The Newman Parley

Reginald brushed and shook off the broken links of his favored weapons. His clothes being in tatters seemed oddly fitting as he stood upon the debris of the foyer: the door had been shattered, the immediate stone around said doors cracked, and enough of the inner-walls had been struck down that Reginald knew he had only the enchantments for structural integrity to thank for the ceiling not coming down.

His worn Lord, Sir William Brighton, remained one-armed... and now without his proper sword. Strewn here or there were the bodies of the ****, though Reginald feared each was dead. He bowed before the master of the house; Reginald had failed, after all.

"Gorbachevs," Lord Brighton declared without turning, "you're not to enter the basement levels without our leave."

Both had indeed been heading towards the staircase, now visible thanks to a damaged wall that mostly crumbled away. Penelope adjusted her sunglasses as she looked at the Brighton’s muscled back with a touch of fear. “Traitor down below the floor, promised to be ours,” began her song of complaint.

“The traitor is. The Order’s secrets are not. What’s more,” the old Lord sighed with a brush of his beard, “they are both cornered and free to escape. Reginald.”

“My apologies, Master Brighton, but I'm afraid they got the better of your old servant.”

“Worry not,” Brighton managed to chuckle, “if you’re here, then I can only guess what Hell they managed. For now: have you your communicator?” The butler felt the inside of his ear with his gloved hand; as if by sleight of hand, despite his lack of sleeves, the elderly warrior produced an earpiece. “Call the inbound forces. Form a quarantine, one-mile radius. Spare no expense for the cleaning process. This entire affair will no doubt have been seen by someone...”

Lord Brighton peered out beyond the smoky, bullet-riddled approach of his home. A branch in one of the bushes had moved... suspiciously, just to the right of the ruined iron gate. Past the bush, a sight for a general suddenly short on men, came the Knights, Confessors, and Hospitalers who were feared dead. They leaked from the dissolving illusion barrier that had been blanketed over the mansion across the street, and they seemed healthy enough as they marched steadily to reinforce the Manor. But Lord Brighton’s eyes continued to narrow onto that twitching branch-

"What now, then, lover?" Vincent whispered to his dour associate as he watched the approaching platoon.

"Bide our time, save a dime; we needn't be so blunt."

Vincent came in close as he hissed his words; his breath smelled like her, which shocked Penelope out of her stoicism. "Bide our- bloody 'ell, now where the fuck do you think she's off-?"

"Stop thinking, dear," Penelope declared with a shove, "you're much to near; your mouth smells like my-"

The Knights filed into the courtyard, around the exploded husk of a car... and just as the last one trailed in, the tunnel opened to seal the courtyard entrance. Lord Brighton’s eyes finally stopped probing the bush as he saw the familiar paneling, lighting, and dimensions of his innermost vault... now freshly emptied of its contents, save that damned exotic parrot, whose cage stood alone in the background.

Assorted and changed though they were, William knew each of the enemies lined up at the portal's edge; among them, too, he found some of his stolen treasures. The dark elf, an impressive warrior, had donned black, form-fitting armor and wore, in a lop-sided loop around her waist, a golden rope meant to guard against curses or maladies. Next to her, the bald woman had regrown her hair in a pink mess and held the Sun Prayer, a round and golden magical shield that was a poor imitation of the Brightons' holy relic; it was a tool a false Warden had carried to challenge their claim, and it had not won the day. It was the Brighton promise that it would never absorb the sun's rays again... and now Brighton's enemies shamed him further as it glittered in the daylight. The rather plain man with a slight gut was healed anew after Brighton had beaten him nearly to ****; his body now sparked with the electrified shield produced by the belt of the Artificer they had just captured and killed.

The winged woman-creature was the only stranger, though her features seemed too near those of the demon fairy from earlier to dismiss. Perhaps fitting for her, she wore the Tiara of Hope--a wedding heirloom for every Warden since 1721--and seemed to wear it out of spite, as it bore no magical properties. Tricia, his contracted Gorbachev, a girl he had let into his home, was clad in the same black and red of her armored skin as he had seen her wear in the video feeds of her brief operations next to his daughter. She wore none of the Brighton treasures, had no drones and no laptop... but was dotted with pitch-black, gem-like orbs opening across her body.

