[center][h3][color=C0392B]Rudolf Sagramore[/color][/h3][/center] [@Izurich][@vietmyke] Even in the wake of his heart-to-heart with Neve that morning, Rudolf had been at his usual haunt when they'd shifted from full ahead to battle stations. Already a bad situation, one he'd prayed they'd not be facing until they'd gotten well ashore. Bereft of his main armaments like this, his only true mainstay would now be the dagger at his hip— eternally reliable, but without a doubt a sidearm. This wasn't a situation like the prisonbreak, either, where he could abuse the threatening veneer of his greatsword to chew up space and attention, the deck was no chokepoint. So as the guns and pirates wheeled about the ship and the airship slowed to a crawl overhead, Rudolf on the mizzen had stowed his meal and switched to a low crawl along the beam and rigging, closer to a thief than a swordsman in posture, Rondel in hand. Barely armed, and wholly unarmored. Terrible setup, but one they didn't have time to rectify. At the very least, he could provide another angle of attack on any boarding parties, see most of the field— [color=#736AFF][b]”Incoming dragoon! Move!”[/b][/color] Izayoi's voice sliced through the clamor, flash-freezing his blood. Horrified, his head snapped to the sky— Only to catch the streak of a purpled steel comet as it nearly took the mystrel's life wholesale, flanked by a dozen or so Valheimr troopers with blaze-belching packs strapped to them. Why? Had Valheim really wormed its way into the ranks of Edren's dragoons?! They were practically the nation's honor guard in the north! Infiltration of the banquet that brought the original iteration of Kirin together was already bad enough— just how deep had their claws gotten? And... worst of all this, as he watched from his perch with a white-knuckled grip, was that despite the cold, disgusted tone that colored it, the voice of the dragoon in question, was... Dodging a series of attempts on [i]his[/i] head by Izayoi, the knight in purple leapt up to the main mast, caught sight of the white haired Edreni, and— [i][b]"—is that Rudolf Shilage??” [/b][/i] [color=c0392b][i]"No, you have the wrong guy. No, you can clearly see I'm from Sagramore, check out my knife. No, no, no it isn't, there are no Shilage aboard."[/i][/color] All of these protests raced forth from mind towards mouth, but died on the lips when the man that prompted them revealed himself, and Rudolf finally matched the voice up with that inkling memory, one now years out of date. [i]Valon[/i]. That was Valon, of the Arkha household— a friend Otto had made of similar age and standing to the Shilages, a little before they'd rode out to Osprey. He [i]barely[/i] recognized him, the guy had been as young back then as Rudi was right now. Hell, younger! What the [i]hell[/i] was he doing, flanked by Valheimr, screaming his na— The flash of steel, as the dragoon leapt high once more... Oh, [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmkbvXtA5mE][i]shit.[/i][/url] White-hot adrenaline rushed through him as he calculated the arc in his head, moments away from certain death as the steel thunderbolt was now turned on [i]him[/i]. He launched forward off the mizzen into the void, now filled with buzzing Valheimr faux-dragoons, as a crash sounded behind him. Not blade buried into wood, but metal on metal. Had somebody made the intercept? Galahad? Izayoi? Had he read the dragoon's trajectory wrong? A grimace crossed his face as he tried to marshal his thoughts, colliding with one such and grabbing hold, dimly aware of a dirge being sung somewhere beneath the din. Why Valon? Why now? Why the hell [i]Valon[/i]?! Glory-hound he may have been when they'd last met, only in passing at that, but his loyalty to Edren had been proven twice enough for anyone in the War! [b]"The Fuck-GEDDOFf!"[/b] the jetpacked Valheimr squawked, trying in vain to course-correct for the sudden doubled weight crashing into and then hanging off him. Failing that, he attempted to bring the rifle-axe to bear— Opening his axillary artery, through the armpit, sealing his fate. Rudolf ripped the rondel free quickly, bearing the torrent of blood that rained onto the deck as he brought his knife down again to follow up— Only for his catch's death rattle to bring part of the flame-spewing back into the path, nicking the fuel line and letting out the noxious liquid that fed the flames— [right][color=d3d3d3][b]"LEVIATHAN!!"[/b][/color][/right] [i]Oh, that doesn't sound right at all.[/i] —but also letting [i]in air[/i]. Rather than descend to the deck to join the fight, as one would expect of slaying one of these rocket-packers, Rudolf had only time to let out a tortured [color=c0392b]"oh just my fucking luck"[/color] before the unregulated pressure dumped the entire tank of fuelinto the thrust in one go, dead Valheimr and still very much alive, [i]heavily[/i] disoriented Edreni spiralling through the void... right over the edge of the railing. [color=c0392b]"Overboard!"[/color] he managed to bark out, letting go and forcing the world to stop spinning on him as he made his unplanned exit from the [i]Scurvy Fishman[/i]. As he fell, the entrancing, nerve-dulling song grew only louder. Had Valheim tamed a goddamned water naga? Couldn't those slow you? He sucked in a big lungful of air... and he and the bloodied corpse both hit the drink, the song now surrounding him, seeping into his bones along with the cold of the sea. What he was faced with... not the undulating, serpentine form of a Naga, but instead that of a young woman, slipping through the waves as though on the edge of a knife, eyes closed as she sang her somber, arcane notes towards the battle overhead. A [i]horned, visibly draconic[/i] young woman. [color=c0392b][i]Oh, I get it. I see what's happening.[/i][/color] "Leviathan", if he had to bet on it. Ah, he was alone in the water with an aquatic version of [i]Eve[/i], who was [i]on his side[/i] and still wanted him dead a little bit. Cheeks puffed full of air as they were, the young warrior still found time to grimace as he brought his Rondel into his dominant hand, pawing through the water as he tried to match her speed. He could feel the effects up there already— if they wanted to have the best chance of beating Valon enough to get some questions answered up there, then he and his trusty knife would need to silence her down here, one way or another. Ideally, before any sharks caught the scent of the massacre that had started spilling down to sea with him. Times like these, Rudolf "Sagramore" really just wanted to go home.