Into a Rising Wind

[handsofwinter]

Winter holds the Nexus in its jaws, and its teeth sink ever deeper.

A month into the storm, the snow has yet to stop falling. The number of mouths to be fed has stopped dwindling, almost. Occasionally people go missing, and those who notice hope they’ve found a way back through their portals. It’s not enough to change the maths on their food supplies - all their supplies. Nobody is getting a full meal at a time, not any more. Isidor and Lyall have begun to enforce the rationing with iron hands. Both ignore the look that crosses Captain Kirk’s face when they upbraid a volunteer cook for being too generous – the look that lingers on Runa’s face if she’s close enough to hear. They’re doing what they must. They need a tight hold on their supplies if they want to get people through this. They need supplies even to send expeditions after more.

And expeditions are a difficult prospect now. Those who ventured into the storm and returned have brought stories that spread faster than Isidor hoped. The Crossroads Cafe has become a semi-official hub for those travelling outside or keeping watch on the bounds, a safe resting place kept warm by the combined power of Pokemon and Persona. In the long dark nights, people sit around the tables and share what they've seen, what they've heard from this scout or that refugee. Whispered tales of the creatures out there hunting in packs, hounding people from rooftops, even tearing open walls to reach them…

No-one goes out alone, now. Those brave enough to take the risk go in groups and arm themselves with the best weapons they can find. Sometimes they’re a risk to themselves. Not everyone knows how to handle that black market plasma pistol they picked up two days past. Not all of their team-mates keep their nerve when a figure looms out of the snows beside them. Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s run afoul of monsters, and who of their own folly. Safer, but little less brave, are the people recruited to keep watch on that shifting line of torches. Just a precaution. The creatures don’t come past it, everyone says. But quietly, everyone doubts.

There've been bright moments, too. A strange alchemist comforting a lost child. An expedition team fighting their way home, back to back. Families brought safely through the snow by soldiers and wizards, by heroes young and old and sometimes surprising. A volunteer cook stepping up to prepare, if not quite a hundred thousand meals, then something that feels close. A young man saving the life of a stranger who'd threatened him. The past weeks have seen people who may never have known one another before come together to offer a blanket, or guiding words, or a helping hand in a search. Small moments, glowing reminders of how much good the people of the Nexus have on their side. But the Winter goes on, and the winds never get less bitter, and the smiles get more strained with every day.

Slowly the line of torches close on the Plaza, a noose no-one can afford to flee. Sheltered space is at a premium. Most of those who remain are settled as close to the centre as they can be. Whether in the big public bunker or the Cafe, people find themselves crammed all together, and tempers regularly fray among residents not too cold and exhausted for fighting. The more responsible Nexus-goers find themselves trying to duck out of (or break up) fights, or spending hours stuffing drafty accommodation with any insulation they can find. There’s snow to be shoveled from doors, pipes to be defrosted, bandages to be changed. Anything’s better than dealing with the problem of working bathrooms.

At one end of the Plaza headquarters, a makeshift screen has been dragged into place to give a semblance of privacy to Isidor’s desk. It’s painfully early in the morning, though the nights are so long and the days so dim beneath the storm clouds there’s little sense of time any more. There’s no-one around yet to wonder about the meeting going on. The only people present are Isidor, Lyall and a handful of senior volunteers – those who remain. Blaze-37 crouches by a makeshift fireplace, stacking the salvaged wood just right before she punches it lightly, setting it alight with the flames that ripple over her fist. The other robot, Ghost, is hovering over the desk playing flashlight for them, shining a pale beam over the maps and reports laid out there. Light, too, is a precious resource, as batteries die and outlets are lost to encroaching Winter. It’s the only reason those here have gotten sleep. They work until they have no light to work by.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Suou?” the Guardian asks when Isidor says they can begin.

“Officer Suou won’t be coming.”

That’s part of why they’re here, Isidor explains. The torches’ march has taken them past the Grand Library. The Crossroads Café is now on the very edge of the safe zone, along with all the people sheltering there. Katsuya’s magic is the only thing that will protect it. He can’t leave. It’s a turning point that only drives home the larger problem: they’re running out of time. They’re running out of everything. Most refugees are in some kind of shelter by now; what they lack is food to keep them alive and fuel to keep them warm. Isidor’s volunteers have counted heads and counted tins and counted everything backwards and forwards and the numbers never get better. Either they do something now, while they have the strength, or the meals will run dry in two weeks. Less, if anything goes wrong.

She lets that sink in. Nobody looks surprised: she’s confirming their worst suspicions and that gets a few flinches, but they understand. They talk, instead. By the time there’s a hint of daylight outside and someone knocks on the door for the first shot at rations, they have a plan. They need an expedition, bigger than any before. They need enough arms to discourage attack, the skills to get them to any buried supplies and the numbers to haul them back in quantity. Each of them walks away from the table with a mission in mind and an air of grim determination.