But none captured Lord Brighton’s attention quite like the villain who saw this day come to fruition.

John Newman. Warlock. The teenager had wrought this day, and at his feet lay the Slayer, now wrapped in some kind of gray-white cocoon that revealed only her face. He wore a golden circlet deformed by the reliefs of skulls; his body was wrapped in hardened black leather plates, segmented and glistening as if wet with fresh oil; in his right, gauntlet-wearing grip waited a silver gun with a massive, golden silencer upon its service end. Only one item upon his body was familiar to Lord Brighton: two silver pendants, bolted onto his shoulders, which emanated a cape of quivering shadows that flickered in unseen winds. It was a cloak used by an assassin who tried to penetrate Lord Brighton's home; Lord Brighton had managed to catch that man before he could harm Moira.

They appeared destined for the shoulders of men trying to hurt Moira. So, to the noble Lord of Brighton Manor, they seemed destined for the shoulders of dead men.

The Warlock, arisen and radiating his malevolence even from across William’s courtyard, smiled.

“Flank!” Lord Brighton barked.

The Knights turned to address the threat that had gone undetected... just as the two armed with heavy machine guns found themselves blasted with thick, white batches of webbing. With their guns pinned to their bodies and their hands taped to their guns, each Knight wiggled and staggered until they fell over... and found the web adhesive enough to keep them prone. Alysha's arms remained outstretched after she had launched the disgusting attack; her face grimaced despite the time she had to practice, and grow used, to the sensation while John was in the temple, preparing his new equipment.

The other guards lifted their weapons to fire, and five of the rifles fell apart under Tricia's gazes before they could squeeze the trigger. The rest let loose a stream of bullets to varying effect: seven of them found inch-wide tunnels opened over the tips of their guns that redirected the stream of bullets right back into their respective vents, jamming or damaging the barrels with debris. The remaining fifteen Knights fired a hail of bullets, but to little effect: John activated his armor and dodged half the shots while tanking the rest; Travolta’s aura sparked as he began to walk forward; Rave crouched and let the massive golden shield absorb most of the bullets meant for her, marveling at the halo of golden light that emanated from the artifact; and Fairy and Alysha, too agile by half, took to the air by web and wing before turning their attentions to the Confessors and Hospitalers who attempted to pray for relief.

They found none: smaller webs closed their mouths with adhesive and pinned their praying hands to their clothes. With effortless flicks, Fairy launched belts of unholy iron among the Knights, shattering guns as the chains slammed with precision against the ends of their barrels, bending them into uselessness. Another flick, and the chains lashed the bodies of silenced Order mages, sending them howling through their noses as they fell to the ground, burned and with broken sternums or limbs.

Travolta deactivated the shield belt as he neared a Knight pulling a sword; the hilt was nearly up to Travolta’s chin when his clothesline connected and followed through downward, slamming the soldier into the earth until the man’s feet pointed to the heavens. Travolta rolled with the **** and quickly launched forward, drop-kicking the next Knight who was halfway to swinging his blade.

Rave and Tricia charged forward, both training together for too long to not know this routine. The fight was going poorly for Lord Brighton's men. From the corners of the massive portal came those forces who had begun out of sight, only appearing once the gunfire had ceased: Rosa, who chanted loudly in a mixture of Spanish and angry Spanish, was sheathed in sulfuric, **** black smoke that began to dance and run across the pavement towards the Manor. The hairless ogre, still wearing his Vow Keeper and unusually calm among a sea of warcries, stomped forward as the tendrils dispersed to leap up and fill the nostrils and mouths of Rosa’s victims. A halo of green erupted from behind his head as similarly verdant-glowing veins appeared across his flesh; with a sigh, he launched himself among the Knights, battering them with his hands if only to spare them the agony of his spells.

