Looking around, he thinks to himself 'Who is competent enough to help a one armed thief and a fucking Crusader.' He began walking around the prison and saw a man who looked different from everyone else. Wounds covering him and hands on fire. He didn't dare to walk towards him, so he shouted. "Hey, dead looking guy, if you wanna get out of here, follow me. We're gonna kick some ass." Looking at him, he realized how completely stupid that sounded. But he wasn't going to try again. So he ran back to the front and drew his pistol. Waiting to see if the new guy would follow him. Not paying attention to the new lizard. 'This place is too weird.' He thought to himself.

The King found himself slightly unsure of what to do. With one of the escapees beckoning, he felt it altogether prudent to do something that would ingratiate himself with this band of damned and demons. Without a word he moved wraithlike towards the man, towards the battle. He saw a few of the guards lining up on the monstrous beast that mowed down rank upon rank, and, with a gleeful flash of his eyes, he danced forward, drawing the broken sword, and drove the blade through the back and up out of the chest of one guard, dropping the other with a quick drain from the head.

Another was tiptoeing towards the cybernetic fellow, and with a careful sprint--careful around the bodies! they might not be quite dead!--he delivered this man's head from his body with a brutal thwack. The King walked up beside his new compatriot, placing a hand upon his shoulder and delivering a boost of energy--to show his friendliness if nothing else--and then strode forward, cutting down another guard with a mutilating slash to the guts.

"So... what's your name?" The King asked, draining another guard and watching his bloodless face fall flat on the ground. His voice was grating and difficult to discern; he coughed as his hands burned brightly: "And where's the Key?"

Well, that wasn't exactly expected. It looked scared for a moment, only to stamp on the ground and jump, jump, jump, jump high into the air... via sonic boom. Not too painful to weather, though Deprave figured it'd be a bit worse for ol' Craggy on his back. Still, the demon could apparently summon magic hands too, so that made hitting him a bit harder... still, he was pretty fun. If he got the chance, Deprave was going to violently rape him after pulling his legs off. Breaking him in that manner would be just grand.

But for now, it looked like John the knight had things under control. That didn't make it acceptable for him to order Deprave around like he were some servant, but he supposed whatever Old N was doing would be a bit more interesting than just splattering minions everywhere. It sounded like something else had exploded in there, even given that John had just literally attempted to explode the other demon. But of course, once he stepped back into the front room, he had little reason to actually do anything: from the looks of things, N was doing just fine with his impression of a bed frame, or was that a battering ram? Whichever it was, it was hilarious.

'OI, N, YOU RETARD!' Deprave yelled at the creature. 'Either stand up like a smart person, or get out of the way! I want at those buggers!' A cursory examination of the room revealed pretty much just the table legs from when, moments ago, N had flung a table off him and into the guards. Complete with jagged ends. Smirking, Deprave strode over to them, grabbing one in each hand, then raising his arms until they were behind him (heedless of Clog's comfort, mind) before hurling them both end over end toward the guards. If those didn't actually smash holes through them, they'd at least deal a lot of damage to the idiots, and maybe even explode into splinters like... what were they called, fragnades or something? Lotta splinters, lotta damage dealt. Easy every time, as they said.

Altogether Hell had broken loose as the battle outside the asylum and in the entrance had broken through to this first prison block. The prisoners around continued to riot, even attacking some of Villiam's allies in the brawl, but it was of no consequence. The armless demon capable of using Manus had been preoccupied with Jonathan and the others while the prisoners continued to ignore V himself, meaning he was in the optimal situation. Speaking of Jonathan, the knightly crusader had the gall to assume to order Villiam, something the toxic spirit did not appreciate, but went along with anyway. Or at least appeared to. Keeping low to the ground he made his way beyond the fighting deeper into the prison, but he did not head for the door. No, guards or maybe even Nefas himself would be coming through the doorway. V instead went to the farthest wall so he could melt through the obstacle. If there were more prisoners, well then he would just have to set them all free as well. At this point however his trick would not be necessary. The rioting was at a peak. Any further prisoners would be force to take part if they intended to escape, and it was only a matter of time before the warden joined in himself.

