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.
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.
"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.
"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..."
"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.
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.
"Ah'll live. Anyt'ing ah got 'it with can wait. Walkin' wounded an all t'at. Ah don't even know if ah'm injured."
Ansgar responded briefly to the medic, before hauling ass back to the engine room, moving full sprint with the kind of experience that came from working damage control in a rapidly failing situation. With the Lass moving back to the engine room controls, he could focus on the next most pressing matter. Get their damned shields back up and running. The Captain would find the secondary controls, while they lacked a natural bridge view, were repurposed from old ships that couldn't afford having a vision port. It used well placed cameras across the hull, located in hardened casemates and in sub optimal positions for being targeted. It would take getting used to, but it would work. Ansgar would burst into the engine room, locking down the hatch leading into the engine room. It would take either the Captain, Ansgar, or a cutting torch to get through now. He had a plan for the shields, though it would not be pretty long term.
"Lass! Ah'm rerouting power from t'e old bridge t' the shields. Cannae promise it'll last long, but ah can boost t'e refresh doin' it..."
Ansgar had sprinted into the center of the engine room, zipping up his attire from the way it had been, tied around the waist, as it would insulate him against shock, and he hauled the deckplate up, a belch of smoke rose up, likely trapped from something else giving out. These bastards better be ready to pay for the work he was going to have to do to repair the damned ship. Dropping down, he pulled his kit out and started working, sparks flying impotently against his thick attire, pulling cables and rerouting others, and a rather notable shudder would shake the ship as the shields suddenly flared, the power dump from the now ruined bridge snapping it back online in time to intercept the next barrage, the overclocked shield capacitors requiring constant attention to keep them from exploding.
"Hope yer damned friend can drive em off, Lass, yer lucky ah know m' way around t'is ships blasted equipment!"
Name: Jericho Cross, introduces himself as "Walker".
Apparent Age: Mid Thirties.
"IS": Human
Description:
Armaments:
Paired Arming Sword & Dagger: Well worn, well maintained sword and dagger that have been paired together. The dagger is used for both defensive purposes, parrying and deflecting enemy weapons, as well as offensive weapons and is balanced well enough for throwing in a suitably desperate situation. The arming sword is balanced for one handed use, and can parry and deflect as well as cut and thrust. Besides being well made, they lack ornamentation or any real sort of indication of needless wealth. A working man's weapons.
Compact Crossbow: A full sized crossbow cut down and lightened to make it more usable and agile in close quarters situations. More suitable of fighting in streets, not fields, it still has the same impact and potency as the full sized model, but is harder to ready and reload without practice. Capable of accepting varied sorts of bolts, Jericho has a modestly sized quiver of bodkin tipped bolts, each with a generous application of poison to ensure effectiveness against other humans even on otherwise nonlethal hits. How effective they will prove against other targets remains to be seen.
Thief's Kit: A satchel full of various tools and supplies that a scoundrel might need on his daily going's about. From lockpicks, skeleton keys, and even an acidic vial for desperate measures, to tools designed to ease the production of crude poisons and boobytraps, Jericho designed his personal kit to be versatile, lacking the specialization of some kits in favor of being able to handle most situations. The lack of overly specialized tools does limit to a degree, but the flexibility proved far more valuable than the specialty in one singular task.
Lucky Pipe: A pipe that Jericho is never seen without, and an aid to his habit of smoking on a routine basis, the pipe is unusually nice, even if its engravings and decoration are worn away from years of use and aging. Ivory and oak make up its construction, though the ivory is blackened from the routine use as a pipe, and where the man got his hands on such a tool are a very closely guarded secret.
Teraterifficence:
Abnormal Resilience: The realm of Istvargrad lacked overtly supernatural beings or species, though it did not lack in abnormalities and abhumans (Elves, dwarves, and gnomes existed and were seen as just abhumans, offshoots of humanity). Most people had some lineage or trait linking them back to some sort of strange lineage prior to the fading of such beings, and Jericho is no exception. His resilience, both to the mundane such as fatigue and poison, as well as encounters with unnatural relics that crippled others is noteworthy. He isn't the strongest nor the fastest, but his resilience has kept him alive long enough to end up in his current predicament, handy since his preference to poison his crossbow bolts means he has been routinely exposed to such toxins as well. Even physical trauma could be bounced back from alarmingly quickly, a combination of willpower, natural resilience, a quick bandage and a touch of liquid courage getting him back on his feet far quicker than most.