They have a job to do, and they’re going to need help.

((As before, so below: the main missions/subquests for the expedition prep are listed below. Tag any of them, threadhop, or post with your own character. I suggest putting your character’s name in the subject to help keep things clear. The OOC Post can be found here! If you have any questions, feel free to message me or one of the mods!))

Threads of Note

Scouting the Expedition | A Fistful of Torches | Scrapyard Sweep | The Home Front | Medical Attention | Isidor's Expedition Call | Main Expedition: The Raid

Comments

[lovesuwithknives]

It isn't until the convoy starts moving that Azwel joins them again. They have the supplies, yes, but he doesn't like anything else about this. Every moment that passes without the trap being sprung grates on his nerves. His fingers twitch, sending little flickers of blue and red light into the air.

These Fallen creatures are mocking them, and that gnaws at Azwel's pride, but it's a small thing compared to the mounting restlessness. He shakes his head--sounds are getting too acute, a sure sign that he's letting this almost-paranoia get to him. He tries to tune out the engine sounds and, above all, that constant howling of the wind. Focus. Focus.

He presses on, staying in the path made by the vehicles, eyes searching.

[rekindledtitan]

The loading itself is straightforward enough: everything getting shunted onto vehicles (or stuffed into packs) and tied down securely. Even the wind is gentler than when they left: it blows strong, but it doesn’t howl as wildly as it did closer to the Plaza. There’s far, far more bounty here than they can take, but the wrench of leaving a pile behind is mollified by the knowledge that they’re coming away with all they could have asked to gain. When they get this back home everyone is going to eat well for the first time in weeks.

If they get it home…

The wind picks up as they strap everything down and turn around to go. The scouts on their bikes are still watching the area for them, but those guarding the perimeter are waved or called back in, and soon the convoy is heading for their exit.

They’re nearly back on the road through the trees when a boom of engines shakes the air. In the sky ahead, a dark shape swims into view, decloaking as it drops toward the ground. It’s the size of a yacht, long and lean and finned like a shark, with a bulbous head and tapering tail. Then there’s another- and another, and another, and…. They’re dropping into a line, lowering as if to block the road ahead, but then their bellies seem to unfold and many-limbed shapes appear, clinging to the grips and ready to drop…

The moment she hears those engines break into normal space Blaze is running, pounding up from the back of the group, slapping the snowmobile’s cab with a resounding thump in passing. “Move! Now!” She’s bellowing over the wind, on the radios to any who’ll listen. “I’ll break their line! Stay together and run!”

The Fallen are dropping from their ships, spreading into the trees, forming a thick line in front of them. Four-armed vandals with blades and rifles, little floating shanks, the two-armed dregs with their pistols and grenades. One, then two and three of the big captains. She can hear more engines in the sky behind them. More are coming. So many more. The scouts will have to move not to get penned in. Here is the trap, here they are at last. The thrill of it is singing in her circuits.

Blaze does what any Titan would do. She charges. She’s trying not to get too far ahead of the convoy, letting them take whatever opening she can buy- letting her fellow warriors exploit what she’s about to do. She’s closing on the front rank when the air around her clangs. Searing flame erupts over her, the raw fury of the sun blazing to life amid Winter’s shadow. The hammer in her hand burns with molten light, the snow steaming up behind her. Everything in the swathe around her is about to explode or burn- and the rest of the Fallen?

They have half the damned Nexus to face.

[lovesuwithknives]

Finally.

The sense of relief that washes over Azwel is... bizarre, to say the least. It's not every day one sees a person who's glad they're being attacked, but the other shoe has finally dropped and the tension is gone and he can simply concentrate on what he came out there to do.

The fire from Blaze's hammer only heightens that exultation and as soon as the flames tear their path through the enemy he charges, nerves singing. Spears and swords made of red and blue hard light arrow into their ranks as he runs forward and lest anyone think they are illusory the spray of gases and blood quickly prove otherwise. He pivots, throwing more momentum into a hail of spinning swords. A huge red greataxe leaves a pulpy mess where a Fallen once stood. He charges into their midst, mind spinning the manifestation numbers faster than he's probably ever done, and all the while he pivots and lunges and whirls, a sure-footed dance, clearing a path.

The magick that flashes from his gauntlets and forms these weapons is powerful, the essences of Order and Chaos themselves filtering through his mind and body and reshaping reality. A ringing sound fills the air between the screams and shouts and the motors and the wind, physics itself vibrating under the assault of this magick, flawlessly wielded by a mind accelerated beyond realistic human capacity. It can be felt by everyone there on a primal, instinctive level, vibrating in the spine, leaving light-bruises on the retinas.

Magick thrums through Azwel's body, rushing through his mind, swirling Order and Chaos and astral energies into that beautiful, mind-opening spiral they always create, and he runs and dances along that path, the numbers of reality nothing more than strings to pluck and pull and rearrange as he sees fit. Time slows for him as he cuts down more and more of the enemy and yet....