Just as it had reached it's peak, the riot in Cell Block L-1 was starting to wind down. Prisoners and guard alike, though less of the latter, littered the ground as corpses, waiting to regenerate. Many of the Hellscapers were also gone or preoccupied, unable to cause chaos. The King and John were the only two actually doing any fighting. Speaking of fighting, John was currently combating Poncho. The ingenious move to ignite his mace had gone as planned, staggering his foe long enough to command his allies. Unfortunately, though they reduced his arm's mass, said arms were also now on fire. With a smarmy grin, the not-so-armless demon launched a right hook at John's head, something that would be hard to block with the shield in his left hand.

While guards or prisoners would occasionally accost Toby and the King, none would bother with Viliam. Once the wall he was pushing himself against was melted through, it would reveal a whole load of untapped riot potential, unfreed prisoners riled up by the noise coming from the other side of the wall. One wonders if they were even needed though, surely Kritch must have been close?


Two of the guards were already K.O.ed, jagged wood sticking out of two many parts of them to attempt movement of any kind. the other 2 guards, while better off, were still almost literally pinned against the wall and thrashing about uselessly. The two would have nothing to worry about. Until, of course, Nefas reared his head. After a brief tirade, his voice seemingly dropped for no reason. A few seconds after, he and his head guard stepped back out into the hallway Grog and Deprave were currently throwing things at people. The head guard, thoroughly shaken, began walking towards the right side cells, while Nefas stared down his opponents.

"Everything going okay down there guys?" Barkeep rang.

Things were about to be not okay.


Kritch was getting close to Betty, most definitely. He could feel it in his tiny rat brain. It was a special cell near the middle of the prison on the right side, built with a single light and no windows so she couldn't make a portal out, according to the info Barkeep had given the group. There were normally guards on it 24/7 because of her ability to free other prisoners but there would be, at the very least, less around during the fullscale riot happening in Block L-1.

With the gigantic Mayancatec moving to another room, Grog felt his itch grow. So many prisoners rioting and not a single one of them had buckshot up the ass. Nervously stroking the trigger guards, he was half-tempted to just start spraying at anything remotely hostile. Yet again, however, his thought train came to a halt as he bore witness to Old N, the mushroom crab lying flat on the ground. For something to knock the seafood equivalent of a battering ram, he had to be one tough honkey. Oh, and look at that! A couple of guards were still-

A chunk of table hit him square in the face. Well, it was just swung back by Kali-Ma dude and thrown, and his makeshift protection gear spared him from any serious harm, but a bloody nose and lip were unavoidable. Springing his head back up and shaking off the momentary daze, he had just managed to gurgle a confused "Hey, watch it you fuck!" Before a couple of very interesting (and very unharmed) characters waltzed into the immediate area. One of them seemed like a typical security guard, while the other... The other looked like the big cheese. The head honcho. The stranger dange- Wait that last one made no sense.

Whatever the case, the masked marauder quickly sprang back into action and exclaimed, somewhat taken aback: " Uh... 'Prave. We've got company!"

Not caring whether or not the massive tribesguy was ready to start wrecking shit or not, Grog hung one shotgun from his utility belt, briefly, and began patting his numerous pouches for any leftover tricks. What he found was a triplet of his trusty nailbombs. Ah, a classic, those were. Little golf ball sized instruments of death they were, covered by nails and anything similar, and filled with whatever most explosive Grog had at the time. But, what was that? A tiny little knickknack had eluded him. No bigger than a pinky finger, it was... A Fucksville syringe. The single most potent (and only actually functional) combat drug he'd ever made. He wondered if he should give it to Deprave instead, but seeing bullets had bounced off him, a measly needle wouldn't even penetrate his eyeball. Whatever the case, Grog hastily unzipped his jacket and stuck the syringe through his shirt, and in to his chest.

In a few heartbeats, the effects began to take place. His pupils widened, he could no longer feel the burning sensation on what remained of his pelvis, and his thoughts raced. Sped up. He was faster, more precise, and the world was slower. Also he felt his mouth begin to foam, but that was just a minor side-effect, right? His eyes darted between the seriously pissed off monster and the fleeing guard. The former caught Grog's attention a tad more. He leaned forward, and leering at the half-demon he rasped.

"Hey, hey. Hey you. I burned my dick off. And now I'm comin' for yours."

