2015.08.29 - Dislocation: Confrontation at the Nemeton

**Emitter:** Staff

*A group of champions manages to infiltrate the Nemeton camp and seeks to disrupt the blood ritual being performed there...*

August 28, 2015

The Nemeton, Wildlife Preseve, Beacon Hills

It all started about twenty minutes ago. There were a few human guards on patrol, all heavily armed but moving like they felt a bit sick, while the outer defenses were made up of heavy iron golems. But those golems are busy because they've been attacked by werewolves.

A ring of large tents, armored vehicles, and heavy equipment surrounds the Nemeton. It's well after dark, but the area is lit by floodlights, so it's bright as midday. Surrounding the base of the tree, twelve people--half girls, half boys, all far too young to vote--kneel in a circle with hands bound behind their backs, gagged and blindfolded. A ritualist in a white robe walks around the perimeter clockwise, swinging a censer that emits a cloyingly sweet incense. Walking the route counter-clockwise, a ritualist garbed in red robes carries a wickedly curved knife and an ancient-looking stone basin. One need not imagine much to discern what their purpose is.

In the center, just beside the nemeton, three ritualists surround the Nemeton itself. Their robes are pure black, their faces hidden by masks, and an ancient tome is spread across the stump. Surrounding the book, odd bits of refuse form a circle upon the stump--a fragment of cement, the twig of a tree, a broken bottle--but they hum with tremendous, nearly unspeakable magical power, which is being fed straight into the Nemeton.

And then they begin to chant. It has started.

Kay has been scouting out the Nemeton--quite literally--all day. She even skipped school! Enemy numbers had to be counted, best trap locations ascertained, means of egress mapped out, and most importantly--decisions on the very best kinds of distraction. The traps worked largely in three different categories: Sabotage, Druidy Stuff, and Hunter Tricks. Given the opportunity, Kay would take animal form--usually a bird or some some small mammal, to set some of these things up within the camp proper (or as much as she could without getting caught). The sabotage amounts to simple things, like cutting wires on machinery, hiding caches of ammo and other important-looking things, mismatching battery wires, plugging tailpipes, and other general mischief. The hunter stuff amounts to nonlethal events such as trip wires, foot snares, caltrops, and mud-glue traps (with a little druidic aid) scattered around the edges of the encampment.

As for the Druidy Stuff, in a couple of places within the camp (wherever she could manage safely) simple flashbang potions have been hidden--harmless affairs that are nontheless Very Loud and Very Bright and quite disorienting. Further, in a couple of places concentrated on the side of camp furthest from the Nemeton, Kay has stashed a series of alchemical potions in little bunches what will summon caustic smoke of various colors in the vein of tear gas that's ultimately harmless, but extremely unpleasant and vaguely intolerable. All of the mentioned potions have been nested with an anchor stone amongst them to act as foci through which Kay can shatter the flasks and get things started.

Speaking of, in her full camouflage, Kay sits near her handiwork on the far side of the camp from the Nemeton, hidden in dense underbrush. She sits in a makeshift ritual circle, concentrating on all of the various anchor stones she's scattered about. Time to get started. First, she connects to all the flashbang potion anchors, commanding the stones to shatter--taking the glass flasks and their explosive contents with them. BOOM! Also, pretty colors. Next, she connects to the smoke-anchors and does the same with those, commanding the stones to shatter, thus rending the glass flasks and letting that noxious gas rise freely in obnoxious, multicolored, spiralling columns. They're really quite hard to miss. Finally, she opens her hands wide and exhales, summoning a fairly substantial breeze to push said noxious smoke straight towards the ritualists surrounding the Nemeton (of course, the smoke will have to flow through the camp to get there, causing such a ruckus).

Lance has been working all day preparing for this, though slightly more directly than the rest: his possessed minion, his "inside man", was the one responsible for spreading this sickness, thanks to Kay's hard work with the potions. But once it was all distributed and the symptoms started, he quickly had the man he was piggybacking dose himself before the demon vacated the premises.

That means at least now that Lance is stronger than he was while dividing himself. Definitely a good thing. Everyone's going to need their fullest strength, he's thinking. So much about this business doesn't feel right.