It isn't enough. He has to push further if they're to survive this. Break that last barrier that he's only broken once or twice before. He pulls energy around him, a swirling storm of primal force and when it explodes, mowing down more Fallen in an almost desultory fashion, physics once again holds its breath.

The important thing isn't that half of Azwel's clothing is missing, displaying bright glowing white lines on the skin of his torso and face, or that his eyes glow a brilliant yellow. It isn't even that he appears to move almost too fast to see.

It's that, as soon as he finds what he assumes is their leader, the biggest and most heavily-armed of their captains, Azwel literally rises into the air, his arms engulfed in red and blue flame. At a gesture the ringing increases, rumbling in the earth and keening in the air, physics screaming in protest as his hands plunge into spacetime and pull out two giant glowing swords, one that crackles with unholy red flame, the other that freezes with terrible blue ice. They soar from his hands, strike the captain, and then spin, bending the spinning of atoms to their will, a horrible twisting of reality, rotating their target in the air until Azwel gestures again and reality closes in on the captain in a terrible blinding release of energy.

There's nothing left of the Fallen captain after that.

And Azwel drops to the snowy ground to re-join the fight.

[shardofwinter]

The expeditions have drawn Reynard's attention each time one set out, and this one was particularly intriguing with its large group and high stakes. Irresistible for a spirit so concerned with how this Winter plays out. Up until now he has been content to watch. To nudge opinions and encourage particular paths.

That was before this... monstrosity.

Time and space in the Nexus has always been odd. Changeable. But in its own way it has always been a natural abnormality. A rare mutation of the universe.

There is nothing natural about what Azwel does. It is Azwel who directs atoms and natural forces. It is Azwel who twists them to his will. Not Nature. Azwel's will cuts through Winter like a putrid blade.

Mortals can feel it in every fibre of their being, but so can Reynard. It shakes through the spirit, his fingers carving deep lines into the rock under his hand. Around Fallen and scavengers alike, the air trembles and shudders and cracks. Deep vibrations roll through the earth like heaving gasps. The world around them might as well have cried out at Azwel's attack.

The Wrongness of it shook Reynard, but the moment he pulls himself together he doesn't hesitate. Before this he watched and waited, invisible to the human eye and to modern senors. Now he marches straight towards Azwel. The residual magick of Chaos and Order are carried by the furious winds, revealing him in glimpses, like floodlights passing over him.

He's not as any of them have seen him before, though. Not this time. This time there's no bearded fellow in quaint historical clothing. This time a creature of moving ice and clawed hands marches towards Azwel. If someone tries to hit him, or lunge at him, they pass through thin air. If Azwel turns around, there aren't even footprints for him to see. But the moment that creature reaches Azwel, the eager warrior will turn and see a rough mimicry of human features in his face. Black eyes with shifting snowflakes as irises stare into Azwel's eyes and hold him there, captivated just long enough for an icy shard of a finger to rise to Azwel's third eye... and push. Deep into his skull where the cold spreads from within, filling his eyes and his nose and his mouth. Filling his mind with pure blinding white and unfathomable darkness.

And when the pain subsides, and the cold settles, there is Winter. There is no fear of what might happen, no fear of the Season. Not even a Winter spirit anywhere to be seen. There is only Winter and its madness left in Azwel.

[lovesuwithknives]

It was only a moment's distraction, a tiny pause in the dance, but it was enough--those eyes hold him trapped, helpless, that face sears itself into his memory, that touch...

The spiral twists, the paths shooting off into terrible oblivion, then tightens around him, pulling his mind apart with the force of its own shearing, ripping contortions. And then it vanishes, torn from under him, sending him spinning wildly into a white infinitude, frozen beyond endurance, icing over his skin and his hair, his nose, his lips, his eyes. His mind. His sanity cracks and breaks into fractals. All of reality is cold, empty, dead, vast, unknowable, ice and darkness and pain/cold/death/pain/cold/cold/cold--

The wind howls in his mind, a million voices screaming for his blood.

The others will see, then, that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong. Azwel screams in agony, hands scrabbling at his own head. He convulses. Drops to the frozen ground.

And yet, in an instant, he's back up again, magickal energy pouring off of him. But it's not the same. It's unbalanced. It's somehow wrong. When the weaponry manifests the sounds are fractured. The ringing judders, then twists into a horrible, discordant scream. Even the colours are different, white and sickly boiling purple. He screams hoarsely, cutting through yet more of the enemy, but they now find openings. They can retaliate.

But he doesn't stop. He doesn't even hesitate. His sightless eyes see only pain and terror and all he can do is strike at it, fight it with every last shred of his rapidly deteriorating consciousness. He whirls.

Ends up pointed toward the convoy.