The crusader raised his shield and deflected the blow easily. The demon thought that he could get the hit in on LightBro, but sadly the demon had a bad case of mixing-his-lefts-and-rights-up-syndrome. The knight gave a slightly-feminine grunt off as he blocked the hit, as it was a strong punch and it was hard to block, but he managed. The crusader climbed off the armless demon and stood with his shield raised in defense, gently patting his mace over the flames to put them out. The arms may have been on fire, but that wouldn't stop LightBro from taking this beast down... well... that was the case until he felt the heavy footsteps of a pissed off cambion. He lowered his shield slightly so he could look at the armless demon.

"I know I hit you with a mace, but I have to tell you we'll have a bigger problem arriving soon my armless opponent. We can finish this later, but for right now can I ask of your help? The warden is on the way, if you didn't know." The knight didn't even know why he was trying to make peace, it clearly wasn't going to happen. Either way, the knight kept his shield up and had it raised to the armless demon in case he was about to attack.

"Hurry! Scurry! Quick and Fast!" Kritch muttered to himself, trying to move as fast as his body could move in the stuffy and cramped vents of the prison. Kritch's sixth sense of detecting fearsome creatures was going off like crazy, something dangerous has entered the building and it was most likely the warden of the prison. The barkeep had discussed about this creature, its power, and how one should avoid the creature at all cost if one would value their life. The worrying rat was glad that his eyes didn't lay upon the terrifying beast, but that would also mean that this rag-tag group of stupid people were going to be decimated! That would leave Kritch all by himself in this literal prison! "Hurry! Scurry! Quick and Fast!" Kritch muttered to himself once again, rushing to the location of the lizard thing to end this entire debacle of violence and mayhem.

Reaching the middle of the prison through the vent system, right side to save the lizard thing from its cell and end the shit show that was currently happening at the entrance of the prison. Kritch was actually glad that the stupid group had attracted enough attention to make most guards reinforce the front, but similar to the guard in Cellblock R-2 had guards stationed in the area to protect the release of prisoners. This would be quite bad, as the barkeep had said that their are constanly guards on patrol which would mean that the wary rat might have to fight more than one guard at the same time! Being outnumbered is something that all rat demons were afraid of, but it seemed that the rest of the infiltration team hasn't reached the area making it Kritch's job to save the lizard thing. So, with his brain throbbing, heart beating, and breathing haggard, Kritch still managed to silently make a tiny hole within the vents to peruse the area underneath. It would be helpful to learn how fucked the rat was in the next combat scenario.

Although his sluggish mind was, even in these conditions, disinclined to be moved to any emotion worthy of the attribute "strong", or, for that matter, even "middling", Old N was not entirely pleased with the pre-Columbian barbarian bellowing at him to stand up. Needless to say, there was no command which repelled him less than that one - well, perhaps with the exception of "wake up", which was arguably even worse for being the first sound he usually heard before being dragged from his repose. To the brute's credit, however, he had readily provided an alternative, sparing the demon the effort of thinking of one himself regardless of what he was told, which somewhat evened his image in Old N's murky view. Clicking his mandibles together to bolster his motivation, he abruptly brought the best part of his weight to bear on the pinned guards' legs by sliding closer yet to the floor, resulting in audible dry snaps and a pair or pained yelps from somewhere above him.

Having thus ensured that these two would not bother him any longer once he turned away, or, at least, that their mobility would be somewhat reduced, the demon began to move towards where he presumed the centre of the hall was. However, while lowering his head even further to incapacitate the guards, he had not considered what implications this would have for his subsequent course of action; namely, he now found himself actually leaning forward too deeply to even appear parallel to the floor. This meant that, were he not to stand up, he would not have been able to walk without scraping the soil with what (barely) passed as his face. Unless...

So great was Old N's reluctance to straighten himself out, especially after having been told to do so by someone else, that inspiration - or "awareness of himself and his surroundings", however one wished to spell it - suddenly flared up within him, filling his intellect with a wondrous idea. Instead of raising himself to an erect position, the demon actually bent lower yet, until his lesser forearms were close enough to the ground for him to rest upon. Then, scuttling much as a non-fiendish crab would, he rotated away from his previous position and towards his supposed goal, only to find himself looking at a large pair of feet.

