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DF Spoilers / Re: Just a guess about Peace Talks
« on: February 09, 2018, 07:50:01 PM »All those supernaturals and you can't just rent out a conference center.
Erm, why not, exactly?
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All those supernaturals and you can't just rent out a conference center.
He smiled, and laughter lurked beneath his next words, never quite surfacing. "You defy beings that should cow you into silence. You resist forces that are inevitable for no more reason than that you believe they should be resisted. You bow your head to neither demons nor angels, and you put yourself in harm’s way to defend those who cannot defend themselves." He nodded slowly. "I think I like you."
Bob’s eyelights brightened to brilliance and suddenly cast double cones of light on the wall. There was a scratchy sound that seemed to emanate from the skull itself, a blur of a sound like an old film sound track warming up, and then the old spotlight-sweeping 20th Century Fox logo appeared on the wall, along with the pompous trumpet-led symphony theme that often accompanied it.
“A movie?” I asked. “You can play movies?”
“And music! And TV! Butters gave me the Internet, baby! Now hush and pay attention.”
The opening logo bit faded to black and then familiar blue lettering appeared. It read: A LONG TIME AGO, PRETTY MUCH RIGHT HERE . . .
“Okay, come on,” I said. “You’re going to buy me a lawsuit, Bob.”
“Hush, Harry. Or you’ll go to the special hell.”
I blinked at that, confused. I’m not supposed to be the guy who doesn’t get the reference joke, dammit.
“If I wanted to shut this thing down,” I said, “I could have done it pretty much anytime in the past twenty minutes.” I shifted to a maniacally indeterminate European accent and said, “We’re going through.”
“The Black Hole?” Grey asked, incredulously. “Nobody quotes The Black Hole, Dresden. Nobody even remembers that one.”
“Hogwash. Ernest Borgnine, Anthony Perkins, and Roddy McDowall all in the same movie? Immortality.”
“Roddy McDowall was just the voice of the robot.”
“Yeah. And the robots were awesome.”
“Cheap Star Wars knockoffs,” Grey sneered.
“Not necessarily mutually exclusive,” I said.
“I wasn’t worried about you scrubbing the mission,” he said. “I was thinking you might indulge yourself in a little Robin Hood action against this Marcone character.”
The line came down with a lift harness attached to it. “Marcone,” I shouted over the sound of the rotors and the minigun—which is to say, I was more or less mouthing it exaggeratedly. “You first. That was the deal.”
He shook his head and pointed his finger at Ivy.
I snarled and pushed the girl into his arms, then started slapping the harness over him. He got it after a second, and in a couple more we had him secured in the harness and holding the semiconscious Ivy tight against him. I gave Luccio the thumbs-up, and Marcone and Ivy went zipping gracefully up the line to the chopper, wrapped in the white cloak, the scarlet crosses on it standing out sharply in the winter light.
Maybe Lucifer's action was to grant knowledge of how to form a Great Circle and access to the power to initiate them, which was balanced by Uriel granting the skill to use soulfire to Harry. Two acations balancing each other.
But I’ve been running some figures in my head, and when the Denarians pulled up those huge Signs, they had to have a lot of power to do it. A lot of power. More than I could ever have had, even with Lasciel. Archangel power.
Lucí gave the Denarians access to his power (they used it to super charge 2 pentagram). Uriel have Harry access to his own soul, which he can use whenever. Just like Lucifer doesn't get a new chance to exert his power every time Harry uses soul fire, Uriel doesn't get a reaction every time they use the pentagram. I feel like this is pretty straight forward
And Dresden got the soulfire right before the second circle goes up, not after. He did a drive by routine on Namshiel while he was running full bore to get inside the circle.
If we pull up the greater context of that quote, the archangel who acted "overtly and immediately" is Lucifer. Uriel is contrasting his own style with Lucifer's.
I stood up and jabbed a finger at the podium, suddenly furious, and screamed, “The Prince of fucking Darkness gets to cheat and unload his power on the earth—twice!—and You just sit there being holy while my friend, who has fought for You his whole life, is dying! What the hell is wrong with You?”
"You gotta think that maybe there’s a matter of balance, here,” [Jake] said. “Maybe one archangel invested his strength in this situation overtly and immediately. Maybe another one was just quieter about it. Thinking long-term. Maybe he already gave you a hand."
My right hand erupted into pins and needles again.
The Prince of the Host is all pomp and ceremony, and when he moves it is with the thunder of the wings of an army of seraphim, the crash of drums, and the clamor of horns. The Trumpeter never walks quietly when he can appear in a chorus of light. The Demon Binder takes tasks upon his own shoulders and solves his problems with his own hands.
I looked over my shoulder to see a very, very young-looking Marcone.
He wasn't wearing a business suit. He had on jeans and a black leather jacket. His hair was longish, a little mussed, and he also sported a stubble of beard that gave him the kind of rakish look that would attract attention from the girls who fantasized about indulging with a bad boy.
His eyes were still green—but they were the green of a summer hunter's blind, bright and intelligent and predatory, but touched with more... something. Humor, maybe. More life. And he was skinnier. Not a lot skinnier or anything, but it surprised me how much younger it and the other minor changes made him look.
[...]
Marcone had looked a lot younger when he wore his hair longer, less neat, and dressed more casually. Or maybe he'd just looked younger before he'd seen Helen's daughter die.
His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, and there were lines from sun and smiling etched into the corners of his eyes.
His skin was weatherworn, with an outdoorsman's deep tan. Creases showed at the corners of his eyes and mouth, as though from smiling, but those smiles were rarely sincere.
Central casting would have placed him as the genial next-door neighbor. He didn't have the usual boater's tan, it being February and all, but the crow's-feet at the corners of his pale green eyes remained. He looked a lot like the fictional public image he projected-that of a normal, respectable businessman, an American tale of middle class made good.
He was a man a little over average height, somewhere in the late prime of his life, his dark hair flecked with grey.
He was an inch or two above average height, and had looked like an extremely fit forty-year-old ever since I had known him.
He looked like a man in his mature prime, neat and precise from his haircut to his polished leather shoes.
His short, conservatively cut hair was dark, except for just enough silver at his temples to announce a man in his physical and mental prime.
There might have been slightly more silver at his temples than the last time I’d seen him, but it only made him look more distinguished. Otherwise, he looked exactly as he always did: calm, alert, impeccably groomed, and as merciful as a lawn mower’s blade.