[eumenis]

Furiosa's eyes are covered by goggles, her tattered black Imperator scarf drawn across her face, same as she would prep for a dust storm. The snow and wind aren't bad when they set out, but the faster the snowmobile moves, the more the ice will drive into her face. Her metal fingers curl around the steering wheel. It doesn't feel the same as the Rig, or one of her bikes back home, but it's solid, and its what they've got, and they trusted her with it. It's going to get back to the compound if her undead corpse has to haul it in its teeth.

When the ships appear, hovering overhead, that whole undead thing starts to look like a distinct possibility.

So that's why they were so determined to get Dia's ship, she surmises silently. They didn't want competition.

She watches the troops drop from the bellies of the ships, watches the ships remain, and while she's never faced tech like this in her own world, she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that that means there are more where they came from. If not more ships (there are probably more ships) there are definitely more troops.

If it were her fleet, and she were these Fallen, she'd have more ships waiting, either hovering over the edge of the cliff behind them, invisibly, or set at the base. If this wave didn't decimate their ranks, she'd make sure the next one, coming up behind them, did.

But she's punched a single Rig through three War Parties before.

She tugs her scarf down, gunning the engine. "Kinner! I'm gonna need you to stay on like your fucking life depends on it. Do not fall off, because I can't stop for you if you do. This thing's about to become a battering ram."

Her right hand gropes the dashboard and pulls out the Glock and undoes the safety, but then her spine jolts up straight as she watches Blaze set the front ranks of the enemy--

well, ablaze. Yeah, good name choice, there. Furiosa only presses the gas harder, moving ahead and a little to the left of the epicenter of the destruction Blaze has wrought, prepared to dodge and punch through the chaos.

Azwel's barrage of red and blue light dazzle her eyes, even coming hard on the heels of Blaze's sunfire. Red, gold, blue, like a Wasteland sunset on nitrous. She laughs quietly, because it's so familiar and so completely insane at the same time.

What in V8's name is she doing here? One little human amidst these gods and demons? She's only meat and bone, with a patched-up hole in one lung and an inability to quit when there's a task in front of her.

But she's not alone.

"If they start to cling to the vehicle, you've got to get them off," she tells Kinner, and hopes he can fill the role she's used to having Max or Ace for.

And with that, she aims the snowmobile at a space where the ranks look thinner. Where a wider spread of the bigger Fallen take the place of shoulder-to-shoulder ranks of the smaller ones, and, pistol up and firing, prepares to plow straight into them.

[sweetcandygirl]

The Fallen have arrived. And in one second... everything is chaotic. It brings a smile to Harley's face.

She cracks her neck. And bounces forward... cartwheeling forward. She flips and lands in the midst of a group of shanks, and swings her bat to hit as many of them as she can. Harley continues her 'charge' towards the enemy in the same fashion. A twirl here... hitting shanks with her bat. A cartwheel there... hitting a group of two-handed dregs. A flip up and over one of the four-armed vandals, bringing out her fire sword to bring down two at the same time.

Harley is alert to the others on her team. She can see Furiosa aiming her snowmobile though a thin space in the ranks. And she bolts forward to spring off the top of the snowmobile, slashing down a few of the closer enemies, as she gives both Kinner and Furiosa a quick little salute.

And then her attention is brought to Azwel, and that ice creature that moves towards the man. Harley watches the staring contest between the two... and sees something snap inside of Azwel.

She has spent A LOT of time around the criminally insane. She knows that look in his eyes. And she follows Azwel for a moment, as he cuts through more of the enemy. It is Harley who is facing him down, when he turns towards the convoy to fight more 'enemies'.

"I won't hesitate to attack you, Azwel. Snap out of it!" She yells at him. Ready to defend the convoy from their newest foe -- one of their own.

[lovesuwithknives]

He doesn't recognise her. Doesn't even hear her voice. She's little more than a form in front of him, something that has to be attacked, something in the way of survival, of finally finding some kind of peace in this maelstrom.

As she speaks, he's already charging forward, sightless. A huge greataxe swings down. Twin swords slash in from either side. He comes in low with a halberd.

FITE: Harley vs Azwel

[sweetcandygirl]

Fuck.

Harley dodges as the greataxe swings down, and rolls behind Azwel as those twin swords slash from either side. The slashes get pretty close to her, cutting into her pink coat.

"That was a fuckin' gift!" She flips up and onto Azwel's shoulders. He might have more weapons than her right now, but in her new position it will be harder for him to attack her directly.

Harley aims a quick jab at Azwel's pressure points at his neck. Hopefully she can take him down using some good ol' biology.

Re: FITE: Harley vs Azwel

[lovesuwithknives]

It is very true that he can't use his magick on someone who's on his shoulders. He stumbles, and the strikes to his neck elicit a strangled yelp of pain. He staggers, nearly falls, and reaches up, grabbing hold of her. That energy in the gauntlets wicks into her like touching a wire--just enough to be painful but not enough to shock. He twists, aiming to throw her.

