Eisenhorn

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

Walker had been figuring out how over their heads they were right now, all things considered. The flaunting and fiasco that Violet was undertaking, leading to a face full of whatever that vomit was thrown up, the woman with that flashy magic tool firing blast after blast as she tried to get Kite back and cleaned up. The blade work grew more spiteful, remaining the last one to fall back as the others backed up. The fact they could keep backing out, well, was a good sign. "Keep laughing Keeper, it's the best medicine for those heads you've had wounded so far mate."

The good news of a path of escape opening up was lost by the sudden shrieking and sobbing from the gypsy woman, and he scowled and groaned to himself. Of all the times to lose their cool, now was not the time, even if it was probably a side effect of that goop. However, given the response that was going on from Keeper, he knew they didn't have time to clean her up and dust her off quite yet. Sheathing the sword, and hanging onto the torch, he turned and bolted, skidding to a halt next to Violet and taking a knee. "Right, you two, take the torch and move! I got our panicking companion."

Tossing the torch towards the other two, Walker quickly picked up Violet, the fetal position making it easier to get her up, though the jarring against the bolt embedded in his shoulder making him grimace, and once he had her braced, picked up the shining yellow crystal ball as well and started moving as fast as he could while carrying Violet in her panicked state as well as keeping a hand on that stupid yellow crystal ball. If he'd been able to, he would have also carried the torch, but between his shoulder, carrying another person, and her kit, well, he couldn't do everything. Regardless, they needed to move, getting her back into the waking world would have to wait.

~ 1959: Into the Darkness ~ - A Vietnam Dieselpunk scenario

Yes, hello, it is I, an interested party.

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

Fortunately Walker wasn't facing the rest of the group, or they would readily see the color drain from his face as the flying light source illuminated countless duplicates of the heads they had just inconvenienced, given the continued chatter. He'd defended himself against the numerous arms and hands trying to drag him down from the head that had been smashed in by that flaming crystal ball, but the flare's illumination and chastising about ruining the joke. Heads were going after the others, gypsy was screaming about not watching friends die, Kite was in no condition to do anything, and outside illuminating how deep they were, the new woman hadn't done a great deal yet. At this point in time he was reminded of the two common reactions to the invasion of Istvargrad, panicked collapse into a fetal position waiting to die, and the one he took. So despite all the abstract, impossible horror he was facing, he compartmentalized the part of his mind currently having joined his gut instinct in cowering in the corner of his mind, also reduced to a gibbering wreck, and shot the impossible mess of heads a grin. "Sorry mate, but your act has flopped. Can't you hear? Screams are a poor response to a joke."

The crossbow bolt thudded into his shoulder, given Walker had been distracted with defending himself and briefly forced him to drop the torch, landing by the trails of blackened ichor, and another cutting motion to clear enough room to grab it again, leaving the bolt lodged where it was. Between his exposure to the poison, the fact it would have lost some of his potency after being stuck in the thing, and his own physiology, it wouldn't have near the same effect, though he could feel the burn all the same, Walker grinned through it. They had neither the time, resources, or energy to slaughter every single head, and that was assuming they could even be permanently destroyed in that pitch black void. When the openings presented themselves, he'd strike out against the heads going past him to attack the others, while barking out back to them. "Delaying the inevitable here, fighting withdraw is in order. You, light launcher, how many of those do you have left?"

The biggest problem with a fighting withdraw was, one, someone had to grab Kite, who was busy screaming from whatever gods abandoned crap had been belched on him, and two, that there wasn't more heads waiting behind them. His eyes were darting and looking for the slightest clue or indication that there was a weakness or opening. The heads had seemed to follow and track that light shot that the woman had lobbed, though it had been devoured by the nebulous void. The blunt impact of the flaming ball had crippled the one head, though it had spawned the hands he had been fighting off. The small fact they were only getting attacked from the cells, and from the front, gave the small hope a fighting withdraw could be made. He didn't know what was back there, but it was likely better than this Keeper. Walker had shifted to striking with the torch in tandem with his sword, intent on creating as few openings as possible as he kept analyzing and looking for anything to gain leverage with.

