Derren Krenshaw

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Just to quickly mention, I'll be away for the next couple of days without internet access -or, indeed, a computer. Things seem to be moving at a stately pace anyways, but just in case things start moving quickly again, I won't be able to post until Tuesday evening, at the earliest.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Semyon managed to quirk a slight smile, listening to Nestor speak and accepting the flask offered back to him. The Wight couldn't taste anymore, and if any liquid managed to make it down the remains of his throat, it would likely end up staining his shirt. But he took it anyways, bringing it to his mouth as he mimed drinking a shot, lowering it with a sharp shake of his head before carefully wiping the liquor from his lips. It was about what he'd seen numerous people do before over the years, and could vaguely recall doing himself long ago. Nestor was speaking quickly about the drink itself and where he got the flask, so Semyon hoped he wouldn't notice the fake, handing back the flask with a grateful nod.

"Leaving the living world isn't something I... like to do, but I know someone who would be very interested in finding this shantytown of yours." Following the man's gaze, Semyon turned to look over by the tree as well- eyes widening slightly at the sight of their new arrival.

"A good question, would that be the one we were trying to rescu-"

A sharp, keening wail assaulted Semyon from just beyond the embracing Tamarind-and-newcomer, coming from the torn air behind them. It dug into his essence as a thousand worrying needles, accompanied by a chilling wave that caused the Wight to shudder for the first time in a century. Wincing back, his hand snapped to draw his weapon again, ready to levy it at the offending portal and open fire. What would it do? Probably nothing, probably make things worse, but he would not lose his fight standing still in dumb surprise.

There was too much more to do. Even with more than two and a half centuries of toil, there was so much more to do...

Thankfully, the one he'd least expect leaped forwards to allay both the sudden pain and deep, paralyzing fear.

The young lady-reaper and her hound must have noticed the tear even before he did, her scythe now starkly visible to Semyon's eyes as he watched her work to close that wailing door. Not only working to bring someone back from the dead, but also to protect them from what might try to follow? He shouldn't have been surprised, but it came on anyways, backed by a lifetime of concerns. An agent of Death, yet she acted more the part of a comrade than anything else, it was a completely new experience.

"Ok, then..." Semyon stumbled to the side in relief, concealing the motion swiftly under the pretense of kneeling down to re-pack and retrieve his bag. Gloved hands slipped everything away neatly, closed them home, and rose with firm movements once more. His gaze swept across those gathered around him, ending with a shake of his pale head.

"That was... unexpected. Has our task been successful, then?"

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Clumsywordsmith said
Great stuff people -- it looks good, Derren. I'm still, however, feeling marginally embarrassed with getting your character's name wrong.

If it's any consolation? I catch myself making the same mistake on his name at least once a post >.>

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Didn't know the song before google, didn't recognize it after gooling, so no cookie for me..

Though now I've found a nice new song I hadn't heard before, so I might have to give you a cookie.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

But pride is a glorious thing! Never something to be damned!

At least I think that's how it goes, can never remember those lessons correctly...

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

*sneaks post in*

If anything there doesn't work, Clumsy, do say so and I will edit accordingly.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

"Semyon not an 'R' to be found I'm afraid," The Wight corrected Nestor pleasantly, not at all offended by his -rather common- mispronunciation, or his somewhat eccentric actions. He began switching out his leather gloves for Nitrile as he spoke, the rotted flesh and mottled bone of his hands revealed momentarily in the transition. "And I'll try to do much better than my worst, just give me a few moments."

The man's shoulder was... a bit of a mess. Fragments of stone had torn into him, with more than a few still stuck in the poor man's flesh. His shirt -torn as it was over the wound- still managed to get in the way, damp with blood. Normally Semyon would ask Nestor to remove the shirt, and probably take his time trying to stitch up the wounds. It would leave the man almost good as new, ready to hurl himself into the fray with abandon.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem they had time for anything close to that. 'Do your worst' might have been more accurate than Semyon had wished it to be.

Field patch would have to do, the undead soldier wasting not a moment in drawing out the needed supplies and getting to work. Scissors and tweezers came first, gloves fingers working with cautious dexterity to snip away fabric overhanging the wound, as well as to pull out as much rock as possible.

"Looks like I'll owe you a new shirt." He spoke casually as he worked, switching scissors and tweezers for antiseptic wipes and a length of clean cloth. "And... this will sting."

He alternated wiping away blood and disinfecting the wound, eyes constantly judging the injury before him. Perhaps not as bad as he thought? Stitches would still be the best idea, probably, but it neither looked nor felt like Nestor's bones were broken. More blood than he might like to see leaving the body of a comrade, but that would be stopped shortly enough.

Disinfecting gave way to applying a local anesthetic, while the bloodied cloth was replaced with a tightly-folded dressing to be pressed against the wound.