Dirty Fighter: All's fair in love and war, and Jericho is well versed in the most underhanded of tactics. Anything goes in a fight, doubly so when survival is on the line, and he has no pesky morality hamstringing his combat efforts. Shots below the belt, ambushes, traps, poison, even something as deceptively simple as a handful of sand for the eyes, Jericho is always on the look out for, and often finding, underhanded means of leveraging combat to his advantage. His former gang often questioned how he was always finding such openings or loopholes, and rarely got a straight answer, calling into question whether it's simply luck or something more unnatural, and has even been accused of being capable of swaying fate with magic, though he flatly denies such a thing, a rarely plain response indeed.
Your World:
A realm of sprawling cities, often times built on top of those that had come before them, many go their entire lives without ever seeing nature outside of scant few trees, weeds, or roots. Magic exists, of a sort, though those gifted with the ability to utilize said magic liken it to more of being a conduit for powers outside their control, or even understanding, than conventional control over the arcane. As such, magicians were viewed with great distrust, skepticism, and often times ostracized and hunted over problems that routinely plagued the land, either to try and fix them or punish them for causing them. Banditry and organized crime are as common as the official powers that be, a classical Monarchy who's ruling head changes almost as often as the months passed, due to political intrigue, assassination, or just plain bad luck. Guards and soldiers were crooked, and pretty much the entire land ran off crime, organized as it was, and if one wanted to actually get something done, they went to the Robber Barons.
Of course, the most lucrative trade for the crooks and thieves was in the dealings of Relics. A catch all term, for items that sort of fell from between the cracks and ended up in their world. Magicians and self styled scientists alike paid almost as much to get these Relics, as they did to keep their rivals from getting them. Good scouts and sharp eyes to find proper Relics, or a silver tongue to pass off fakes as the real deal, were prized among such rings as much as a steely gaze, steady sword arm, and complete lack of morals might be.
Officially, the Church held say over all things related to the arrival of new Relics, though in practice even the Crown overlooked the trade as it often lined his own pockets and coffers with illicit gold. That being said, about the only thing that could unite the disparate groups of Istvargrad would be an outside threat, as the Robber Barons, Church, and Monarchy distrusted each other to the point that all out war would, to an outsider, be all but guaranteed. Of course, Kazzok's arrival was one such threat, and a stiff resistance was put up, but we all know how such fights turned out by now, doubly so when opposed by such distrustful, disparate forces...
Backstory:
Istvargrad was one of the largest cities of the realm, not so much a single settlement as a sprawling mass of civilization. Humanity as it was known was, by far, the most dominant species present, though compared to other world's versions, the humans of Istvargrad were hardy and resilient against trauma and disease. Elves circulated as concubines and entertainers among the noble courts, moonlighting as assassins and masters of alchemy for those with coin or information to spare. Dwarves and halflings, lumped together in the poor quarters, ran bars, taverns, and and places of business as readily as a human. They would also turn their deft fingers to locksmithing, lockpicking, and the production of clever trinkets and tools for the trade of crime. Indeed, one would be safe to say that the realm of Istvargrad was, indeed, one that ran on crime, either the engaging in, or fighting of, it.
Crime, and the Robber Barons that ran the highest levels of it, knew where the profit was. Relics, strange objects and contraptions that fell into their world due to the weakened walls of their world and sold to the highest bidders. The Church and, officially, the Monarchy would oppose them in a three way struggle for power, the Church seeing them as holy objects, trappings of a faith that had once sustained the barriers of their world and protected them from outsiders. The Monarch saw them as leverage against the Church and its enforcers, and the Robber Barons? Money, money to whichever noble, scientist, magician, or eccentric could pay the most coin. Entire bands of rogues, thieves, thugs and assassins would form around individuals with the skill and know how to track down and secure these items. Little did Istvargrad know, in all its constant focus inwards, that the slowly increasing tide of Relics was a sign of its impending doom.