Veritas Lux Mea

Ansgar Staudinger

"Careful lass, ah'll be holdin' ye to that!" The engineer barked from the under the deck plates, playing 'plug the socket' before the equipment exploded in his face and, likely, brought the ship down with it. All he readily could do right now was, well, keep the power flowing, shields online, and pray to whatever god came with humanity that they survived this whole fiasco. Help or no help, the jerking and wrenching to break the docking clamps free brought a bitter scowl onto the man's face. That was more work for him to deal with, more repairs, and he couldn't readily rely on any of these people to see it happen. That's another docking session with no leave, keeping this bucket of bolts floating was a gods damned nightmare. Eventually, he could tell they weren't under attack anymore, and after waiting just long enough to be sure the pirates weren't coming back, another red indicator that the shields were down again came online as Ansgar hauled himself up from beneath the deck plates.

"Ah swear, if we e'er find any o' t'em bastards again, ah'm stringin' em up by t'eir unmentionables!" The engineer was brushing off black splotches on his attire, where the rampant, uncontrolled power had tried to electrocute him and failed thanks to the protective attire, and considered the fact they were no longer under attack. Walking over to the bulkhead, he unlocked it, well after any further attackers would have been killed or, unfortunately, surrendered. Well, maybe fortunately, he would be taking a pound of flesh off the survivors for every hour of work he had to put into this ship to get it back up and running. The first thing he did was pull the heavy, top half of his working uniform off again, wrapping it around his waist and leaving the tank top on, sweat soaked as it was. He was already moving back to double check the fuel line patches when the captain's request on what was working and broken caused him to damn near trip over himself. What was working? It'd be faster to say that, all things considered, so he spun on heel and answered her flatly, clearly irritated more so than usual.

"Engines, fuel, life support, some weapons, backup navigation. Oh, an comms ah' reckon. E'erythin' else? Suspect ah best, completely bloody shot ah worst. An yes, ah'm still on mah feet, t'ank ye for askin'. Hope yer planned dockin' point has enoug' scrap fer this damn bucket..." Muttering under his breath, Ansgar double checked the fuel line and, once satisfied that it was up and running, promptly went about securing and rerouting the lines that had leaking fluids and seeing about minimizing the amount of damage that wold need repaired due to neglect on the damaged systems. This was definitely going to be a number of sleepless nights to get up and running in time for their next job, and he sure as fuck wasn't getting paid enough as it was. He'd suspect it couldn't get much worse, but his gods forsaken sister was out there somewhere, so it could very much get worse. Least the odds were slim she'd be showing up anytime soon...

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

Walker was about to act under his own volition, since the others weren't picking up on the clue to act while he was distracting the damned thing, when the scream for him to duck caused him to do just, dropping to a knee and moving to act under his own volition. Given the situation, the time for talk was past, all things considered. At least one of them took the chance, even if the spiel about evil and chastising the other about befriending it. From his ducked position, he snapped upright with his lightened crossbow swung up, poisoned bolt being hurled from it the moment he had tracked the head that hadn't been aimed for by that damned crystal ball, slinging it again and drawing his arming sword with a practiced flourish, ready to strike out at the earliest opportunity at whichever head or appendage came closer.

"Remind me to talk to you three about element of sodding surprise after this!" Walker was clearly accustomed to a crew that knew when he was stalling for an opportunistic first strike, screaming on about evil incarnate was, while perhaps not inaccurate, not terribly conducive in that regard. Holding a steady fencing stance, Walker was watching the abomination, his footing shifting subtly to indicate a combination of long years of both training, and even more experience, the torch being held offhand, high enough to provide full light but clearly considered a secondary weapon if the situation demanded. It wasn't a dagger or formal weapon, but a flaming bludgeon to the head could do wonders. Given the things devouring of light, however, it might be wiser to not slam one of their light sources into it. Needs must, though, and while he'd have to ponder that strange reference to a 'Texas Ranger', that was later. For now, it was fighting time.

