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Priscilla     Some might not know all that much about Lordran's current state of affairs. Most don't know half of the ancient, convoluted story that goes towards explaining it. Next to none know anything of the equally complex web of pacts, oaths, traditions and rituals that keep the tenuous mass of divine nobility in line, in the way that Priscilla sometimes offhandedly mentions. 'Troublesome' here, 'uncooperative' there, sometimes a 'self-important', or even rarely a 'fragile' or 'unsteady' as descriptors, but things have held firm for over a year now. It might be for the best, then, that people with no attachments to the idea of the tension settling, are the ones brought in along with her.

    There had been news earlier. Relatively local, which has reached few ears. A seizure of texts by a holy group called the Way of White, invading a great library and capturing the press used to print them, as well as holding the writers under suspicion of blasphemy and treason. Specifically, the holy order had moved against the 'crime' of idolatry, in documenting the near-mythical exploits of the people from the Multiverse who come here, interpreted as an attempt to sway the faithful.

    Priscilla had kept her direct hand out of it on purpose, to prevent such a conflict, but supported the endeavour indirectly through other Elites, as it cements the merit of the whole adventure that fixed the world and put her at the top in the first place. Though it had kept the majority only grumbling about it in seething annoyance, eventually dying down, the leader of this particular group seems to have taken the opportunity to act against her within the barest interpretation of the law. It's either 'allow thinly veiled political sabotage to continue to ratchet up to a civil holy war' or 'deal with it harshly and directly.

    And so Priscilla has members of the Concord along with her. It's the middle of the day in the impossibly gargantuan city of Anor Londo, set high atop the mountains, and so the Escher-esque jungle of interconnected High Gothic architecture practically glows gold under the sun. People are lead up a set of stairs meant for people triple their size, with human-sized steps only cut into discrete side lanes. Stairs that lead up to the equally massive, iron-shod doors of a cathedral that puts St. Peter's Basilica to shame.

    Priscilla is, of course, not assuming the convenient height of a human. Dressed in full white and gold, she pushes the doors that are made exactly for her size. Her mood has been quiet and stormy pretty much this whole time, so it's some of the first words of the day when she speaks.

    "Personal matter as this may be, I hope I am able to rely upon thee to perform thine duty as skilled soldiers of the Concord. I must ask of thee, a show of force. A reckoning to be handed down by those whom dare challenge thee. I expect no mercy to be shown by any. Today, I ask that thou demonstrate thine superior power, and put those that believeth the Concord to be so lackadaisical back in their place."
Kushiko Given the matters in question, it would do Kushiko poorly to be here as anything /but/ Valkyr, the familiar figure to some--those still living whom weren't her foes, naturally. The Lotus has been quietly, passively keeping an eye on the developing matters in Lodran in between the Tenno's varying missions both with and independent of the Concord.

Predominantly black with sections of purple and lilac pulsing, the felinoid berserker known as Valkyr cradled a quad-barrel looking weapon in one arm as she both arrived originally and as they now proceeded through the building itself. Truthfully there was a very small part of Kushiko that wanted to perch on Priscilla's shoulder--something owed to the predator cat instincts in Valkyr, but she resisted the impulse.

<"Both. As someone who fights as part of the Concord and personally to you. Honor demands it."> There's a moment of when she speaks, there's the holographically projected image of the scarred young girl from her suit, regarding Priscilla before fading out just as briefly. Never you mind the chaotic swirling mist in that 'projection' behind her. <"We are ready."> As is the hound, Kiras, who gives a slight *woof!* before resuming her otherwise disciplined walk with the Warframe.
Medusa Gorgon     It's a bit strange to be part of the Concord now, but nevermind. Strength is still something one can believe in, and it's amusing to put people down a peg. So when Priscilla had requested warriors to join her in this endeavour, she might not have expected one of the newest members of Concord to join her. Then again, the former Confederate nurse isn't a pushover, even if she's spent more time treating wounds in the multiverse rather than inflicting them.

    But with nothing else to do... why not offer some force as requested?

    Medusa Gorgon follows behind Priscilla, taking the humansized steps for the ease of it, carrying a broom over her shoulder as her bare feet make barely a sound against the stone. Like Priscilla she's been quiet, walking in silence with the other Concord members as she quite obviously studies their surroundings. It's only when Priscilla speaks that Medusa turns her golden eyes from the architecture above them towards the woman. At the mention of no mercy and putting people in their place, the witch offers a soft, but genuine smile at the Concord leader. "As you wish, ma'am. Do tell me... what should we expect from this? Anything specific you think requires our attention and focus?" Priscilla should know how Medusa fights by now, so why not ask for any pointers? "Also, by no mercy, might I assume we are allowed to kill?"
The Kid     Kid is not the right person to get, regarding the socio-political manoeuvres required to keep a bunch of gods, dragons, and men playing nicely together. But a good old-fashioned display of force to show what happens when they stop doing so? He's more than capable of that.

    He has yet to visit Priscilla's home, so the divine spectacle of Anor Londo is fresh to him. To be honest, he finds it a bit haughty. Caelondia had its grand marvels of architecture like the Rippling Walls, but it was a Spartan, simple thing with a pragmatic purpose, unlike all of this. But he can appreciate the architectural feats that went into it all. The gigantic staircases with smaller stairs for people his size has him stunned though, as does Priscilla at her true size. Another thing he hasn't seen before.

    "Uh... aye ma'am," he finally says, wiping the dumb expression from his face. "They'll get what's comin'." He wasn't sure what to bring, so he ended up bringing everything. His body bristles with guns, a bow, a pike, a hammer, a blade, explosives, and his large shield is already on his arm.
Count Kord     Kord has never been to Lordran, let alone Anor Londo.

    While he has grown accustomed to the scale of fantastical architecture and other grandiose displays in other worlds, particularly in Lumiere where the most parallels can be drawn for this trip, he was not ready for seeing it in-person. There is nothing like Anor Londo in his world. He cannot fathom the amount of effort that went into each of the steps, into the ornate details of railings and stones that surround him in every direction. He trails behind at the rear of the group, gawking with wide eyes behind his helmet as he takes in the glowing majesty of everything around him.

