Where Spiders Once Dwelt [Nascent Vs Margatroid]

[Admin Roc]

[/u]
[li] Hybrid style fight -- auto-hits allowed for minor injuries, not for anything strong or disabling.
[/li][li] No godmodding.
[/li][li] Must have a character profile linked to in first post.
[/li][li] Battle goes to 20 posts (total), then victory determined by judge's decision (judge not yet determined).
[/li][li] Rules can be revised if both combatants agree to terms.[/li][/ul][/size]

O P E N I N G _ T H E M E
Victor
from the Soul Eater OST

In the aftermath of the war between Shibusen and Arachnophobia, the fortress known as Baba Yaga's castle had been abandoned. Once this vast complex had housed a cult of dedicated followers, all willing to lay down their lives for the witch Arachne... now it lay in shambles, a testament to the devastation left in the wake of Shinigami's loyalists.

Pathetic.

That was the word on the old devil's mind as he gazed up at the spider-like construction that had been the seat of the organization's power. To have had so much at hand, only to be brought low by foolish haste and acting too openly. To Mephisto, Arachnophobia's demise had all the earmarks of a novice attempt -- on a grand scale, to be sure, but ultimately lacking in the tact and savvy needed to bring down the Reaper's dominion. He strode forward through the empty cavern, approaching the front entrance after almost fifteen minutes of walking. The place was certainly big, if nothing else... and, he reminded himself, there was still the chance of something valuable in the detritus, something that the treasure hunters and Shibusen investigation teams had missed. He'd been patient, waiting for his opportunity to get inside this place when everyone else lost interest; now, with the complex empty he could peruse it at his own pace. Which was important -- a job like this couldn't be trusted to a minion or courier, and to find what others had overlooked he'd need the liberty to do so unhurried. He didn't sense anyone nearby... but who knew what leftover witch-machinery might still be operating here to conceal it from prying soul-gazers?

If trouble came, though, he could handle himself. The old devil was no Ashura, but nor had he survived for a thousand years through running and hiding alone. A black dagger, woven from the energies of his own madness, coalesced in his left hand as he put his right on the main door, slowly easing it open.

"Just like that time in Egypt..." He muttered to himself.

[margatroid]

Part 0: Sufficiently Vague

“I dedicate this hunt to Mara Papima, demon of the East.”

A pair of pale hands submerged themselves in the stream, cupped together to capture the flowing water. Almost instantly, the water began to fill with an inky redness. The blood would worm its way out from her flesh, probing about, before drifting away with the gentle current. In response, the flow grew unexplainably exponentially more violent with each passing moment.

Unabated the woman continued to pray, her voice a mere whisper from between two barely parted lips. The words became less and less recognizable as they sifted through languages from new to old like a tape on reverse. She continued to pray until her hands disappeared beneath a sea of red and the stream became choked with blood.

With her prayers done she pulled back from the stream, her pale forearms stained a dull red and a handful of blood cupped in her palm. Without a second thought she flung the water into her face, expelling a sigh of relief along with it.

She shoved her hands onto her face next, cupping a cheek in each palm, and began to grope about. The blood swirled and congealed and thickened into a thick paste. She lifted her palms away until only the tips of her fingers touched her face, and she started to grope about with those too. This continued for several minutes until symbols began to appear in the blood, simple tribal lines that spread across the face, capturing the eye and refusing to let it go.

When all was said and done, the woman rose to her feet, a cruel smirk spread across her lips.

Part I: You've Done Horrible Things Kwai Lun-Mei

[The Amazon Rainforest - Sometime Earlier]

Rumors of Arachne’s resurrection had been grossly overstated.

Over five years ago the wicked Queen of Spiders had been slain by Shibusen Special Forces, ending her reign of terror before it could truly begin. In the witch hunt that followed, her castle had been pillaged for any dread artifacts and her followers were uprooted the world over. But it was a tumultuous and dark time, and the search had not been nearly as thorough as Shinigami would have liked. For five years the members of Arachnophobia had survived like cockroaches, huddled together in the darkest corners of the world, far away from prying eyes.

But five years was a long time to wait…

Their numbers dwindled every year as more of Arachne’s heretics lost their faith or their lives. Sometimes both. The few who remained were hardy bastards who had survived in a world that wanted them dead, the ones who had no home left to return to and whose faith was the strongest.

But five years was a long time to wait…

In the Amazon Rainforest was one such nest, mere miles away from Baba Yaga’s castle, where Arachne had made her last stand. Braving the deadliest environment known to man, they had not only survived but thrived. Building a fort where they could maintain a constant vigil over the Spider Queen’s last web. The peaceful calm had put a new pressure upon Arachnophobia’s survivors as prying eyes grew ever more persistent. Though their faith was strong, their bodies were beginning to grow weary.

So they had contacted Miss Red.

