impudentsongbird: (i can fly)
Gabriel ([personal profile] impudentsongbird) wrote2012-08-20 08:38 pm

let me be the one you call / if you jump I'll break your fall

Book Four: Dark Days
1 | into the breach
2 | finding skulduggery
3 | retreat to the tunnels
4 | into the cacophony
5 | sanctuary in the cathedral
6 | reuniting old friends
7 | kenspeckle's new patient
8 | holy water and disinfectant
9 | objecting to china sorrows
10 | the roadtrip
11 | baffling guild
12 | shenanigans at the safehouse
13 | reassuring fletcher
14 | valkyrie's intervention
15 | solomon's revelation
16 | visiting the edgleys
17 | recalled to the sanctuary
18 | guild's confusion
19 | gabe is busted
20 | the psychic tattoist
21 | envisioning the cacophony
22 | angel's first migraine
23 | the morning after
24 | china and solomon
25 | detectives' council of war
26 | china's foolishness
27 | the collector dethroned
28 | finding crux
29 | skulduggery's vileness revealed
30 | sorrows in aftermath
31 | finding equilibrium
32 | the devil's number
33 | at the carnival
34 | meeting authorities
35 | solomon's confession
36 | the stray soul
37 | sanguine unsettled
38 | solomon's choice
39 | a cowboy underground
40 | in scarab's basement
41 | striking midnight
42 | craven contested
43 | emergency services
44 | on your feet
45 | and don't stop moving
46 | easy recognition
47 | a deuce of an evening
48 | engines roaring
49 | compromising judgements
50 | solomon's conflict
51 | axis turning
52 | thinking circular
53 | blasting the past
54 | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil
55 | sanctuary unsanctified
56 | shudder unravelling
57 | catching an angel
58 | layering dimensions
59 | dead men meeting
60 | when it rains
61 | power plays
62 | sing on gold
63 | the valley of death
64 | grand aspersions
65 | no evil feared
66 | new days rising
67 | angelic neuroses
68 | step-brothers working
69 | the many sorrows of china
70 | peacefully wreathed
71 | tarnished gold
72 | the secret in darkness
73 | magical intent
74 | scars worth keeping
75 | benefits of a beau
76 | grand magery
77 | lighting the darkness
78 | old dogs and new tricks
79 | flouting traditions
80 | drawing lines
81 | brothers and sisters in arms
82 | channelling angels
83 | return of the carnies
84 | the death bringers
85 | meriting agelessness
86 | knick knack, paddy
87 | give a dog a bone
88 | americans propheteering
89 | the right side of honour
90 | tailored shocks
91 | hosting angels
92 | elders anonymous
93 | rediscovered strays
94 | changings and changelings
95 | a state of reflection
96 | adding hope
97 | the devil's truth
98 | dead mens' hospitality
99 | lives half lived
100 | next to godliness
101 | devilish plans
102 | beached angels
103 | lights of revelation
104 | heroes worshipped
105 | new devilries
106 | angels under the yoke
107 | brains frozen
108 | father, mother, daughter
109 | parental guidance recommended
110 | driven round the bend
111 | ongoing training
112 | privileged information
113 | reasonable men
114 | passing the buck
115 | gifting magicks
116 | strengths and weaknesses
117 | immaturity's perks
118 | priests and prophets
119 | scaling evil
120 | blowing covers
121 | marring an afternoon
122 | lie detection
123 | five-dimensional pain
124 | reliving nightmares
125 | taking stock
126 | sampling spices
127 | sleeping prophets lying
128 | rueful returns
129 | dead men reunion
130 | medically-approved hugs


The life of an angel was a contradiction in changes and stability. On one hand, they understood very well the way the cosmos was shaped by events within it. On the other, they stood at one step apart from it—or at least had, for a very long time, up until their Master's recent wager with Lucifer. Changes in the recent past had, even for angels, been fast and turbulent, but there were none that concerned Raphael more than Gabriel's abrupt reserve.

In the aftermath of the wager Gabriel had been almost the only one to know where their Lord was at any given time, a fact which had put the Archangel very firmly under Lucifer's radar. Raphael had joked that Gabriel ought to arm himself with more jokes or worse clothes to drive the fallen angel away; Michael had offered the peace of the Garden Coast. (Rafe thought his idea was better.)

Either way, even though their Master was fair hidden, every angel knew that they had only to ask Gabriel and the Archangel would pass on a message.

Then Gabriel had simply blipped off the radar himself. Poof! Gone! No one had noticed at first, because, well, they weren't exactly in constant connection. It was just when Raphael had taken a whim to seek out his younger brother that he'd noticed it, and let it be, because there was absolutely a reason for it. Gabe did not just off and vanish, except that once with his self-exile, and that didn’t count.

But when Gabriel had come back, he had been strangely agitated and yet close-mouthed. The younger Archangel had vanished off to wherever their Master was hidden for a long chat Raphael was dying to have listened into, and yet couldn't (but only partly because it would have been rude). Now he was here, floating among the stars and examining a black hole with unnerving intensity.

For a time Raphael watched without letting on that he was there, but eventually Gabriel spoke. “I’d rather you came to join me instead of lurking, brother.”

Absolutely refusing to feel chagrined, Raphael let himself manifest with an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders and ruffled the younger angel’s hair. Gabriel threw a fond, longsuffering glance up at him, but there was something in his eyes, something distracted and sharp, which indicated that Gabriel still wasn’t truly present. Raphael only wished he knew where the other Archangel was.

“Just wondering what you’re doin’ all the way out here,” he said teasingly. “There’s a party going on down there on Earth, Gabe.” There was always a party going on down on Earth. “You oughta be down there bobbin’ for apples and switching up party-hats!”

“I can’t,” Gabriel said quietly, with a sort of seriousness Raphael had, for all Gabriel’s literalness, rarely heard from him. So Raphael fell into the same seriousness, lost his playful accent, and spoke directly.

“Why not, brother? You’ve been reserved of late. I conf—I’m worried for you.”