    He is silent, of course, but his reaction to this place is clear in his body language.

    Once Priscilla speaks, he snaps out of it, and lifts his head to look to the source of her voice. Her words hone his focus to a needle point, reminding him that he is here to perform what he is best at: Violence.

    His hand reaches behind his back to retrieve the folding scythe from its holster. He flicks his arm, and a snap of metal progresses into an ominous mystical hum. The enchanted weapon's blunt end rests at the stone near his feet while he waits to follow the others into where the battle will be taking place.
Priscilla     Priscilla might seem a little glad to have Kushiko along. She hadn't known the Tenno for terribly long, relatively speaking, but long enough to trust in her sense of weird, space warrior ninja honour. She has no doubts as to her capability either, especially wearing Valkyr's skin. To Medusa, having missed the opportunity to really meet her outside of passing circumstance, she does owe an answer, though.

    "This is a matter of ancient tradition, of settling scores between gods. To prevent the catastrophe that couldst result from lawless conflict with such power, there art codes and standards, and one is for a god's followers to prove their patron's worthiness before a challenger. There is one, Allfather Lloyd, I wish put down, and so for this time being, I ask that thou humour these traditions. Thou art most certainly permitted to slay those who do not surrender, and I expect few of them shalt. Adherents to the Way of White art known for their heretic and Undead hunts, and oft consummate duelists. In a matter of honour such as this, however, the powers they shalt rely upon will be limited."

    She looks down at the Kid with a little bit of blank non-comprehension as to what his deal is, looking oddly less surly and more distracted than usual. Still, he certainly looks prepared. "I apologize that thine introduction to mine homeland must hath been this, Count Kord." Priscilla then spares aside.

    Swole on souls, she pushes the titanic doors aside with minimal effort, stepping into the much dimmer and cooler confines of the cathedral proper, though to call it confining would be laughable. The sheer verticality of it is as lofty as the Sistine Chapel even for someone of a gods' considerable height, though far more spartan in design. The sunlight from outside is filtered through stained glass that is largely white, grey and gold in choice, leading to a pale, neutral ambiance that reflects off ornately carved but otherwise bare stone, ornamented only by rich red cloths and fanciful candelabras where seats can be found. The place is as much theatre as cathedral, with balconies, landings, endless flights of stairs, a grand amphitheatre that rises rather than dips down, a massive hall, and a gigantic statue at the end where the pews congregate, though currently veiled in crimson fabric.

    There are people here, of course. It's one of the dominant religious denominations, and even outside of ceremony and mass hours, there are a great number of people milling about up ahead, above and below. The air is heavy with incense and echoing murmurs, but there doesn't seem to be any chanting or confessionals going on. It lacks the dour, deeply introspective aura of churches based around repent and forgiveness. It's an electric sort of feeling of veneration, belonging and power. Predictably, the level of real, unimagined divine energy is palpable.

    Sat at the very head of the group, before the statue, is a figure equally enormous to Priscilla, dressed in layers of grey and white gowns, with a magnificent beard befitting father Christmas, but a dark and creased face more befitting a desert prophet, and a crown closer to a European king. A train of clerics is set up in line before him, discussing something or other, too far away to hear. A suitably large an ostentatious sword is propped up against the arm of his throne, and he is surrounded by few of what would pass as guards.
Priscilla     The doors banging open is a loud and attention-grabbing affair, as is the Queen and Archlord standing in the doorway, flanked by such unusual people. It's not quite as much of a statement, however, as the thick, icy wind that suddenly creeps in through it, pulling its fingers through the banners and benches in its way, and leaving an ankle-deep layer of frosty fog. Even the candles on the upper level gutter and snuff out, deepening the shadows where the sun doesn't reach, and the whole hall fills with a faint, spine-tingling keening, like someone very distantly dragging jagged glass over molten rocks. It takes a second to realize it's all in one's head.

    People scatter immediately. Anyone who isn't wearing vestments of a minimum level of fanciness are booking it, many of them even people with weapons. The bearded giant attempts to look unmoved, but the momentary shiver is detectable. "Self-proclaimed Allfather Lloyd, father of the Way of White. Under my authority as thine Lord, and under suspicion of inciting and encouraging treason, this Cathedral and all thine tributes art seized by the Lineage of the Sun. By the right of a Duel of Judgement, evacuate all of those who wish not to lay down thine lives for thee, and bid the rest waste not mine time, and stand to fight."

    It's a lot of high-brow talk, but the immediate impression right now is that Priscilla and Lloyd aren't going to fight right now, or rather, can't. The clerics gathered at his throne turn around, but he waves them off with a dismissive gesture of his giant, calloused hand. It is instead, two ranks of eclectically dressed and armed royal-guard types, who make their way off the throne plaza, and start marching down, quiet, tense and hostile. All of them bear golden marks on their weaponry, and identical rings on their fingers, as well as odd, cloth talismans at their belts.

    Still wishing to seem commandingly disinterested, the old man booms without moving. "And so thy true nature is finally revealed, is it? I expected a more intelligent choice, even from thee. This nonsense? Charging into the honoured Way of White spouting treason and heresy at a lineage far older and nobler than the one thou barely ride the coattails of? Am I meant to bow to such bastard pedigree? Very well. Maketh this simple for myself, and show all the others of Anor Londo, thine greed and ambition pitted against the inviolable nobility of those who still remember the old ways."

    It looks like the grand hall is the unfolding arena here, large, rectangular, and bare as it is, save only for the supporting pillars needed for the stone balconies above, and the odd bench or ornament.
Kushiko The eyeless Valkyr watches, and waits--well, as seemingly as one can /say/ she watches. There's no clear indication of where her eyes--or optics?--are, but she's regarding each of the comers in turn. A faint, respectful nod not just to the Kid, but to Count Kord, given their respective interactions over time and in different engagements.

Though some of those times, it's been with a different Warframe, the coloration is enough to identify her as the same Tenno at least. Medusa is favored with a far briefer nod, but no less respect in it. They simply haven't had the occasion to get to know one another.

