The Thunder Tyrant

Sorry about the late post -- skip me this round; work is getting dumb with low staffing at the moment.

Tancred didn't flinch at the sickening crunch of metal impacting bone, or at the sight of Andes being struck with enough force to cast him aside like a rag-doll. His run slowed until he came up a few meters from where Andes laid. The man's breaths came in short, quick gasps -- broken ribs, probably a punctured lung. It might have taken some amount of medical expertise to determine exactly what was killing Andes, but it only took a pair of eyes and ears to know the man was dying and dying in a bad, ugly way. Admittedly, Tancred's second shot wouldn't have done the man any favors, but a couple of tourniquets would have kept him alive. A small application of healing magic would have even left him in a state fit to be interrogated. As it was, the kidnapper wouldn't be answering questions any time soon. "Assuming he lives for more than a few minutes," Tancred murmured. He drew back when he felt the faint touch of magic, as though he had brushed the sympathetic strand of arcana that Noel was anchoring inside of Andes. Even aside from the verbal and visual elements of Noel's summoning, Tancred sensed the expenditure of mana, albeit dimly. He stepped away from the bloodied man when the spirit took over -- another event he felt at a remove. A hint of a breeze unfelt by flesh as something swept aside Andes's consciousness, blotting it out of existence. Not that Tancred understood exactly what Noel had done; he was only aware that something had happened, and that the results of that action were being played out in front of him. Unfortunately for Andes, or whatever it was that now inhabited Andes's corporeal form, Tancred had no answers, nothing to offer that might extend its life. That laid beyond his abilities. Assuming that Noel had some means to question whatever housed itself in Andes's mortal coil, Tancred turned his attention to the area surrounding them. He broken open his pistol and thumbed in another round before snapping it shut. He surveyed the area around them for any sign of something amiss while listening to whatever conversation Noel might have had with "Andes."

Sorry that took so long. Car broke, then glasses broke.

Tancred didn't have time to be take a second shot. He intended to level his pistol at the fleeing foe, aiming to shear off a calf and foot in the same way that he had mangled the man's arm. The errant wand clattered against the floor and a torrent of thorny vines exploded forth from the tip of the arcane focus. Tancred darted aside and out of reach of the sprawling brambles, his booted feet tattooing out a sharp rhythm against the floor. He turned as he escaped their range and tried to bring his weapon to bear on Andes, only to find a flash of silver materialized in the form of roaring pistons and screeching wheels as Sabiya manifested some sort of motorcycle beneath her in pursuit of the kidnapper. Unable to get another clear shot, Tancred followed after the woman, hoping that she didn't intend to kill their quarry. Barring a necromancer or spirit medium, they weren't likely to get any information from a dead man.

Sabiya wouldn't have time to find out whether or not her thespian performance worked its wonders on the lone man serving as the kidnappers' rear guard. Close on her heels came Tancred, and unlike the wand-wielder, he was ready. He saw one of the escaping men point and shout from the mouth of the hall and brought his weapon to bear. The man's wand rose, and so too did Tancred's howdah pistol. Originally a double-barreled rifle, a Welandi weaponsmith had tooled the weapon into something more portable, carving off much of barrels and replacing the stock with something approximating a pistol grip. It didn't suit Tancred's quiet, taciturn nature, but it did suit his occasional need to punch a hole through any foe unlucky enough to step in his way. The wandbearer wasn't so unlucky as that. He was unlucky enough, however, to lose a hand if Tancred's aim proved true. Before the man spoke, Tancred's index finger brushed the trigger of his pistol, intending to catch the other man before he really brought his weapon to bear. Tancred's aim was level, across open ground, and he was a fair shot with the pistol. He fared poorly with nearly any other firearm, magical or otherwise, but he'd had enough practice with the howdah pistol to be accurate, even at a distance. The weapon's discharge cracked like a thunderclap -- a single, resounding boom as he fired one barrel. The round, if it struck true, carried enough force to obliterate the man's wand and the hand that bore it. If his aim was off, then the round might only smash the wand itself, or miss the man's hand entirely -- fortunately, Tancred was proficient enough to ensure that he wouldn't kill the man. After all, he only wanted to maim him. Tancred never enjoyed cruelty or causing undue pain, but he made a snap decision, two-fold: one, to suppress an immediate threat and two, that the man would be easier to investigate after doing him some kind of harm. Loathe as Tancred was to resort to such tools, he had to admit: nothing made someone talk like the possibility of imminent death or dismemberment.

Who're we waiting on, now? I posted just before @desolate so I assume it's someone else's turn.