With a heroic effort of will, Old N compelled himself to throw a rapid glance upwards, briefly glimpsing the grim countenance of what was presumably the warden of the place, and the one who had previously knocked him away from the door. Although he normally would have required at least five minutes to figure out how he should act in such a position, the thirst for revenge at having been cast down from a comparatively comfortable spot, combined with the presence of the two savages (not that it was quite so reassuring, but at least he could reasonably expect some support while facing this fellow), lent Old N sufficient confidence to act immediately. His first step in further approaching his inner(?) crab was thus to snap at the feet before him with his pincers, which were larger and altogether rather more menacing than those encountered by careless swimmers on mundane beaches.

"Toby, and what key?" He said as he followed the king, wondering what he was going to do next. When he finally got back to the front, he yelled to the knight. "I found someone, he seems like a good guy." He realized that this was all going to hell. Then he chuckled to himself, noticing the irony in that though. He let that sit in his mind as he aimed a shot and fired, taking out one guy. "If you die in hell, do you just regenerate somewhere?" He asked aloud. Not realizing how stupid he seemed, but he didn't care.

"Not A key; THE Key. It is a particular demon--not entirely sure who or what it is, but I'd imagine that it would have to be someone rather dangerous... a practical guardian of itself." The King was unaware of the irony of such a statement, having never met, talked to, or even seen Betty at all during his damnation. A wash of heat came over him as he closes his eyes: not one of the murderous brutes here have accomplished what he so desperately craves... but there might just be a thing... a lurker... a thief... that most cowardly of creatures sneaking about the building. The King tip-toed over the body of a guard, wary of when they would all start to regenerate. One last fellow stood, obstinate as the rest had been, as the King kicked out his legs and drained the consciousness from him.

"These damned souls and demons are nothing but monsters, hollow shells of beings long forgotten from history..." The King anxiously whispered to himself, "They cannot be led, controlled, or ordered... 'tis madness, unholy madness." The Crusader from Constantinople fought such a beast, though it were a small one, a damned soul nary upon a hundred or so years old. The King sent a pulse of energy into the knight, a measure of pity for him. The poor knight, thought he, trying to organize this fool's mission. 'Twere a raid, a rape, and a pillage, not some noble quest for glory or absolution. This was the selfish incarnate, an indulgence of the basest emotions of man. It was madness.

The King fingered the hilt of his blade as he watched this Lovecraftian crustacean lumber about. He shook his head and raced for the door... which door? Ah! The fumes must be getting to his head... God-damned demons... and whatnot. He watched the Mayan with the masochist on top do what they did, and chafed inwardly that such wanton destruction could illicit such wanton pleasure. He leapt through the ruined wall, seeking a great beast to fight... a great guardian of the Gates of Hell. "Where is that warden? I need a warden..."

Villiam smiled, more for the benefit of the whole prisoner hoard he had discovered than for any personal feelings of gratification. They had been roused and riled from the sounds of the riot just on the other side of the wall, and that would prove to be highly invaluable. Slinking down the line, he held a hand out and ran his fingers across the bars. In doing so, he left behind a highly corrosive substance designed specifically to eat through these metal bars. "My fellow prisoners," he began his speech with a small lie, "Freedom is at hand! No longer shall we sit and rot based on the insane whims of a single cambion! Nefas and his guards are fighting for their lives against our comrades now. This is the time to strike! Overwhelm them with sheer force, Nefas cannot possibly take us all on together! We end him here and now for our pain and torture, or he will simply track us all down like the first time! For glory! FOR FREEDOM!"

With that, the poison spirit held a hand up and willed the Manus in the air to form through his magical caustic body. He called upon his natural ability to create enchanted objects, though it was quick, dirty, and sloppy. A couple of seconds later and he held in his hand a solid knife formed from pure hornet venom. Had he more time, he could create something much better, but as it was the thing would only be sturdy enough for one jab. Good enough, considering the circumstances. That much concentrated poison should fell most beings and if they swarmed Nefas as V planned then the fight would be over quite quickly.

"Come to me, arm yourselves! Then unleash death upon our captor!" Any of the freed prisoners that approached would then be given a similar dagger, each one made of a different type of toxin. Black mamba, black widow, jellyfish, various squids, whatever popped into his head at the moment. They were all equally crappy, though. Time constraints would do that.

