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And so they would be dead.

And so, the six would be killed in various fashions, possibly by gunfire.

One would be (verb) by (noun) and die a horrible death involving (noun).

Another would die by a similar, yet slightly different means, possibly more brutal. Maybe by the ever infamous CURB STOMP.

Another would let out one of those really funny high pitched screams, y'know, the ones that go something like 'HIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!'

And then we'll say the remaining three were in a group, in an alley of sorts, and the previous three were individuals by doorways or inside buildings, because the writer is lacking inspiration to make further silly death scenes. So one more should suffice for the remainding few.

We'll say one would be shotgunned into a dumpster or something, where the dumpster was piled so high full of trash that it was leaking over the top. And we'll say that on the top of the dumpster had a toilet. Where the toilet would fall. Meanwhile, at the same time of saif drow being shotgunned, we'll say a different one tried to run away, but tripped on something, and fell over, by the dumpster. So then, this toilet right, would fall over and crush the guy's head who tripped and fell down next to it. Forensics could probably assume there was a serial crusher on the loose. One who uses toilets.

And the last one would be killed by (noun), just because.

Conveniently, Owle and Kalis had retreated from the city sometime soon after the group ran into the Boneyard. Seperated from the others, and realizing they were little match for the forces present, Kalis made the decision to leave, and thus resolve various time discrepancies that shall never be mentioned again.

Owle might have protested, but she was far too busy freaking out about being on a motorcycle while probably being lunged at by various undead to say anything but "Kalis get us out I want to get off this thing oh please oh please oh please whatever powers may be don't let us die I want to get off-"

Damn inconvenient phobias.

When they got back to the Firebrand, or arrived at some destination that was relatively safe for the motorcycle to stop in, Owle would bolt off the evil metal thing and hug Kalis tight, grateful for the earth beneath her feet. She would then send a message to Maximos and Rain, offering them any telepathic support they might need, which, once they questioned her about it, amounted to her being able to link up their minds with anyone she had met, allowing for instantaneous communication no matter what the distance between them. If they wished to pursue this course, Owle would warn them she'd likely hear anything they sent through the link up, then link them to whoever and whatever they wished her to...so long as she'd met the ones they wished to be linked to.

She would also, if either of them thought there were enough injured survivors they could get out of the city, offer to set up a triage station not far from Barton's walls. She was not, however, ready to go back in there just yet.

((For the record, I've been checking this daily; I need AtaraRaven, or perhaps even Joseph Brown in her stead, to post before I can ))

Rain approached the front of the truck, lifting it and propping it open with one of those bars. Looking around, he finally found what he was looking for: the MAC truck's battery. He snapped one of the four prongs for the jumper cables on so he could locate it immediately, then turned back to Verdandi.

"Well, a gun wouldn't be as useful at the moment, at least for getting this truck started. Here's what I want you to do with that broom; I am going to jump the truck myself, but I need you to wait til the count of three after I start to knock me away. The broom won't conduct the electricity; otherwise, if you tried to touch me yourself, we'd both be dead."

He knelt down to put the two opposing prongs on the ground, and turned back to Verdandi. "Remember: three seconds. No more, no... wait, do you hear that?"



A sizzling would be audible from beneath the engine of the truck, melting all sorts of axels, tires, and cables. Wait, isn't there a fuel cable in there somewhere?

Rain's eyes would go wide.

"EVERYONE, GET OFF THE TRUCK!!!" Rain would then turn from his kneeling position, jumping the truck no longer an option; he ran towards the door, grabbing Joseph Brown by the collar and yanking him out through the open driver's side door. Literally carrying him beneath his arm, he would then run away from the truck, using his free arm to wrap around Verdandi's waist as he ran by, and practically tackling her into the nearby alleyway.

Now, as a player, I am unsure as to whether or not acid would directly ignite gasoline (but I see no reason why it wouldn't); but even if it didn't, the superheated melting rubber and metal would probably do it. The splash nature of the spell, targetted beneath the front of the truck, would melt the engine from the inside, and and a few seconds later, it would go up in a ball of flame.

Maximos was close, but not close enough to see what was happening or assist. If and when Maximos arrived it would have to be after the mage was dealt with, and the truck was beyond repair.

If Verandi searched the alleyway, she would find blackness. And a single white glow cutting through the black, signifying the Shadow's position. Maximos would be sitting on a broken wooden box amidst the mess of bodies. His shotgun would be laid over his lap, and his right sleeve would be rolled up to his shoulder. He ran an acid stained and burned hand through his hair pulling the sweaty and matted blue locks out of his face and back. As his gloved fingers slid from his hairline out the back of his scalp his hair seemed to cling and stick to its usual spiky styling, and then returned to the gruesome work of peeling the bandage off his right arm.

The previously white medical tape was marred with large black stains where the violet charred runes in his right arm bled through, and several green holes and stains were acid charred through his sleeves and into his arm. This made for a plethora of deep chemical burns sliding across the runes and making his arm into something of a burned mess. The shadow didnt flinch, merely holding the sleeve under his chin while the bandages were removed and slipped into his pocket. There was no spillage of noct blood from his right arm, instead what seemed to be matted and gooey black tar like blood spread over his arm like jam on toast. The Shadow bundled up the bandages using them to absorb and wipe off excess blood, and then stuffed them into his pocket.

His head would lean back against the alley wall, and his right arm would hang limp at his side as he let the blood and burns dry. There was no point putting fresh bandages on leaky wounds. And there was no point trying to join the others when his arm was entirely too racked with pain to move.

((RETCON: Since events in Lament now never happened, that means Vengeance was never called away to return home, and is still hovering over Barton. Not that it makes much of a difference, just FYI.))

Footsteps.

The sound of feet landing on wet blacktop, be it wet by mains of drainage from the dumpster or scattered remains was unknown. His head turned, his posture fixed and his right arm twitched and immediately he dropped his sleeve so that it would cover his arm, and the burns that marred it. Pain was something Maximos would never openly show, it was less pride and more childhood training scarred in his mind so very deep it would never be removed.

I understand.

His voice was not insulting, or abrasive instead it was just cold, emotionless, almost mechanical. The cold of Death was not easy to shake off. His left hand dug through is pocket pulling out a black metal pocket watch, on its top was a skull insignia. A hint of the womans almost glowing form could be see reflecting off its surface, of the watch, and a steady ticking could be heard emanating from it, Maximos glanced at its face, before shutting it and slipping it back into his pocket, and glancing back up at Verandi.

Thank you, Verdandi. I was well trained, nothing more.

A few drops of warmth added back to his tone. Just enough to seem human. He would never ask her to leave him for a moment, that would be rude. And he simply would not cause undo concern by attempting to replace the bandages on his right arm in plain view.

His eyes slid down as he gently grabbed the black leather glove from his lap and began slipping his right hand back into it. Their were open acid burns, frost burns, and hints of odd violet splotches, but he seemed to ignore them all and place all five fingers into the glove, and the squeeze a few times. The leather audibly squeaked as moved into a proper fit.

And then he stood, the wooden crate that served as his chair protesting the disturbance. His right hand twitching just before he grabbed the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. His right index finger sliding into the trigger loop. He turned to face Verdandi, the pale glow of his right eye utterly failing to illuminate his features, leaving only the moonlight to guide the two.

Shall we?