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

If Jericho wasn't as focused on keeping it together as he was, the fact that his gut instinct had gone from screaming to being curled up in a metaphorical corner, gibbering in response to the....thing that had just come into view would have probably left him in a rather sorry state as well. The innate dread he felt boring into him kept his face rather deadpan, more frozen in shock than simply being unflappable, but given the light conditions, it would likely be difficult to tell. Then the thing started talking, sounding unsettlingly human, and the chuckle didn't help. What in the ever spiteful gods did that plague surgeon drag the collective of them into? The second voice caused his eyes to dart to the source, another one chattering about how it'd be rude to just start. Given the name offered, Keepa, this was probably what passed for a jailor. Which meant this was probably going to get ugly, but he kept a level tone as he responded to the thing as it asked after his name, or what they call him, the addition of baby sent a shiver down his spine, and not in a good manner. Still, he kept his tone level, confident even, an scoundrel like him had to keep a confident, even face in the face of the most impossible odds, or what good was he?

"Call me Walker, it's a pleasure Keepa. Apologies about the noise, seems it travels rather uniquely in this lovely place you have here, and since we're just passing through we can certainly be on our way and not causing anymore noise if you'd be so kind? Save us all the trouble of being in each others way." The reaction, and movement of Kite out of the corner of his eye, was an indicator this was most certainly going to get ugly fast. However, the longer he kept talking, the more precious seconds he could give the other three a chance to brace, subtly hopefully, before this got ugly, as well as gather precious bits of information, as he was sorely out of his element right now. Two heads so far, he didn't have the slightest clue how well well made steel would work on this thing, but he'd be a fool if he planned to simply get back in his cell. Especially given the fact the sounds had come from the cells before this thing had appeared. Four of them, three cells of freed prisoners, since he had to assume the gypsy was also freed, just the first one. The grip remained on the hilt of his arming sword, borderline white knuckle, and he had made sure his position put his back to his newfound allies, temporary and transient as it may be after this. Hope the new girl was the swim type when it came to sink or swim. All he was looking for was an opening, either to strike, or to leg it. Discretion was the better part of valor, after all, and he hadn't survived and thrived fighting fairly or openly, so he had to keep his options open, and if that meant talking, so be it.

Oppressive darkness, and given the things opening extinguishing of the light, it probably would target the torch again given the chance. Meant he'd have to be careful with it, pass it off and grab another if the opening was made. Normally, he'd use an offhand torch as a weapon as well, but given how vital it was as their only source of light, not an option. Perhaps if they could get another one, maybe during whatever 'Stardust', as the thing had referred to their guide as, was hopefully planning. That knife trick hinted at other things, what would stop him from producing a crossbow or the like? And given the complete unknowns of what the red clad lass, and the gypsy if he was being earnest, could do, he had to assume they would be dead weight until proven otherwise. Still, his focus was on the head talking, meeting the things gaze, as unnerving as it was, while his peripheral watched for any other signs of trouble. Calling his nerves on edge would be an understatement, as he could feel the adrenaline hammering through his system, triggered by fight or flight. Given they had nowhere to run that was apparent? He was ready to fight, like a cornered rat, ironically enough, which could be dejavu inducing if he wasn't so on edge.

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

"Right you two, do not tell me whether or not I came to like that. I'll sleep better in the long run." Jericho was not squeamish about insects, rats, and the like since it was not uncommon to see all of those in numbers in the dirtier places, still, not an ideal thought given how it looked seeing it from the outside of the cell. Another woman, well dressed, though foreign all the same, and beyond that, though, he couldn't say a word about her. He was about to speak up when the rather concerning sound came out from the remaining cells as they slid open, and then dead silence. His dominant hand came to rest on the hilt of his arming sword, eyes darting from cell to cell, the lack of sound and the oppressive air around them set his gut instinct screaming. They'd been found out, well, the gypsy and plague surgeon's jail break had been found out.

"Right, that's not natural. Trouble's on the wind, or lack..."

"Boo~"

The last thing Jericho spotted was the hands reaching out to snuff torches out, and the others could hear quick rustling before a small flame sparked up again, the man was holding his 'reusable match', giving himself enough light to seize one of the extinguished torches and light it up properly again, not leaving more than a few seconds of darkness at most. With the torch lit, the match went back into his pockets and he drew his arming sword, the familiar weight of a weapon in one hand, and the torch in the other, was reassuring at least. He normally preferred a dagger, but given the situation, a torch could make for a usable bludgeon, especially once they could pass the other ones around. He never heard of any mage tricks that produced unnatural hands, then again, given how out of place the newfound companions were, he really shouldn't keep relying on his old knowledge of how the world worked.