For a very long time Gabriel said nothing and stared into the slow-turning swirl of the black hole. Raphael waited patiently, his arm still companionably across the other Archangel’s shoulders. Eventually Gabriel spoke. “Did you know, Raphael,” he said, “that the universe you see around you here isn’t the only one our Master has created?”

Raphael was so startled that he couldn’t answer. That wasn’t what he was imagining. He hadn’t been sure what he’d been imagining, but that wasn’t it. “I’m not sure what you mean, Gabriel,” he said after a moment. “Our Lord told me the story of Creation not all that long ago, and he never mentioned anything of the kind.”

Gabriel nodded. “He told me that story as well. And then He asked if I really wanted to know details.” He hesitated. “I … admit, I declined. It’s something He said—about faith. I decided I didn’t need to know details. But it’s true, nevertheless. Just beyond this …” The Archangel reached out his hand and touched that gossamer and unbreakable fabric that supported reality. “There are other universes, even with different versions of us.”

“Different versions of us?” Raphael repeated, appalled and uncertain and entirely confused. How could that be possible? What could their Master want with more than one of any of them? What was going on? Where had Gabriel gone in that time he’d vanished? Then something occurred to him and he smiled with relief. “This is a joke, right?”

Gabriel looked up at him and smiled back with such a gentle understanding that for a moment Raphael felt very small indeed. “No, Rafe. I’m not joking. It was a shock to me too. That isn’t the point, though.”

“Isn’t it?” Raphael asked, feeling as dazed as an angel possibly could, especially when he wasn’t even inhabiting an actual physical body.

“No.” Gabriel returned to watching the black hole intently. “I met some people from other realities. One of them is in a kind of Hell, and he very much does not deserve it. I promised him that, if I could, I would save him from it.”

Which did not in the least explain why Gabe was staring at a black hole, let alone a million other questions Raphael would have liked to ask and for which he couldn’t find the words. Finally he found one. “How?”

“First,” Gabriel said with a sort of tranquillity Raphael had heard in his brother’s voice a million times but never after delivering so turbulent a piece of news, “I’m going to jimmy open a crack in the door through this hole.”

Raphael stared at Gabe, and then at the black hole, and then back at Gabe. He opened his mouth to ask whether their Master knew he was planning this and then closed it, because that was a stupid question. He opened it again to query if Gabriel had asked whether he could go around lifting the sheets and then realised that was also a stupid question, because whether he had or not, their Master probably would have told him to do what he felt was best.

It was equally clear that Gabriel very much planned to go through with this, no matter what Raphael said, and really, did Raphael have the right to object? Surely if this carried a risk, their Master would have already forbidden Gabriel from making the attempt?

“I’ll come with,” Raphael said at last, and this time when Gabriel glanced back the younger Archangel’s expression was startled. A moment later that expression shifted into grateful apology.

“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I’m not entirely certain I’ll make it through, and we can hardly leave Michael here alone.” He grinned. “Did you see what he was wearing last festival day on the Garden Coast? He hasn’t moved out of the eighteenth century yet. How would he possibly handle the rest of the world?”

Raphael laughed out loud, warm but startled, and the sound of it rang through space. Gabriel chuckled quietly beside him, and for a few minutes there was just companionable humour that faded into an equally comfortable silence.

Still, Raphael had a lot of questions. How did Gabriel plan to find his friend, let alone the universe he was in? How was he going to get back? What would he do if he met another version of himself? Or, worse, Lucifer? Finally the Archangel just asked, “Have you figured out how to crack open the door?”

“I think so,” Gabriel said, considering the black hole. “Once I figured out what to look for. I wouldn’t have gotten even that far if it weren’t for some things our Master said.”

Which meant that, in some fashion, this expedition was sanctioned by their Master, Raphael translated, and something tense in him relaxed. “Something do to with this drain here, I’ll bet,” he said, falling into his casual accent once more. “Gonna rip out the kitchen sink, li’l brother?”

“Just to see what’s hiding underneath,” Gabriel said with a grin.

“I’ll try’n keep it open for ya,” Raphael promised, and Gabriel sent him a smile which lit up the very space around them with its brilliance.

“Thank you, Rafe,” he said, and straightened. Raphael took his arm away as Gabriel lifted his hands, not exactly stepping back so much as giving Gabriel space. The youngest Archangel didn’t often reveal his power, but it was always a sight to see, a song to hear, when he did.

As it was now. Gabriel’s voice started deep, lifted high, split and wove and became more melodies than one would think a single being could possibly sing at once. The sound of it made Raphael’s heart soar, made him want to fly and laugh. It was so deep, so light, so resonating that it was physical; it touched the slow turn of the black hole and made it, for just the briefest of moments, still. In that moment Gabriel sent a carefully-aimed bolt of energy into the heart of it.

It was the kind of sight Raphael hadn’t seen in thousands of years, a play of physics and metaphysics which he hadn’t thought possible, let alone imagined. There was an eruption in the centre of the black hole, where gravity was condensed; the cascade of energy plumed upward and was dragged back down as quick, a tear in the fabric of the reality not allowed the time to widen or become a danger.

Raphael didn’t even know Gabe had moved until the younger Archangel was gone, he was so busy staring in awe. With a start the Archangel stretched out his senses and just barely managed to catch a glimpse of his brother shooting toward the hole at speeds few angels could have achieved through such a gravity well. Raphael certainly couldn’t have.

How, he suddenly wondered, was he meant to keep that open if he didn’t even have the speed of thought to track Gabriel’s movements through it?

Desperately the Archangel cast about for something to jam in the door, as it were. There was some dark matter nearby and with a thought he fashioned it into a spear and pitched it toward the centre of the black hole. It struck just as Gabriel flitted through the crack nearly wholly collapsed in on itself; the star’s gravity caught it, pulled it in, and plugged the opening like a metaphysical sink.

Slowly Raphael made every part of himself relax. For good or ill, Gabe was gone on this quest of his, and now Raphael should probably go and round up some of their younger siblings to guard the area. Just in case.