He rendezvoused with Kay, they got things coordinated, and when she starts everything, that's when all hell breaks loose. Or at least, that's when all hell pitches in to add to the chaos: the earth shakes, the sky darkens, and lightning streaks across it. A storm wasn't supposed to be blowing in, but that appears to be exactly what's happening. Lance, in his riding leathers, walks into the camp. Eyes solid black, expression all business, it's clear he's not going to be playing around tonight. He hadn't expected them to get so far. Maybe there's still time to stop this before it's too late and he has to resort to...extreme measures.

Phoebe has NOT been planning all day. Instead, she's been driving most of the day. She had to get all the way here from San Francisco, which has been crazy enough the last few days. What's more, she's gotten herself here mostly on the strength of a premonition. This means that she's not up to speed on all the preparations. What's more, she's likely to get herself in trouble by just stumbling into some of the defenses. But proper planning hasn't exactly ever been her strong suit. Instead, she drives in until she gets in sight of the vehicles, and then stops her car, quickly getting out. Her eyes sweep the area like she's looking for someone.

Moving toward the clearing from the direction of the carpark, comes a man. Under the moonlight, and whatever other illumination happens to be around, one might catch a glimpse of a bone-white cloak billowing around the legs of the tall, burly fellow as he slowly approaches. Given the magical energy gathering in the area - like conflicting wind-currents, vying for dominance to change the direction of the flow...

...and the outcome of events - one might also feel the steady *thrum* (not unlike the vibrations of an amp through a stage-floor), pulsing with each step the man takes. He is only a matter of feet from from Phoebe's car when she pulls up, walking as if following a scent or a sound.

As the initial traps are sprung, filling the area with a cacophony of noise and light, the man breathes, "Christ preserve!" and reaches up over his right shoulder to grasp the hilt of a sword strapped to his back, under his cloak. Amid the sudden illumination caused by the flashbang potions, the man's form becomes clearer (if only for a moment): he is garbed in neck-to-toe armour like that of a Knight Templar, complete with the red-cross symbol on the back and left breast of his cloak. The only article of armour he is not wearing is his helmet.

Turning his head, he spots Phoebe and holds up his gauntleted left to warn her away. His other hand draws forth a massive broadsword, shining brilliantly... and the *thrum* in the air intensifies. "Please, turn back," he tells Phoebe. "Evil is afoot in this place, tonight." His words, while firm, are spoken gently - like a father addressing an adult son or daughter.

With the subtle approach tossed (perhaps heaved) aside, the place explodes like a hornet's nest. Uniformed guards boil out of the tents, snatching up assault rifles and heavy ordinance. They pile into armored vehicles, they break out gear that has to be completely illegal to use on US soil outside of government testing ranges...

And things go about as badly for them as one could imagine. Vehicles don't start or, if they do, shoot smoke and sparks. Troops form up, only to be knocked around like rag dolls by explosions or blinded by smoke. Charging lines are caught in snares, tripwires, and other traps. If Admageddon looked like *Home Alone* meets *Saving Private Ryan*, then this is it. What's perhaps most shocking is that the casualties are so light... but even if they're not being blasted to pieces, the already ailing personnel are discouraged and confused by this mess. The problem with hired security forces is that self-preservation tends to trump loyalty.

Self-preservation is definitely starting to win out.

However, the ritual circle seems untouched by the chaos. A circle of protection, made from potent and ancient magic, surrounds the Nemeton, the sacrifices, and the ritualists. The outer defenses are engaged, the inner defenses are scattered... Now, all that remains is breaching the inner circle.

With the worst of her traps sprung, Kay looses her grasp from the wind, trusting the boiling storm to continue the work she had begun. Allowing the commotion to filter out of her mind like through a sieve, Kay then concentrates on the Nemeton itself. It was worth a shot, utilizing her connection to the land and its life force to touch the essence of the Nemeton, and gently nudge it to fight back. The she-druid does not presume she alone has the mystical strength to wield the Nemeton like a cudgel, or directly interfere with the ritual with blasts of power, but she can put that energy to other uses. She coaxes the Nemeton to call out to the beasts of the local forest, and encite in them a fury, directed at the ritualists. She dances around the Nemeton's spirit in her mind, shaping it to rouse the abundance of insects that livetherein and nearby--bees, wasps, even lightning bugs and flies--all work as a splendid distraction. She even strokes the essence of that power to reach out to the grass and weeds--grow, release your pollen and your spurs, become a tangle, and shatter the discipline of these asswipes with sneezes and rashes if you have to!