"Lift your arm... just slightly? Thank you." Semyon wrapped a length of gauze around Nestor's shoulder and across his chest, until he was sure the dressing was secure. "The pain should dull, and that should stop the bleeding... But you probably shouldn't launch yourself at anyone else anytime soon..." Frowning at the bloodied tools and cloths, Semyon kicked a small depression into the ground for the latter, and slipping the former into a small bag filled with peroxide.

"I'll grab your drink... before it floods the place." Nodding at Nestor, Semyon paced quickly over to the spilled flask, giving a curious glance as he picked it up. Not a common enchantment it seemed, though one that many would find attractive. Maybe he'd ask Nestor if it was something he could share. Romanoff would definitely have a use for such a thing.

A quick glance around showed him that things seemed to be moving on. There hadn't been time for a true fix after all then, but given Nestor's apparent resilience, perhaps the patch was all the man needed? He did seem to have control of a... spirit? Demon? Either way, he'd keep an eye on the man, but the danger seemed mostly passed.

"Here you are, and hopefully that bandage works?" Offering the flask back to it's owner, Semyon glanced up once more. "Because it seems we're moving on yet again."

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Lillian Thorne said
You know, I always found those animations super creepy, even as a kid. *shudders*Like there is this scene where Yukon Cornelius licks his pick-axe, that shit still turns my stomach.

But... that was the best scene!

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Semyon offered a grateful nod towards Tamarind as they made it through the archway with the rest of their companions. Unlike the smaller missions he was used to undertaking, none of the others here were ones he had fought beside... much at all, really. He knew of some, by reputation or having overheard conversation within the Boston Branch, but 'knowing of' was not 'knowing'. He still didn't know the names of some of his comrades -which would need to be changed- and it made fighting together more than a small challenge.

Which made the Wight doubly grateful that Tamarind was here. Even if they had rarely worked together, she was someone he knew, someone he could easily trust to act fast when needed, and who trusted him to do the same.

It reaffirmed the thought that he needed to know his other comrades better. In case those constructs weren't the last things they fought on this mission.

With that in mind, Semyon turned his attentions to his surroundings, and more importantly, to his companions. This place was strange, certainly, a pocket of... world... within a library. But his eyes saw tactical value before beauty, and with the only inhabitant appearing docile for the moment, beauty fell behind companion assessment. His pale gaze swept to Nestor first, then, most of their comrades standing nearby the man. He was injured still, without having taken the time to tend to it himself.

Well then, that was step one.

Semyon moved to store his weapon without removing the suppressor, snapping open the bottom of it's leather holster and carefully sliding the pistol home. Not a good plan in the long term -the wrong movement could end up damaging the suppressor- but it would do for now. Besides, he'd need both hands to dress a wound, no point wasting gauze by being clumsy, and he'd likely need it if that young lady's hellhound-something als-

Speaking of the young lady... her hand held something... barely visible, as if a minor glamour were concealing it. It was hard to look at, but now that he saw it, it seemed to resemble a...

...

The Wight paused, hand still under his jacket, fingers resting on the grip of his gun. For a second, maybe two, he stood completely, perfectly still. Then his fingers tensed, breaking the stillness, and he closed his eyes. Hands moved to pull the duffel bag off his shoulder and into their grip, and he opened his eyes once more to look for Nestor again, strides taking him quickly over to the injured man.

His gaze didn't so much as flicker back to the young lady who had definitely been the one who's gaze he had felt back in Ireland. With so many people he hadn't met, so many beings of the veiled world, it could have been anyone at first.

But after seeing the lady's scythe, after realizing she was a Reaper, 'anyone' became much more specific. An agent of death, did that make her... did it matter? She was working for the company... did that matter? She helped destroy a construct, and was working to bring someone back to life, that alone made her a comrade.

The thought didn't help as much as he hoped it would.

"Mister... Nestor, is it?" The golem-man was moving off as Semyon approached to speak, his eyes passing quickly over the others around the man. They paused briefly at the sight of a slight woman -and elf?- and the quick bandage wrapped about her ankle, but moved on soon enough. She was standing, not in too much pain by appearances, so likely a bad sprain at worst. Which put her as second on the list to be treated.

"If you don't mind, while out friend there goes to answer... He called himself Vos'o'los? I'd like to make sure your injuries aren't too severe."

Opening his bag with a casual swipe of one hand and laying it on the ground, Semyon drew his medical supplies to the top. His gaze picked out the one who had spoken to him before at that time, now beside the slight elf, then moved back to Nestor.

"Your... friend? Companion?" He gestured slightly to the almost spectral figure of the woman, unsure of the correctly polite term. "She voiced concern for you earlier, and I would like allay that if I can."

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Crabmeat said
I think this predates Hel's reign which is after the jötnar settled in Jotunheim. I don't know.Thanks for opening it up with the mention of Niffelheim. Norse mythology is fascinating ^_^

The Frost Giants of Norse Mythology did indeed live in Niflheim originally, from what I recall, before moving/being banished to Jotunheim. Being Loki's daughter, Hel came much later, and turned it into... well... Hell.