He's losing coherency fast, though, as, even if he succeeds, it's a few heartbeats before he follows up with another strike, a trio of spears.

[sweetcandygirl]

Harley jumps slightly when the energy in the gauntlets wicks into her. And then she smiles. A little crooked.

Electra-shock therapy used to be part of her daily schedule.

She grabs onto the gauntlet -- letting the energy coarse through her body. Harley emits a dark, twisted laugh, hanging her head back for a moment. And when he twists the arm, she hangs on. Harley wraps her legs around his waist. She then starts hitting him... with his own gauntleted arm.

"Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!"

[lovesuwithknives]

The metal cracks against his face and head. He doesn't even hear what she's saying--though later when he remembers it, he'll be greatly amused. But for now it's more wind howling in his mind. Every time it strikes him there's a flash of red light and a boiling heat lances through him but it's no match for the terrible cold.

Azwel howls with pain and a kind of mindless, desperate rage, almost panic--his voice sounds strange, now, laced with reverberant harmonics, unnatural and inhuman. The more he's cracked upside the head with Cursed Sword energy the more the balance tips.

Panic-fear washes over him and he flails, twisting, clawing, grabbing, desperate to dislodge her. He's lost focus entirely, unable to manifest any weapons at all. And yet magickal energy snaps and wicks from him like solar flares.

[coldsong]

Loki had retreated into invisibility again after the earlier fight. He is here, and he will intervene as he sees fit, but he will have no one expecting his aid, no matter how dire things turn. He will give generously, but on his own terms, and only on his own terms.

And so, he watches the disaster unfold from the back of the ranks, horror muted by the knowledge that the risk to him is minimal. But there will be nothing more than a handful of survivors if this mission fails, and the idea of being the last strange being standing in a frozen Nexus is not appealing.

Blaze's golden fury is magnificent to watch. Something elemental within him cringes and cries out in pain, but he is not just Laufeyson, not merely a Jotun. He is also of Asgard, and rather than hide he breaks into a run, cutting through the snow to catch up to the front lines. Just in time, he stares up at Azwel's display, cosmic forces clawing at the natural order, and even before Reynard appears, he knows he is coming.

He watches the walking avalanche that is the angry Winter Spirit with a kind of quiet, mad delight. Magnificent, elemental and terrible. Azwel was kind to Loki once, which may or may not be a claim Reynard can make, but at this moment he cannot choose kindness over an image of power so beguiling.

The enchantment lasts only a moment, though. Once Reynard is gone, once he hears Harley's voice, Loki snaps to.

He is still unseen, but Harley may hear his voice in return, calling her name, and ice surges up Azwel's body, thick and unyielding, clinging to his legs like weighted shackles. Loki has to fight the magic leaking from him hard to make it work, but if he can get it up and over the other gauntlet, Harley will have that much easier a time subduing him. Or so Loki hopes.

[sweetcandygirl]

The magical energy that is snapping around her, wicking off Azwel's body gives Harley an idea. Just in time for her to hear Loki in her mind. She doesn't know how the mind communication thing works, but she projects back a beaming smile at him.

She flips off Azwel's body as the ice surges up and over the man. "Honey... don't weigh him to the ground too much. I wanna push him."

Harley puts her bat up against Azwel, protecting her flesh from the ice and hopefully the magical energy too. The wood is not very conductive to electricity... maybe that will prove true to magical energy too.

And then she uses her strength to start pushing Azwel towards a large group of Fallen. "Okay, little teapot. You just brimming with magic right now. How about we direct that chaotic power of yours to good use?"

Yes... she is aware that the Fallen will attack them both. But maybe her luck has turned, and with Loki's magic creating ice around Azwel's body, she can push her little 'bomb' towards more of the true enemies.

[lovesuwithknives]

True, the energy doesn't flow through the wood. It flickers into the air, directionless. Azwel finds he can't move, now, but is so cold he doesn't even know it's ice that encases his feet, then his legs, then his torso. He can't feel it biting into his skin. When Harley releases him the energies try to snap back into balance.

It's too much for him. Consciousness whites out entirely.

Whether they resume their balance or not matters little to him. His mind is gone, now. Horrible, boiling light swirls around him, bleeding through reality itself and refracting into colours that don't and, moreover, shouldn't exist. The sound changes again, skirling and rumbling through the air and the ground and the mind every sound and no sound.

Azwel's body shakes violently. But, at least, he's much easier to move, now. That is, until the energy reaches its critical mass.

[sweetcandygirl]

The hair on Harley's white skin prickles with the energy, as that boiling light swirls around Azwel, and around her... as she continues to push him into a large gathering of Fallen. Some of the creatures are attacking her... him... she grits her teeth and ignores the attacks that connect. The cuts that draw blood. The sensation of pain.

This is one of those situations that was never planned for. Who would have thought that they would have to fight one of their own. Potentially sacrifice one of their own.