***

The mid-day sun hung high in the air, beating down on the weary fortress when the guards first raised the alarm. A great white horse broke through the forest clearing, if it could be called that. Such was its size that the horse first appeared to be more of a tank than anything else, its hooves tearing apart tree roots and leaving deep furrows in the ground with each passing step. Its hair was a snowy shade of white and its mane and tail were stark black.

At first it seemed as though the beast would simply drive its way into the camp. The high wooden walls and the thick gate that had been their barrier against the outside world for five years seemed suddenly pathetic, and a shudder of fear flew through the whole camp.

Finally one heretic raised her gun, taking aim at the horse. With a defiant snort it came skidding to a stop.

Atop the horse rested a woman, tall regardless of her gender, but especially so for a female. A long cloak billowed around her body, the same snowy shade of white as the horse’s hair, with a hood pulled high despite the heat. Even now when the tank of a beast had stopped moving, it was hard to stare directly at the woman. She seemed to blend in perfectly with her mount.

Following closely along the horse’s trail were a trio of somber looking men. They wore black long coats and big black hats with thick black suit cases clutched in their black-gloved hands. They did not share a word with one another and were exhausted from a trek made entirely on foot.

She was undoubtedly the long awaited Miss Red.

An awkward silence filled the air for quite some time. During which, the woman finally dismounted her war-beast and motioned for the three men to hurry and join her. Despite her insistence, they did not rush to do so and continued to meander after her with the same sloshing pace as before.

A third party shuffled off the horse alongside her, previously hidden inside of the folds of her clothes. It was a little man with an ugly ape-ish face, a long curling tail, and arms that dragged down to the ground. The little primate was completely hairless and his unhealthy spotted monkey flesh was clear for the world to see. Despite his handicap, the little man was exceptionally animated, flailing wildly while mocking the three somber men and hooting out aggressively.

Finally, the fortress gate gave a great shudder and began to swing inwards, following a trail of worn-out dirt that had been dug by a thousand such openings. From inside a small platoons worth of heretics poured out and hastily surrounded the newcomers.

All of the heretics were covered from head to toe, despite the sweltering heat, and they wore only shades of black and crimson red. They came in all shapes, sizes, and genders but every face was the same blank white mask. It was perfectly circular with eight eye holes carved into it, four per each side. Near the bottom a pair of fangs jutted downwards, surrounding the mouth like a spider’s mandibles. They twitched with anticipation. Or was it fear?

Miss Red took a long deep breath. It was a little of both.

At the head of the group was their commander, and unlike the others, he was naked from the waist up. His skin was dark brown and as thick as leather with a patchwork of scars, many still fresh. It was a display of strength, however infantile.

Every heretic was armed but not always the same. Some carried modern military weapons like rifles. Others carried medieval weapons like swords, or axes, or scythes. One even came to battle with nothing but a pair of overly thick gauntlets on each hand, curled up into fists and hovering before his face in a boxer’s stance.

The commander was a traditional man; he carried a simple long sword strapped along his back, the handle poking off to the side from behind one shoulder. His belt was lined with a dozen other weapons.

“Settle down men,” the commander called out, his reaction a little too slow to be anything other than rehearsed. “We’ve got us a guest.” He marched towards the woman in white and stretched out one hand. “Hail and well met. My name is Commander Horson.” And he was not going to give his first name.

The woman pulled down the hood of her cloak. Her face was deceptively pretty, with smooth pale skin and long raven black hair, stylishly streaked with varying shades of red. She greeted Commander Horson with a crooked smile, her hands spread out to her sides defenselessly. The little man stepped up to her side and reached up for a handshake.

After a click of her tongue and a shake of her head, he shuffled off to the side, making ponderous noises the whole way. A little ‘ooh’ here and a little ‘aah’ there.

“Nice to meet you Commander Whoreson.” She didn’t even bother to look at him as the little man retrieved a set of papers from one of her companions and then waddled them over to her. “I believe you sent for me.”

She snatched the papers away from the naked-monkey and handed them over to Horson, who snarled his disapproval at her but took the papers anyway.

“Miss Red I presume?” he said.

“The one and only.” she smiled her crooked smile.

***

The inside of the fortress told the sad story of a beleaguered rebellion. The high concrete walls and their overbearing guard towers were just a façade. Inside the homes of the soldiers were made from scrap metal, recovered from Arachne’s much grander factories and barracks that had once dotted the land. Many had holes in them, covered with cloth, while others looked like they were barely held together by gum and spit.

Cooking was done exclusively outside where the large Amazonian flies picked away at the meat, weapons were often stored unguarded if at all, and the whole place stunk overbearingly of death. Still Commander Horson had a love for both his home and his soldiers; he showed the fort off with an unmistakable sense of pride.

“For five years we’ve waged this war alone, waiting for the Queen to return to us,” he said with a thick drawl in his voice. “It may not look like much, but she’s served us well.”