This is where Jericho Cross comes into the picture, a man that had erased his past from all accounts barring his own, and yet was a highly successful leader of criminals. Knowing how and when to ply guile, charm, and force in due measures, he had a knack for finding Relics and pawning them off to both higher bidders, and his superiors. He made a good amount of coin off his work, lived comfortably in the seedy underbelly of Istvargrad, and was generally respected for his capabilities. Of course, such things do not last forever, and it was getting more and more dangerous for Jericho to work as the Church had begun to focus on his work more and more closely, trying to pin him down for illicit Relic trade. Of course, this never came to a head thanks to the arrival of Kazzok, who likely either followed the trail of relics that slipped between the cracks and into this world, or perhaps to use them as signs of the best options of where to go next.
Istvargrad was the last city remaining within a few short years, the rest of the realm falling in relatively short order, though it was not from a lack of effort. Jericho, and many men like him, were appointed as military officers in desperation, leading their own bands of criminals and scum alongside broken survivors of initial efforts to repel Kazzok. Instead of facing his forces openly, they instead opted to often strike from the shadows, ambushing and harassing the enemy forces wherever they could, stalling and buying time and victories where they could. The problem was that open warfare was a relatively rare thing in Istvargrad, standing armies acting more as guards and opponents to organized criminals than monsters and even other professional soldiers. Ironically, it was the criminals, convicts, and the like able to put up the fiercest resistance as their infighting better prepared them then the long guard shifts with little going on within their view.
Jericho made a name for himself leading men of increasingly varied walks of life against Kazzok and his legions, organizing defenses, leading ambushes and counter assaults, and moving around like a man possessed. It didn't take a genius to realize whatever Kazzok had in mind was bad for business, and everything was thrown into the defense against him, and for his own reasons, Jericho was throwing everything he had into it. Even as Kazzok's legions advanced into Istvargrad itself, entire districts were burned in defiance, forcing them to move in patterns more suitable to being ambushed and making costly assaults on defensive positions. Indeed, scorched earth had become a standard practice, anything that couldn't be taken with them was put to the torch or otherwise ruined. The last point of feasible defense was the barrier to the Monarchy district, a towering manor on an isolated rocky outcrop, accessable via a long, narrow pathway on foot, and the clear, moonlit nights readily exposing approaches by other means.
It was on this long, narrow road snaking up towards the Monarch's home that Jericho would make his last stand, what surviving associates of his old crew alongside soldiers and survivors that would sooner die in a last ditch defense then turn over and die as prisoners, or worse. On top of his career of criminal activity, underground fighting, and scrapes with the guards, he had years of desperate, hard earned experience fighting a losing battle. The Monarch district was designed to be nigh unassailable by any mortal hands, even magicians were anticipated if an all out assault was to be engaged. In the hands of legends and heroes, it might have even sufficed. But legends and heroes were not commonplace in Istvargrad, indeed, the latter was bad for business, and the former too attention grabbing for subtle operations. Jericho had become a hero by necessity, not by choice, and it was no doubt he would fight to the bitter end alongside the remaining few that held the Monarch district. Though, how can one imagine, as the moon itself is blotted out by the oncoming tide, and the ground itself trembled at the approaching legions, that such a motley crew would last long at all?
Other: Unlike most of his peers, Jericho is well versed in the major languages among the remaining races of his former home, capable of conversing comfortably in his world's version of Common, Elfish, Dwarfish, and Gnomish (A derivative of Dwarfish, though don't let them catch you saying that). He tends to never answer questions directed at him, about him, straight, and often leaves differing stories or understandings of who he was between each person that asks, confusing efforts to corroborate who he really is. Otherwise, is well spoken, though crass when the mood suits, and a casual liar out of amusement as well as need.
Name: Jericho Cross, introduces himself as "Walker".
Apparent Age: Mid Thirties.
"IS": Human
Description:
Armaments:
Paired Arming Sword & Dagger: Well worn, well maintained sword and dagger that have been paired together. The dagger is used for both defensive purposes, parrying and deflecting enemy weapons, as well as offensive weapons and is balanced well enough for throwing in a suitably desperate situation. The arming sword is balanced for one handed use, and can parry and deflect as well as cut and thrust. Besides being well made, they lack ornamentation or any real sort of indication of needless wealth. A working man's weapons.