Book Four: Dark Days

into the breach | finding skulduggery | retreat to the tunnels | into the cacophony | sanctuary in the cathedral | reuniting old friends | kenspeckle's new patient | holy water and disinfectant | objecting to china sorrows | the roadtrip | baffling guild | shenanigans at the safehouse | reassuring fletcher | valkyrie's intervention | solomon's revelation | visiting the edgleys | recalled to the sanctuary | guild's confusion | gabe is busted | the psychic tattoist | envisioning the cacophony | angel's first migraine | the morning after | china and solomon | detectives' council of war | china's foolishness | the collector dethroned | finding crux | skulduggery's vileness revealed | sorrows in aftermath | finding equilibrium | the devil's number | at the carnival | meeting authorities | solomon's confession | the stray soul | sanguine unsettled | solomon's choice | a cowboy underground | in scarab's basement | striking midnight | craven contested | emergency services | on your feet | and don't stop moving | easy recognition | a deuce of an evening | engines roaring | compromising judgements | solomon's conflict | axis turning | thinking circular | blasting the past | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil

sanctuary unsanctified | shudder unravelling | catching an angel | layering dimensions | dead men meeting | when it rains | power plays | sing on gold | the valley of death | grand aspersions | no evil feared | new days rising | angelic neuroses | step-brothers working | the many sorrows of china | peacefully wreathed | tarnished gold | the secret in darkness | magical intent | scars worth keeping | benefits of a beau | grand magery | lighting the darkness | old dogs and new tricks | flouting traditions | drawing lines | brothers and sisters in arms | channelling angels | return of the carnies | the death bringers | meriting agelessness | knick knack, paddy | give a dog a bone | americans propheteering | the right side of honour | tailored shocks | hosting angels | elders anonymous | rediscovered strays | changings and changelings | a state of reflection | adding hope | the devil's truth | dead mens' hospitality | lives half lived | next to godliness | devilish plans | beached angels | lights of revelation | heroes worshipped | new devilries | angels under the yoke | brains frozen | father, mother, daughter | parental guidance recommended | driven round the bend | ongoing training | privileged information | reasonable men | passing the buck | gifting magicks | strengths and weaknesses | immaturity's perks | priests and prophets | scaling evil | blowing covers | marring an afternoon | lie detection | five-dimensional pain | reliving nightmares | taking stock | sampling spices | sleeping prophets lying | rueful returns | dead men reunion | medically-approved hugs
skeletonenigma: (pencilskul)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-12 01:53 am (UTC)(link)
"She's definitely not a threat anymore," Tanith confirmed - practically the only thing she was sure she actually could confirm.

"Definitely not," Valkyrie agreed, just as eager for the change of subject as Kelly was. "Completely indisposed. Incarcerated." She paled. "I meant incarcerated."

Had they been alone, Tanith might have rolled her eyes. As it was, she decided Kelly may just be vindictive enough not to mind the truth, and Kelly was better suited to knowing how much of it everyone else at the shelter could handle. "She's dead," Tanith said flatly. "She made a lot of enemies, and Sk - Detective Pleasant couldn't protect her from all of them. None of us could."
skeletonenigma: (jawfallingoff)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-13 05:48 am (UTC)(link)
Tanith was actually surprised by that, to be honest. Maybe people who had been hurt this badly tended to be more revenge-oriented, no matter who they were.

Of course, Kelly was completely wrong, as anyone who'd faced vampires or zombies or Skulduggery could easily attest to. When you were a sorcerer, being dead wasn't a guarantee that you were no longer a threat. The thought made Tanith smile. Kelly had no idea. Fortunately, she was probably right about Marr.

"Tesseract." If they were alone, Tanith would have gone on to explain about Lord Vile. It wasn't as if the world of sorcerers wasn't already buzzing with the news, and if anyone deserved the potential warning, it was Saffron. But there wasn't really a way to make 'Lord Vile' sound remotely normal or plausible, and Solomon probably didn't want the extra hero-worship on top of that. Besides, if all went well, Lord Vile wasn't going to be a threat for very much longer.

"He's gone too," was all she said.
skeletonenigma: (smug)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-13 07:03 am (UTC)(link)
Powerful and wealthy. That was pretty much the same conclusion Skulduggery had come to, Tanith was sure. The same people who'd tried to have Solomon killed twice, tried to use Marr to blow up the Sanctuary... definitely people to be reckoned with.

"We don't usually have witness protection," Tanith said with a bit of a grimace. "For that exact reason, actually. The kind of people we deal with aren't usually people who need it. Or want it. Or think it would actually help."

"But no one cares about Marr," Valkyrie jumped in quickly. "Seriously. She was evil. I think even she wanted Tesseract to catch her. Good news all round."

"No one's shedding any tears over Marr," Tanith agreed. "But we got Tesseract anyway. Thanks, Saffron. You did more than we were expecting, actually. These are really good." She waved the papers in the air and gave Saffron a kind smile. The ex-Necromancer was actually kind of adorable when you didn't associate her with the Temple. Her obvious eagerness to help, the fact that she seemed surprised at herself for even wanting to. Yeah, she was going to be fine. It would take time and practice and patience, but then, so did anything worth having in life.
peacefullywreathed: (like weights strapped around my feet)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-07-13 07:58 am (UTC)(link)
Corrival watched Wreath with a frown. The man hadn't stirred since yesterday afternoon. Just about twenty-four hours. It wasn't the longest Corrival had ever seen someone down and out, but if fighting Vile's armour took that much out of him, they were going to have a problem if the armour proved too difficult or dangerous to destroy.

"Wreath." Corrival nudged him without getting up from his seat. He'd been testing to see if the man responded every few hours now, and Corrival was getting a little bit testy for information.

Magical exhaustion didn't happen very often in the Temple. With a nearly limitless source of magic through death, there were simply very few situations in which it occurred. And during peace-time, it wasn't very common in general. During war, on the other hand, it could be relatively common. The last time Solomon had felt like this had been just after his fight with Vile. He'd only been coherent three days later.