Tancred felt the whump of explosive force in his bones, turning his steady jog into a lurching stumble away from the flash of sudden, bright illumination. He brought up his shield instinctively, eyes searing and ears ringing. No attack came though, no more darts thumping home in the wood of the parma. Tancred squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. The room was dark enough that he only knew his vision returned because the spots and splotches of color against the inside of his eyelids finally faded and his eyes didn't burn whenever he opened them. He didn't know what caused the concussive burst -- by the time he could see once more, the runes were gone, having expended their magical energies after being tripped. The woman ahead of him had taken most of the traps' runic fury, however. Chances were that no matter how hurt she was, Tancred could do little for Sabiya. He possessed a basic familiarity with battlefield medicine, he knew how to suture a wound or to stymie the blood flow from a wound, and he knew what a killing blow looked like. He wasn't much use beyond that, though, and he certainly lacked any expertise when it came to dealing with thaumaturgically-induced injuries. Even the simplest sorceries often complicated things. He moved to take point to keep watch while the others helped Sabiya -- when/if they did, and when/if she needed help at all. Once the group was ready to go again, Tancred continued ahead with the others. He didn't hold to the lead once they started moving: his lack of supernatural senses made him a poor fit and he was wise enough to acknowledge it. He was, however, content to move in behind the point-lead. [Short and shitty. Just wanted to snap something off before I got on the road.]

I'll see if I can get something knocked out tonight at work and post it up tomorrow morning.

Advance warning: I'll probably be MIA from August 31st to September 5th for Dragon*Con.

Tancred held out his letter. "Tancred Takeda. My Seijuro said you had work for me." Miles took the letter and examined it. Disconcertingly, his arcane prosthetic flickered in its socket as it read the letter, while his flesh and blood eye -- bright green -- remained fixed on Tancred. "Seijuro. Good man. I served with him, before he headed Clan Takeda." Miles looked him up and down. With both eyes this time. "You're too young to be his son, unless I miss my mark?" "You don't. I'm his grandson." Tancred paused and considered how much he ought to tell the man, but decided on being honest. "I was honorably exiled from my clan so that my younger brother could become the head of the household, once he was of age. He's pureblooded Welandi. I'm not." Miles grunted. "Small wonder Seijuro gave you a letter of recommendation. The clan nearly kicked him out for the mercenary work he did in his younger days. I expect he's always had a soft spot for you." "My grandfather was -- he treated me better than other members of the clan," Tancred said, making little effort to blunt the edge of bitterness in his voice. "It's done and over with. I came to Hell's Gate to find work." "Straight to the point. Like your grandfather. Well, any kin of Seijuro's is a friend of mine." Miles reached down and pulled out a thin wafer of crystal. He slid it into the input slot of his cogitator and tapped a few keys. "This will be your work ident. All the proper papers, access to security protocols that all the freelancers get, that sort of thing. You show this to any one in Hell's Gate -- military, government, corporate, whatever -- and they'll hire you. You got any thaumaturgical talents? Or just handy with a spear?" "Just the spear and sword." "Great. That makes this a lot easier; we won't have to get you cleared for any combat magic. Trying to catalog every supernatural energy phenomena that comes through Hell's Gate is half of the work we do here." The wafer popped out and Miles held it out. Tancred took it and slipped it into the small case where he kept all of his documents, a thin slat of steel that folded in on itself. "Here. Communicator for getting in touch if you can't come to Secunda. Commercial model, nothing fancy. I've got something you can handle, work-wise, but first thing's first," Miles said, "Get yourself a place to stay. You'll get a discount with that ident wafer at most places. Spend a today acquainting yourself with the city. Travel around. Find a good medicus. You've got freelancer's insurance, so put it to good use." Miles dug out a sheaf of documents and handed it over to Tancred. "That's all the details of your job. Milk run, really. Ambassador to the Elven Conclave here in Hell's Gate is looking for an escort. Been some nasty business lately. Name's Licinius Mago. I'll let him know to expect you tomorrow. He's a government official, so if shit goes south -- bust a few heads if that's what it takes to keep him safe. A dead ambassador is a surefire way to sink your employment opportunities around here." Tancred leafed through the folder quickly before tucking it into his rucksack. "Thank you, Mr. Alzado." "Just Miles. I'm old, and it's rude to remind me." "Miles. Is there anything else I should do?" "Officially? Someone outside will want to take your picture and some details to assign to your ident file in our database, but otherwise you're set." Miles reached out and shook Tancred's hand. "Go with Gaia, son. Drop by again some time, I'd like to hear how Seijuro is getting on." Tancred nodded gratefully and lifted his spear up again. "I will -- thank you again." He offered a curt bow and left Miles to his work.