'Hohoho, shit's getting REAL now!' Deprave yelled, sneering at the sight of the demonic entity with much too wide a grin to be attractive. Fucking didn't even have lips, did he? Still, lots of easily accessed teeth... easily smashed teeth. Speaking of getting smashed, he was hardly going to apologise to Blog for his being in the way of his throw... and speaking of getting fucking smashed, what the hell was in that needle he just stabbed himself with? He knew Frag was a crazy motherfucker, but he looked totally out of it now! He'd have to get himself some of that... or, well, it wasn't like he needed it to begin with. But still...

Though actually, he was standing still at the moment, wasn't he? Even the lazy-ass crab monster, who still hadn't stood up, was starting to bite at Nefas' ankles a little bit. But why stop at ankles? Deprave thought to himself. Let's go ahead and break every bone in the fucker's arms! What's he gonna do without those, eh? Plastering a grimace-like smirk on his face, he began steadily strolling toward the enemy Cambion, ready and waiting for the prick to make his move, so he could stop it dead and fuck the guy up. Oh, the fun he was going to have when the guy was finally incapacitated...

Poncho let off a light growl as John managed to deflect his blow. He was sure that was a guaranteed hit! Of course, afterwards, both took a small moment to put out the flames covering them; Poncho's manufactured arms were indeed getting a bit smaller due to the encroaching flames so he patted them on his, well, poncho, to douse the flames. As he got back into a fighting stance though, John let up, instead giving the unarmed demon a look and asking him for assistance. The demon looked at him with a sneer for a moment, before feeling the vibrations within his feet, corroborating the crusader's tale.

"Your ragtag group is going against the Warden? I suppose I can help. As long as you don't pump anymore poison into me like a bunch of amateurs." He deigned, particular menace being flung at V with his last line. "What the hell are you guys even doing here anyways? Not a lot of humans just run around and rebel against guys like Nefas."

“To summarize it up? Portal demon out of hell." John responded. The demon seemed dumbfounded for a moment, before shrugging it off with a smug look. "I'm sure that'll work out well. Just help me beat down this bastard so I can get the hell out of here."

With that, Poncho, the King, and presumably John, joined the rioting prisoners from Cellblock L-2 to bumrush Nefas. Many would be hurt. A lot. But Nefas would probably end up worse for wear. Or double-dead.


Speaking of Nefas, he was currently staring down three formidable combatants, with many on the way. Many men would take this time to become more determined, more somber, or at the least more fearful. Nefas did what he did best though. He got mad. In a tone barely above a whisper, so laced with venom and barely subdued rage it seemed even the cambion itself could barely handle it, Nefas muttered "What the fuck are you all doing out of your cells."

With that little as a warning, Nefas slammed his left foot onto Old N's encroaching claws. Should it have collided with carapace, a sickening crack would ring out, followed swiftly by another if Nefas was allowed to continue on the other claw. Either way, his feet wouldn't be getting snapped for long. While dishing out this attack, Nefas prepared his discipline for the other two. A piece of cement was ripped from the wall and flung directly at Grog's head, less to harm and more to impede his aim. Nefas intended on getting closer to the other cambion. There was a certain territoriality and rivalry that emanated off of Nefas when he stared at Deprave, like he was a funhouse mirror of Nefas's darker self. And he hated that.

Leaping over the large crab-demon, Nefas lunged at Deprave, hand in a strict chopping stance. He reared back and, once close enough, extended his arm. This motion would pierce right through Deprave's collar bone, most-likely even if he blocked. Grog could likely dodge with the cocktail of drugs in his system, but aiming would be difficult with the enemy probably partly inside Deprave. Old N, if he could bother getting up and had managed to avoid losing both of his pincers, was in the best position to attack certainly. Either way, help was coming. If they could just survive a bit longer, they may just pull through.


Kritch would probably consider himself very lucky the first moment he peered through his tiny peephole in the vent. There was only on guard there, simply holding a tablet and armed with a walkie-talkie and what appeared to be a cattle-prod at his belt. Very soon though, Kritch would consider himself less so. The guard, know mostly as Head guard around these parts, scanned the area around Betty's block. "I know you're there!" He yelled out, though it wasn't in any particular direction. "Why would I be anywhere else? You haven't snuck me my daily drink yet!" replied someone from inside Betty's cell, presumably Betty herself. The head guard face-palmed, before continuing. "We have motion sensors in those vents. You're near here. The sensors before here went off, the one's after didn't. Come out now, before I start breaking down these vents!"