“I can see that,” Miss Red said, only half interested at this point. With a click of her tongue she called the little-man to her. He had been caught rifling through a shack that had been half burnt down and never rebuilt.

“Recently, we raided Arachne’s castle ourselves. The men don’t much like to go there on account of the lingering magic, but I led them personally.” He noted the sudden spike interest as Miss Red’s eyes began to follow him. “We recovered some of the Queen’s little pets.”

As they rounded a corner, Miss Red could not help but smile. Little was not quite the word she would use. The pets in question were massive, an assortment of unintelligent monsters covered in thick surgical scars, each hideous in their own special way. Some had parts sewn onto their bodies, while others had extra growths. A lion the size of a small car snarled at her, with all three of its heads.

“They’ve been wild for so long that they don’t quite remember their place. But they’ll make a nasty treat for whatever sorry bastard we sick them on.” Commander Horson scooped up a small prod from a nearby crate. Then he jabbed it through the thick doors of a cage, zapping a particularly aggressive wolf that had grown scales and horns in its time as a captive.

“Very impressive.” Miss Red did not budge an inch, and her eyes never once left the Commander.

“Yes, indeed. It was quite the catch. Lo---“ His words cut off as he began to watch the little man. “Are you sure that’s okay?”

The little naked man raised his arms high to the air, waving one of the batons in his hand and flailing wildly towards a cage. A particularly large wyvern rested directly ahead of him, its body covered in thick scars. With a sudden howl of rage the wyvern charged forward, slamming its head into the cage and gnashing its wickedly sharp teeth.

The little man could not help but run away with a loud shriek and Commander Horson guffawed so hard that his lungs did not stop hurting for several minutes.

***

The sun was beginning to set once the tour had finally come to a close. The entire trip had been slowly circling the camp until they finally arrived at a large circus-esque tent in the middle. It seemed to serve as the heretical headquarters, perhaps for the entire rainforest. Inside, a set of long tables waited for them with a large number of white-masked heretics already seated in anticipation.

“As you can imagine, Miss Red, it has been a long five years.” Commander Horson circled the table before finally taking his seat at its head, motioning for Miss Red to sit wherever she wished. “With the calm that followed Ashura’s death, we thought we might get some… relief. But that bastard Shinigami has only begun to search that much harder.”

“It must be terribly difficult to fight in such conditions.” Miss Red found a seat uncomfortably between a man and a woman, both in white masks. She promptly leaned back, draping one arm across the back of her chair, and mounted both heels atop the long table.

“We’ve been lucky that Shinigami has overlooked us so far,” A faceless someone commented.

“But now, he’s on the hunt for you because you’ve struck him from right underneath his nose, eh?” Miss Red clicked her tongue and motioned for the little man to stop snooping through people’s pockets.

“No, we’ve… not yet engaged Shibusen,” Another faceless heretic commented, this time a woman.

“But we have narrowly avoided detection by the Exorcists.” Another chipped in.

“That’s so sad.” Miss Red looked at Commander Horson with a smile that said, ‘I already knew that’.

“Right,” the Commander spoke up and broke through the growing silence. “We have over a hundred soldiers stationed in this camp alone. All over the country, our numbers are near a thousand. With you arming our soldiers, we can coordinate a full-scale guerilla rebellion in under a--“

“Enough of this bullshit.” Miss Red shot to her feet, sending her chair skittering off to the side.

One of the black suited men that followed her caught it with a deft hand and righted it immediately, then sent it skidding back towards Miss Red. With a practiced nonchalance Miss Red shot her leg out, catching the chair on the heel of her foot and stopping it cold in its tracks. Then she leaned forward, both arms folded over her knee, with a lecherous leer on her face.

“I have no guns to sell you.”

“Lying whore!” One heretic threw his chair away; this time, it was not recovered. The little man shrieked at him with anger and waved his long arms in the air.

“Face it, Whoreson. Times are changing and paradigms are shifting. Arachne is old news, she’s dead. She was old news before she was dead.” Miss Red waved off the angry man and that was that. The conversation had ended. “I’ve come to offer you a new beginning!”

With a clap of her hands one of the black suited men stepped forward and handed her a suitcase. With a wicked grin Miss Red slammed the briefcase down onto the table, one leg still mounted on the chair, and she gently thumbed the brass locks that covered it.

“You want a rebellion? I can give you a war.” Her words rang throughout the entire camp and all activity to a stop, even the constant snarls of the Chimeras became a mere murmur. “You can have your own castle, twice the size of Baba Yaga’s, and it can fly!”

“What…” Commander Horson wrenched his gaze away from the suitcase, fighting against the supernatural silence that had suddenly overtaken the room. “What are you on about?”

“You think too small! A thousand people? I can give you an army of millions who would be willing to give you their lives at a single word. A mountain of treasure to sleep on every night.” Miss Red’s smile had now split its way all across her face, revealing a mouth full of sharp white fangs. “You want guns? Nukes baby! Think big!”