Luckily, they had the magic-supplements nowadays.

Solomon still felt scattered by the time he started being aware of things. It was the slow, warm grogginess which came after an absolute black-out, and it unfortunately didn't include feeling well-rested. He still felt exhausted, but at least it was exhausted on the side of healing. Even if he did feel far too comfortable and heavy to even think about moving. His hand ached and it took a moment to remember why, but he didn't move it.

The lifestream was an odd thing while he was this groggy. It was a bit like that time when he was sixteen and Skulduggery had fed him magic mushrooms as an experiment. It turned slowly in a wash of colour, meeting one another and then pulling away.

Something snaked out toward him and nipped his shoulder, and he felt a nudge. "Mmnrf."

Too much effort to swat it away, whatever it was.

Noise. He was fairly sure someone was talking, but it took time for the words to trickle in. "Alive at last, are you?"

"M'sleeping," he mumbled.

"You've been sleeping for twenty-fours hours. Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty. We need your good opinion. Give us that and you can go down again for the next two days. If you don't, I'll just have to get Ravel to poke you until you respond."

"Slave-driver." With effort, Solomon opened his eyes, blinking slowly, until Corrival's drifting eels came into focus. "How am I?"

"Hand should be fine by tonight," Corrival said. "All those fine bones needed a bit of extra attention. Otherwise, you'll have to tell me."

"Sleepy," Solomon murmured, and let his eyes fall shut again. Corrival prodded him in the shoulder and Solomon groaned.

"Wake up, Mr Prophet Sir. We need a Necromancer's opinion on how to destroy Vile's armour."

Oh. Yes. That. With another groan Solomon forced his eyes open. "M'not getting up," he warned. "Go ahead."
Edited 2013-07-17 23:48 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (lordvile)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-17 05:38 am (UTC)(link)
Solomon Wreath was painfully adorable when he was exhausted, injured, magically drained, and half-asleep.

It was a pretty specific set of circumstances, but Erskine would take what he could get.

He'd been sitting in the corner of Corrival's office for a while now. Officially, he should have been overseeing Vile's armour, which was back in the Repository and under a mildly terrified guard, but... well, Erskine just couldn't do it. He felt physically sick every time he looked at that shadow-covered metal. It was one thing to see Skulduggery and know that he'd once worn that armour; for some reason, it was en entirely different thing to look at that armour, at the being that killed Ghastly's mother, and imagine Skulduggery inside it. Skulduggery controlling it.

One night and a few hours in the morning was all Erskine could handle. He'd walked out without a word after that, and no one stopped him. Even Corrival hadn't said anything, once Erskine wound up in his office. Vile's armour reanimating unnerved everyone who knew the truth. Erskine, Dexter, Ghastly, Skulduggery. Even Corrival. Solomon probably was, too, for the minute before he collapsed and was dead to the world for twenty-four hours. Saracen, wherever in the world he'd ended up, was probably on a plane back to Ireland right now - and that was assuming he hadn't called someone already.

Erskine walked forward and silently reached out one finger. He prodded Solomon's shoulder with it in a single, solitary poke. "You sure you're responding?" he asked dryly. "This is destroying Lord Vile's armour we're talking about. We do it wrong, and we might destroy something important. We might even lose Skulduggery."

Which may or may not sway Solomon, Erskine wasn't sure. He didn't know anything about the history the two of them had. But even if it didn't sway the ex-Necromancer, Erskine was all set to poke him until he was forced to sit up properly and answer their questions coherently.
peacefullywreathed: (just take one step at a time)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-07-17 09:28 am (UTC)(link)
Something else poked him. Solomon grunted, hearing 'Skulduggery', 'destroy' and 'important', and not much else in an arrangement that made sense. He mumbled, "He'll live."

The frustrating thing was that Ravel wasn't wrong. There was a very good chance that Solomon would fall asleep halfway through the conversation. The problem was that he didn't think he'd be able to sit up. It took a good thirteen pokes for Solomon to properly think of those possibilities, and it was about the point where he stopped being able to count those pokes, even half-asleep, that he realised they weren't going to leave him alone until they got answers.

He groaned. "Help m'up."

The ex-Necromancer tried to push down with his elbows and unintentionally made a pained noise when it made his hand twinge. "Ow," he grumbled, and was about to give it up as too much effort when he felt someone propping him up.

"You're a child," Corrival told him gruffly. "Ravel, put some pillows behind his back. Somehow I don't think our pet prophet's ready to sit up completely just yet. Let alone get up in any fashion."

"You owe me a box of candied roses," Solomon mumbled.

"What the Hell for?"

"Just woke up in your bed. For starters."

Either Solomon was more tired than he thought or Corrival's eels were actually dancing from side-to-side as the man laughed. "I'll see what I can do, Mr Prophet Sir. I'll see what I can do."
Edited 2013-07-17 23:48 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (fightfire)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-17 03:47 pm (UTC)(link)
He'll live. He'll live. Aside from not being technically true, Erskine was pretty sure the comment made his face fall flat. "Yeah, that's what we're worried about. Or do you want to be fighting a practically unkillable Necromancer with power beyond belief for the rest of your life?"

Unfortunately, Solomon didn't hear him. Or at least didn't give any indication that he had. With a silent and grim determination, Erskine continued to poke his fellow Elder hard in the shoulder until Solomon finally gave in.

And when he finally gave in, Corrival wasn't the only one laughing. Candied roses. Was Solomon a lot more lucid than they were expecting, or did candied roses mean something to him, specifically? Either way, the fact that he could make a joke was promising. And it more than warranted Erskine's help, as well, propping up the two pillows that lay on the bed behind Solomon's head.

It probably also warranted a quick call to China. Who knew? Maybe it was legitimate, and would finally trigger something between the two of them. As long as everyone except for Erskine seemed to be getting together, he might as well play Cupid. "I'll find a box of candied roses for you," he promised, doing his best to set aside the sarcasm. "But only if you're helpful. How do Necromancers normally destroy the objects they put their magic in?"