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

"Truth for a truth, would be a fair thing to offer, I reason. The place I'm from, well, shaking hands isn't precisely a safe activity, its only between close, trusted people. So, it's not a matter of offense in this case." Not completely true, the innate noble posturing initially had left him leery, but not a complete lie either. The amount of description and round about discussion on the companion, she was describing him as capable of defending the two of them prior to freeing him from this cell. They can aid each other, but for now, he would have to be cautious and pay attention to what was going on, since there was almost no information outside what he was being told. It would be easy to simply believe it, but he would have to simply go from there and see how much was indeed trustworthy. The dejected look didn't go unnoticed, neither did the strange noises coming from the companion of the gypsy woman, eyes moving between the two warily, drawn back to the strange companion as its hand rose up in a wait gesture. What happened next was, well, beyond disconcerting for someone who didn't deal with the unnatural, supernatural, or mages typical trickery very often.

What Jericho was seeing actively rebelled against his vision, no, not his vision. His actual understanding of the very basic levels of understanding were rebelling against the thing that was happening and manifesting in front of him. Or trying to manifest, as it kept almost flickering, form shifting and snapping from flame patterned, to nothing, to curved guard, then to not a knife at all. His form tensed subtly, right hand resting on the hilt of his arming sword. A bloody mage, of all things? Damned fools did as much damage as good, and that was the closest thing he could readily equate to what he was seeing. His tone was neutral, though tenser than before, as he addressed what he had just seen, and trying to even put words to it was not easy, to put it mildly. Looking down, he saw the wound in the ground, splitting strangely. Like an executioner's sloppy blow, but without the overt damage.

"What in...what. Ok, just, back to the beginning. What kind of reality warping, mage friend did you find? Explains why they can casually wander around this place with no repercussions, since you two just wandered in, but all the same..." Jericho was good at taking things in stride, but this was well and beyond anything he'd even have imagined, even the most reckless of the mage district denizens were a far cry from what he had just been shown. Thankfully the hood and shadows helped conceal the expression, though the confusion and tension was apparent all the same. Mages were, at best, a risky bet to involve, the more potent the abilities, the more risky the backlash would be, and given what he was seeing, being able to pull a warped, strangely forced knife briefly into existence, long enough to damage the floor notably, the backlash would be insane.

"Right then, Violet, your friend have a name? They don't seem eager, or capable, of talking too much. Prefer their demonstrations, rather? We should also move, demonstration like that is bound to attract attention..."

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

"The cell didn't match up what was typical of the noble preferences. Either out of date, or out of place, and given how you two dress? Well, my dear, it's one of the nicer ways to put it." A feint grin flashed across the man's face between puffs on his pipe, taking time to enjoy an old habit, helpful in getting himself up to speed. She was sizing him up, smart woman, and he considered what she said next carefully. So he was trading one cell for a slightly larger one, fine by him, the more room to work, the better the chances to get out for good. No coin, but given their differences, unlikely that any coin she had would be worth a thing to him.

"Well, that's not quite working for free. Working for freedom isn't ideal, but I suppose there isn't much room to be, shall we say, picky. As for teams, well, I'm as good on my own as I am with a group, I can adapt." Jericho considered the situation at hand, best he understood, which was effectively nil. He suspected that he wasn't in Istvargrad anymore, given his memories leading up to the end of his old memories, and being faced with two complete, stand out unknowns. The fact the masked figure had not said a word yet was, well, perhaps concerning would be too strong a word. He didn't move when she produced her own dagger, asking after his own capabilities, and he flashed her another grin, more confident than merely feint.

"Let's say I know my way around a brawl or scrap. Add in a lovely bag of tricks, I'm flexible enough to cover trouble and the once in a black moon war." Tapping the remaining ash out of his pipe, falling into his usual vagueness, and cleaning it, he shifted his cloak to reveal the hilt of his arming sword. His left hand deftly produced an offhand dagger, twirling it briefly before sheathing it again. Left hand favored dagger, right the arming sword, given the position of the sheaths. She could make out a crossbow stock slung over his shoulder, as well as the fletching of the bolts in the quiver resting below the dagger sheath, hinting at being a threat beyond arm's reach. She extended her hand like royalty, not just nobility, and he cocked an eyebrow, hidden in the shadows of his hood, and he casually introduced himself, leaving her hand hanging idly. One, nobility, two, shaking hands was reserved for close friends in Istvargrad, not strangers.