“You… are a liar.” Commander Horson began to rise to his feet, his lips twitching.

“You want a god? I can give you a new one to worship. Just tell me what you want and I’ll create her for you in a snap!” The heretics balked with horror. “Doesn’t have to be a her. You want it be a man? What about both!” Miss Red slid her suitcase open, revealing a set of worn old documents. No more and no less than five pages, stapled together hastily in the right corner. “All you have to do is sign.”

“Get out of here… right now.” Commander Horson snarled, his voice barely heard against the magical silence.

“What? What!?! You’d rather worship a crusty old witch whore? I’m talking about an honest to goodness GOD! Cthulu, Rashael, the Watcher! All for you!!!”

“Leave this camp at once!” Commander Horson howled at the top of his lungs, spittle flying from his mouth.

“You ignorant sack of shit! You’re small-time; you’re so small, you don’t even exist. Shinigami would need a magnifying glass just to see your shit-stain castle on a map. You aren’t even a pimple on his ass. How dare you reject me!” With that, Miss Red slammed her suitcase shut and turned to leave the room. The little man stalked after her, howling out his fury and waving dirty gestures in Commander Horson’s direction.

***

Outside of the tent, Miss Red stomped over to her war-beast. Dropping the little man into the saddle and thrusting the suitcase into his arms.

“You, leave!” The little man began to protest but Miss Red swiftly cut him off. “I’m going to the castle, as originally planned. I will not leave empty handed.” The little man continued to argue, but as she raised her hand high with the threat of a strike, he turned away and with his little primate-feet, he spurred the horse forward.

Inside the tent, the murmur of heretics began to grow ever larger. The magical silence had been broken and the heretics would be waking up from their waking slumber, stirred by Horson’s words.

“You! Go! Now!” Miss Red jabbed a finger at the nearest black-suited man. Without a word of protest the man began to march towards the tent, his steps beginning to pick up pace as neared the flap that served as a door.

“Do you think I’ll really let you leave this camp alive!?” the Commanders voice echoed out behind her. With a turn of her head she saw the man intercept her agent, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders and sliding a dagger firmly between his ribs, then hurled him to the ground.

“You just told me to leave. Don’t contradict yourself now,” Miss Red cooed with a faux-calm in her voice.

“Your magic doesn’t work on me witch!” From his side he ripped free a handgun, taking aim at Miss Red.

The man in the black suit lunged up, grabbing Commander Horson by the shoulders and jerking him back. The shot went wide before bouncing off the shingles of a nearby roof; by now the entire camp was beginning to stir. Horson whipped around and with a vicious elbow he struck the man in the nose, shattering it on impact.

Horson stumbled back as the man assaulted him with an unnatural strength, Horson’s fingers searching against his opponent’s face for purchase. He hooked his thumbs in the man’s eyes and plunged them in, milky white goo pouring out against his digits. With a shout the man in the suit pulled away, the flesh of his face becoming caught in Horson’s fingers and peeling off like a mask.

Underneath the mask the black suited man was a hideous beast of pulsing meat and muscle. His mouth was twisted up in a perpetual smile with no lips, and inside of that smile, his teeth were rotten brown things. Despite this, the black suited man began to laugh. A wicked cackle that flooded throughout the entire camp and wormed into the minds of men, even as his flesh began to set alight in the evening sun. The laughter continued even when Horson planted his feet against the beast’s chest and hurled the monster backwards into the tent. Nor did it stop when the creature’s muscles began to swell against an unknown pressure.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” The laugh did not even stop when an explosion tore through the tent, collapsing it in to a torrent of flames and screams. The entire camp juddered with the explosion, and Horson was thrown forward. Even when the voice had stopped and the fire spread across the camp, the flame’s roar was the roar of laughter.

Commander Horson scrambled away, his mask cracked in several places and his flesh bubbling from the flames that he could not put out no matter how hard he rolled. He moved on his hands and knees, because at least one leg was broken.

One crawl at a time, until the heel of a boot slammed into his wrist and a sickening crack echoed through the air.

“What… what do you want!? Why!?” Horson sputtered out after he stopped howling with pain. “Why us!?”

“You’re a piece of shit, Whoreson!” Miss Red screamed at the top of her lungs, overtaking the sound of laughter. “I didn’t come here for you, you stupid little egotistical ant. You’re nothing, you’re less than nothing. This camp is a sink hole dedicated to a dead god!” Miss Red’s voice was furious, but her smile was deceiving. “I wanted some fun. I thought I would enjoy myself while I was here! But you spit in my face, Whoreson. You spit in my face and you rejected the world. You’re a stupid little man. But I’ll have my fun anyways, one way or another.”

Horson did not respond this time. He remembered the gun and he stretched for it.