Okay, so maybe a bit of a patronising tone had replaced the sarcasm, but Erskine didn't think he could be faulted for a little bit of self-amusement now and then.
peacefullywreathed: (cos you seem like an orchard of mines)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-07-18 01:07 am (UTC)(link)
Being a little more upright helped Solomon's head turn a little less slowly, but it didn't change the way his body still wanted to mould itself completely to the bed beneath him. At least now he could look at the others without getting a kink in his neck. Keeping his eyes open was still something of a challenge, but he managed it after Corrival dropped a wet, ice-cold handkerchief onto his face.

"Here."

"Thank you," Solomon muttered under it, peeling it off his face and then pressing it back on more completely and securely. When he pulled it away a moment later, his eyes actually stayed open for more than two seconds at a stretch. "We hit them with a hammer," he said grumpily.

Maybe he should leave the handkerchief on for a little longer. Maybe it would help his brain find the right gear. With a sound that was a mixture between a groan and a wordless almost-epithetical mutter he covered his face again. "The holy water worked best," he said, his voice muffled. "But that's probably not a good idea to just dunk the armour in a vat of it. The reaction'd probably blow up the Sanctuary. Maybe if you dunked it in pieces, though ..."

"We haven't reached the part where we can take it apart, yet," Corrival told him. "Grouse is worried trying might spur a defensive reaction."

Some of Solomon's thoughts finally started moving in the right direction and he muttered a curse as he realised something. "The armour was never forged at the Temple, either. Vile came in wearing it. Which was, frankly, the first and best indication he was something no one had seen before--there's all kinds of enchantments that go into the forging of a Necromantic object, and then he walks in with his own already waving shadows around?"

He grunted again in lieu of shaking his head. That could either be a good thing or a bad thing. It could mean the armour would be harder to destroy. It could mean it would be easier. Either way, it meant it was--of course--unique.
skeletonenigma: (thinking)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-18 04:28 am (UTC)(link)
It was sounding more and more like they would need to ask Skulduggery directly about it. That was the last thing Erskine wanted to do. He didn't want to know where the armour came from, he didn't want to know how Skulduggery made it, or - more likely - who Skulduggery talked into making it for him. Because if someone else did make it, they were most likely dead.

"Does that mean it's not a channeling object?" he asked. "If it needs all kinds of special enchantments just to be forged at all, who's to say that Sku - that Vile didn't just get his hands on a random set of armour and... I'm not sure. Do something else to it? Vile was always a mystery. Maybe he never needed a Necromantic object."

Skulduggery could still use Necromancy now. It didn't matter what reason he claimed for it, what happened in the dimension of the Faceless Ones - the fact was that he could. With the little Erskine knew about Necromancers, they were practically helpless without the tangible access to their magic. Skulduggery was technically dead. Maybe his skeleton was the channeling object - and it wasn't as if they could get rid of that.

Why wasn't there ever an easy answer?
peacefullywreathed: (some gold-forged plan)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-07-18 01:36 pm (UTC)(link)
"It's a channelling object," Solomon said automatically. "It just wasn't made to channel--" Something fired in his head. He stopped and took away the handkerchief, and looked at Erskine and Corrival--looked through them. "He needed an object," he murmured. "Every Necromancer needs an object. It's in the nature of the magic. It's how the power of the souls is distilled. It's required."

Skulduggery, as always, being a natural exception. Even he needed a channelling object, but that didn't mean the armour was it. The armour channelled--it just wasn't inherently Necromantic in nature as Necromantic objects were.

"The armour is primarily made of palladium and platinum," he said, "like all Necromantic objects. The combination is a balance-counterbalance of conversion and stability. There's other enchantments involved with a true Necromantic object, is all." He was aware, even as he spoke, that he was talking about Temple secrets which had remained secret for centuries on end. He couldn't have been the first Necromancer to ever talk about all this to someone outside the Temple.

He probably was. Then again, Necromancers couldn't be the first sorcerers to figure out which metals channelled and controlled magic best. It was the only way Skulduggery could have known that himself, when he got the armour made.

"The armour is a channelling object," he repeated, "and it's still imbued with the magic he put through it. But if Grouse can break apart those parts of it which make it so useful as a channeller it might diffuse the magic naturally."

"If anyone can figure out how to do that without having the whole set of armour explode on him, it would be Grouse," Corrival said. "No idea how the Hell he's meant to break up something forged that's going to react like it's being attacked, but if anyone can, he can."

"You just asked for an ex-Necromancer's opinion," Solomon grumbled, "not a scientist's methodology."

He felt a hand patting his head a moment later. "That'll do, Prophet. That'll do."

"I hate you. Can I go back to sleep now?"

"No. What did you see when the armour was active? How did the armour activate?"

Solomon sighed. "It was me," he admitted. "When I killed Tesseract. Like waving a glass in front of an alcoholic who hasn't had a drink in two days. It made him react. Drew his magic up. But then he resisted, and it had to go somewhere. It went into the armour. They're still connected."

"Ghastly mentioned that."

"S'true. It was made for him. He claimed it. He imbued it. It's not his like a Necromantic object is, but it's still connected to him."

There was a pause, but it wasn't until Corrival asked in an odd tone that Solomon even wondered why. "Necromantic objects can't be touched without their owner's permission. Why is that?"

"One of the enchantments. The armour wouldn't have had it. No other discipline of magic uses it."

"What is it?"

Solomon frowned. "Why?"

"You just said Skulduggery and the armour are still connected. Can the connection be broken? What makes it different to a true Necromantic object?"

The ex-Necromancer forced his eyes open and looked at him. "Because Skulduggery's armour can't have been written with the sigils of his Given and Taken names and stained in his own blood."

"... Ah. I guess that would probably do it. And his connection to the armour?"