The stormtroopers, or whatever they are, don't amount to much. Lance isn't too surprised, though. The potions were potent, and he trusted Kay to be as effective as ultimately she was with the traps. He reaches the inner circle and then it's down to various living things...himself included. He tries, first, to see if he can interfere with the magic, to make them vulnerable at whatever cost; that way, even if he ends up in a bind, he at least won't be alone and unreachable. But while he does, he's certainly not going to keep himself defenseless, and so he reaches out with his abilities...if they can't see for the moment, they won't be able to continue the ritual effectively, so maybe a little bleeding from the eyes, if he's able, will keep them from being too sassy towards him until he can put a crack in the circle.

Phoebe looks over to Michael. "Hey, good! That's one!" She looks over to the armored man, seeming not THAT weirded out by the appearance of a man in medieval armor. "I'm supposed to be here." Because while she can't do much about mercenaries...a job better left to trap specialists and knights...she can handle ritual circles. In fact, the time that she spent today NOT driving was spent researching, since her premonition was kind enough to tell her there was going to be a need. "By strength at arms and nature's wrath, we gather now and make a path. Holy sword and demon's ire, buzzing bees and weapons fire. All these things, plus magic's wonder, we call to tear their spell asunder!" The witch releases the spell she wrote earlier in the day at the ritual circle in an attempt to disrupt it.

Michael frowns momentarily - a reaction to new sources of magic in the area - and then nods. "That makes two of us," he replies and casts a determined look at the clearing in the centre of the woods. The light from the broadsword casts half of his face in shadow as he sweeps it up into a middle guard...

...and dashes toward the chaos.

The Knight of the Cross' leg-strides cover three times the distance typical for a tall man running, and with each step the light from the sword in his hands increases. By the time he reaches the clearing, tongues of white fire roll along the massive blade from the tip to the hilt, then up and over Michael's gauntlets, arms until his entire form is wreathed in flame.

As Phoebe's spell is loosed toward the circle, Michael leaps toward it, bringing *Amoracchius* down in an overhead strike at the circle's edge.

"JESU DOMINAE!"

Reaching out to perform her magic, Kay makes a perhaps quite startling discovery--whatever their magic is, it's twisted the Nemeton's power in such a way that it refuses her own essence, like oil and water. Filled with revulsion at what this sacred site has been turned to, she may begin to understand fully the cryptic words of the mystery woman she met the previous day. Whatever they're doing, it's as though they've actually twisted Nature against itself, using the Nemeton as a focus!

Lance begins to see a way to deal with the barrier, but it would be costly. Before he has a chance to decide for certain, though, the spell of Phoebe Halliwell takes effect! Lance, Michael, and Kay will feel magical currents flowing around them. Their personal power is not tapped, but it is used as a fundamental part of the reality of Phoebe's spell, and by those powers--Witchcraft, Heaven, Hell, and Nature--when the power of the spell and the impact of the holy blade *Amoracchiius* meet, the Circle is shattered like a wrecking ball hitting a crystal egg. Twice.

Suffice to say, the Circle is broken.

The hostages look up, trying to struggle, while the ritualists clearly redouble their efforts at focusing. The one in white with the censer steps forward, whirling it around and suddenly wielding the thing like a chain whip, trailing smoke at either end. She hisses at them in low tones, "Come nearer! I smell a witch, a druid, a demon. Feed me your magic, sorcerers!" Michael she regards more warily, but the knight will most keenly feel the terror of the bound sacrifices. The red-robed figure with the knife dashes toward the first of them, a young boy, preparing to slit his throat.