Harley briefly wonders who else among them would be able to do what she is doing right now... guiding an unconscious Azwel right into a mass of Fallen. Who else would try to channel the chaotic energy surrounding their ally... into a weapon of mass destruction.

"I know you can't hear me right now. But if you don't make it, Azwel. You died a warrior. I know you would have liked that."

"You are going to get rid as many of these Fallen as possible, and make a nice big hole for our convoy to get through."

"And I won't leave your side until the end. You won't be alone. I promise."

[outpostcook]

"Oh, come on." Kinner watches Azwel confront the ice creature before things start going wrong. He's trying to maintain his balance during all of the mayhem, and this does not help. He has no idea what's going on, though he has a suspect. It doesn't matter if Reynard has his reasons. What matters is he threw a monkey wrench into the escape and made getting away that much more difficult. "Can you not cut us some slack for a moment, Reynard?"

What did Azwel do to set off Reynard? Kinner has other problems, between the Fallen (in spaceships, now) and staying on board the convoy. He's not Ace, but he's going to try. The food depends on it. He shoots at any Fallen within range, hitting one point-blank. However, he's discouraged when Azwel turns to attack the convoy, apparently not knowing or caring that allies are on board.

"Hey, Azwel, we're on the same side! Knock it off, ya mug!"

He knows full well he's no match for Azwel. Kinner's a good shot, but he knows his limits, and one of those limits is somebody with a sword and magical powers.

Kinner is not thrilled by what's going on with Azwel, and it's a fine time for something like this. He swears an oath under his breath as he pulls his attention away from the fight. Judging from the look he sees in Azwel's eyes, there won't be any talking him down, and Kinner needs to focus on the Fallen, who if nothing else are opponents he can actually beat. Whenever one comes within range, the revolver fires. The cook shoots coldly and with focus. He's been in war before, though the Fallen are a different kind of enemy than the human forces he's faced.

[red_room]

Natasha's boots pound against the frozen earth, running flat out as she follows in Blaze's wake. She drops down and slides in between a Vandal's legs underneath him before lifting her pistol directly underneath its chin and firing point blank into it's skull. The hiss of coolants and something else she has never been able to identify floods the air but truthfully it was the creature's weapon the spy was looking to get her hands on.

A smaller gun than the full sized rifle she'd gotten a chance to use during the beacon mission but still a higher tier of tech above her own handguns. And from experience she knows it will work quite well on the Fallen, too. Natasha holds it close to her chest while she picks up the pace again, leaping over fractured rock following the discharge of another one of the pirates' sparking bombs they are so fond of chucking.

The blast rings in her ears, mingling with Azwel's sudden anguished cries. She gets a glimpse of...something. Not the Fallen. One of Reynard's perhaps? But it's gone a moment later yet still the man bellows over the winds. That could be bad--but Harley's jumping in, putting herself between Azwel and the convoy. Trusting that the other has this handled Natasha turns her attention back to Blaze and the path she's carving.

This is quickly descending into a living Nightmare. She fears she knows where it will end up unless something is done. And soon.

[walking_on_fire]

Seeing the ship descend from the sky is completely breaktaking, not the surprise that Natalie was expected from the Fallen. An invisible attack from the shadows, not an entire fleet dropping enemies onto them. It's the most disheartening sight she's laid eyes on: the feeling of despair rising in her chest. Chaos. In that split second, she nearly panickes and seeing Azwel turn on the convoy isn't helping. Friends can be turned into foes? The expedition is most certainly doomed if their own forces begin fighting with each other...

It's only when she stares into the eyes of the Fallen that something clicks within her brain, setting off every switch that governs restraint and control. A writhing anger that can only be quelled with flame. Reaching into her jacket, she removes all six of her Pokeballs, throwing three of them towards the convoy. Landing on top of the vehicle is Roserade and Politoed, with Carbink hovering close by.

"Stay on the convoy and protect everyone!" As for the oncoming attackers, well she can't let Blaze and Natasha do all of the work. Trainers aren't supposed to command all their Pokemon at once, but this is an exception to the rule. Volcarona is back out within the blink of an eye, Natalie mounting the moth once more. Oh how tempting it is to fly skyward, to attack the ship directly, but she resists. Get the food out of here and back to the torches.

"I'll prove everyone wrong...That staying here and fighting was the right choice!" Getting back into the sky, she directs Emboar and Incineroar to follow her lead into the fray. Let it all burn. A flurry of attacks, ranging from streams of fire to supreme wrestling moves are unleashed on the Fallen. It's a risk to be on top of Volcarona, but she feels safer here than anywhere else.

[brother_alone]

Oh no oh fuck oh fuck fucking FUCK what is that? What the hell is coming out of the sky? Is it ever going to stop? Over the wind and the cries of both person and Fallen the terrified whimper that escapes Joshua is lost to everyone. Is no one else afraid? He can make out people firing and running but none of them are screaming bloody murder the way Josh feels he will if he lets himself open his mouth.