"Is just a matter of ownership. Same way Skulduggery's Bentley belongs to him. Same way anything else important to you belongs to you. It's just not something any of you can see. It's a metaphysical binding, not a magical one."
skeletonenigma: (snap)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-19 06:22 am (UTC)(link)
Erskine wanted to grumble that breaking the armour apart was an idea he could have come up with, and thus wasn't remotely helpful. But Corrival seemed to accept it. And on further objective thought, maybe it wasn't all that obvious. The theory behind it was probably something Professor Grouse could use, and objectively speaking, Corrival was right. If anyone could work it out, it was Grouse.

Objective thought. Because Erskine could feel himself growing unreasonably grumpy, even taking into account the recent news that one of his closest friends used to be evil and very well could be again. The lack of sleep, Erskine decided, must have been more brutal than he was thinking. He'd have to find a way to work past that, if he was going to be an Elder.

What was he saying? He didn't want to be an Elder.

"Which leads us to the next question." Erskine was still hovering, just in case Wreath needed a more serious poke in order to stay awake. "They're still connected. What would happen to Skulduggery if we successfully destroyed it? Would he still be alive?" The Elder hesitated. "For a given definition of 'alive?' Or would his Necromancy stop being a factor? And Corrival, how are we going to get the Professor to be careful about that without telling him what he's supposed to be careful about?"
peacefullywreathed: (like weights strapped around my feet)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-07-19 06:43 am (UTC)(link)
"Kenspeckle already knows to be careful," Corrival said. "Anything else related to Skulduggery is something we'll take care of on our own. But he does have a point. What would destroying the armour do to Skulduggery?"

"Nothing," Solomon mumbled, but that wasn't quite true. "Something. It won't kill him. His state of existence isn't dependant on the armour. Might make it harder for him to resist it, though. If his magic has nowhere else to go like it did yesterday."

"You just said it's a metaphysical binding. Skulduggery's nothing but soul. Nothing will happen?"

"Maybe a backlash. I don't know." Solomon was tired. The damp handkerchief wasn't really helping anymore and the brief spark of cognizance was fast fading. His eyes had slid shut without his realising it.

"A backlash would be bad enough."

"Prob'ly," Solomon mumbled.

"Would his Necromancy stop being a factor?"

"Doubt it. Armour's not an object. S'got to be something else. Something with--blood and names ..."

"Like his skeleton?"

"Mm."

Corrival looked up at Erskine with a lifted eyebrow. "Think we got enough out of him, or d'you want to ready your poking finger again?"
skeletonenigma: (pencilskul)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-19 07:22 am (UTC)(link)
Erskine was right. It was the skeleton. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back with a sigh, then shook it. "I can't think of anything. Besides, my poking finger's tired."

Skulduggery wouldn't die. That was the important thing. And it didn't matter if the Necromancy would always be a factor, because the soul-leash Gabe kept talking about was meant to help with that. A backlash would probably be bad, but they'd dealt with Vile before. They could deal with Vile again.

Especially now that they knew Lord Vile could be defeated with hugs.

Erskine's phone rang while he was examining the ceiling of Corrival's office. It took a lot of convincing for Tipstaff to let them keep their phones while they were in the Sanctuary - apparently there was something about magical means of communication being faster, more reliable, and more secure - but Erskine wouldn't have any of it. All it took was for Corrival to step in, and suddenly there was a hasty footnote to whatever silly law Tipstaff had referenced saying that phones for personal conversations were, of course, entirely welcome.

Honestly. Sorcerers could be old-fashioned to the point of lunacy.

Erskine flipped the phone open up near his ear after glancing at the caller ID. He barely needed to glance at the caller ID. "I was wondering when you were going to call."

"Erskine, no one else is answering their phones. Not going to lie, I'm getting a mite bit worried here." The voice on the other end of the line was quiet for a moment, and then it added in a lower tone: "And stop trying to pretend you have my magic."

"I'm not. Let's see. Ghastly and Skulduggery won't be answering because they're both busy."

"For the last few days?"

"Yep. Dex isn't answering because he's Dex, probably also busy with something. Corrival's the new Grand Mage, he doesn't have time for phones anymore. And Anton might be feeling slightly hurt over the fact that you've apparently known about Skulduggery since we first met you, and never saw fit to tell anyone. Except for Hopeless, but it's not like he counts."

"Knew about Skulduggery? What are you talking about?"

The voice, now full of a wary sort of confusion, belonged to a sorcerer called Saracen Rue. He was a late addition to the Dead Men, and one of only two members that didn't have any combat-based magic. Saracen's magic involved simply knowing things. Random things, as far as anyone could tell, but things that tended to be immediately helpful and then weren't worth anything. With a few notable exceptions. He was one of the bravest men Erskine knew, and a very good friend besides, but Erskine understood how Anton felt right at that present moment in time. "You know exactly what I'm talking about," he said - stopping just short of snapping. "You know. Why else would you be calling the moment you hear the news of Lord Vile attacking the Sanctuary?"

Saracen didn't say anything for several long moments, and then Erskine could practically hear him giving up the charade for gone. "How is he?"

"Still dead. It wasn't him. The armour reanimated on its own."

"It what?"

"It's a very long story, and it's not one for over the phone. Where are you?"

"Sydney." Now that Erskine was listening for it, he could hear the low rumble of airplanes on a tarmac. "I can be over there tomorrow."

"Or we could have a Teleporter go and pick you up," Erskine suggested, glancing meaningfully at Corrival. "He just started working for the Sanctuary. Bright kid. Anyway, I happen to know he's been to Sydney many times."

Saracen's tone was startled, and held the hesitant gratitude of someone who really wasn't sure what there was to be grateful about, given that the destination wasn't going to be much fun. "Thank you."

"What are friends for?"