Still, her question--and the answer that follows, is a good reminder as to what they would be doing shortly. <"It's grand,"> she muses faintly, regarding the architecture of the place with that strange, voice-without-presence aspect of hers, <"This place. Reverence yet with life as opposed to..."> She trails off, dismissing the mental comparison to Orokin architecture.

And especially once they enter properly. She goes from this vaguely casual sense of movement to the point where she's not even making a sound with her steps. Not a hint of tension could be reasonably felt, but she is ready. She does bite her tongue; at least audibly to the self-proclaimed Allfather. Hers was not words to wield, and she makes that known by walking forward first, with Kiras aside her. The hackles of the great Kubrow raise up, and low, sonorous growl from her. One hand slides from the shotgun, and one after another do five energy talons extend, before retracting once again.

Not a single word, but the feeling of 'not impressed by your noise old man' is pretty evident.

At least, that's what happens before Kiras makes like a goddamn furry blur and starts /hurtling/ forward and launching herself bodily at one of the royal guards while she unleashes a Warcry, a howl of furor that wreathes not only herself, but Kiras, Kid, Priscilla (though not needed perhaps), Medusa, and Count Kord. Armor and attack speed for all. At least, physically.
The Kid     Kid strides into the grand cathedral, and immediately sees the gulf in difference between how gods are worshipped here, and how they are back home. Here, buildings are made just for them. Worship consists of a lot of pleasantries, offerings and praise. Back home, a simple shrine was all you needed, and your worship was merely to overcome the trials they give you.

    He decides he likes the Caelondian way better. But he doesn't say that out loud.

    He stands respectfully behind Priscilla until Lloyd sends out his ranks. At this point, he stands before her and plants his shield, the Bull glaring out from its surface. Looking at his opponents... well, this place has a lot of talk, and he's a guest. Even if he isn't that great at it, he'll give it a fair shot.

    "I am a son of Caelondia, and a worshipper of the Pantheon. I am de facto leader of The Mighty, a division of the Concord. But here I am as... a champion of Priscilla, Queen of uh... Lordran, and First of the Concord. Let's make this a clean fight. You ask me to stop and I'll stop. I'll do the same if the positions swap. Uh... good luck?"

    He probably made a hash of that, but he tried. To compensate for his unsteady words, he brings out one of his duelling repeaters in a flash of motion. With fast fingers and thumb working the trigger and hammer, he empties it into the enemy ranks. Time to see how this armour stands up to bullets.
Count Kord     Kord's response to Priscilla's apology is a non-commital grunt, as he doesn't actually care about the nature of their visit ruining his enjoyment. In fact, he has no innocent expectations that a place like this would be welcoming to someone like him, with the aura of death and malice that tags along with him like an unwanted guest. The red and black adorned noble advances with the group, now disregarding the spectacle in favor of walking forward with a stiff, violent posture of someone here in clear intention to fight someone. Even then his steps make no noise, and he stays toward the back of the group, where it might be harder to pick him out among the others...

    If not for the sharpening of shadows around him, making his presence seem to deepen the contrast back there. Even the shadows cast by those standing in the sunlight seem to smother the light.

    "Repulsive."

    Kord has a very personal hatred of divinity of All-Father Lloyd's flavor. His response to their approach makes him take up his scythe with both hands. His words obviously rankle the red-haired warrior.

    Kord coils like a spring, and launches... sideways?

    A pair of wings emerge from his back like a pair of ghost appendages, and with two or three beats, he is already on top of the warriors in a wide semi-circle strafe, flying into their ranks with his scythe swiping as hard as it can to shatter their organized advance. He aims for the ones that are paying the most attention to the others, and he moves so fast that only truly godly levels of skill might be able to respond to him. He is not a man to mince words when someone needs to die.

    "Hahahaha!!"

    Aaaand he's bellowing a mad laugh in that deep voice of his, as if he was enjoying this far more than he probably should.
Medusa Gorgon     The witch clearly listens as Priscilla speaks. The two of them have that in common at least, that they understand old traditions due to their old ages. Not that Medusa lets it define her, she's not opposed to new things, far from it. Sometimes old things have their uses however, and traditions can be interesting in many ways. Often as a way to manipulate people. "I will humour them, that's why I came along, isn't it?" she chuckles softly in what might sound like a motherly manner. "It just seemed prudent to ask, some sacred places do have a rule against shedding blood or taking life, after all. I would hate to champion your cause in a poor manner, after all..." For now it's best to be quiet when they enter, it's all about appearance. Sure, it might be good to be neutral about it. But It's better to play a role as always, it's something Medusa is used to after all these centuries. So she keeps on smiling as she walks in with a confident demeanor, looking straight ahead as she falls in step behind Priscilla.

    Even as Priscilla delivers her speech the witch behind her remains quiet, resting her free hand on her hip as she twirls her broom a bit over her shoulder in a casual manner. It doesn't look like she's nervous at all. Not even when the soldiers make their way down towards them does Medusa arch an eyebrow. Instead she sets the broom down on the floor, and then extends her arms, beginning to move them slowly in fluid and peculiar motions. Then she begins speaking under her breath, repeating a mantra over and over. "Nake snake cobra cobubura..."

    It's pretty hard to miss the dark energy that the woman builds up, with dark coils starting to slowly pour out of her back, moving in the same tempo as Medusa's semi-dance. The aid from Kushiko earns a small leer, and Medusa nods in appreciation. For now she lets her comrades attack first, building up her magic. But she also takes a cue from The Kid, who sees fit to introduce himself. "I am here as a champion of Priscilla as well. Witch Medusa Gorgon, now serving Concord. I don't care whether it's a clean fight or not, you will submit either way. Because I won't."

    "VECTOR PLATE."

    The command echoes throughout the hall, and the next moment several spots on the floor shimmer, all before black arrows appear on the floor. Her allies might want to not approach them, especially not after witnessing what happens when Medusa places two of the arrows underneath the approaching soldiers. Should they step on the plates they will be thrown in the direction the arrows point... which happens to be towards each other.