“You’re so dedicated to your Arachne. Do you know what she is, Whoreson?” With one hand Miss Red reached behind her back, cupping a magnum of such size and girth that it would make any man blush with envy. “She’s an insect! And just like every other insect, she was smashed beneath a rolled up newspaper. Shinigami didn’t even think twice about it! It’s hilarious really.” She fired off a shot. The bullet came ripping out as a wave of crimson energy, striking in the general location of a group of heretics. Some fleeing and some not. The explosion tore them from their feet and smashed them up against their tin walls and palisades like wet paper dogs.

No other heretics thought to aim guns at her.

“Fuck you!” Horson shouted at the top of his lungs. He whipped his gun up and took a shot.

Miss Red did not bother to dodge. Instead, she only turned to face Horson, ignoring the bullet as it slammed into the corner of her mouth. Her head whipped back with it, while the bullet travelled along her cheek, letting off sparks and the sound of steel grating against steel.

“The castle, Whoreson. I want it and you’re going to take me there. Arachne is worthless, but her knowledge isn’t.” Miss Red snapped her head back into place, her cheek none the worse after its encounter with the bullet.

Then she dropped to one knee, driving Horson against the ground with it. She turned the magnum on its head and clutched it by the barrel before she drove the handle into his face. The blow was enough to remove several teeth on impact, sending his head snapping back into the ground. His brain sloshed about inside of his skull, colliding wildly with the bone walls that surrounded it. And soon enough, he passed out.

Part II: A Farewell To Spiders

[Baba Yaga’s Castle - The Present]

Mara Papima approached the castle with a pleasant smile on her face and a skip in her step.

Baba Yaga’s Castle, for all its secrecy and seclusion, had not been particularly difficult to find. It rested within a deep gouge in the land roughly the size of a small city-state and half as deep. Far away from the overbearing stink and humidity of the jungle, stuck in a private world all to itself, it was easy to see that Arachne preferred her privacy.

Subtlety however, was something she lacked. Mara could only stare in awe at the gaudy spectacle for the entire castle had been shaped like a lurking spider. The castle entrance was a bulbous red spiders head with eight perfectly circular eyes torn out at various heights and its gaping mouth the ever open castle gate. Eight looming towers surrounded the bastion, each one shaped like a spider’s leg, and the castle beyond made up the rest of the spider’s rear.

The rest of the cavern was empty, for the most part, save a few small buildings posted here and there. But its walls were dotted with holes both large and small that stretched off into the darkness, doubtlessly allowing the heretics of Arachnophobia to travel swiftly to all parts of the Amazon Rainforest, if not the entire country. Nowadays, they only served as instruments for the howling wind.

With a final disrespectful snicker Mara continued towards the castle, the heels of her boots clicking against the stone with every step she took. And for her trouble, she was greeted with a low mournful groan.

Several yards away from the castle entrance, but still far enough to be trapped in the great spidery shadow it cast, lay Captain Horson. An unsightly plastic chair had been set up for him to rest in and his hands had been bound tightly behind his back. He had seen better days.

As Mara approached him, the fresh stink of gore and bloodshed met her nose, and she took careful steps to avoid the organs strewn across the floor in intricate patterns. Captain Horson alone had been spared extermination at the army camp, and Mara had spent the better part of an hour pulling him apart piece by piece while he refused to die.

“I had to find some water to complete the ritual, I hope you don’t mind.” Mara flicked one hand out, splattering his face with bloody droplets.

“Why…” the dishonored Captain groaned out with considerable trouble.

“Because tradition is important,” she stated flat out. “Even in this dirty stinking hole you call home. It’s the thought that matters. If you put your heart and soul into it that is.” Mara paused for a second, long enough for Horson to begin protesting before she cut him off with a click of her tongue. “No, no, please stop. I understood what you meant; I was just being festicious. Have I ever told you that your voice pisses me off? Because it does.”

“It’s so dry and grating and it takes you forever just to say a single thing.” Horson began to heave with a raspy chuckle; after all, it was her fault he was like this. She slammed her palm into his throat and cut him off.

“I’m going to tell you a secret.” Mara hunched low, her face hovering a few inches away from his own.

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about your planet Whoreson. It isn’t even real you know?” A look of confusion overcame the Commanders face. “You aren’t real, and your little queen Arachne isn’t real either. With a little tender love and care, you might be. But not anymore.”

Her hand shifted up to his mouth, covering it and snuffing out the laughter welling up in his throat.

“It’s like a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy. It keeps going and going until all that’s left is a gray blurry xerox that doesn’t even begin to resemble the original. Like that but for an entire world.” her fingers dug into his cheeks, nails drawing fresh blood from his molting flesh. “But here’s the secret. Are you listening?”

“Something real was here.” Horson’s eyes widened, whether out of fear or interest, it didn’t matter, because now, his laughter began to hurt. It shouldn’t have been possible with his organs spread out across the ground, but it was there. “I don’t know how long ago, I don’t even know why. But it was here.”