"You mean aside from dressing each other up in crazy costumes with heavy make-up? I have no idea."
peacefullywreathed: (so fragile on the inside)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-07-19 01:41 pm (UTC)(link)
"He just went down anyways," Corrival observed, watching Solomon's even breathing. "Doubt even your magic finger could bring him back now." Carefully the Grand Mage eased the pillows out from under Solomon's back and lowered him properly onto the bed, rearranging his bad hand so it was resting more comfortably. According to Grouse, if not for magical healing the ex-Necromancer could have lost use of that hand. Having Tanith throw into him had damaged a lot of already-damaged bones.

As if Solomon needed more reason to not be able to do any paperwork.

Corrival sat back in his chair with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling and not even trying to hide how he was listening into Erskine and Saracen's conversations. Without looking he reached out to his desk for his phone and flipped it up, punching Fletcher Renn's speed-dial. "Got a job for you if you've got a moment, lad. Old minion of mine by the name of Saracen Rue is in Sydney International Airport and I'd really appreciate you bringing him to my office so I can chew him out in person for being an idiot."

This last was said loud enough for Saracen himself to hear.
skeletonenigma: (writtenname)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-19 11:19 pm (UTC)(link)
"An idiot?" Saracen sounded dumbfounded. "An idiot? I try to protect my family for over a century, and I'm going to get chewed out for it? Why would I - actually, how did any of you figure it out?"

"Do the words 'it's a very long story and not one for over the phone' mean anything to you, Saracen?"

"No. No, they don't. If you're worried about someone listening in, you don't have to be. And I'm still not sure that we're talking about the same thing."

Anyone else, and Erskine might have asked how on earth they could be so sure that no one else was listening in on their conversation - other than Corrival, of course. But this wasn't anyone else. This was Saracen. When Saracen said something was true, it was true. You didn't question him if you wanted to live through a war. "Trust me. We are. What would you say if I just didn't want to talk about it?"

"I'd say that makes perfect sense." Saracen sighed. "Tell your Teleporter I'll meet him by the JetStar kiosks. What does he look like?"

"Oh, you'll know him."

"I wi - ah. The hair."

And that was a prime example of the immediately helpful, but ultimately useless things Saracen could 'just know.' Despite himself, Erskine laughed. "That, and he's eighteen. Are you saying you won't know him as soon as you see him?"

"I prefer not to rely on that."

"Really."

"Really. Pull a blanket over the Prophet for me."

"I don't think we have a blanket."

"Fluff up a pillow then."

"Corrival fluffed them all up just now."

"Erskine, the point here is to suck up to him and tell him it was all my doing. I have to make friends with all of the Elders, don't I? I'm two for three so far."

"I'll tell him that the spell on him is a gift from you, then, how does that sound?"

Saracen's voice was amusingly suspicious. "Depends. What's the spell?"

"You know that Solomon's asleep near me, but you don't know what the spell we put on him is? I am never going to understand how your magic works."
vexingshieldbearer: (if everyone loved)

[personal profile] vexingshieldbearer 2013-07-20 10:08 am (UTC)(link)
"I have a blanket," Dexter volunteered from where he leaned against the door, just barely cracked open enough to contain him. "At least, I can make a blanket. Hi, Saracen."

He waved at the phone and ambled inside, closing the door behind him. His ribs were officially fine, even though he swore he could still feel a twinge every now and then. Kenspeckle had told him it was all in his head, but it still gave Dexter shivers to remember how close anyone within reach of Tesseract really was to death. All he needed was a touch.

Solomon didn't even need that.

Dexter was trying very hard not to think of that part as he flopped down in the nearest chair and leaned forward to spread his hands a few inches over Solomon. There was a shimmer and he moved his hands down the ex-Necromancer's form, and a moment later there was a soft blue blanket lying over him. A soft blue blanket covered in teddy-bears. Some of them had bunches of flowers. Some of them were even hugging.

"There," Dexter said cheerfully, flopping back in his chair. "How's that look to you, Saracen?"

Corrival shut his phone, closing down his conversation with Fletcher, and looked down at the blanket. He snorted suddenly at the sight of it. "You lot are going to be the reason no one takes me seriously. And Solomon is going to humiliate someone to death when he finds out what's on that blanket."
skeletonenigma: (headtilt)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-20 11:17 am (UTC)(link)
"If he finds out what's on that blanket," Erskine pointed out with what he was sure might have been a sly smile if he was feeling a little less grumpy about things. "And even if he does, I think you're underestimating his attachment to that teddy bear he has. I doubt he'll even care."

"Looks good to me," Saracen managed to stop laughing long enough to say. "Hello, Dexter. What's up?"

"Oh, right, forgot to mention," Erskine went on. "Tesseract showed up right beforehand. There were a few injuries. Dexter's lung got punctured and Solomon's wrist was shattered. Tanith Low broke her arm. But, Tesseract's dead and everyone is on the mend."

All of which Saracen might have known already, but judging by the ensuing short silence, Erskine managed to surprise him with at least one of those things. He liked to chalk it up as a small victory when that happened. "But Lord Vile didn't..."

"No. No, the armour's dormant again. About all it managed to do was scare a whole lot of people and make Solomon here sleep for days on end."

"But people are panicking, I imagine?"

Erskine sighed. He didn't know. He'd been stuck on guard duty before ditching it to come and sulk silently in Corrival's office. But he could hazard an educated guess, and he would probably have to get used to hazarding educated guesses as an Elder of Ireland. "Yes. Yes they are."

"Alright. I see the kiosks. No one with ridiculous hair quite yet. Dexter, try not to get your lungs skewered again before I'm there to warn you someone's about to try to skewer your lungs, please."
vexingshieldbearer: (from underneath the trees)

[personal profile] vexingshieldbearer 2013-07-20 11:34 am (UTC)(link)
"He can see souls," Corrival pointed out back with a 'you are not thinking, stupid' lift of his eyebrow. "What makes you think he won't find out, eventually? Maybe he's not as bad as Descry, but you'd better get used to not thinking things so loudly unless you want him to know about it."