    At the same time the witch steps forward, holding her broom in her left hand as she lands on an arrow. The very next moment she's sent forward with great speed, hitting another arrow, then another arrow as she flies back and forth before finally she heads towards the back of the group of soldiers. If they have crashed together that's a bonus. If not they might have enough trouble dealing with a high speed witch as she rushes in, her right arm raised. "Vector Arrow!" Her black snakes burst out of her arm, shooting towards the group of soldiers as she throws her arm forward.
Staren     Staren strides along with Priscilla. Well, he still has to use the little person steps, but he's doing his best to look imposing. His helmet even has the skull faceplate on it today, instead of the visor. Fortunately their enemy isn't watching him having to run to keep up with the much taller half-dragon -- the presentation begins when they enter the ...church?

    Priscilla talks first. Lloyd responds.

    The duel begins. A half-dozen missiles launch into the air. If not stopped, they fly towards the defending knights, explosing several feet away from them into lances of metal plasma.

    "You're one to talk." Staren speaks. He had to talk, but he wasn't going to waste time before attacking. "Charging into the honored house of knowledge and smashing the records of the truth. I guess you're too old and noble to understand that we made copies, huh?"

    He plods slowly and dramatically towards the guards, firing the beam cannons on his right arm. Playing up the slow juggernaut image until he can surprise someone with speed.
Priscilla     It might be little surprise that a significant number of the men (they're universally men, which is a little weird, given the decent number of female members of Darkmoon Blades and other such warrior covenants here) advancing on the group have more honour than experience to back it up with. No doubt they're all highly trained . . . in the sterile, duel-oriented environment of their temples and tournaments. Not the Multiverse. Not even the horrific wilds outside the mountains.

    Having a tiger-sized dog creature barrel into the ranks is outside of what most are prepared for, assuming martial stances with swords and spears at the ready, only for one, then another, and a third, to go down screaming under a hundred plus pounds of furry rage leaping on top of them and savaging exposed flesh. They quickly start to back off as blood pools on the stone floor in three places, holding out long polearms to try and keep the Kubrow contained.

    Likewise do they not have much experience with guns. Pointing something at someone aggressively in Lordran, of any object description, always got split-second reactions from the few crazies there were to meet, but these guys were clearly never Undead. A few of them walk right into the Kid's firing line just before he gets started, making it insultingly easy to put five rounds in three separate people, two of them only clothed, one armoured with a breastplate that provides only enough protection to send him down wounded instead of in critical condition. A couple behind them with large, ornate crossbows take aim and fire, testing the strength of his shield, rather than his ability to duck behind it.

    Flight, again, is an uncommon attribute to possess here. When Kord takes to the air, a decent number of crossbow bolts miss him entirely, as only a couple are accurately taking lead into account. Flying in behind the ranks like a killer shadow, his scythe cuts through a good string of four enemies before one turns around just in time to panic block, and deflect the scythe on a golden shield, falling over himself.

    It gets even worse when Medusa involves herself. Two of them step haplessly onto the plates, and smash into each other in such a way that one accidentally stabs the other. The others are quickly smart enough to avoid the black arrows painted on the floor, but the storm of pointers that surge through the air instead, are ideal anti-crowd fare, skewering more than half a dozen and sending the rest running with shields over their heads.
Priscilla     Even the shields won't save them from missiles. High explosives detonate all along the blood-stained, but otherwise pristine floor, tearing up the sacred structure and sending royal guards hurtling this way and that, crunching into pillars where they don't just lose limbs outright, having no means to defend against the swerving explosives. A pair of stragglers drop instantly as Staren shoots them down with his beams, like the ambulatory killing machine he's dressed as.

    Still, amongst the ranks of a deity this old and esteemed, there have to be /some/ with experience and competence. They're quickly singled out of the group, as the rest prove practically helpless.

    A surge of vector arrows tracks in on one man in particular, wearing nothing but heavy layers of robes and a monk cut, who clasps his hands around his talisman, and then an explosive wall of force erupts out from him, shattering and knocking away the arrows, some of which are reflected right back at her. Another, his face obscured by a pointed hood, save for his beard down a scaled breastplate, cocks back his hand, and hurls a swirling disc of white light, which passes over the Kid's head, and then flies right back at him from behind, cutting like a magical buzzsaw. A bullet strikes him dead in the chest, and then sparks off, despite his ostensibly lighter armour.

    Where the lucky one stumbles out of the way of Kord's advance, a fast, leather-clad shape leaps out at him, a dueling sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. His movements are fast, slick and polished, and his footsteps barely make noise as he ambushes Kord around the falling man, with a two-pronged attack to catch his scythe and skewer him. A man in much more posh and gold-trimmed clothes, more like one of the clergy, lifts up a spherical, bronzed glass vial of water, and chucks it into the crowd of Elites, where it explodes into a wide cloud of brass-coloured vapour, and where it touched, strips the Void energy right off people, canceling Valkyr's buff. He follows it up with another vial towards the Kubrow, which instead explodes into an arcing mess of lightning.

    Finally, towards Staren, one last soldier in heavy armour produces, and then winds up, some sort of utterly ridiculous contraption with multiple crossbow prods and a giant wheel of bolts atop it, far too large to be reasonably carried by hand. Where he depresses the trigger, the whole thing hisses, rattles, and spits sparks, and yet a fully automatic stream of bolts flies straight at him, which must be at least partly enchanted for the stings of magic he can feel.
Staren     "You've gotta be KIDDING me." Staren comments as so many of the guards actually go down easily.

    And then the real challengers reveal themselves. Suddenly mist is cancelling Valkyr's buff, and... and... and there is a medieval Heavy Weapons Guy over there. Staren can't help but smile a bit at the sight. So such tropes DO extend to this world...

    He's smiling less as the stream of bolts starts chewing through his forcefield just as effectively as a hail of bullets. Which is arguably his forcefield's weakness -- designed for energy weapons, the only thing WORSE than rapid kinetic impacts would be a really heavy object just pressed against it.

    After firing back with the beam cannons, he decides to reveal his speed -- energy wings and thrusters glowing as he dashes out of the way, and tries to circle around Heavy Weapons Knight, spiraling in towards him.

