[center][h3]Another Time, At the End of Things...[/h3][/center]

	[color=598527]"Get th' last of the women an' children inside! You, you, and you, get th' last o' th' barricades up."[/color] Jericho Cross was on the bridge, overlooking as the last surviving wives, daughters, and sons too young to hold weapons shuffled inside. Well, the survivors of those groups that hadn't taken up arms already. Once they were inside, the grand double doors, solid oak with gilding, swung shut again and, if listening closely, one could hear the sounds of barricades and debris being piled up against the door. A handful of the men under his command were getting barricades set up, hastily as one could see the oncoming tide, marching at its own pace. That was ignoring the flying monstrosities, which were lurking outside of archer range, groups of dedicated archers milling about along the windows and openings where they could take cover between volleys of arrows. They had learned, the hard way early on, that the flying beasts could fire back, or whatever rode them into battle. 

	They were ignoring the fact that most of Istvargrad was burning, or already burnt out for that matter. The smell was, thankfully, rather tame this far from the more recent skirmish sites, considering they had been fighting last ditch stalling efforts up until this point. The makeshift barricades, mostly barriers to huddle behind with pikes and logs cut to sharpened points set up and braced against charges to at least slow and, in theory, funnel the enemy forces into a narrower position. In practice, of course, the larger war beasts could just smash apart the barricades without too much injury, but they did not fit too well on the narrow pathway, thankfully enough for now. No one had much time to complain, or dread their impending doom, as the forces of Kazzok marched ever forward. [color=598527]"Steady yerself lads, and lasses don't give me t'at look. We 'old long enough t' let the rest flee into t' underground. Better t'an burnin with the mansion, eh? Give these things somethin' t' remember of us."[/color]

	At this point the oncoming tide of enemies reached range of the archers that weren't on the windows and walls, who were already firing in defiance against the tide of flying creatures that darkened the sky, and blotted out the pale moonlight, leaving only fire and torchlight to guide the last standing defenders. Of course, the dedicated archers were busy, but that did not prevent the survivors holding the barricades from unleashing their own, fired at will volleys of arrows. No magicians, though, they had gone down in their own district instead of linking up with the remaining defenders. Last scout reports indicated that there wasn't even burnt out buildings left, reality apparently having collapsed, at least that was what they could gather before the poor sod had drank himself into a coma. Peppering the lighter, fodder troops with arrows and bolts, before long the beleaguered defenders were being swamped in melee, and a proper brawl was not where they excelled. Even the few remaining soldiers, proper soldiers and not the enforcers and thugs of the criminal underground that weren't just color or honor guards for fat, long since dead nobles, were struggling to hold the barricades now.

	Jericho was holding his tell tale sword in one hand, a salvaged dagger in his off hand, lashing out in each direction as he slowly found himself getting surrounded, though they stayed out of blades reach. He was quickly cut off as the barricades were destroyed and shoved out of the way and the survivors butchered or pushed back against the gate. A creeping, lingering darkness seemed to seep forward, and he braced himself, blades at the ready. [color=598527]"What, yer resonsible for this?"[/color] Nothing, just creeping forward and surrounding him ever more tightly, and despite his lashing out, he could not find his blows connecting with anything, and darkness completely claimed him, despite his better efforts.

[hr]

[center][h3]Current Times, Unshackled but not Free[/h3][/center]

	Being trapped in a loop of his own memories, the last waking moments before his apparent demise did not do Jericho's temper well when he was brought back to the waking realm. The first thing his body did was collapse forward, having been restrained for gods knows how long, bracing himself and coughing up a lung. He had been restrained within his cell, unpleasant as that might have normally been for long duration, though his mind had been kept occupied elsewhere. It took him a minute to gather himself, mentally at least, which any other time back home might have meant a death sentence. Which meant this prison was most certainly not in Istvangrad, and he hadn't been in some drug induced hallucinogenic nightmare trip. Shame about that, he was almost hoping that he had been drugged and bagged by the Church instead of...well, best not think on it too much. Picking himself up, he heard talking and, oddly enough, mimics of the same voices speaking.

	Stepping out of his cell, Jericho deliberately made as little noise as possible as he gauged the situation at hand. Masked thing, mimicking the source of the others voices, likely the reason he, and by proxy, the others were free. Robbed of its voice, maybe? Strange curse, reeked of Magician's work, it did. Next to catch his attention was some winged, woman, thing. No such beings existed back in Istvangrad, so he really had no basis on what to think about this woman. Church spiels about their vengeful angels and the like matched her to a vague degree, and he really, [i]really[/i] hoped she wasn't there to be some judging force. He'd hate to try and shank an angel over what he did in life. She seemed, at least in tone of voice, to be the more merciful and kind sort, though appearances were far too deceiving for him to trust that from the basis of things, and he turned his attention to the next one.

	Another female looking thing, and Jericho said thing because it had some gear sticking out of its back. He settled on she, for now, mainly due to her choice of attire. Mechanical constructs were the domain of some Magicians, so not only was that outside his boundaries of understanding, he automatically distrusted her very presence. Coupled with the potential hostile stance and gaze he could tell from his position and, well, he would be keeping a very close eye on her until he had a reason to look elsewhere. There was little else for him to consider in regards to the key wound woman, so he turned his attention to the next person who was talking, or at least present.

	If he was armed, Jericho would have drawn steel at the sight of the next 'woman', if he could call her that. Some drowned corpse given animate life, more bastarding Magician work if he had to reckon. Given her stance, she was also needlessly proud of her condition, or general state of self, and it showed for someone with an eye for people and their attitude. He caught the tail end of her question, however, asking where her stuff was. Stuff, equipment, and he patted his pockets down and frowned. Some thieving bastard swiped his pipe! No, he was not concerned with the loss of sword or bow, at least not nearly as much, as he was with the pipe. That actually held proper sentimental value, damn it, so he would be keeping a sharp eye out for that. Sidetracking thoughts put aside, he would give due thought to the next person he set eyes on.

	Young kid, human for all intents and purposes as far as appearances go, though his lack of muscle or even any sort of redeeming physical form meant that one would be inclined to underestimate them. Jericho had no intent of doing so, it was possible this kid was either no show and all results, or had something else up his sleeve to get him stuck with capture instead of death. Common running trend, most likely, since they were all alive and, for the most part so far, literal sodding angels, mechanical oddities, and outright abominations. And some scrawny punk who he expected to be some demi god of some sort, or another, given the current trend of appearances and stature so far.

	Next was another winged person, though lacking the stature or grandiose nature of the sodding angel, at least he kept assuming angel of some sort, who was at least pragmatic enough to react appropriately. Jailbreak, time to get the hell out, and he had to agree with that fully. Getting out of one's cell was only one step of, often times, many to get the hell out of custody. Again. Jails were a pain in his arse, mainly since often times he was there for reasons that weren't related to the crimes he committed, which were plenty enough to warrant life sentences in most civilized places. So he would keep his bragging to a minimum, since most likely would be among 'good' company and didn't need their shenanigans. Well, mostly, the undead abomination probably didn't care, being an abomination.

	At this point, further discussion was being apparent, and Jericho finally had a chance to chime in, having taken up a leaning position against the wall. The mechanical woman, thing, whatever mentioned not being sure what use she would be in a jailbreak, and it gave him a chance to make a comment. [color=598527]"Brute force, tin girl. You and th'... drowned lass ain' got t' worry 'bout the body givin' out near as soon as some. Speakin' of, where th' 'ell is the exit? Appreciate yer 'elp and all, but the sooner we get out, sooner we ain' sitting 'ere waitin' for the guards to come knockin', aye?"[/color]