None killed the men before them, and none seemed much phased or hurt by the enemy. Nearby, a mere black stain in the sky, could be seen the carrier plane with another platoon of Knights being flown in. Somewhere from the north came a pair of heavily-armed choppers disguised as news helicopters. But would they make a difference before this hellish ****? More still came as John willed them into being: the succubus that Lord Brighton's wife had captured for study; an orb of light that served some false angelic god in how it arrived to kill the cult that conjured it; a man-sized rabbit that... that Lord Brighton was fairly sure didn't actually come from his dungeon.

The Army of Newman was in motion, and the few Knights and casters remaining conscious inside the Manor were trying to regroup with Lord Brighton. His daughter was missing. The visiting Warden was nowhere to be found.

His men needed him.

The pause had given Lord Brighton rest; he remembered the Rose and channeled it, dashing across the courtyard to try and dispatch of those enemies nearest to his men-

... and his speed suddenly dipped. John's evil Eye flashed green... and then Lord Brighton was running at his mortal pace, stunned, into a small, steel cell. He tried to leap back, but the tunnel closed... and his body slammed against the clear, reinforced glass of one of his dungeon cells. Lord Brighton blinked as he got his bearings and, with an infuriated groan, slammed his hand on the release switch as it recognized him.

John vanished Lord Brighton; the time to negotiate peace had not yet come. John had a precise plan; he would execute that plan as close to the script as made sense, and he still couldn't see the most important pieces.

A Confessor, sealed in mouth and with her arm still sizzling from the whip of Fairy's chain, nonetheless picked up a fallen sword and ran past the line formed by Tricia and Rave to try and get to John. Rosa and Durr both turned to address the rampaging mage-

Your serpent's lunge deals 620 subdual damage to Confessor!
Confessor is ****!

"Master, we've got incoming!"

John raised his gaze to the two news choppers that began their approach from the northwest and northeast... and at the racks of weapons that began to unfold from sliding panels on either one.

"Not for long," John laughed... and paused as he noticed the pilots. He hesitated... and finally decided on a fairly gentle solution.

He opened tunnels just wide enough to squeeze the bodies of the helicopters through, one after the other, and opened the other end onto the shallow banks of the Springfield River.

Each one charged on through, their respective propeller blades shattering against the edges of the tunnels and resulting in a useless husk of a helicopter, chock full of armored soldiers sliding gently on the rocks and waters of the riversides.

The last of the Order's men and women on the field were knocked out as John rapidly healed and refilled himself with equilibrium and manaberries being chucked down his throat. A minute later, John had only the visible forces in the mansion to dispatch, and the incoming plane, before he would resort to looking for his quarry.

"We've got a few minutes before those extra forces come in... so let's see." John looked to those he could spot through the doorway. None made themselves present except two guards who took cover at either side of what remained of the doorway. Until Moira gets here, there's no point in starting the negotiation...

Vincent continued to hide behind the broken bit of internal wall after seeing the enemy in action. His heart was pounding in his ears; the six-shooter in his hand, though sufficient in caliber and still enchanted, suddenly seemed incredibly deficient. Bloody Hell and Mary! The bastard dodged bullets! He opened real portals without so much as a word or gesture! How the Hell... Vincent didn't dare look again; at best, he had a narrow shot through the gaps in the walls and out into the courtyard to kill Tricia Gorbachev... and if it was to be accomplished, it had to be without the Warlock's interference.

“Shoot her now,” came the panicked hymn of Penelope, “be damned the cost! This wretched fight is... lost!”

“Yeah, you think that’ll work with portal boy out there and his army?! Think, girlie!”

“Girlie?!”

Vincent held the gun in view. “Look, we might only have one chance... and if we don't get rid of this Warlock teenager--for fuck's sake, what kind of--we just need an... opening!”

“Dooooo tell, and ask me not to yell.”

“Not you! We need another distraction, a big one... something that will catch portal boy’s attention enough to-”

A sliver of bronze or gold hissed overhead as it passed.