Filled with revulsion at the Nemeton being perverted in this way, Kay momentarily breaks her concentration. No. She will not be having this. She rips a flask from her bandolier--something of a trance potion, to draw her spirit deep into the stuff of the earth, so her power is grounded like the thickest roots, and gulps it down. She then slides her fingers into the dirt, redrawing her circle to something less kitbashed, and then slams her hands against the ground. She may not be able to reverse the damage right now, but damn straight she's going to prevent it from getting any worse. 'Reject me all you want' she thinks, 'I'm not so fragile as to take no for answer'. Her spirit dives right in, seeking out the tainted Nemeton, and clawing at the filth in her mind's eye like the beasts she so often channels. She opens her thoughts to the werewolves she knows are nearby, borrowing their primary fury, channeling it to fuel her own mystic savagery as she metaphorically throws herself between what's left of the Nemeton she knows, and the twisting magics of the usurpers, rending it with the deadly fury of a she-druid scorned. This is probably gonna suck.

Now that -- is what Lance calls effectiveness! But he's going to have to step up his game if he's going to do what Stiles wants, which is to save lives. He's not particularly concerned about how he can hold up against even these cultists, but there are a good few of them and they're powerful enough to do something like this...that's nothing to sneeze at, even for him. The one with the knife, though, receives a crash course -- literally -- in Lance's ability to move in the blink of an eye, as he flashes between the figure and the would-be sacrifice, and he moves to grab by the neck and pitch the figure like a bowling ball into the impending threats of the others that are closest, hopefully putting some space between the children and the evil ritualists.

Phoebe knows that the physical side of this is NOT what she specializes in. Sure, she can fight hand to hand. But against knife-wielding sorcerers, that's less her forte. So it's time to fall back on plan P. P as in potion, vanquishing. The premonition was decidedly non-specific as to the nature of the evil casters, so she brought a couple basic warlock and demon vanquishing potions. She senses Kay's magic flowing through the earth, and for a brief instant, debates trying to help, but there's a distinctly druidic favor to that power. Kay's *got* this. Instead, she'll stand back, letting the more physical sorts like Michael and Lance take point, while she'll lob her potions at the ones that the two AREN'T going after.

"PROTECT THE INNOCENTS!!"

Michael's voice resounds throughout the clearing after the infernal power of the circle is broken. "GET THEM TO S -- !" Kneeling at the former circle's edge, the knight looks up and across to spot Lance make his dash toward the would-be sacrifices. For a moment, pure horror blossoms on Carpenter's countenance -- as he realises at least *some* of the demonic energy in the vicinity is coming from...

Lance.

In that same moment, the white fire surrounding him intensifies as he gathers himself for another leap -- when he bears witness to the true object of Lance's attack. "Merciful Christ preserve us..." he breathes in a rush, and the fire appears to die down, or at least turn its focus inward.

The paladin rises to his feet, raises *Amoracchius* and charges toward the cultists nearest to the intended sacrifices. Three great strides puts him mere feet from Lance, his expression grim, and he attacks with an armoured boot to the chest of the nearest opponent, with enough force to shove an automobile.

The howl of a wolf pierces the air from near Wildlife Preserve, Beacon Hills.

It turns out to be a bad day for evil ritualists.

Lance, darting right past the censer-chain-whip-swinging ritualist, sends the red-robed knife-wielded flying through the air with the greatest of ease, just in time to collide with one of the few squads of guards who had been staggering toward the circle to try to help. From the sounds of groaning and vomiting that ensue, they aren't doing so well.

Michael likewise cuts right through the anti-magic power of the white-robed ritualist. It would seem that divine empowerment isn't the kind of "sorcery" she was prepared for, and the woman who gleefully declared her intent to consume magic power is sent tumbling away. Michael may eventually feel a twinge over it, but then again he may not--if that woman has a soul, it smells as black as pitch.

This leaves the three in the center, who probably think they're going to pull off a quick and dirty version of the ritual at the last second, just to spite our heroes. They didn't count on Phoebe's vanquishing potions, which shatter the magic they're conjuring and send them sprawling with howls of pain.

One of the three in black robes, left scattered by Phoebe's potions, howls in rage, "You *idiots*! The ritual is active! Without innocent blood and the proper chants to focus it, *we're standing on a mystical atomic bomb*! You've killed us all!" Not, if his threats are true, to mention Beacon Hills.

Kay? Kay's not here anymore. Oh, her body is, but in her mind she's swimming in a sea of pure magic, fighting against the tides of pure darkness that stand between her and the Nemeton's power. If she can just break through, she may be able to disrupt the vestiges of the spell. Then there'll still be all that power building up to worry about, but at least it won't explode! Well, not immediately, anyway. But the barrier of darkness is powerful, stronger than anything she's ever felt before.