Though the man didn't look intimidating, there was an air about him that portrayed his unique skills. He was the kind of guy who played smart, played dirty, and played with forces way bigger than he ought to be able to handle. If Kritch wanted to get Betty, he'd have to be smarter, dirtier, and be even more of an underdog. He had two of those down certainly. Time would tell if the third was true too.

The crusader gave a thumbs up to Poncho, a sense of alliance emanating from the gesture. Taking Nefas down may actually prove possible, which seemed incredible. The knight ran up to the front of the crowd and rallied the "poisoned" rioters. LightBro knew pretty much indefinitely at this point that the poison Vile had created was just basically animal farts, and it was kind of funny to him. With LightBro leading the fray, there was only one thing to do at that point...

"CHHHHAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!"

The crusader screamed as he opened the doors to the hallway of the prison, where at a far distance away you could see the back of Nefas facing the trio in the front lines. Lightbro ran back to the King, Toby, and Poncho and gave them a quick rundown of his plan.

"We need to flank around front, if Nefas becomes occupied with what's attacking him from the back, we can join Deprave, Old N, and Grog in the front to get damage in when he isn't looking. Either that or we go find our rat on the inside and help him get Betty."

To someone less self-assured than Old N, it would all have appeared too easy to be right. Despite the pertinacious assaults upon his feet, the hulking warden seemed to be dazed, or preoccupied with whether he had left the kettle on the stove or what-not, making no attempt to repulse the swiping pincers targeting his lower extremities. However, the crustacean demon was quite convinced that everything was going just as it was supposed to. Admittedly, this was due not so much to any excess of confidence on his part, but rather the reflection that, had this not been the case, some contingency planning would have been in order, which sounded as though it would entail a far greater effort than it was worth. After all, it was not as though the situation was about to change dramatically-

*crunch*

Too suddenly and rapidly for Old N to be able to do anything about it, Nefas's left foot darted up, then down again, into - indeed, almost through - the assailant's right pincer. Before even his torpid body had registered the pain, the right foot followed suit, another *crunch* filling all of the demon's senses, including those where sounds had generally little to no business. He barely had the time to glimpse the feet disappearing somewhere upwards before it finally reached him how strongly it hurt to have both forelimbs crushed into chitinous paste by what seemed to be roughly five tonnes of cambion. And did it hurt. The jolt sent Old N springing to an upright position despite himself (there was, after all, a reliable method to convince him to stand up..) and blindly staggering a few steps as his entire nerve-less bulk was convulsed by pain, which, for a few seconds which passed as swiftly as decades, was all that filled him in every conceivable sense.

However, the only truly constant thing in Old N was his laziness, and it was only a matter of time before it reasserted its absolute and illimitable dominion over his mind. As it did so, it was not pleased. Not in the least. Though the immediate impact had somewhat subsided, what remained of his pincers still hurt plenty. And it was going to hurt for a long while still. And, as anyone who has ever tried to sleep with a broken limb can attest, this would not help his habits at all. Although this realisation came at the behest of Old N's slothful nature itself, so momentous was its effect that it roused him from his mire of drowsiness more readily than anything had ever done in centuries, and handed him a flaming torch of anger to cast clarity upon his way to vengeance.

Dismissing all thought of tasteless metaphors, the crab-demon spun about himself more rapidly than anyone could possibly have recalled him moving, bringing himself to face Nefas's exposed back. As he firmly planted his armoured feet upon the floor, his crushed pincers dangling limply along his sides, he began to chitter once more. But now, it was not an irritating clicking fit for a plastic wind-up chicken of poor quality. No, this was the ominous, foreboding rattling of a ferocious insectoid alien from a not-overly-creative science-fiction epic. "You. Half-human reject." he crackled, his voice bearing nary a trace of the usual grogginess, "Do you have any idea..." His hind-legs tensed, preparing for the upcoming monumental effort. "...of what you have DONE?!" With these words, Old N sprang forward, bringing his entire not inconsiderable weight to bear onto the warden's back, set to deliver what promised to be an impact that would put the Cyanean Rocks to shame.

And of course the enemy Cambion thought he was one of his own prisoners. Perhaps he also believed Deprave was some rank amateur, to be mutilated and tossed aside like rubbish. Had he not led his tribe to conquest over much of the Americas, to transformation into a true nation? Had he not made his way to the top of his gang and transformed it into a small army all its own? And was the piece of concrete that Nefas had torn from the wall readily dodgable? Well, Grog certainly wouldn't be dodging it from where he was, so Deprave dodged for him, sidestepping as the solid lump was flung, and in theory allowing it to pass to the left of his passenger's head.

