IN> "The Waters will Rise!" setting: Feedback and Reverb

[-=|horsefly|=-]

Saminga's March, as well as counterstrikes by Janus, Gabriel, and, of
all entities, Andrealphus--consider Lust's hatred of Death, as well as
the fact that Asia has so many waterways, and the Shedite and his
shocktroops are stomping through creation with intent to rip *one*
measly angel from fully resurgence. The loss of life, the property
damage, the horror that this is inspiring in the Marches... yes,
Beleth and Blandine have *both* sat up and taken notice; both are
irritated no end by the amount of drowning deaths, as well as the fact
that the sea features so clearly in people's Nightmares as well as
their dreams. Piracy has taken on new life as ships have been boarded,
the holds emptied or left untouched at Death's whim, and every person
thrown overboard.

With so much Superior-level involvement on the Corporeal plane,
Feedback in the Symphony was inevitable. Throughout the March--and it
is global, be assured--nascent Tethers are forming to Death and
Nightmares without anyone to stabilize them, some that have been
stable to another Word have inexplicably shifted to another Word or to
the Other Side entirely, and in the worst cases, established Tethers
have been completely severed from their Celestial counterparts.
Seneshals, both angelic and demonic, have begun to wither over the
last month, and with resources stretched so thin, some of them will
continue to waste and die.

Worse, the slain humans have been rising in ever greater numbers as
ghosts, zombis, and even vampires--all without demons of Death using
the requisite Attuenments or Artifacts to ensure the process takes.
These undead owe no allegiance to Hell, and indeed, some Fatebound
humans have been saved from the Pit in being anchored to the physical
plane, but... they're anything but grateful and happy about it. To a
one, the newly risen undead are angry, fearful, and wretched things,
desiring only to foist their own pain on the still-living.

Further, the Disturbance echoes like bad reverb from an over-amped
speaker in any given location, so that angels and demons coming upon
the scene of Saminga's March will contribute to the Disturbance with
anything they do that would normally provoke Disturbance as if their
individual Forces were doubled; any Wordbound treats its Word-Forces
as being *tripled* for the purposes of factoring Disturbance. As the
War gets hotter, it's gotten Louder, too: human survivors have
spontaneously found themselves Symphonically Aware, but without
training in understanding what they perceive, many go mad. The
asylums, where they exist, are filling quickly. Riots in otherwise
peaceful communities are becoming commonplace, and everywhere The
Media is feeding this information back to people who *aren't* there to
experience the effects first-hand, as well as to relish the human
suffering themselves.

Nybbas himself, however, is troubled. Bad news is great for ratings,
but that's when the stupid talking monkeys do it to themselves! This
much human life wasted, so many not even achieving their Fates and
going to Hell... he's conferred with Kronos, and they've both
discovered that a small trickle of these slain humans are either
reincarnating or reaching Heaven, but so far, *none* of them have
passed through Hellgate. Beyond the loss of souls and Essence,
however, the Demon Prince of The Media is incensed at the loss of
life. Squandered. Shattered. Life. He's made a few calls, always with
his perpetually attendant servants out of the room, to a number on a
napkin someone gave him years ago. He'd kept the napkin and its number
crumpled in a pocket, but because of who gave it to him, and his own
personal Will, it had stayed with him whenever he ascended to the
Corporeal or descended back home... so he's been talking. Nybbas'
concern is the Endtimes coming before even Hell is ready to deal with
them. What happens if Saminga tramples everything under foot? Why
haven't the angels opposed him more forcefully, more often, more
successfully? Nybbas has watched the scenes of carnage from Media
crews as well as unallied human news reporters, and he's wept.
Silently, always alone, of course, but he's begun weeping, and he's
afraid he won't be able to stop soon. So he's making calls. Favors
from all across Shal-Mari and extending to The Game and his father in
Tartarus. He has to move quietly. A few minutes ago, a tear hit his
desk and transformed into a feather before it puffed out of existence.
Maybe quickly should be added here, too...?

-- 
-=|horsefly|=-

"It was a different time: a time of blood and guns and killings.... It
was a time when killers needed saints, for so much of God's
good work was being done."
 --SAINT OF KILLERS #4, Garth Ennis