None of them can do this alone.

With a deep breath both metaphorical and true, Kay calls for help. No sound emits from her throat, this is almost a hum through the very earth, climbing like swift vines up the legs of those sensitive to its call, to the magic, flowering its message into their minds. Even the werewolves, being creatures within the natural order (at least partly), can hear the echo. 'I can't do this alone,' it says, in Kay's voice, ethereal. 'Help me.' It's a dangerous thing, opening herself up to this aid, but standing on the threshold of darkness, it's clearly the only way to go. So wrapping herself up in whatever magic or savagery is donated to her, in that mind-space, Kay yells a sound like rocks grinding in a tumult, and throws all of herself with rage and fury against the darkness, drawing on the earth, drawing on the others, drawing on herself. Maybe even the other druids will hear and respond. Whatever the case, this all and the last of what she has to give--an avalanche.

"Finally," Lance calls to Michael. "I thought you'd *never* get here." It's a sort of playful bit of banter. he's really just trying to lighten the situation a bit, but there's not a lot of lightening that can happen. The situation is every bit as dire as they're told, and he knows it. The Knight of Hell can sense it, and even if magic isn't his specialty, they are right at the Nemeton.

Lance evenly regards the hysterical black-robed man. "I'm tempted to say, you before the rest of us...you're lucky I'm not out for blood today." And somewhere in his mind, he hopes that it'll all work out okay. And then he adds to that, in his thoughts, that he hopes Stiles knows he did what he did because he had to, because otherwise it might be someone else putting their metaphysical existence on the line here. Because he can't take the chance that Beacon Hills might be wiped off the map by this. He remembers the good times he's had, from meeting Stiles in the coffee shop, to his first time meeting Scott and Melissa, watching movies with Derek, bowling with Ethan and Liam...good times.

The best times.

But this heroic quartet is close enough, the Nemeton is here, and he knows what he has to do: Lance extends the purest form of his essence, pushing into the dark tides of power to try and tank it. Of all those assembled, he knows he's the one most suited to be able to try it and possibly walk away, and Kay's the only Druid in their midst presently, the only one who can really handle the Nemeton. Maybe Phoebe can help. Where's that nature girl from yesterday? Whatever, it's down to them. They can't wait for the cavalry. They're it. So when Kay's avalanche is ready, at least it should be able to strike directly and not be beaten back to a magical pulp. Hopefully. But nothing comes without a price.

Phoebe looks over at the ritualist's shout. Magical atomic bombs are bad, m'kay? This is less than good. But, one of the core tenets of witchcraft is grounding. You discharge extra magical energy into the Earth, cause good ol' Mother Earth can take it. It's not really her specialty...but it falls right in line for druidry. And one thing that *is* in her wheelhouse as a Charmed One is handling ridonculous amounts of magical power. She runs up behind Kay, while she's working her magic, and since Kay's fingers are already grounded...quite literally...in the dirt, she puts her hands out to rest them on the other woman's shoulders. Just a matter of channeling now, right? Right. Right? She hopes so. Improvisational magic always gets risky. "Power of the angels high, darkness of a demon's lie. Mother Goddess hear our cry, and aid us now in what we try!" She looks over to both Michael and Lance, reaching out her will their way. She'd rather have her sisters, but she'll make do with what she can. She continues the spell, chanting. "This built up magic has to go, from them..." Lance and Michael, with their angelic and demonic magics. "...through me..." the one who can channel the magic. "...to earth below!" That'd be you, Kay.

Meanwhile, near the fleeing innocents...

From the set of his jaw, his bared teeth, he is filled with anger.

And from the single tear that falls from one eye, then the other, he is profoundly sorrowful.

"Do your..." the man's voice trails off as he watches Lance transform. Michael closes his eyes for just a second, mouths a short silent prayer in the next, then lifts his visage once more. "Job." With that, he takes several steps -- ushering people away from the clearing and into the woods -- and then turns back to face the remaining ritualists.

He has put himself deliberately between the slayers, and the intended sacrificial 'lambs'.