    "Why do you cling to the old ways? That's clearly a piece of advanced technology or a miracle you're wielding... Your master is only holding you back!"
Kushiko The Warcry *was* intended to be the first part; something she hoped the others would be able to take advantage of, but the notion of that is dashed, and honestly happens to be something that /truly/ irritates her. Seems familiar, now that she thinks of it. With Staren here now that they had yet another joining the proverbial fray, and reason enough for her to look to shift her attention there.

Of course, with Kiras having joined the fray as she did, or rather, launched herself so too must Valkyr. Breaking into a sprint, takes her momentum to slide and then launch herself in a spiral, turning and twisting herself to send a disgusting amount of shotgun pellets into one of the polearm wielders before quickly leveling it at another--her landing is in fact, directed at one of the remaining hapless, energy claws extending to tear out the man's neck.

Part of this was to get herself in position to deflect what she anticipated--correctly--an attack upon Kiras. As much as the Kubrows were there to sometimes protect their masters, Tenno could be just as protective. Unfortunately the intent of protection isn't as well executed--the vial exploding means that the dog's own shields are zapped into, and whatever shields Valkyr herself had, well.

But she never relied on shields much anyways.

Bringing her arms down, she orients on the man in the posh and the gold-trim. She begins to throw herself towards him, but not solely rushing him--swapping weapons and lashing out another hand--a grappling hook connected by a band of energy scythes out towards his ankle.

Even if it doesn't quite connect, her intent is to close, and close hard and fast--electricty sizzling off both her and Kiras as the Kubrow pivots and seeks out one of those Vector Plates--intelligently enough, as to get herself into a better position to pounce the offending man.
Medusa Gorgon     There's a look of pure malicious glee on Medusa's face as the soldiers fall before them, meeting their end in various ways at their hands. Of course she takes personal glee upon seeing the men struck down by her vector arrows, as more and more fall a wicked chuckle can be heard from the blonde woman.

    Yet the moment her snakes are deflected back at her, she stops. Immediately her expression turns more serious, and she smirks slightly as she skids to a halt, raising her arm to take control over the snakes again by simply destroying them. "Hmmm, you think you can turn a witch's magic back on her, young man?" she asks with amusement in her voice. Then she lands on another vector plate, sending her forward. And this time she intends to use raw force as she kicks off, intending to rush back and forth while building up speed, all so she can approach the man from behind, intent to send her knee up into the side of his face.
Count Kord     Kord is probably coated by blood by the time his scythe smacks against a shield sturdy enough to stop him. He bounces off of it, backward, and prepares for another swipe with a more direct, vicious intent, when someone very agile emerges from the periphery to attack. "Woah...!" he sounds out as the dual-wielding style takes advantage of Kord's recovery time. The Count can almost taste the blade biting his skin... because it does clip him through his armor, but not nearly as much as it should. Why?

    Kord just... abandons his scythe entirely and backpedals in the air with a flap of his wings as if the weapon were not that vital, the weapon remaining in the air for a hot second just before something incomprehensible happens.

    The shadows cast around the agile man turn into a field of narrow spikes, jabbing upwards at him like twenty foot lances of abyssal black. During this distraction, the scythe that Kord dropped rockets back to the owner's hand as if it had a mind of its own, caught in the air with the momentum used to send the man further back and up above arms' reach, where he can scout the status of the rest of the room in the brief respite.

    "I was starting to think," he announces with an oddly uncharacteristic smug tone, "That all of that pride was for nothing. Some of you can actually swing a sword!"

    He's taunting them as loudly as he can, and preparing to duck out of the way when he draws attention to himself.
The Kid     Kid honestly feels a little bad as he mows down these people. They're clearly not used to weapons like these, and watching them go down immediately with one or two rounds kind of turns all these proceedings into a farce. But that doesn't mean he's about to go easy on them.

    As some of them actually manage to return fire, Kid decides to show them how he deals with projectiles. In Lordran, most use shields of a size similar to the Bullhead Shield purely to block, or sometimes to bash. Parrying and deflective techniques are reserved for smaller ones. So it might be a bit of a surprise to see Kid step up and swipe the shield at the two arrows, smacking them back in the general direction of the shooters!

    That strange light wooshes overhead, snipping the tips of his mussed hair, but he thinks nothing of it. Caelondia had a eclectic arsenal, but boomerangs were never a thing. That's why he's so taken by surprise when the miracle blade slams into his back, cutting him pretty deep.

    "Gaaaaaah! Dammit!" he snarls, slumping to a knee as his blood stains the cathedral floor. His teeth grind as he clenches them, before forcing himself back up. Taking out that long spear, he begins to charge at the offender, shield up and tip pointed as if her were jousting.

    But halfway through his approach, the tip comes down, slamming into the floor. The shaft flexes, bending but not breaking as Kid clings to it, causing him to become airborne as it snaps back into place! He comes down on the cleric, pike-point first!
Priscilla     The beams slash against the man's heavier plate, where molten orange light splays across the impact points, superheating the metal in a way that Staren is familiar with the pattern a Kevlar vest diffuses the impact of a bullet. Titanite etchings, at least of a decent level, must be engraved into it. Much like a bulletproof vest though, just because it's been stopped doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. The heat bleed is still pretty intense, scorching through the inner layer and giving off the smell of burnt flesh. The guy must be pretty stoic to not verbally give away his pain.

    The wheel on the top of the crossbow pops off as Staren takes flight, clattering on the floor as an empty cage. The knight only produces a second one and screws it back on, like an awkward kind of magazine. "My father, and my father's father, and my father's father's father, and his father before that, served the Way of White faithfully, and their service as hunters of Undead has been honoured. I cannot simply allow my line's name to fall into disgrace." Then he starts firing again, spraying haphazardly at Staren with considerably less aim. This time, however, the bolts start detonating in midair, spraying hundreds of lethal metal slivers into the air that would surely cause horrific bleeding and maiming on a human body.

    Meanwhile, an owner leaping in front of her dog to protect him is certainly a heartwarming sight. The men with spears pointed at its blood soaked teeth are less of that opinion, especially when energy claws rip one's head off, and the blast of a tigris prime cuts a man to flesh and metal ribbons. When Kushiko lands in the middle of the circle, they scatter, leaving her with the man who had thrown the duel charm.