"Name's Walker, I suspected that introductions would be made when appropriate, and yourself? Also, perhaps you'd care to introduce your friend, or better yet, perhaps they would like to speak up?" The subtle shift in form indicated he was looking and taking in this gypsy princess' friend again, silent for now as he expected and waited for an answer from either of them. The lack of identifying words for the masked one concerned him, to be fair though, a great deal concerned him right now. Beggars couldn't be choosers, however, that didn't mean the beggar needed to go into things blind. They knew more than him, and the sooner that was rectified, the better.

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

The figure in the cell, Jericho Cross, started awake when life came back to him, eyes casted warily forwards towards the only movement and sound present, the opening of a cell door. Strange, his memories didn't align to ending up in a cell, and upon closer inspection, none of it aligned properly. These weren't the cells of Istvargrad, which begged the most obvious question to be 'where the hell was he?'. The memories of a spiteful last stand, buying precious seconds for those who yet fled to flee further downwards and away from impending doom, ending with a massive, looming figure casting his men aside like chaff. Not the prisoner taking type, but as he picked himself up with a weary grunt, he more closely analyzed the two standing in the doorway of this cell. The lingering, looming edge of whatever...nebulous inbetween limbo he had been drifting in was still there, and was not something he wanted to consider further right now.

"Well, cheers for the jailbreak, my unlikely saviors. A gypsy and an opera looking plague surgeon, when the hell am I...?" Neither of the individual's he was faced with wore any sort of attire close to what most in Istvargrad did shortly before and during the downfall. The purple reeked of nobility, which was another mark in the concern column, another once on top of the outdated attire. Outdated, unusual, and expensive, though he wouldn't be quite so quick as to simply complain. As his gaze shifted over to the masked one, he checked a pocket and, with a quiet sigh, produced a battered looking pipe, searching his pockets for something else while looking over the masked one. Strange gestures aside, another heavily outdated attire. Early mages wore similar garb, though not to that nicety, often times being little more than repurposed traveling garb for extra anonymity, though the mask ruined any chance of that, and reminded him of the plague years that he had, fortunately, avoided by virtue of being born after them. Stood out like a sore bloody thumb, all things considered.

"Not like I'm in much position to judge, now then, business. You aren't busting me out of here in the sense of some altruism, you want something. Well, one of you do at least. I'm sure we can strike a deal of sorts, I'm sure my former employer would not complain too terribly much." Finding what he was looking for, it was a crude sort of repeating match kept in his thief kit, something he won in a bet and used to spark off traps and the like. More commonly, he used it to light the tobacco in his pipe, puffing on it idly, shadows concealing his eyes in part thanks to the hood. The flash of flame, however small, revealed a gaunt face under the hood, just enough facial hair to not be able to call merely five o'clock shadow. His figure, now that he was fully stood up, cut a similar picture. Lean, almost predatory in nature, never seen a day of ease, though the cloak and just loose enough fitting clothes concealed much more detail in the given dingy lighting conditions.

Jericho was focused on pragmatism right now, putting the strangeness firmly behind him until he had time to pick it apart properly. Not like he'd be able to do anything with it if the two decided he was to be locked away again and they go and find some other useful body. He was close enough to the door that he wagered he could bolt if needed, though not knowing who he was dealing with definitely made that too risky outside of a last resort. What was also strange was that he had his pipe and other items, what kind of jailor left their charges armed? The same kind that seemed to not have to worry about it, given that lingering, paranoia inducing fog in his mind from after Istvargrad's last memories until now. Something was off about that as well, reeked of the arcane or worse, and it did not sit well in his mind. So, play nice, and look for a way out. Hell, depending on the business, maybe make some coin. Shadows knows he needed it, given the odds of him getting his hand on any of his old stashes were nil, he'd need to start over.