Michael looks askance at Phoebe, whom he can see, and then in the opposite direction at Lance. Odd that their respective stance now should put them in a vaguely triangular formation. In a slow deliberate manner, the paladin places the tip of *Amoracchius* upon the ground, and sinks to one knee -- head bowed -- the hilt of his sword gripped in both hands.

"Servants of the Dragon, that Old Serpent," he intones with authority. "You and yours have no power here. Your threats are hollow. Your words are empty of truth, just as your magicks are empty of light. Cease. This. NOW."

And he thrusts the blade down into the soil.

The howl of a wolf pierces the air from near Wildlife Preserve, Beacon Hills.

As magic goes, it's messy--but messy can work.

It's all about power, of course. First, the demonic power that had reached out to grasp the Nemeton, holding it fast--Lance reaches out to it, like to like, and pulls on it. Whatever has the other end of that power is monstrously potent, perhaps enough to dwarf even Lance's considerable power... no doubt that's what they were trying to use to channel this much energy. But Lance has some advantages that whatever that other entity is does not.

For one, Lance is here. It's sealed away in a hell-dimension, trying to reach through the veil across realities. For another, Lance is crafty, capable of guile. He's not trying to bludgeon his way across dimensions with raw power. And finally, Lance--perhaps oddly for a demon--isn't afraid of self-sacrifice.

For a moment, the Knight of Hell is consumed in pure darkness, all light near him pulled away. Then, he's bathed in pure light--well, perhaps not *pure*. Intense light. Potent light. *Pure* hellfire, the source of the power behind the spell. It burns through Lance, body and soul, and he literally catches flame, like a bush that burns but is not consumed. A feedback loop seems to have formed, as dark powers take the path of least resistance--directly into Lance. Best cast scenario, he might be consumed. Worst, he might become a far greater threat than an ancient demon trapped in another realm...

If not for the Knight of the Cross. As *Amoracchius* pierces the ground, propelled by Michael's arm and his prayer, a power pulses through the area that is felt more than seen, as if the entire site had just been rung like a bell of incalculable size. The dark power shudders, and the connection shatters. Lance hovers in the air, terrible to look upon for that shining moment, as he blazes with Hellfire--then he falls to the ground.

And with him goes the dark power, dissipating.

The power has, for a moment, nowhere to go... but then Phoebe Halliwell's spell, like a lightning rod, gives it a path to take. The power flows through her as nothing she's ever touched before, a glimpse into the raw fires of life itself, and rides her spell like a freight train on a rail, straight into the heart of the Nemeton. The stump erupts in flames, pure white fire that shoots toward the sly...

And Kay is lost. Just for a moment, of course, but she is suddenly bathed in a wellspring of power that is both incalculably strong and almost incredibly pure. Purged by Hell and cleansed by Heaven, the site is now *absolute* primal power, the raw stuff of creation itself. She could do anything with this power! Except... some part of her will realize... any attempt to channel this energy would consume her utterly. This is power no mortal, certainly no *single* mortal, was ever meant to wield. But even if she can't wield it... she can defuse it. The power wants to be spent, wants to explode, but she can still the waters. The ocean would still be there, but the tsunami might be averted.

For a long moment, Kay is certain that's it. She's done. It was a good fight! A good day to die and all that. Consumed by light and buoyed on a tempest of primal energy, to be consumed by it seems the inevitable conclusion. Who can control something like that? But then... she opens her eyes. For a moment, she sees the light of things, watches the world go by, touches the foundation of creation... and doesn't suddenly cease to exist. She slides a hand through the watery essence, watches it swirl and loop around her fingers, almost begging to be given form. It's an enticing thought--having one last hurrah, and giving the world something to never be forgotten. Shaping it forever.

But this was the kind of temptation Kay was trained to avoid. Rather than attempt to deny it, Kay for once in her life sets aside fury, and accepts that yearning part of herself... only to allow it the chance to flow away. She lets it all flow away. She imagines placid waters, sinking into a cool lagoon, with the surf crashing only feet away, but in this place, in her space, all is still. That begging energy finds in Kay not the guidance it was seeking, not the form it was yearning to have, but a different kind of solace--a truth of being. A truth of remaining still in the moment, and not blasting to finality. Allowing infinite potential.