The Gorbachevs dared to look at where it had landed with the reverberating noise of impact and saw, buried in the cobblestones of the approach to the mansion... a spear.

John and his forces paused at the weapon’s sudden appearance... and marveled at the explosion of rose petals that formed, fell, and revealed...

... a naked Indian girl, embracing a Moira sheathed in the half-complete white robes of a Hospitaler, and being, until she glanced, totally unaware of the sundress-wearing fish-girl that came along.

Less than a minute ago...

Laksha had investigated the floors in brief; she had not seen any sign of John or his forces, unaware of the secret vault that he had closed for his impromptu meeting, and so continued to follow the golden auras below. Her feet had only barely touched the landing of the stairs when Moira came into view, her bare hand gripping a bluish, humanoid one. Relief and confusion mixed in the Spear Warden as she caught her first sight of the second redheaded teen in the fortress... and, despite her obvious, monstrous features, the total lack of concern from the Lady. The pensive look they shared broke in different ways: Moira's descended into deeper worry... and Deanna, with the Warden's Spear in plain view as if ripped from her storybooks, fell into a childish wonder.

"Th... The.... That's...!"

Moira could barely even register Deanna's words before demanding, "Laksha! I told you to defend the surface and-! Why are you naked-?"

"Rhongomyniad!" Deanna finally blurted.

Laksha, with a grin, spun about and almost casually threw her spear back into the stairwell... and left it to travel its path as it circled up the stairs. Moira watched the feat with some confusion until the Spear Warden grabbed her hand. "Nothing to worry about there, love... but you're right, we should probably head up. I don't think your husband's still down here..."

Deanna began to turn some shade of blue-red as she whispered, "H-Husband...?!"

Moira released her "sister's" hand as she realized Laksha's intent: the Warden of the Spear could, at great labor and expense, teleport others joined by the hand. "Deanna, head back to your room and stay there until I come get you," Moira commanded. "Laksha, but your armor-"

"It's almost a miracle when I'm not fighting naked! Besides, maybe it'll give your lover something to think about."

The friendly wink from Laksha did not defuse Moira's confused anger. "That's not-!"

Laksha felt its vibration in her spine: the Spear had landed. "Swiftly, the Lady brings good men across the Lake." Rose petals began to wrap around the two Wardens... and the non-Warden that, in her eagerness to learn of her surprise brother-in-law, had re-grabbed Moira's wrist.

Fairy took a moment to admire the ill-dressed three... but John's message cut through any whimsy she might've had.

<Holy-! Everyone! No, wait-> John hissed his words, "Everyone: avoid the one with the spear."

Rave continued to glance from behind her shield. "What? Why? Who even-"

"Laksha Singh, the Warden of the Spear," Tricia declared as she focused her anger and hate as best as she could.

John shook his head. Moira was warning me about her... about someone I shouldn't piss off. But Hell...

Laksha Singh
Level 72 Warden
<Champion of the Golden Rose>
HP: 49,015/49,015
MP: 3,103/3,103
Stats: Str 482 Agi 192 End 409 Int 19 Wis 29 Cha 120 Lib 52
Status Effects: None
Qualities: Hate of Arunasura, Hate of Belial, The Golden Rose (Bulging Biceps, Inviolability, Twitch Muscles), Thorns of the Rose
Awakened Warden of the Order, the Bronze Whirlwind, the Bastard of the Sharma Family, and recent visitor to the West. Although a ghastly student in terms of the prayers and magic of the Warden, Laksha is a natural-born warrior who becomes a hurricane of blood on the battlefield. Her tutelage being done before she even awoke to the Rose, she's spent the last few years freely traveling India and China, attacking supernatural evils where she found them and earning her enemies, including those in her mother's family that loathe Laksha's Untouchable heritage enough to want her killed. Tutored in languages by English professors and barred from playing with youths, Laksha yearns for kinship and recently found it in her Shield-Sister.
R/S: -23