    He's quick, though. He steps out of the grappling beam's line right away, saving his foot and setting him up to draw his sword with his spare hand. The line hits the stone, and allows her to shoot forward anyways, but in the intervening time, he gets to throw one more explosive, this one filled with burning fluid, and then leap /just/ out of reach of the grapple point, and slash out at her on the backstep.

    "True faith is a bulwark against all dark magic." the monk replies to Medusa, firm in his tone, even if his hands appear to be shaking, just a little. His expression quickly becomes lost and bewildered, however, when she begins speeding up, trying and failing to turn around and keep track of her whilst the witch zips around all about him. The knee cracks him right in the side of the face, palpably breaking his jaw with a nasty spray of blood. He stumbles back from the impact, coughing and grasping his throat, doubled over and clutching his talisman.

    Suddenly, the floor beneath him lights up in an expanding circle of shining, golden runes. There is a sound like a deep, pealing bell mixed with an echoing human sigh, and yellow light rushes up from the ground, bathing him in its glow, where his jaw rapidly fixes itself back into place. The runes only keep expanding from the healing magic, though, until they've covered most of the Vector plates. In the space they envelop, one's feet are suddenly caught by a nearly irresistable force, weighing them down like ten ton bricks, that makes anything more than a walk out of the question. The monk's hands flash white, crossed over his chest, and then he throws them out with a jubilant cry, and out with his voice comes a colossal blast of white light, sounding like a thousand people had yelled with him. It looks a little similar to the previous one, but instead of deflecting projectiles, it hits like a blast of TNT.
Priscilla     Kord's opponent twists his sword as it punctures his armour, expertly angling the hilt to cause the most hideous flesh damage possible, but the blade doesn't strike enough of his body to make it worthwhile, letting him escape. Where the black spikes lunge out, however, the duelist is more than prepared, leaping back in the direction he had come from, ducking, rolling, and even backflipping over the barrage that comes at him, only shallowly slitting his outfit and skin.

    Reaching a pillar behind him, the faceless man suddenly free runs up the sheer stone surface, grabbing on to a brazier, vaulting to a chiseled gargoyle, and swinging to an upper balcony with uncanny grace. He must some kind of temple assassin that wasn't trained here, as he is by far the most capable fighter. At some point on the way up, he seems to have thrown a fistful of kukri knives at Kord, which are barely visible until they're too close. Reaching that balcony, he leaps off hashashin-style, bringing both swords down in reverse grip like climbing pitons.

    Lastly, the archers, indeed, are surprised at the Kid's feat of projectile parrying. Seeing how ineffectual they were, they too, run like the rest. The one who had thrown the weird discus, however, stands fast, setting himself in a half-crouch as the Caelondian comes at him, reaching to the small of his back.

    The pole vault is certainly an unexpected maneuver. He barely has time to look up and step sideways as the pike comes down, catching the collar of his armour and ripping the chest straight off, scoring a bloody flesh wound beneath. He voices little more than a gravelly grunt, and retaliates by swinging a heavy, nastily flanged mace out from behind his back.
The Kid     The pole vault surprises even Kid. Such techniques were used by the Brushers, but he only had passing familiarity with it. In his mind clouded by pain, it just came to him as the best thing to do. Maybe all these trials were starting to pay off. He grins as his plunging blow strips his opponent of his armour.

    As the mace comes out, Kid is still clutching his pike too tightly to bring up his shield, so he does the next best thing. He rolls back, leaving the tip of his spear embedded in the ground. In spite of all that gear he has on him and the bloody gouge in his back, it's an amazingly graceful somersault, one that he rises back to his feet from easily with a trail of blood marking its journey.

    But now, he's holding his Scrap Musket, with the business end aimed at his foe.

    "Sorry fella," is all he says before he squeezes the trigger. The explosion that rips from the barrel at such close range is enough to knock someone back. And the cloud of hot scrap metal that it expels probably finds it easier to find something to gouge and scorch without that chestplate in the way.
Kushiko There's a marked difference between how Kushiko fights as Valkyr versus say, Nova Prime, or even Mesa. She'd try to genuinely actually avoid some of what's coming at her--and in the case of the potentially unknown explosive, she does just that, curling forward and into a ball from her slinging forward.

Inwardly, she has to make a note of 'not bad' insofar as the man's movements go. It does at least give her a better gauge for his actual skill level, and in the intervening moments of pulling forward, having swapped her weapon, the sword seemingly finds purchase--but the acrobatic figure demonstates an incredible degree of armor. It hit. He has to know it hit, a spurt of blood, but she just doesn't seem to care.

A howl of burning rage heralds Hysteria--a primal scream that isn't so much /heard/ but *felt* not only by those closest, but throughout the room itself as she skids to a halt. There's no use of her grapple again, she just screams, a shockwave of lilac energy racing out in a cone before she lunges.

Right about the same time Kiras the Kubrow is attempting to do the same, having taken advantage of a Vector Plate of Medusa's to get himself moving to assault from behind. Take him off his game, pounce, rip and tear. Until it is done.
Medusa Gorgon     Off the monk goes with the force of the kick, and Medusa lands in a crouch, a soft laughter rising from her throat. "Oh my." Is that a wistful sigh that leaves Medusa? Quite possibly. "How many of you speak of how your faith protects you... So truly unoriginal, and oh so false." Her gaze falls to his shaking hands, and she can't help but smirk wickedly. "Besides, don't you know that the brightest light casts the darkest shadows?" At least he ought to shut up now that she broke his jaw.

    The moment the light shines from the floor however the witch frowns, watching closely as the glow envelops her opponent. And then the holy magic spreads, taking over the Vector Plates. Well, it's safe to assume that they've been compromised by now. Which means that he means to disrupt her mobility... Time to act. The moment the monk throws his arms out towards her, Medusa is already moving. Her tail moves, slamming into the floor as she herself kicks off. In her left hand she's still gripping her broom, which now becomes useful as she swings herself upwards while she throws the broom upwards. It elevates, and she lands ontop of it, ascending just in time to avoid the bright blast.