Oh fuck oh fuck someone help--

His speeder weaves around groups of Fallen, and for a moment Joshua nearly gives in to that blind panic. His thumb hovers over the throttle controls. He could open this baby up and make a run for it, but what good would it do? If he goes back to the camp without the food they all starve. They're left to suffer the same fate Joshua nearly died to back home before he ended up here in the Nexus.

Oh fuck, oh hell. Josh can't believe he's about to do this. At least if he dies here it'll be quicker than what's waiting back at the camp. He turns the speeder sharply, ducking around a tree before zipping back out across the line of the convoy to draw fire away from those guarding their supplies. Unfortunately he can't shoot and pilot like this at the same time, so a distraction's about all he's good for.

[rekindledtitan]

The Hammer of Sol is fury given form. Where it strikes it melts bone and turns armor to ash; when Blaze throws it (not very far) it explodes in roaring bursts of light, leaving bright sunspots on the ground that scorch any Fallen straying into them… and don’t touch her allies. She’s lighting up the path for the convoy, leaving orbs of residual Light bouncing in her trail. And then Azwel joins the fray. The Lightbearer, too, feels the effects of his work: the familiar sense of space warping and physics bent to assume a new form – the sense of rules being rewritten. But where Reynard hates, Blaze laughs and spins around to watch the sorcerer work, chasing after him as they dance a path of Light and magick and carnage through the opposing army, leaving stunned and wounded Fallen to face their comrades right behind. It’s fun, for a few moments. It’s almost like being back home.

But the Sunbreaker’s power is new to her, after all. She can’t sustain this kind of Light for long. In a short couple of minutes the fire flickers out, and the hammer reappears in her hand no more. Blaze doesn’t miss a beat. She just gets down to the bloodier kind of work. Her hands are swiftly soaked in the slick shine of ether. The Titan’s fists crush skulls and snap limbs alike, her armor soaking up rounds, ducking and weaving to block and strike and lunge and break, yanking her sidearm from its holster to stop a charging Captain in his tracks as the arc rounds beat down his shield. She isn't stopping, isn't analyzing. Every moment is a new challenge and she takes it as it comes.

She’s gotten separated from Azwel in the fray, the light-footed sorcerer moving faster than her- but she feels the crescendo of energy, the rumbling in the earth beneath her boots, the unnameable shift as paracausality takes over. She looks around to see him rip the biggest officer into so much particulate confetti and then collapse space over him as neat as any Voidwalker. She can’t help the elated cheer that bursts from her- and then the other captain knocks her off her feet. Shouldn’t have taken her eyes off him.

A roll, a burst of sidearm fire, a flurry of blows exchanged, and Blaze makes it back onto her feet, helm cracked, herself more dented and more preoccupied but no less eager for the fight. She breaks a lower arm and rams her shoulder into the captain to stagger him when Ghost calls out a warning.

“Reynard! Behind us! I think it’s him!”

There’s a moment’s shock to see Natalie and her Pokemon so close, though she’d glimpsed Natasha close behind her. But her eyes are on the blur by Azwel – she misses what happens, but she hears that scream. Sees all too well as he turns and… rounds on the convoy. Oh, Traveler. Cursing Reynard’s name, she empties her clip into the captain’s skull and starts back, only to see Harley intercept. The other woman looks to have things under control quite efficiently, and though Blaze can’t quite feel relief… she glances around, taking stock. They’re so close to punching through the line, Furiosa scattering vandals and tossing a four-armed body into the air when she drives straight through unwary troops. She’s not stopping for any damn thing, Kinner firing and the others keeping close around them. But there are dark spheres moving in the trees: a pair of servitors creeping into view behind the Fallen line to their left, all ready to provide artillery support. And now the shock of the initial heavy assault has worn off, the Fallen are regrouping. It’s not the decision she wants, but she knows what she has to do.

“Here!” she shouts to the others. “We need to hold the way for the others!” She waves urgently at the snowmobile. This way. We’ve got you.

Easier said than done. She called them pirates, to the others, but the Fallen are more than some ragtag bunch of criminals. They’re trained warriors, and now it’s starting to show. They move with co-ordination and purpose, grouping together into squads around their remaining captains, singling out targets and ganging up on them. When any of the Fallen themselves die there’s a swift puff of luminous white ether escaping above them. Of those still cogent, perhaps only Blaze and Loki can see that sometimes that vaporous phantom takes the form of the dying Fallen itself, caught in the moment of death.

It’s the human-sized ones, the little dregs, who are most vulnerable, screeching as they’re caught in gusts of flame or bone-cracking holds. They’re too slow, poorly armored and fragile next to the four-armed vandals who can whirl or lunge gracefully away from incoming blows. Their reach is shorter, too- but Natasha and Natalie had best beware. Even caught in her Pokemon’s grip, they have knives to slash and pistols to shoot – and they’re brave enough to leap at Incineroar’s back while it attacks their comrades. The etiquette of a Pokemon battle does not apply here. Worse, the vandals have rifles, and while Blaze is drawing much of the fire, some of them are setting their sights on the big, unarmored animals spewing flame at their kindred.

