[center][h3][color=C0392B]Rudolf Sagramore[/color][/h3][/center] [@Izurich][@Marlowe][@Ithradine][@Psyker Landshark] Impact. His teeth clattered together as, their complaints fully evident in the burn of muscle and rattle of bone, his legs absorbed the last bits of shock left as he and the torrent of water crashed into the side of the hull, the head of the Naga construct having lost its shape on impact and cascaded down in his wake. His knife bit deep into the wood like a driven nail as the falling seas buffeted his back, forcing his screaming lungs to hold air tight once more— And then, mercifully, abate as they returned to themselves, leaving only the wood, the rain, and the panting young man, soaked to the bone and exhausted enough that all he could do, aside from the aforementioned fight to just get air back in his lungs, was stare blankly into the pommel capping off the hilt that both hands hooked to. While his grip dominated what was left of his focus, his arms were slack, his boots finding their purchase on the hull at the base of what well could have just been a deep squat, provided a ninety degree shift in orientation. There he hung. Eyes almost half-lidded. Breathing, a raw, salty wheeze. Off the side of one ship, trying to right another. He had believed the shadowy flames that burned where the light in his soul ought to have been to just be something that sprouted from his person, heralding a specific summoning like the shield, or otherwise a raw globule of weighty, lingering pitch and fire, liable to inadvertently burst if he wasn't careful in the extreme— now that he'd let the genie out the bottle, anyway. But that moment up there, even as he'd struck a lethal point on the beast the construct had been modeled after, roughly... His eyes fought to focus their attention onto the dagger properly. That time, the response had been to his specific emotion, running along the current of his will as it had flooded his armament. If he could do that once, then... maybe again. If he had to. Might be a workaround for the curse on his "main" armament, still with all the rest of his shit somewhere on deck. He hadn't heard it spill over underwater, and he was pretty sure the sword would, if nothing else, be good enough a paperweight that it had managed to not let anything get swept away. Anything else would be just... terrible luck, really. Surely even his would have its limits. Crashes, gunfire, shouting voices, a real clamor overhead. A newer, and yet bolder, song in his ears, backed by full orchestration that he [i]knew[/i] Ciradyl didn't have on hand— And a white light, its gleam peeking over the edge of the railings. Good... that meant he'd gotten the materia to Arton in time. The Naga heads were gone, too... ... Izayoi's voice up there. Shouting... Urgent. Fight wasn't over. Leviathan wasn't yet dealt with, and the airship was coming in close. Much like Robin, the only one he could see from this angle up on the rigging, he didn't have time to rest or whimper about how damn soaked he was— the fight needed rejoining. He clenched his teeth, and pooled his remaining strength into his limbs... And ripping the knife free from the hull to do it, the young man [i]launched[/i] himself up the rest of the way, landing close by Neve, Arton, and Ciradyl, the latter still very deep in her song, the former's staff still aglow with White Magic. [color=c0392b]"Good, thank Etro."[/color] he breathed, voice a ragged, half-exhausted rasp as he drew up alongside Arton, thumbing the pommel of his knife. "It got to you in time, everyone's..." his voice trailed off, as he grimaced and wiped his soaked platinum mop out of his eyes with his free hand. Why did something feel [i]wrong[/i] about this setup? His mouth pulled into a grimace, rerunning the head count. Arton, Ciradyl, Neve... oh [i]hell[/i]. [color=c0392b]"Where's Esb—"[/color] [right][i][color=#736AFF][b]"I will provide an opening! Cover me, then capitalize upon it!"[/b][/color][/i][/right] The crack of rifle fire resumed, one bullet whizzing past Rudolf's very nose close enough that he could hear the snap in its wake. [color=c0392b]"Ssss[i]shit[/i],"[/color] he hissed, discarding the question on his tongue as he started forward again. He couldn't ask more of the others, each one already working— least of all Arton, who stood guard over the two support players. His sword. He couldn't block bullets with just a damn knife, no matter how good a knife it was. If he could at least get ahold of the greatsword again, he could at least use the damn thing to cover space, obscure Izayoi's blurring but trackable form— Where the hell was it? Still by the mizzen? He'd have to cut aside— His boot touched something. Kicking it up, he found his hand gripping the oblong hilt of one of the Valheimr axe-rifles. He'd never used a firearm, personally, but any port in a storm— his finger closed around the trigger and squeezed, roughly aiming the barrel at the chest of one of the crouched gunmen on the nearby airship, as he would a crossbow— [i]Click.[/i] Nothing. No smoke, no bellowing report, no kick in his palm. [color=c0392b][i]Seriously?![/i][/color] With a snarl, he wrenched his arm back and [i]hurled[/i] the damn thing downrange, as though an odd-weighted Tomahawk. More of those blackened embers spun along the length of the blade, but they were fainter, and he held no great hope in hitting the mark with strength alone. A sag in his shoulders. Slight, hard to spot concealed beneath the tension of this still very pitched battle, but there. [color=c0392b]"Go,"[/color] he barked over his shoulder to the burlier swordsman, voice dripping with acrid, bitter helplessness, [color=c0392b]"Cover her. I'll keep watch over here. Please. Sorry."[/color]