    The floor down below has been taken over by holy magic, but something more chaotic grows as Medusa flies around, just to make sure the monk can't aim properly at her. The black snakes coil around her, and for those able to sense dark magic it might be easy to notice that the witch is building up to something. Uncountable amounts of snakes are coiling and twisting around her, a dark shadow falling over the monk as they block the light from the windows behind Medusa. "Nice try... but you're still too young and inexperienced!" With that she throws her arms forward, down toward him. "Vector Arrow!" All at once the snakes shoot down at the man, their number far greater than from before. And this time they're all focused on him, crackling with chaotic energy.
Count Kord     "Haha! Hold still!"

    Kord's exuberance continues as his opponent slips around like an eel out of the way of his attacks, matching his own slipperiness. In the absence of anyone else attacking him -- he could've really used that confusion to his advantage, a 1 v 1 is actually very bad for him in a melee like this -- he watches the agile warrior perform ninja-like feats, and he is not easily caught off-guard by the knives that get thrown at him. His cape is used to deflect the majority of them as he weaves out of the way of the attack, but there a light dribble of blood on the immaculate floors below to suggest he got winged by the attack.

    "I said HOLD STILL!!"

    The agile warrior is dropping toward Kord. This was a very poor decision to make with someone that has full air maneuverability. Kord waits until his target is close enough, then pivots in the air with a quick movement of his wings, and swings his scythe so hard that there's an ominous WHOOSH. But the scythe isn't the dangerous part. It's the enormous crescent of black energy he just emitted from the weapon in a pulse. It isn't a cutting force, but a wall of searing black energy aiming to strike the man coming toward it so hard that it could smash one of these stone pillars. It actually blasts grooves in the environment whether or not it hits its target, so there's no doubt it could pulverize the unprepared.

    There's a loud WHOOMPF noise up there and a burst of air from the attack that washes over the room.
Staren     This guy has anti-air crossbow bolts! Staren's impressed! The forcefield looks like bulletproof glass losing a fight to an automatic shotgun before finally shattering in a shower of amber sparkles. The discs on Staren's chestplate spark and smoke. Staren tries to attack the crossbow, shooting it with the beam cannon and even swinging beam swords at it as he gets close, although he attacks with the tip of their range to try and avoid getting grabbed or something.

    "Then join us. Show that your line can change with the times. Come with us into the future, and be remembered. Another foe fallen will be forgotten with the rest... but someone accepting my mercy will be remembered in the history books." He stands back, with both arms aimed at the man.

    If he refuses, Staren is firing the beam cannons and the remaining half-dozen plasma-lance micromissiles.
Priscilla     The surprise is out, the maceman swings the impractically fantasy-sized metallic head in front of him and holds it ready for a new assault, clearly tense and waiting to cave the Kid's skull in the moment he approaches. Instead, the musket comes out, the man realizes too late what it is, and a fantastic spray of Geneva-convention non-compliant buckshot takes him in his unarmoured chest, flooring him instantly, where he can barely twitch as his blood rapidly escapes him.

    The duelist Kushiko confronts has time to disdainfully flick the blood from his sword, adroitly stepping further backwards and turning himself for a narrower profile in readiness for the next lunge, posing one hand behind his back like a fencer. Once Valkyr throws herself tumbling and screaming forward, however, instead of hopping back to poke her again, he actually steps right /towards/ her, pirouetting under his sword against her claws with a flash of glowing sparks, and from the hand behind his back, producing a shorter sword to slam into her back. He has only just had the chance to do so, though, when the Kubrow leaps out at him right after, and buries him under teeth and fur so hard that he loses grip of the second sword, which might just end up stuck in Valkyr. Wrestling with a giant dog in a ground fight is not dueling. He doesn't stand a chance.

    The monk looks up in frustration and dismay as Medusa escapes the cheesy one-two clincher through flight. "Do not think your trickery will avail you, witch!" he says, oblivious to the fact that Medusa actually is a literal witch. When he sees the snakes building up again, his clutch on his talisman is renewed, and when they surge towards him, he splits the great tide with another thunderous blow of reflective force. However, the miracle only lasts a short while; mere frames meant to be used as a timed counter. When it disperses, the remainder surge in on him, and just like that, skewer him in a hundred different places, leaving him limp and bloody, pinned to the nearest wall.
Priscilla     Kord's enthusiasm is matched only by stolid silence from his opponent. Even having missed a decisive blow a few times, he just keeps coming, digging deeper into a book of tricks that must have come about from plenty of experience with targets who certainly couldn't have been pushovers. The fact is, though, that once he does jump, he can't change direction, and he was counting on the kukri to stun Kord. The black wall hits him dead on, sending the man plummeting out of the air and down through a second floor balcony pillar, smashing the stone fixture in half with his body. When he hits the ground though, the leather-clad figure actually rolls to right himself, rising to a wounded crouch, clutching one arm at the shoulder. That would have obliterated a regular human. As a killer, the number of souls this one has subsumed is markedly higher than the rest of the crowd, and the effect is dramatic. Still, he seems to be caught at a pause, waiting for an opening, probably too badly injured to resume an offensive.

    The knight Staren faces must clearly know the value of his equipment, and trust in the durability of his armour, which may quite possibly be an heirloom, for how heavily it is etched with godmetal. He swings the automatic crossbow out of the way, turning his back to soak up the beam fire with blossoms of glowing red metal that sizzle and smoke on his skin. "A covenant is not forsaken so easily." he grunts in reply, ejecting another spent wheel. Turning to face Staren, though, he sees the amount of firepower aimed directly at him, and seems to weigh his options. He seems to have two more flavours of ammo wheels at his back, but loading one is too slow of a process to do under heavy weapons fire. Of course, he can't just back down . . .