Compact Crossbow: A full sized crossbow cut down and lightened to make it more usable and agile in close quarters situations. More suitable of fighting in streets, not fields, it still has the same impact and potency as the full sized model, but is harder to ready and reload without practice. Capable of accepting varied sorts of bolts, Jericho has a modestly sized quiver of bodkin tipped bolts, each with a generous application of poison to ensure effectiveness against other humans even on otherwise nonlethal hits. How effective they will prove against other targets remains to be seen.
Thief's Kit: A satchel full of various tools and supplies that a scoundrel might need on his daily going's about. From lockpicks, skeleton keys, and even an acidic vial for desperate measures, to tools designed to ease the production of crude poisons and boobytraps, Jericho designed his personal kit to be versatile, lacking the specialization of some kits in favor of being able to handle most situations. The lack of overly specialized tools does limit to a degree, but the flexibility proved far more valuable than the specialty in one singular task.
Lucky Pipe: A pipe that Jericho is never seen without, and an aid to his habit of smoking on a routine basis, the pipe is unusually nice, even if its engravings and decoration are worn away from years of use and aging. Ivory and oak make up its construction, though the ivory is blackened from the routine use as a pipe, and where the man got his hands on such a tool are a very closely guarded secret.
Teraterifficence:
Abnormal Resilience: The realm of Istvargrad lacked overtly supernatural beings or species, though it did not lack in abnormalities and abhumans (Elves, dwarves, and gnomes existed and were seen as just abhumans, offshoots of humanity). Most people had some lineage or trait linking them back to some sort of strange lineage prior to the fading of such beings, and Jericho is no exception. His resilience, both to the mundane such as fatigue and poison, as well as encounters with unnatural relics that crippled others is noteworthy. He isn't the strongest nor the fastest, but his resilience has kept him alive long enough to end up in his current predicament, handy since his preference to poison his crossbow bolts means he has been routinely exposed to such toxins as well. Even physical trauma could be bounced back from alarmingly quickly, a combination of willpower, natural resilience, a quick bandage and a touch of liquid courage getting him back on his feet far quicker than most.
Dirty Fighter: All's fair in love and war, and Jericho is well versed in the most underhanded of tactics. Anything goes in a fight, doubly so when survival is on the line, and he has no pesky morality hamstringing his combat efforts. Shots below the belt, ambushes, traps, poison, even something as deceptively simple as a handful of sand for the eyes, Jericho is always on the look out for, and often finding, underhanded means of leveraging combat to his advantage. His former gang often questioned how he was always finding such openings or loopholes, and rarely got a straight answer, calling into question whether it's simply luck or something more unnatural, and has even been accused of being capable of swaying fate with magic, though he flatly denies such a thing, a rarely plain response indeed.
Your World:
A realm of sprawling cities, often times built on top of those that had come before them, many go their entire lives without ever seeing nature outside of scant few trees, weeds, or roots. Magic exists, of a sort, though those gifted with the ability to utilize said magic liken it to more of being a conduit for powers outside their control, or even understanding, than conventional control over the arcane. As such, magicians were viewed with great distrust, skepticism, and often times ostracized and hunted over problems that routinely plagued the land, either to try and fix them or punish them for causing them. Banditry and organized crime are as common as the official powers that be, a classical Monarchy who's ruling head changes almost as often as the months passed, due to political intrigue, assassination, or just plain bad luck. Guards and soldiers were crooked, and pretty much the entire land ran off crime, organized as it was, and if one wanted to actually get something done, they went to the Robber Barons.
Of course, the most lucrative trade for the crooks and thieves was in the dealings of Relics. A catch all term, for items that sort of fell from between the cracks and ended up in their world. Magicians and self styled scientists alike paid almost as much to get these Relics, as they did to keep their rivals from getting them. Good scouts and sharp eyes to find proper Relics, or a silver tongue to pass off fakes as the real deal, were prized among such rings as much as a steely gaze, steady sword arm, and complete lack of morals might be.