In that moment, Kay realizes this is her dance, and all she has to do is lead the way. Her spiritual form moves and flows with an elegance of a like she will probably never experience again, and the powers of creation settle from a riptide into an easy drift, caught in the current of Kay's movements. She allows them to settle within her gravity, owning them for that brief moment, and then with one last, exulting breath, exhaling it all out back out into the world. The Nemeton. The forest. Everyone who gave to this event. Like a sponge, Kay allows the power to settle once again into this sared area of the forest--still there, still very much accessible--but currently not exploding.

And then Kay's body collapses.

Lance collapses once the force leaves him, and thankfully Michael is able to make that happen. But even doing what he did for a little bit has caused a considerable amount of damage. Fortunately it's not something that damaged his physical body, but that's also an unfortunately at the same time because it weakened him metaphysically, straining the very essence of his being. He's exhausted, and it shows. He's about like Kay at this point, maybe even less responsive to any who may try. He's definitely not breathing, but Michael will probably know that he technically doesn't need to, so that might not actually be a point of concern.

He's so still, after having been so very energetic and full of movement and energy.

That'd end the series and there'd have to be a spinoff or something with different characters.

Thankfully, Phoebe didn't have to hold onto it. Just be a giant funnel. Even that amount blasts through her. It's like touching those lightning balls that make your hair stand on end. Except she's pretty sure this makes your soul stand on end. But that was a big spell, especially for improvisational, and so she more or less just kind of stares forward at nothing. The pretty lights and colors that she's seeing. Somewhere. Then she more or less falls forward, her hands on Kay's shoulders sliding forward so that she ends up in some sort of ragdoll piggyback on the druid's back. Don't worry, her brain'll reboot in a couple moments.

Probably.

Michael doesn't appear so much 'drained' as...

Concerned.

The storm subsides. The cacophony of power fades in volume. The light show... dims. Even the radiance surrounding him personally gradually disappears, leaving him just a man in a suit of armour and a cloak -- with a sword sticking out of the ground in front of him like a certain blade from a certain fable...

Except that it isn't stuck in an anvil on a stone.

The tall man rises to his feet, drawing *Amoracchius* from the earth, and walks toward Phoebe and Kay. He gives the area multiple sweeps with his gaze, searching for fleeing innocents -- who appear to have successfully fled -- surviving cultists, and injured allies.

"What you did was very brave -- what *all* of you did." Glancing at Lance, the paladin frowns. He half steps toward the demon-man, then stops. Instead, he sheathes *Amoracchius* and crouches down beside Phoebe and Kay, laying a hand upon the former's shoulder.

The man's lips move in a barely audible prayer -- a benediction of strength, and not just for the girls.

Kay bubbles back up to consciousness in a sensation that is equal parts waking up from the most refreshing sleep of all time, coming up for air from the bottom of a very deep pool, and letting go of a live electrical wire. She's still kneeling, hands buried in the earth, and every part of her is *charged*. She's also exhausted.

And not alone.

A if they blew in on the breeze, a circle of green-robed figures now surrounds the Nemeton, each shining with a radiant vitality. Standing just above Kay is a familiar face... and yet not. She is taller than before, no longer wearing roughspun clothing or smudged with dirt.

The woman who implied she was a druidess is stunning. Beyond stunning. She is a beauty beyond mortal ken. Fiery hair cascades around her shoulders, ruby lips too vividly natural for any shade of paint, and her form is born right from the dreams of poets.

She's gorgeous, okay?

She's also dressed in a flowing green robe, belted at the waist with silver, and she has the golden eyes of some kind of cat. Or dragon. Or both. When she speaks, her voice rings with power, with magic... literally otherworldly.

"You have done well, child. Rest, now, and we will keep our promise."

And so the Circle is closed once again, the woman taking its head. She regards the others, mainly Phoebe and Michael, inclining her head slightly. "Knight, Witch. Thine aid has been most timely and prudent. I am honored to convey My Lady's thanks to thee, who have combined such disparate gifts to ensure the preservation of this sacred site. In turn, we shall lend our power to seeing that the energies gathered here are returned to Nature... and that what was attempted here will never be completed." A beat, and she completes her statement with all the drama one would expect from a grand dame of the stage, plus a flash of genuine power.

So is given the word of the Leanansidhe, honored to speak in the name of Her Majesty, Queen Mab of the Winter Court, signatory of the Unseelie Accords."