    "ENOUGH!" booms the voice of the bearded god on his throne, well versed in oratory skills, judging by the Zeus-like thunder it carries. He slowly, almost ponderously, stands to his feet, bare as seems to be the deal with high status here. His calloused fingers curl around the hilt of his grand gold sword, and then slam it into the stone steps with a resounding crack. "As underhanded of thee, it is, to challenge my faithful with these butchers you call followers, during such a time, this outcome is obvious. Thou hast won thy match, White Lady of Disaster, though it will be thy grave. To challenge Allfather Lloyd to a Duel of Judgement is foolishness that true warriors have rued for centuries. What chance do you believeth a bastard waif of a mad dragon possesses?"
Count Kord     Kord hit his target this time, but when it doesn't splatter the man despite the incredible spill he takes, the black and red dressed warrior pauses in the air to peer down at the assassin. That resilience is impressive, and Kord has to pause to appreciate how he just took that. The silent opponent doesn't get an opening, the scythe loosely held in one hand. The demigod lingers in the air, calmly watching with an inhuman gaze, not willing to get into melee range with someone who could take advantage of his excitement. Despite the glee he displayed... he's very calm and measured.

    His head lifts and pivots when the All-Father bellows.

    Kord bursts into loud, echoing, derisive laughter at All-Father Lloyd. It's his only proper response to the arrogance.
Kushiko Blood certainly may be spilt, but it doesn't sway, doesn't stop, doesn't even make Valkyr flinch. Full on Hysteria mode, she'll soak that damage and then some.

In the instance of this duelist however, he might find--at least before things go horribly furry for him, that she has moves and awareness atop it all. She crouches and spins--a whirling dervish of lilac energy claws to deflect and seize what opportunties she can to effectively buzzsaw into him, even he's being an evasive little shit.

Really, that's kind of why she had signalled--or perhaps more appropriately, Kiras knew when it was time to strike, to assist her master. No sound from her--though the sword remains--something she'll feel later once Hysteria has worn off, and she reaches behind and yanks the blade free without hesitation, wounds knitting and sealing themselves closed as Kiras pins the duelist down in fur and fangs.

Who, in turn, lets up just enough for Kushiko!Valkyr to join the wonders of clawed hands rending into him in rapid fire motions--at least until Allfather Lloyd says something.

<"You talk too much. If you have to ask that question you already doubt your own words."> Her voice is everywhere and nowhere--the feminine young girl is /annoyed/, the lights of her Warframe flickering in sync with the syllables. She flicks the blood off her clawtips as she rises, blood beginning to smoke and simmer off of her form.
Staren     Staren wonders if diplomacy will work this time, or if he'll have to cut yet another person down. He's lost count long ago of how many he's killed... He waits tensely, not even breathing...

    Instead, the match is called to an end. Staren lowers his arms and turns to face Lloyd. "Please. I am not a butcher, but a wizard wielding magics you don't even comprehend. Priscilla and I were among those who fought and defeated Kalameet. If you're so mighty, where were you that day? And do you think you're even stronger than him?" Not that Kalameet was an easy foe by any means, but there's no need to go into detail about that now.
Medusa Gorgon     The snakes continue their assault, pressing the attack even as the first ones to strike the light barrier only to die. The black shapes fade into ashes one after another, all until the holy light fades. An almost triumphant hiss can be heard as the snakes break through and strike flesh, and Medusa smirks up on her perch on the broom. Slamming the man into the wall is the last thing the snakes do before they disperse, and the body is left bloodied as it slides down the wall.

    "My tricks usually work rather well, young man~" Medusa notes calmly. Pleased with herself, she looks around, noting that her fellow Concord members are doing well on their own. And then the allfather speaks, drawing the witch's attention. When he refers to her and the other Concord members as butcherers? Why, that makes Medusa leer, her eyes glinting slightly underneath the hood of her jumpsuit. Unlike Kord she doesn't laugh out loud in the same manner, though she can't hold back what might be a brief snicker. "Allfather, if you think this is butchering... then you haven't lived long enough to see a real slaughter," she states from up above, though she's slowly descending down towards Priscilla, getting off her broom as she carefully steps down onto the floor, grabbing the broom from out of the air.
The Kid     Allfather Lloyd has seen enough, and that's fine by Kid. Once the call is given, he takes a bottle of something from his belt and strides to his bleeding opponent. Popping the cork with his teeth, he upends half of the contents all over the grievous chest wound. If he's as tough as he seems, the Healing Water will help him pull through. The rest he awkwardly dribbles over his cut.

    He considers the god's words, and files them under 'whining.' This is all his traditions. His rules. And now he's mad that they're being used against him. If he's all for a 'traditional' leader and a 'traditional' life, then he should be fine with losing 'traditionally.' At the end, this 'god' is nothing more than a sore loser.

    So Kid doesn't even acknowledge him. Instead, he looks to his opponents that yet live. "That was a good match. Some of ya need to get stronger so we can do it again sometime." And with that, he turns to leave.
Priscilla     Lloyd looks like the kind of giant old man that people would build statues out of (the statue under the veil is probably him) but even so, anyone can see the deepening wrinkles of irritation on his creased brow as the Concord has the gall to talk back to him, never mind talk smack. His grip creaks around the hilt of his sword as Kushiko insinuates his lack of confidence, as Medusa promises greater violence yet to come, and as Staren reminds him of the difference in battles the two would-be-duelists have faced.

    Unfortunately, they're probably all right.

    Though Lloyd's voice is by far the more commanding --loud, masculine, powerful and dauntless, supremely confident in his power-- somehow, some way, the stilted, icy, oddly fractured tones of the old, old Priscilla, long before she had learned to socialize, are somehow deeply more threatening. It's as if by just hearing the two talk, anyone can tell the woman has what it takes to triumph; no not to triumph, to survive what is about to happen. One is prepared for a duel of honour like the days of yore. The other is prepared for a ruthless bloodbath the likes of which saved the world on the brink.

    "Choose thine words carefully, for history shalt record them, for future generations to revel in the irony of. Leave. This place is no longer thine own. Thine unlawful holdings in the Grand Archives art also forfeit. By the by, so is thine life. The morrow. To the death."

    Almost unnoticed on the floor between them, off to the side, the Kid engages in an act of human kindness, and his blasted foe coughs and pushes himself to a half-seated position, watching him wander off in utter bafflement.