Jefferson City's Shindig (Event Thread: Prologue)

The ride over from Washington had been a quiet one for Alastair, tucked away in one corner of the transport with his nose deep in what few reports he had been able to dredge up concerning Jefferson City since the end of WW4. To call it a fruitful process would be an exaggeration, in a little over half a day of cross-checking various outlying documents he had learned little beyond the fact that it remained outside of official jurisdiction and there was a hostile presence of unknown size and origin holed up within. Nothing he hadn't deduced already when the call for this mission had reached his ear from Vandenreich Command.

As the call went up that they were within sight of the camp outside of Jefferson, he began to put away the documents and prepare himself for the task ahead. Then it was on to buttoning up his coat, pulling up his gloves, and finally picking up his cloak from its resting place over the back of his seat and fastening it around his shoulders. Soon enough, the truck ground to a halt and it was time to get boots on the ground.

It was livelier than he had expected, though the exact scale of the operation here had not been part of the directions given, and he pulled his gloves a little tighter as he headed toward the Camp Commander for an introduction.

The city was far more sparsely populated than most of the reports had indicated; the troops had been making their way into the city incrementally as time had gone on, doing their best to navigate. And they had indeed found exactly what the reports showed: A great number of hollows, a great number of demons, and a great amount of havoc being wrought. It seemed everywhere they looked, something was being defaced, or there was some squabble going on between the spiritual denizens of this place. There was no shortage of concerning things to be seen.

But none of them stopped to wonder whether or not they were in the Abyss, and that went back to bite them in the ass; there were precious few reports, if any, of the faintly-flickering white orbs that hung from otherwise shattered lamp-posts, or burned like candles in windows. There was no reason to suspect that there were more scouts than simply the Vandenreich's in this city. And there was -no- indication that there was any sort of higher intelligence coordinating things in this city. It looked for all intents and purposes like pandemonium itself: The place where all the demons resided.

It wasn't a simple task to make one's presence known and instill order in a span of a few days once the scouts withdrew, and the gathering of actual war forces began. It was an untamed city, full of mercenaries and vagabonds, intent on scouring the place clean like scavengers picking at a corpse. But like any scavenger, they began to flee in the presence of an apex predator. And in this case, -everywhere- they fled there was an apex predator. Yaksha may not have been legion, but he could do a damned fine impersonation when it came to the superstitious and uncunning hollows that loved populating a place such as this.

He had corralled them effectively and patiently, all towards the pen he intended to erect for them for quite some time, the place he intended to turn into his new magnum opus. It had left very few if any presences in this place, and it had occupied a great deal of his free time, so he arrived to the party ever so slightly late; just long enough for people to begin marvelling about the exact reason why the city was so devoid of life, when the first bruise in Gaia's flesh formed; a purplish-black swirling vortex in the ground, that quickly spat out the head of a regal figure, one whose horns resembled nothing more than a crown of sorts, and whose wings were easily large enough to engulf a car if the need arose. The creature rose from the earth itself, nearly a mile from the battle lines that the Vandenreich has created, taking great care to appear without any haste or needless exposure of energies. He didn't want them thinking this was intended as some challenge to their authority.

He finally pulled himself free from the thick blackish ichor that resembled nothing so much as ink, before turning towards the commander and his troops, and beginning to approach. One hand rested by his side, with the air of someone prepared to quick-draw from the hip and fire off a projectile if he was attacked. The other was raised, fingers constantly waggling in a manner that at first looked like a puppeteer pulling strings, but became more obvious after a few moments that it was the closest approximation to a wave they were going to get for the moment.

There was only one chance for a first impression, so any greetings had to be truly spectacular at a time like this. So what could Yaksha say, to break the ice? Well, there really was only one option, wasn't there?

"Be not afraid."

Behind him, the swirling vortex of purple and black remained open for just a few more moments, until his better half, the other presence without whom none of his plans could come to fruition, extricated herself from their makeshift pen, and joined him for the upcoming negotiations. THAT was the real hard sell, he felt; so hard, in fact, he had every intention of simply burying it entirely until the ink had dried.