face Lucifer.

Lucifer doesn't even twitch when Johnny's beast crashes nearby; the creature is greatly injured upon impact, but its passenger has apparently managed to survive the crash relatively unscathed.

Eventually, Satan turns his gaze from Illyria towards the otherwise insignificant human. His brother's pet, the one that he wastes so much time and devotion on; the little hairless ape who is not worthy of the affection that Gabriel bestows on him. Not worthy, and not nearly properly grateful.

Perhaps he needs a demonstration of what archangels really are.

He looks back up at Illyria.

"How many times do I have to tell you, crawling horror? I am not of Hell," he says. "I am an angel of The Lord. You'd do well to remember that before I show you."

The sight of the Morningstar bracing itself to eliminate their charge summons an unexpected surge of emotion within them. What is this?

Do not dare, they snarl. That one? That one is theirs. They do not know to what extent this newfound possessiveness applies, or even to what it might mean for the concerning amount of emotion they are now displaying. They have promised it protection. They will not fail their oath.

Get away, mortal, Illyria orders furiously, and their tentacles whip out with every intent of wrapping themselves around the Morningstar, crushing it, tearing it, shredding its shell into flesh-ribbons and then nothing. It would lay its abominable hands on the thing, it would destroy all Illyria has built, and for that it will suffer. It will suffer. They are exercising their authority as a god. They are detached. They are implementing justice.

They are implementing justice and the Morningstar will not touch this human. It is inconsequential and yet - Illyria has decided it will live. Thus it will live.

Edited 2014-12-07 08:49 (UTC)

This time, she doesn't have to tell him twice. Johnny jerks aside as though pulled on puppet-strings, letting his body crumple and essentially doing a really awkward barrel roll out of the direct line of fire. From his new position he chances only a brief glance at the two of them before deciding that no, he really doesn't want to see this. He curls up like a goddamn armadillo and covers his head.

Lucifer does not care what Johnny does. His attention is on Illyria and her assault, and as her limbs reach for him, he closes his eyes and leans his head back and

lets

go.

He unfolds, all light and sound and fury, expands to his true glory for the first time since he had been released from Hell. He rises above the buildings, dwarfs them like they're children's toys. The breadth of his three sets of wings arches just shy of a mile and a half each, crystalline riotous brilliance that lights up the sky like the noonday sun. He is burning limbs and faces and ice and fire, he is that he is. There are no words in any human language to describe the manifestation of full Grace on Earth, and the demons that are caught in his radiance are destroyed.

He pushes away Illyria's grasping limbs like they are an annoyance. When he speaks with true voice, all the glass in the buildings shatters.

I DARE, FALSE GOD-KING.

Shield your eyes, they order the mortal in the transient span of time before the Morningstar's shell unravels itself. The unholy blaze lights the darkened red of the Hellish skies and throws upon the clouds a burning white cast, the parody of a halo. Its voice is a bright tortuous smear, something twisted and corrupted beyond what even many of the demonic creatures below can tolerate. Those that did not melt away in the white fire of the Morningstar's being are hollowed out by the thundering aural force.

Illyria's shelled body braces itself for the inevitable clash of two unknowable forces. They are old enough to have seen things of the Morningstar's ilk before. But this thing is a paradox of existence, the darkest of all Pit-creatures shrouded in divinity.

The battle will be grand and destructive. The scuttling mortals they have fought so hard to inexplicably save will perish by the thousands, provided such a great number of them have lasted so long.

And yet - the sight of the thing infuses them with a modicum of dread. Illyria's form is built for dominance; the Morningstar's is tailored for pure destruction.

Then it will be your ruin, they answer, summoning every shred of righteous, ironclad pride in preparation to strike with all their godlike force. This is violence. This will be a mighty battle, and it will remind them of their glorious war-drenched origins.

Even with his head covered, the light seeps in at the edges, between the folds of his clothes and through the thin skin of his fingertips. The sound is worse, though it's hardly sound, it's something else, something more. Johnny feels his whole body vibrate, feels the city quaking in preparation for an immensity of destruction heretofore unimagined, even in this off-brand Hell.

He can't stay here for this. He doesn't have anywhere to run, either.

He's curled up in the remains of a demolished house, well, a skyscraper, an edifice of some kind. Doesn't matter. He can still do this, right? If it led into some kind of Hell before, maybe this time it'll go out the other end. Maybe he'll end up in China. Ha, ha.

Trembling and panicking enough that even this doesn't seem so fucking bad in the wake of what's about to happen, he curls in harder and plants his hand on the ground, what's left of the foundation, and he thinks, manic and grinning at his own internal fucking joke, Ftairs.

There they are. Plunging down, down, into depth and darkness and cold unreality. Unlike Will before him he doesn't have Karen to pull him out. He just has an angry God that may or may not survive this, may or may not remember him, may or may not follow him in.

Fuck it. He can deal with drifting in the void. He's done it before, on his own terms. It's better than the unmitigated holy terror that's happening around him.

He sinks down, crawling, stumbling, slipping down the stairs. Into cold black oblivion. The entrance seals behind him.

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wentdowntogeorgia - 2014-12-07 21:34 (UTC) - Expand

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noteasybeingblue - 2014-12-07 23:21 (UTC) - Expand

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Can't Stand the Distance, Can't Dream Alone [open to all]

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Johnny you had one job

Goddammit, Johnny

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