The Thunder Tyrant

Whoops. Gotcha.

Henrietta's words might well have passed in one ear and out the other, for all of Tancred's technical knowledge. Context worked wonders for the ronin however, and he figured what she wanted him to shoot based on the description. The only question left was making the shot from a moving vehicle at another moving vehicle. Thankfully, the airship couldn't very well taxi off on any sharp turns, which meant that the van wouldn't be veering wildly any time soon, either. It wasn't exactly a small target, either. Tancred, for his part, didn't put much thought into the how and why of his current situation. Welandi, especially those in the warrior clans, generally stuck to the here-and-now issues; the more abstract questions could wait later. Once you drew the sword, you struck -- if you thought about why you drew it, or how you intended to use it, you were already too late. Tancred could mull the situation over later, when there weren't more immediate concerns. He pocketed his communication device and rolled down the van's window. He half-climbed out of the vehicle, leaning most of his upper body out and using the window's frame to steady himself while he drew his pistol up with both hands. The thunder-crack of Tancred's pistol was muted beneath the roar of the airship, a sharper clap amidst the dull roar of the turbines. A shower of sparks burst to life across the port where the bullet tore through the metal. A second shot soon followed, just to ensure that the job was done. Tancred ducked back into the van and popped open his pistol, jettisoning the spent rounds before slotting in two fresh ones. He expected to use several more before everything was said and done. Unfortunately, his moment of calm before the storm was rudely interrupted by the screeching of over-worked brakes as Sabiya slewed the vehicle to a halt. The ronin rebounded off of the front seat with a muted grunt as the breath was driven from his lungs. He bounced back against his seat, held in check by his seat belt. He shook himself out of the momentary daze and ran a hand across his face. Blood slicked his lips and chin and smeared across his cheek where he wiped his face. His nose wasn't broken, but it stung painfully. The Welander considered himself lucky that his pistol hadn't discharged during the abrupt stop -- a slip of his finger could have put a fist-sized hole in any one of his companions. Tancred saw the stilled plane ahead of them and threw open the van's door. He leaped out, drawing his shield and crouching down so that it, alongside the door, helped shield his body from any incoming fire. Crouched down behind the cover of his shield, Tancred rounded the door and began to advance, firearm at the ready. His chest ached dully from being smashed against the van's interior, but adrenaline buried the pain far below his other sensations -- the thud of his heart and the sights and sounds that laid before him.

A small twitch of Tancred's features -- a flaring of nostrils, a quirk of his brow -- was the only sign of what he thought about Henrietta's situational analysis. Tancred was less of a tech-user and more of a tech-receiver; ever since he came to Hell's Gate a month prior, he had been the recipient of several bits and baubles of magitech. None of which he truly understood the inner workings of. The pistol he carried was something he understood, but that was largely mechanical and a far cry from the intricacies of thaumaturgy, computational or otherwise. Certainly anything Henrietta did was far beyond his grasp, so far beyond it that he couldn't rightly grasp its value or weight. A more vocal man might have made such points known, but Tancred saw no point. The situation was a little far gone to have considerations like that, at any rate. If Henrietta didn't trust any one in the van, then she ought to have left them in the garage. Meanwhile, Tancred continued tapping away at his comms, gaze flicking up occasionally to check their progress. Young, 10-16? Related to Henrietta. 6+ attackers. Armed, weapons + magic. Occurred within last hour. Reinforcements likely needed. Track this device, Henrietta tracking/following assailants. Over. Tancred bounced in his seat when they plowed through the chainlink fence and looked up to find them careening across an airfield towards a plane. Found assailants. Track device. Kidnappers trying to get airborne. Tancred pocketed the comms device and prepared himself for whatever Henrietta had planned.

Tancred left the others to deal with whatever occupied the dead man's mortal coil. He turned 'round when he heard Henrietta approach. He hadn't expected her to come -- or, rather, he hadn't expected her to come alone. He supposed the security for the facility were busy rooting out any potential leads left behind, but he still expect at least a small coterie to accompany the woman. He listened to her explanation of what went wrong (most of it went over his head for lack of expertise) and to her plan. When she got into the van, the ronin followed wordlessly and took a seat that gave him access to a window, shouldering his shield over his back once more. If worst came to worst, he wanted to be able to draw a bead on someone with the hand-cannon that sat in his lap. He had never tested the upper limit of the pistol's destructiveness, but he expected that the weapon could put a dinner-plate-sized hole through the side of a motor vehicle without much issue. Once seated in the van, he drew out the communications device Miles gave him when he first came to Hell's Gate. He flicked his thumb across the crystal disc and began tapping out a message to the Contractor Liaison for Hell's Gate militia. Kidnapping at Monroe Foundation. Kidnappers in black van, headed to airship dock, possibly private. Took little girl. Pass message on to Guard, possibly preempt escape? The screen flashed after Tancred sent the message. He kept his pistol in his left hand and the magitech device in his right, waiting for a response from Miles.

I'll have a post up some time today. Sorry for the wait.

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.