Horson bit past her fingers and thrust his head away, his laughter filling the air. But through the heaving cackles, he managed to force out. “You’re… crazy…”

“I’m not crazy. I’m enlightened.” Mara reached behind her back, pulling free the oversized magnum and pressed the point of the barrel against the Commanders forehead. “Sorry Whoreson. I’d like to take you with me, but the ritual requires a sacrifice. Would be cheating the system if your corpse kept moving after its time passed. Don’t feel bad. You’re just an ant trying to understand the world of giants.“

“What… are… you… talking… about.”

“I’m talking about FATE.” Mara squeezed the trigger and the sound of gunfire filled the air.

Mara carefully stepped out from within her ritual circle, doing her best not to disturb the carefully laid out organs, which gracefully formed all manner of ancient runes and symbols. With an innocent whistle and a gun spinning about her finger, she began to walk towards the castle once more.

*Kharn charged to lvl. 3.7

[mephisto]

(OOC: My apologies for the extended delay; IRL has been kicking my butt recently through various means. Still, I have every intention of keeping this fight on the go. I do, however, have a small request to make...

After reading over Miss Red's profile fully I'm not sure I can give you the kind of fight you deserve with Mephisto at his current strength. Simply put, she'd overpower him too quick. But given that I have {at the behest of certain associates} crafted a version of Mephy for AnimeLeague not too long ago, I wonder if I might entice you to permit me to use that form of him? The profile, for review, can be found here. It's completely your call however; if you'd prefer the current Mephisto workup I can just keep using him at his SoV level of strength. Just lemme know what you'd prefer.)








Something didn't feel right...

Mephisto paused in mid-step, the thought ringing in his mind clear as a bell. A growing sense of unease had descended over the last... how long had it been? He glanced at his watch; fifteen minutes, give or take. He was a fair ways inside now, having decided to start his search in the central chambers and gradually work his way outward. But something was eating at him, gnawing at his consciousness, trying to get his attention... but what?

The old devil's scowl deepened as the lights flickered unsteadily. They'd been doing that since he'd entered, but the erratic flashing seemed to be increasingly dark and decreasingly light. That was fine for him; a bit annoying, but he could operate in low light without real trouble. The pale gleam of radiance from his eyes could be seen in the unsteady illumination, making him seem just as ghoulish as this hollow shell of a castle. Rubbing away a headache he pressed onward, still grappling with a dim awareness of something just out of reach.

This place seemed to go on forever, a vast labyrinth of passages and chambers forming a network as sophisticated as any catacombs. Here and there was evidence of intrusion: slapdash repairs to wiring, doors forced open, floor or wall panels pried up, things that stood apart from the damage and decay like fresh blood placed astride old wounds. It was beyond question that the place was falling apart. Still, as dead as the spider seemed he moved forward with a sense of caution, keeping quiet and listening intently. If trouble was lurking it was better to find it rather than be found.

What, then, was this anxiety jabbing incessantly at the back of his mind?!

His grimace slowly became a sneer as a thought came to him. Mephisto's distaste for witch-marvels was stronger than most men, and if such things were to be found they would doubtlessly reside in such places as this. But for any such artifice to be still casting its arcanic effects -- and possibly causing his unsettled, unnatural anxiousness -- so long after Arachne's followers had fled could mean only one of two things. Either the spell-engines had a truly mighty power source that could endure all the castle had been put through...

... or they were running off the emergency generators.

Placing his bet on the second one, the suave demon whirled his blade with a bit of flair before jamming it blade-first into the nearest section of repairs. Sparks flew as he slashed open cables, setting the lights aflutter before going out altogether... for that section, anyway. Yet the desired relief did not arrive. If anything, the headache worsened. But he'd expected that much. Moving onward, he cut the power systematically at regular intervals, hoping that sooner or later --

-- and then, with a flick of the blade, the headache evaporated. Somewhere deep inside the witch roost an esoteric machine providing an artificial form of Soul Protect to conceal the castle finally stuttered, heaved, and gave up the ghost after losing power. The devil sighed with mild content, his mind once more clear.

Just in time to sense two souls back the way he'd come. He muttered a profanity lost to the history books and focused, closing his eyes and clearing his mind. One soul was ragged and worn at the edges, straddling death's embrace and yet somehow being constrained to the mortal coil, and the other...

His eyebrows arched and Mephisto let out an impressed whistle despite himself.

The other soul was dark and vibrant, giving off a coppery aether-fragrance that could only be described as "blood-scented incense". Deep hints of persona drifted like mist-clouds across its distant surface; a flush of violence, a ribbon of feminine flair, wispy tendrils of interlaced arrogance -- or was it confidence? -- and obsession... a soul, even at this distance, that was as rife with power and chaos as any hurricane or thunderstorm. So fixated was old Mephisto on this new arrival that he didn't even notice the other soul being snuffed out until some minutes after the fact.