There's a fair bit of certainty in Kay's mind that she's still dreaming. No one's *that* pretty. The other things the pretty lady says don't make a lot of sense to her at that moment. Somewhere in the distant past she was taught about the fae, but she'll have to dig for that knowledge later, when all of her nerves aren't singing. "Thanks," she manages lamely, her mouth dry and throat a bit ashy. She's also still dirt-girl, with hands still shoved the earth. Yeah, well, she's pretty in her own unique way! Right?

It's a bit touch and go for a time. Michael's blessing seems to do nothing at first, and then it's so distracting with the actual Fair Folk popping up. And incidentally snubbing Lance, though maybe not intentionally. A short time after all the pageantry and dazzle vanishes, Lance sits bolt upright, gasping for breath, eyes wide open and, instead of the solid black they had been, are more reflective of his more human appearance.

Phoebe's forced to reboot, mostly because how can you NOT when someone like that is talking to you? She finds her feet, and stands so she's no longer using Kay for a hobby horse. Then she nods to the fae, and says "Thank you." Keep it simple. And when you get home, look up fae, and Queen Mab.

Demons, Witches, Druids... (oh my)

Michael is surrounded by those one might expect a Knight of the Cross to fight *against* rather than *with* -- but it would not be the first time. "Lord, I pray I'm not growing too used to this," he murmurs under his breath after completing his benediction. Despite rather obvious differences, he looks over at Lance with some measure of hope when the strange lad 'bounces back'. One less casualty. Tracking away from Lance to the crumpled bodies -- some of them, at least, still breathing -- of the cultists, Michael allows himself a satisfied nod.

He has never liked killing people -- no matter how black their hearts are.

And then the Sidhe appear.

Michael blinks. A chill runs down his spine and he stands upright in a heartbeat. "LEA..." he breathes with infinite gravity and horror, all but oblivious to the words she actually speaks. "Merciful Lord, what are y -- "

But she and her entourage are gone before he can finish the sentence.

Michael breaks into a dash after the Fae as they vanish, skidding to a halt in the space in which they had just stood. His face is taut with worry, eyes wide and blinking as he scans the clearing knowing it is futile. Several moments pass before he speaks again.

"Lea... Mab! Christ Preserve, Harry is going to have a fit."

A pause.

"Charity is going to kill me."

The night has one last hurrah, however--

Before they vanish, the circle of green-robed Sidhe surround the Nemeton. The raise their hands, and they sing. This the elf-song of endless poems and stories, whether it be raising the spirits of Frodo in Lothlórien or lulling kings and princes to their deaths under the spell of La Belle Dame sans Merci. It's wordless, ancient, beautiful. It's also the sound of deadly power.

The fires consuming the Nemeton leap, spreading skyward, and branch out, twisting in tendrils through the air. For a moment, it seems they'll reach out and set the whole forest ablaze... but then, no. The fire is gone, and where it burned there is living wood, bark. Leaves. With a wash of flame and gleam of light, The Nemeton stands restored, fully, to life. No longer a prodigious stump, it is now a tree again, a tree grand in size and infinitely greater in power, which flows through its very sap and nearly crackles in the air around it. Then, with one last knowing smile from the Leanansidhe, the fae are gone.

It's about thirty seconds later when the explosion hits.

Not a blast, per se, nor a detonation--this is an eruption of power, raw, primal power. It washes over all present, surging through the land, and those sensitive to magics will just know, somehow, that this pulse of power will be felt the world over, touching all life on Earth. What exactly it does is not immediately obvious, but as the wave passes, all present will find themselves instantly cured of every ailment or injury, from a paper cut or hangnail to a missing limb. Restored and fully whole. And as the echoes of that rush of power fade, one may wonder. With that much power...

Where else did it go?

"Doesn't sound very charitable to me," Lance comments, voice especially rough with the unquestionable pain and injury he's endured. Then the wave hits, and he's all -- tingly, all over. It's very strange, and not entirely unpleasant. And although he's been kicked around like an old soccer ball tonight, he certainly doesn't feel at all as bad as he thought he would. A little shakily, he gets to his feet and offers Michael a smile. "Thank you. I mean it."

Top of the list?

Popcorn. Lots and lots of popcorn.