And the convoy… is about to have a new problem. As Furiosa drives hellbent for the other side, there’s a boom of engines directly above. And then a guttural roar as a captain big enough to darken the windscreen drops in front and grabs the front of the snowmobile, sliding as he forces it to a halt. His pack are dropping down around him, a vandal springing onto the side, clinging with one pair of hands while the others slash a sword at Kinner, trying to force the man off into the snow.

Some assistance… might be required.

[attackpatternbattista]

Many many advantages are had when one's on a bike like Delia. Zipping along and taking shots at some of these Fallen things here and there. It helps hers is primarily an energy weapon: No knockback to throw her off balance as she does several drive by disruptor blasts here and there.

The big thing stopping the snowmobile, though? That's definitely something to grab someone's attention--and considering that's the convoy Delia's helping protect? That's a hell no, son.

Revving the bike into a higher gear and taking aim, Delia takes several bursting shots at the one holding the snowmobile intent to damage and distract. "Hey ugly! Stop picking on the big slow thing!" Who knows, maybe yelling at him will also be effective?

[he_put_the_devil_in_me]

Daredevil is used to fighting.

He's not used to battle.

It's chaos incarnate on his senses, screams and roars and hisses, the grating scents of burning fuel and fumes and blood, irregular vibrations of movement drowned out by truly massive shockwaves and heat. It's taking everything he has to concentrate on the threats closest to him, struggling to shut out irrelevant noise when any sound could be his only warning that an enemy has shifted its target to him.

Above all else, he can hear the deaths.

Thou shalt not kill.

And he isn't. He strikes hard and fast, crippling and disabling what he can, harrying the enemy and drawing their attention only to have them cut down by others in the convoy. Tempting them into exposing their weak spots to those with better aim, those to whom the fifth commandment means very little at all, and tells himself there will be time to feel guilty later, to seek his penance for allowing - enabling - these deaths to happen. No different than knowing Frank was taking potshots at the Hand as Daredevil fought them hand-to-hand, only a few years ago, and doing nothing to stop or discourage him from the slaughter.

No different.

His attention is caught by the sound of engines, more reinforcements arriving, and though the battle is keeping his core temperature running hot, his blood runs cold as he realizes they're targeting the snowmobile and its precious cargo. If these bastards take it out, it's all over. He knows it. Everyone knows it.

He may not be able to take on the big guy, unprotected as he is by any armor whatsoever, armed only with melee-range taser batons. But the rest of the pack are smaller, and just as vital to take out of the equation. Any one of them could bring disaster if left unchallenged.

Matt abandons his position, and makes a beeline for the snowmobile and its attackers, ready to do whatever he can to clear its path.

[outpostcook]

Kinner tries to keep his calm as the alien pirate attacks him. He tsk-tsks, his way of taunting the pirates. "You guys really want to give us a hard time, don't you? Now I'm also startin' to wonder what your problem is."

The already hectic chase aside, Kinner is not thrilled to be faced with a multi-armed alien armed with a sword, and it looks like this one is intent on going after him. He steps back, keeping his grip. He looks at the alien's sword, then at his own revolver. Normally it would be a bad idea to bring a sword to a gunfight. However, these aliens appparently figured out a way around that. If nothing else, they're inventive. Pity they can't put it to a better use.

That has to be cheating, at least by his judgement. The cook decides to follow suit and grabs a bigger gun, more powerful than is trusty pistol, hopefully good enough to shatter that armor. If they cheat, he'll cheat. He aims it at the Fallen vandal's head, going for where the armor is weakest, and fires. Hopefully this'll take it out, or wound it at least. After the vandal's down, he'll turn his attention to the Fallen captain.

[eumenis]

It was inevitable that their opponents should target the transport. Furiosa knew that going in, and she'd have been downright disappointed if it hadn't come to pass. Having it actually grabbed and stopped by a massive creature is not quite what she expected, though.

She doesn't flinch, eyes seeking out the captain's as she revs the engine and wrenches the steering to one side, then the other. The snowmobile itself is the biggest weapon she's got. She can't afford to blow out the engines or break the treads, but she also can't afford to baby it. The way she shifts and turns and pushes the wheel one way and another makes the machine shudder and writhe like it's a living thing trying to escape the captain's grasp, a perfect reverse tug-of-war.

"You're going to lose," she says in a deep, distinct growl. "And we're going to plow you over."

Her gun hand comes up, Glock holstered in favor of a flare gun, which she aims directly at the captain's face. The shot goes wide as one of the vandals slashes at her arm, but she hauls off with her metal hand and swings it at her attacker. Whether claws or fist make contact, there's going to be some damage.