Who, then, was this? Another treasure hunter like himself? A witch, maybe a fellow demon? The possibilities stemming from this new entanglement dredged up an adventurous hunger deep down, something the wiser parts of his nature seldom fed but often considered. An old bloodlust teased at the edges of his curiosity even as the intellectual side conceded that he had a stake in this place worth defending. Somewhere between the psychotic scream that wanted to cut loose and kill freely and the firm voice telling him to weigh everything out, somewhere between the demon's fury and the devil's patience, a voice distinctly his own whispered just three simple -- yet telling -- words.

Time. To. Dance.

~My my, what do we have here?! He teased, sending out a telepathic thought-wave to the newcomer's mind. ~You look to be quite interesting from where I stand. Here to scavenge the spider's corpse, hm? I doubt there's enough meat left for two.~

[margatroid]

No Country For Old Gods I

The Devil’s suave voice, the very same one that had seduced Dr. Johan Faust centuries before, traveled forth on telepathic waves. It moved like a fish through the metaphysical air, ignoring walls and floors and lingering magical enhancements, leaving barely a ripple as it passed.

And in the blink of an eye, it was at the mouth of Baba Yaga’s castle.

Backstage things were different. The sky was always overcast no matter the weather and there was little to no noise. Little to no life either. It was reality unseen and undisturbed by the physical world, lurking just behind the veil at all times.

Horson’s soul was there too, disconnected from its physical form. It was withered and scarred, though it had always been that way, and lonely without its body. It barely mustered a glance when the voice came darting past before returning its downtrodden gaze to the ground.

But there was something else.

Before the Devil’s Voice lay a sea of red. Bloody disjointed mist filled the courtyard, clinging to columns and palisades in thick clumps and suffocating the air with its presence. A faint red glow echoed out from deep within, pulsing every few seconds like the steady beat of a giant heart, accompanied by the ominous sound of a reverberating drum beat.

The red mist was everywhere and it was spreading. Its grubby red fingers gripped the edge of the castle gate, wrenching it wide, while others probed around inside with a slow and ponderous pace.

Then with a burst of surprising speed, it lashed out at the Voice. Grabbing at it with dirty fingers and sucking the suave voice inside. Once inside the mist began to cling to the Voice, weighing it down from all sides until it finally sunk to the ground without so much as a struggle. The mist stripped the words away from the Voice, until there was nothing left and that was that.

=====

Mara Papima was objectively a very strange woman. She had a naturally thin body that lacked the curves of other females, with an equally flat chest. Her skin was the kind of outstanding(slightly yellow) pale that made it difficult to stare in direct sunlight. Not to mention a distinct lack of fat that made it easy to see every definition of her muscles.

Despite this Mara’s face was pretty enough, when not pulled into a sick grin. Her mouth was surprisingly small and her lips extremely thin, with an abrasive shade of cherry red. Every time she spoke, it was easy to see the unsettling black flesh inside of her mouth or the wickedly sharp serrated teeth. From the right angle, one might notice that she had at least two sets.

Her face was still somewhat childish, without a powerful adult jawline and with doe wide ruby eyes. All framed by a head full of tousled, dirty, and bloodstained black hair. It hung loosely around her shoulders where the ends turned up in a variety of directions, pointing to god knows where. By now the rusty red color had all but stained itself into her locks.

Her clothing consisted entirely of the color white, with the barest hints of red as a decorative trim. A thick white coat covered most of her body, its edges hanging to her knees, and a thick red sash kept it trapped tightly around her waist. She wore high boots and a skirt that hung loosely around her waist, and came to a stop just below her coat, and a simple white blouse. She had black gloves, with the fingers exposed, and her nails were inconveniently overly long. All alongside an excessive amount of jewelry, that must have weighed several pounds on its own, from rings on her fingers to necklaces and a variety of other gaudy accessories.

Mara was in a good mood and not just because she had committed religious genocide, though that certainly helped.

It was a new day for Death’s World. Even the grinning sun seemed pleased with this development, its deep chuckle becoming an all encompassing hum across the planet. With this Arachne was well and truly dead. Even if she were to revive herself, there would be no belief and no power left to tap into. No one remembered her and thus she would be rendered powerless, normal, and therefore nonexistent. She was less than a ghost.

It was a new day with endless possibilities, both bright and dark.

Then, like a baseball had just beaned her square in the forehead, Mara’s head whipped backwards. There was a sickening crack as her neck reached its limits but her keys kept rolling until they only showed their whites.

~My my, what do we have here?!~ He teased, sending out a telepathic thought-wave to the newcomer's mind. ~You look to be quite interesting from where I stand. Here to scavenge the spider's corpse, hm? I doubt there's enough meat left for two.~

An exhilarating rush flew through her body. The Voice was smooth and gentlemanly, the kind of well mannered that would normally set Mara on edge. But beneath his carefully chosen words there was the smell of blood. He might have hid it from anyone else but she could smell these things you see and he was practically drenched in it.