Officially, the Church held say over all things related to the arrival of new Relics, though in practice even the Crown overlooked the trade as it often lined his own pockets and coffers with illicit gold. That being said, about the only thing that could unite the disparate groups of Istvargrad would be an outside threat, as the Robber Barons, Church, and Monarchy distrusted each other to the point that all out war would, to an outsider, be all but guaranteed. Of course, Kazzok's arrival was one such threat, and a stiff resistance was put up, but we all know how such fights turned out by now, doubly so when opposed by such distrustful, disparate forces...
Backstory:
Istvargrad was one of the largest cities of the realm, not so much a single settlement as a sprawling mass of civilization. Humanity as it was known was, by far, the most dominant species present, though compared to other world's versions, the humans of Istvargrad were hardy and resilient against trauma and disease. Elves circulated as concubines and entertainers among the noble courts, moonlighting as assassins and masters of alchemy for those with coin or information to spare. Dwarves and halflings, lumped together in the poor quarters, ran bars, taverns, and and places of business as readily as a human. They would also turn their deft fingers to locksmithing, lockpicking, and the production of clever trinkets and tools for the trade of crime. Indeed, one would be safe to say that the realm of Istvargrad was, indeed, one that ran on crime, either the engaging in, or fighting of, it.
Crime, and the Robber Barons that ran the highest levels of it, knew where the profit was. Relics, strange objects and contraptions that fell into their world due to the weakened walls of their world and sold to the highest bidders. The Church and, officially, the Monarchy would oppose them in a three way struggle for power, the Church seeing them as holy objects, trappings of a faith that had once sustained the barriers of their world and protected them from outsiders. The Monarch saw them as leverage against the Church and its enforcers, and the Robber Barons? Money, money to whichever noble, scientist, magician, or eccentric could pay the most coin. Entire bands of rogues, thieves, thugs and assassins would form around individuals with the skill and know how to track down and secure these items. Little did Istvargrad know, in all its constant focus inwards, that the slowly increasing tide of Relics was a sign of its impending doom.
This is where Jericho Cross comes into the picture, a man that had erased his past from all accounts barring his own, and yet was a highly successful leader of criminals. Knowing how and when to ply guile, charm, and force in due measures, he had a knack for finding Relics and pawning them off to both higher bidders, and his superiors. He made a good amount of coin off his work, lived comfortably in the seedy underbelly of Istvargrad, and was generally respected for his capabilities. Of course, such things do not last forever, and it was getting more and more dangerous for Jericho to work as the Church had begun to focus on his work more and more closely, trying to pin him down for illicit Relic trade. Of course, this never came to a head thanks to the arrival of Kazzok, who likely either followed the trail of relics that slipped between the cracks and into this world, or perhaps to use them as signs of the best options of where to go next.
Istvargrad was the last city remaining within a few short years, the rest of the realm falling in relatively short order, though it was not from a lack of effort. Jericho, and many men like him, were appointed as military officers in desperation, leading their own bands of criminals and scum alongside broken survivors of initial efforts to repel Kazzok. Instead of facing his forces openly, they instead opted to often strike from the shadows, ambushing and harassing the enemy forces wherever they could, stalling and buying time and victories where they could. The problem was that open warfare was a relatively rare thing in Istvargrad, standing armies acting more as guards and opponents to organized criminals than monsters and even other professional soldiers. Ironically, it was the criminals, convicts, and the like able to put up the fiercest resistance as their infighting better prepared them then the long guard shifts with little going on within their view.
Jericho made a name for himself leading men of increasingly varied walks of life against Kazzok and his legions, organizing defenses, leading ambushes and counter assaults, and moving around like a man possessed. It didn't take a genius to realize whatever Kazzok had in mind was bad for business, and everything was thrown into the defense against him, and for his own reasons, Jericho was throwing everything he had into it. Even as Kazzok's legions advanced into Istvargrad itself, entire districts were burned in defiance, forcing them to move in patterns more suitable to being ambushed and making costly assaults on defensive positions. Indeed, scorched earth had become a standard practice, anything that couldn't be taken with them was put to the torch or otherwise ruined. The last point of feasible defense was the barrier to the Monarchy district, a towering manor on an isolated rocky outcrop, accessable via a long, narrow pathway on foot, and the clear, moonlit nights readily exposing approaches by other means.