Tancred made his way through the dizzying maze of steel and glass. No one paid him any mind, nor did his weapons or armor draw any lingering glances. Adventurers and sell-swords of all stripes infested Hell's Gate, most of them outstripped Tancred as far as strangeness went. A man hefting a spear while he walked simply didn't warrant much attention among the glittering technomagical wonders of Hell's Gate. Tancred welcomed the anonymity. He found obelisks at street crossings and in front of towers. Panes of crystals were fitted into the sides of each structure, displaying a constant scrawl of information: news reports, interviews, flashing images and recordings of going ons in the city. Most importantly, each obelisk displayed a map of the city. Tancred consulted each one he came across, constantly seeking to align himself with the highways and byways of his new home. He spent the better part of two hours walking through Hell's Gate until he found Tower Secunda. A broad arch served as the tower's entrance, the mechanical sliding doors fitted into its jamb left permanently open by the constant flow of traffic. Several escalator rides later -- and one confusing learning experience regarding the function of anti-grav elevators -- and Tancred found himself on Floor Seven, in the Militia Sector. An armored guard pointed him to one of the prefabricafted buildings in the back of the Sector. Each floor of the Tower was less a room and more of an enormous cavern, with a ceiling that loomed hundreds of feet above and a breadth that admitted dozens or even hundreds of buildings. Secunda was smaller, fitted to be ascetic and simple, but even so it housed tens of thousands of employees, militia guards, and the myriad of logistic and support staff required to keep Hell's Gate nominally safe and secure under the rule of law. The words "MILITIA OFFICE OF FREELANCE LIASION" were stamped across the building just above its double doors. Unlike the elevator he rode with its hissing, sliding doors, these were simple push/pull doors of plate glass and steel with brass handles. Tancred stepped inside and navigated the chaos he found. Mercenaries and sellswords lounged in clumps, speaking with officials and clerks. Couriers ran to and fro, carrying packages, proof of jobs completed, or payment for work well done. Tancred wove his way through the blitz of activity until he found a door with the name "Miles Alzado" imprinted on the brass plate embedded in its face. He pressed the buzzer beside the door and a moment later it swung open to admit him. The office was spare, more reflective of the Seventh Floor than of the rest of the Liasion office with its barely-contained chaos. Miles Alzado sat behind the desk, his face awash in the glow of a cogitator's screen. His hair was gray and thinning and his face showed the beginning sags of age, but Miles still possessed the thick neck and broad, weighty shoulders that suggested a life lived at the edge of a blade. His gaze shifted to Tancred for a moment. One of his eyes had been replaced by a prosthetic carved out of thaumaturgical jet, giving the impression that the socket was at once shining and empty. "Who're you?"

Tancred caught the flashlight with his free hand and the shield shifted on his arm. He thumbed the switch and an incandescent beam of light shone forth from the crystal lens that capped one end of the torch. Adjusting the straps of his shield and pointing the illumination down into the hole, Tancred leaped down. He dropped from pipe to pipe where they protruded from the wall -- nearly twice as thick as his thigh, they were easy enough to perch on -- and after a few short descents, he was on the ground behind Noel and Sabiya. He turned eastward and followed after Sabiya. He loped along with long, easy strides, his shield bucking on his arm. Once the warning lights came on he extinguished the flashlight and tucked it into his belt. The runes on the walls meant nothing to Tancred -- he didn't even recognize them as runes, never mind the fact that he could scarcely make them out. The illumination from the emergency lights was weak and wan, but it bleached out the runes' light enough that they didn't catch his eye. From afar, they simply looked like part of the walls. He didn't give them any attention, fixed as he was on finding the child. He kept track of Sabiya, who was ahead of him, and spared furtive glances upwards to make sure there was nothing looming above them. A thought nagged at the back of Tancred's mind. The group that remained after the attack, whether unconscious or awake, was smaller than it had been during the tour. Tancred was hardly an expert on insurgency tactics, but it didn't take any rigorous amount of thought to put two and two together: the attackers had been in the room, part of the tour group. They might still be, at that; there might be some in the group above that had been attacked by their fellows with the express purpose of remaining behind. For all he knew, Sabiya, Noel, or any of the other adventurers trekking through the guts of the building might have been part of the plot. He remained silent on the matter, however, and focused on the task at hand. Broaching the topic, bringing up the possibility that there might be conspirators among them, would only slow things down, and time was one thing that they lacked. Tancred doubted there was any way to uncover the truth as it was; the attack had been too sudden and there was a dearth of evidence beyond the darts and the kidnapped child. By the time they figured it out, if they solved the puzzle at all, the conspirators would be long gone and the child with them. The best course of action -- the only course, in Tancred's mind -- was to plunge ahead. If there was a traitor ahead or behind him, then that was a bridge to cross when the time came. The task at hand was all the mattered, and until they found the kidnappers, there was nothing to be gained by needless rumination.

All true murder-hobos want nothing more than loot and XP.

@supernal Go ahead and have the next person post; internet is being spotty at the moment. Sorry about that, didn't find out until I got back from work this morning.

It might be better for @Chouette to go first -- I imagine with everyone else jumping right in and Tancred getting a flashlight from the guard, he's probably in the rear, and if Sabiya is going to notice the runes first then that'd probably flow better. If BFC doesn't have time to jump in, then I can go ahead and swing a post. @supernal