The fact that he could remain so coy while smelling like he did spoke volumes in and of itself.

Her body returned to its proper upright position, eyes darting from one side to the next, while her nose wrinkled up and began to sniff at the air. Now that she knew the Voice was there, it seemed impossible that she had missed him before. But she could not find him. Baba Yaga’s castle had a history drenched in bloodshed and it overwhelmed her senses. Between the two it was like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. It was the perfect hiding place.

‘Sneaky, sneaky,’ she mused to no one in particular.

With no other choice Mara began to form a response in her mind. She slammed the castles gates shut and inside there was no light, still she was able to see perfectly down to the smallest chip in every stone. Mara herself seemed to disappear, an all encompassing magical silence enveloped her body and it was like she was not there at all. Even the dust did not stir beneath her feet as she walked.

Outside Horson’s corpse slumped deeper in its chair, withered and sundried like a thousand year old mummy.

=====

The red mist blared her message across Baba Yaga’s castle, like an obnoxious megaphone. Filling every room and crevice and mind with the psychic message for the Devil, wherever he might be lurking.

“Incorrect!” she stated haughtily. “Do you know why? When animals scavenge it is because they are weak. They hide in the darkness where others do not look until they feel safe. Then when nobody cares they fight to the bone over worthless scraps.” There was a hint of excitement in her voice. “ I have come to take and take and take. And when I am done I will desecrate the corpse so there’s nothing left for the vultures of this world and I do not care who knows.”

”I do not fear Death.”

“Come, Handsome Voice. Meet me in the grand foyer. Where we can discuss the difference between monsters and mice.” There was a brief pause. “Don’t make me look for you.”

*Mara’s Mood: Sassy

[mephisto]

“Incorrect! Do you know why? When animals scavenge it is because they are weak. They hide in the darkness where others do not look until they feel safe. Then when nobody cares they fight to the bone over worthless scraps.”

“I have come to take and take and take. And when I am done I will desecrate the corpse so there’s nothing left for the vultures of this world and I do not care who knows.”

He raised an eyebrow at the distinction the womanly, yet subtly fierce, telepathic voice made, intrigued by the fire and surety underlying it. Just who was this bold intruder, who made her mark with such strong words?

And then -- though she surely didn't mean to, she insulted him.

”I do not fear Death.”

The five simple words stung like a poisoned blade might in his chest, dragging up wounded pride and centuries worth of bitterness. Whether she meant them in the way he perceived was merely a matter of interpretation, perhaps... but the inference was there. He'd spent ages in the shadows, lurking just below the tangled skein of history, "flying under the radar" as -- one after another -- demons his lesser in both power and cunning were cut down by the Reaper's little school of gifted misfits. His glowing eyes narrowed and flared white-hot with anger, teeth grit together and fists clenching so hard they drew blood from his palms.

Coward. The word rung in his mind even though she hadn't spoken it, making his ire rise and his patience struggle to keep it down.

“Come, Handsome Voice. Meet me in the grand foyer. Where we can discuss the difference between monsters and mice.”

“Don’t make me look for you.”

[~i]Keep a lady like yourself waiting? I wouldn't dare dream of it.~[/i] He fought hard to betray none of what he felt, even the sarcasm dropping away as he thought-spoke across the distance. He could feel her soul moving inward towards the frontal confines of the fortress and took off at a brisk walk in that direction. ~Pray, do wait for me, oh desecrator. I shan't be long.~

-------------------------------------

The grand foyer of the castle was, as its name suggested, grand. The place had a flair of ominous ostentation that, along with its size, suggested it was commonly used for large gatherings. This, then, was likely the first place that new recruits onto Arachne's cult had been gathered and addressed, their loyalty made sound by the bold pronouncements of her demagogues. A vast spiderweb pattern cut across the domed black ceiling in delicate silver lines, arching down as individual threads to meet the rising columns supporting it and the tattered remnants of a chandelier still giving off a dull, unsteady light. A similar pattern was played out across the floor, black marble delicately marked with white strands rising to coil in paper-thin webs around the base of columns and the edges of smoke-gray walls. The doors, mostly unhinged and showing signs of damage from the fighting, creaked open like the lid of a rusty old casket as the old devil stepped in, shortly before falling apart altogether and landing with a great metallic clatter. He scowled down at the debris before taking in the rest of the room, eyes glowing pale in the near-dark. Fallen doors and half-bare light pieces aside the room was surprisingly clean and intact, a thin layer of dust and a few cracks the worst complaints to be found.

She was near now... he could almost smell the coppery waft of her blood-stained soul. Like a true gentleman he spent the remaining moments adjusting his collar and wiping the dust off his boots -- hated or not, a lady was still a lady, and this one seemed like someone worth a mote of respect. That, and it simply wouldn't do to appear like a crypt-diving ruffian.