It was on this long, narrow road snaking up towards the Monarch's home that Jericho would make his last stand, what surviving associates of his old crew alongside soldiers and survivors that would sooner die in a last ditch defense then turn over and die as prisoners, or worse. On top of his career of criminal activity, underground fighting, and scrapes with the guards, he had years of desperate, hard earned experience fighting a losing battle. The Monarch district was designed to be nigh unassailable by any mortal hands, even magicians were anticipated if an all out assault was to be engaged. In the hands of legends and heroes, it might have even sufficed. But legends and heroes were not commonplace in Istvargrad, indeed, the latter was bad for business, and the former too attention grabbing for subtle operations. Jericho had become a hero by necessity, not by choice, and it was no doubt he would fight to the bitter end alongside the remaining few that held the Monarch district. Though, how can one imagine, as the moon itself is blotted out by the oncoming tide, and the ground itself trembled at the approaching legions, that such a motley crew would last long at all?
Other: Unlike most of his peers, Jericho is well versed in the major languages among the remaining races of his former home, capable of conversing comfortably in his world's version of Common, Elfish, Dwarfish, and Gnomish (A derivative of Dwarfish, though don't let them catch you saying that). He tends to never answer questions directed at him, about him, straight, and often leaves differing stories or understandings of who he was between each person that asks, confusing efforts to corroborate who he really is. Otherwise, is well spoken, though crass when the mood suits, and a casual liar out of amusement as well as need.
"Lass! Tha' latest blast was from th' bridge! Git down t' the engine room, backup controls are 'ere an' ready! Ah'm on damage control! Doc, meet me t'ere! Everyone else, stand clear!"
Ansgar had pulled on his full attire, including carrying the rebreather in one hand and damage control kit in the other. One could call it a tool box, but there were also supplies for sealing small breaches to the outside, locking down damaged components, putting out fires, as well as actual repair work. When it came to damage control, the man always tended to take the lead since, well, he was pretty much the best equipped person on board to actually go about being able to respond and prevent the situation from getting even more out of hand than it already was. The captain would likely want to have words with him later since, well, he hadn't told anyone that there was a backup set of controls in the engine room that'd he'd installed shortly after his hiring on. He'd opened them up the moment the next explosion had happened, and given his intimate understanding of the ship's layout, he was painfully aware of where the blast came from.
Moving at full sprint, Ansgar was in his element, though when he rounded the corner and spotted the crumpled, unmoving form of Andrea on the wall opposite of the bridge. Kevej was there as well, and he looked far better off. Given the blast doors were sealed, well, that only confirmed his suspicions. A small miracle the blast doors worked, and he ignored the pilot's body as he hooked up an analysis device to the panel next to the blast doors, cursing under his breath. Completely ruined, there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of even beginning to salvage or get the bridge back up and running without berthing or docking at all. He opened a direct comm to the Captain, not broadcasting this information over the ship wide comms. No need to get people panicked more than they possibly were already.
"Lass, th' bridge is shot. Complete loss without dry dockin' th' boat. Andrea's down, reckon fer good. We'll know w'en doc gets 'ere. I'm movin' back t' t'e engine room after doc gets up 'ere. Ain' nothin' I can do 'bout this rig't now."
The mechanic was compartmentalizing and locking away useless responses, including the panic that wanted to break out at the sight of the dead pilot. Sure, the captain could do the job and, sure, they didn't see eye to eye, but that didn't mean the man wished ill on the woman. Well, not seriously. Still, responding to death of crewmembers would come later, right now he was doing diagnostics on the rest of the ship systems while waiting for the closest this bucket of bolts had to a medical professional to arrive. He didn't attempt to interfere with the still form of the, now likely former, pilot. Even if she was alive somehow, he knew enough about serious injury that moving her would be a bad idea. How Kevej looked, well, he couldn't spare a glance right now. Too much information to process, too many problems to worry about. Like not getting shot out of the sky. He had half a hope the bastards would try to board them, oh he would get his pound of flesh out of these pirate bastards for undoing all this damn work he'd done getting this heap up and running proper.
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