"The sky's up, for one," Dexter said. "Also Skulduggery is Lord Vile and I'm in the doghouse for knowing, despite valiantly protecting one of my Elders from a Russian assassin he insisted on confronting. And yes, for the record, people are panicking. Do you know how many times I got stopped on the way up here? Apparently just hanging around with you guys makes people think I have authority."

"That is strange," Corrival said blandly. "And he's not going to get his lungs skewered while he's in my office, because he's not going to leave my office to get them skewered until you get here."

"So I have permission to get my lungs skewered so long as Saracen's chaperoning? Good to know."

"Onto more important matters," Corrival continued without responding in any way to Dexter, "exactly what else do you know about what's been happening here the last few weeks, Rue?"
skeletonenigma: (skulnoname)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-20 12:02 pm (UTC)(link)
"Important matters?" Saracen was back to sounding dumbfounded, and a tad offended besides. "Skulduggery isn't an important matter? Dexter, when did you find out? I thought Descry and I were the only ones. I was sure we were the only ones. Descry implied rain of hellfire if any of the rest of you found out. Does Ghastly know?"

"He does," Erskine confirmed for him.

"And... I'm going to try and put this as delicately as I can, but how isn't Skulduggery dead? Or at least... out for the count?"

"That's delicately put?" Erskine scoffed. "There was a broken jaw involved, I think. Something like that. Anyway, Skulduggery's fine. A bit rattled, but who wouldn't be when their past comes back to bite them? Saracen, your new Grand Mage asked you a question."

"And suddenly the abuse of authority starts." Saracen sighed. "I think... honestly, I think something might be wrong with my magic."

Erskine couldn't help it. He grinned. "And what would make you think that?"

"Angels, mainly. The figures in white all the Sensitives keep talking about."

"What about them?"

"Well... angels. Real Bible angels. Everyone's been assuming they're really powerful sorcerers, or these new angel statues you all cooked up, but they're not. They're real. And... oh, to hell with it, something about Skulduggery being in love with one of them?"

Erskine nodded. "Sounds about right."

"And then, of course, another Armageddon right on the heels of the last three." Saracen paused. "Wait, what?"
vexingshieldbearer: (and swallowed their pride)

[personal profile] vexingshieldbearer 2013-07-20 12:39 pm (UTC)(link)
Dexter stared, almost slack-jawed, at the phone. "You knew? You knew and Descry didn't tell me? I've known since--since almost when he came back. Just after a mission where Vile surprised us when he didn't turn up. Descry had a bad night. I wasn't even meant to know, really, and--"

"Stop talking," Corrival ordered.

"Yessir." Dexter shut up, but didn't stop staring at the phone. The stare exploded into a grin, an extremely wicked grin answering Erskine's, and then the blond started laughing in behind Erskine's gleeful prodding.

He stopped laughing long enough to tilt his head in a Skulduggery way. "To be fair, they are really powerful sorcerers. Just not human. And Merlin is human. Just only half human and half an angel."

"That damned detective," Corrival grumbled with just a little more edge to his tone than there usually would have been. "His mooning over his new angelic boyfriend is a pain in my ass. Can't get him to focus. Messing up all over the place. Withholding important information. Like the fact that Lucifer is on his way from Gabe's dimension."

"Oh yeah," Dexter added, "Gabe's brother Rafe came to play too. He painted Dublin red. Well, he and the Teleporter you should be meeting at any moment now. He makes a very hot lady. Rafe, not the Teleporter you should be meeting at any moment now. I'd bet you a shoulder-rub you can't make an Archangel fall into your arms, Saracen."
skeletonenigma: (writtenname)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-07-21 12:09 am (UTC)(link)
A long silence was all that answered Dexter at first, and when Saracen did speak, it was to completely ignore the question. "Merlin?"

"Merlin," agreed Erskine.

"King Arthur's Merlin? The first sorcerer Merlin? Star-spangled robe with a long white beard Merlin?"

"Yes, sort of, and no. Although I suspect Ghastly's aiming to change that last part."

There was another long silence, during which Erskine could almost feel his earlier grumpiness evaporating, and then Saracen spoke again. "Lucifer? Like the cat from Cinderella? We're all in danger from an amazingly persistent cat?"

Despite himself, Erskine laughed. "If that's what would help you sleep at night, fair enough. In the meantime, you need to get here sooner rather than later. What's taking Fletcher so long?"

"Probably preening. Oh, no, wait." A smile leaked into Saracen's voice. "He's over by the bathroom. You really weren't exaggerating about his hair."

"Yep. That's the one." Erskine flipped off the speakerphone. "See you in two seconds, then. Fletcher should know which office is Corrival's. But, really quickly, do you think you could get an Archangel to fall into your arms?"

"I haven't broken any laws of physics, as far as I know, so no. Probably not. I'm sorry, did Dexter say Archangels could turn into beautiful women?"

"No. He said Raphael makes a very hot lady. Goodbye, Saracen."
vexingshieldbearer: (if everyone shared)

[personal profile] vexingshieldbearer 2013-07-21 12:47 am (UTC)(link)
"I wanna see Merlin in a star-spangled robe," Dexter murmured with a grin. He'd been to visit Ghastly just that morning, to get some of those suits. He'd even seen the masterpiece in all its glory, finished alongside the Elder robes. It was beautiful. A gorgeous piece of tailoring. And unmistakeably star-spangled.

There was even a pointy hat.

Then his head snapped up. "He does make a very hot lady," Dexter protested. "Or she, or whatever I'm meant to call an angel when they don't even have a real physical gender and can change their looks at the drop of a hat. And I defy you not to be extremely influenced by said hot lady Archangels when they saunter over and sit in your lap unexpectedly."

By the time he'd finished, Fletcher and Saracen had blipped into existence and Dexter was addressing his words directly at them.

"I already have one of my minions smitten with a blasted Archangel," Corrival told him, resting his elbows on his desk. "The very last thing I need is you being smitten with the very Archangel who is even less responsible than you are. Thank you, Renn. Hope I didn't interrupt anything much. You free for the moment? Low and Cain should be back soon with an update."