Either way, he had another issue to deal with: a lunge made by Nefas, accompanied by a straight chop aimed up at Deprave's collarbone. Pah. As it happened, one of the advantages of being a giant was very large hands and arms... and one of the advantages of combat skill was knowing when an attack ought not to be blocked. On the other hand, an attack like this could be deflected very handily; and so, though it was a bit of a rough hit, Deprave moved an arm round to bat the enemy Cambion's arm to the side, making it pass his body and miss the attack entirely, save perhaps a slightly skinned limb. Were he fighting on his own, this might be followed up differently; but with a gun-toting madman on his back, Deprave had had a much better idea, and rather than simply wasting the energy, grabbed Nefas' wrist (the majority of his forearm, really) and continued the half-demon's motion for him, essentially turning his attack against him to throw the warden head over heels, slamming his opponent's back into the ground hard enough to crack it. Almost before the demon impacted, Nefas grabbed the up-ended creature's other arm at the elbow with his free hand, and yelled 'UNLOAD IN HIS EYES, FROG!' as he began to spin himself, and by extension the prison guardian in his grip, round and round and round, heedless of the walls of the hallway.

That spinning motion, of course, was simply to distract Nefas from the real threat. Perhaps only for a second, but if Grant acted immediately, that'd be more than enough. Nefas was thick-skinned enough that he could probably tank most of what Deprave could put out without using Blackgore... but the eyes of any creature are easily one of their weakest points, not readily defended by even the toughest eyelids. And regardless of how tough they are on the outside, a great many shotgun rounds fired into their brain through the eyesockets will put any creature out of commission for an extended period of time. Especially if the skull is hard enough to ricochet the ammo a few times...

@Turbowraith@Turbowraith@Turbowraith

As he heard the plan, he looked at Light. "Ok, sweet!" He said. Sounding like a idiot. He followed Light and looked at Poncho. "So you're with us now? Awesome." He says while following them.

And just like that, shit began to go down. The head honcho had already broken out his offensive maneuvers, first with stomping on the poor crab-man's arms and by... Throwing a chunk of concrete directly at his face. That was not good, not good at all. Even in this state of heightened awareness, Grog was far too immobile strapped on the Mayan's back to successfully avoid it, and judging from the latter's absolute negligence when it came to teammates, well, he was screwed. Or was he? Seems like 'Prave had actually started to move out of the way. Grog was pleasantly surprised. Leaning to the side, so as to have a grater chance to avoid the piece of rubble, he readied his guns, finally preparing to unleash his long awaited volley at the charging cambion. But alas, that was not meant to come to pass.

He had dodged, but only partially. Its' edge grazed against Grog's face, snapping his head to the side, and cracking his cheekbone. The opportunity was lost. Yet, as he violently twisted back, he found himself a breath away from the cambion. Deprave, you luchador from hell. You locked the cunt in place. Grog would be excited, if he weren't literally frothing with rage. Foamy saliva was violently escaping visibly clenched jaws, as his mask had been pulled down by the impact, and widened eyes shone from behind his safety goggles. The masked hoodlum remained deathly silent, and for an impossibly brief moment, gave Nefas a glare of drug-fueled insanity. An absolute barrage of well-placed shots followed, primarily aimed at the head.

There he was! Under the onslaught of those nefarious monsters... he will fall now! The King identified Nefas in an instant, his soulless eye sockets blazing with the light that could not be quenched. While the Warden was busy with the Mayan, the King sprinted around them like a wraith.

"I will make you see me," the King rasped, his broken sword held tightly in his grip. The King cackled with glee as he saw this pillar of authority come under the barrage of these anarchic beasts. Running, he leapt over a chunk of concrete on the ground, mantling onto the floor and sprinting so fast that the fire seemed to streak from his hands. His feet glided up the wall as he ran around the charging crustacean. Bundling up energy in his bent knees, he suddenly pushed off the wall, diving on Old N. Using the monstrous beast's back as a stepping stone, the King then leapt behind the warden, driving the broken blade towards his back and at the same time reaching out to grasp at the energy that he could sense... so deliciously... in that beast's head.