Shadowhawk

Voting Tyler.

Ferron / Nero: Straight-talkin' men

OOC: More and final jam with Geardirector; part 3/3. IC: [ Ferron / Nero ] - Ko-Wahi / Drifts The cold breeze that brushed past him brought with it a chill sting of pain as he saw Rhea disappear on the horizon, and with her the calm before the storm had passed. Her attempt to mend his broken heart and will had left its mark, but he knew that within he had yet to find a way to heel his deepest wounds, like the revelation Deccon had come to him with. "You also blame yourself", he had said, and with it shook Ferron's perception of himself to its very core. Once he was he the veteran hero of an ultimately noble standing. Failed, perhaps, but not something anyone could fault him for, it was, in the end, a legacy to be proud of. Now, he was just a failure, a failure in love as well as in life multiple times over. He moped, looking at his uneven hands. One of them a cold, lifeless construct of welded steel, the other a product of flesh and blood, and even with as weathered and beaten as it was, it was alive. Rhea had challenged the life he lead, and he could naught but meet it, his steadfast, unyielding demeanor wouldn't permit otherwise. The choice presented itself before him, as her words rang in his mind. Give up, go away to the great beyond and reunite with all his loved ones, to fight no more, to strive no more, to suffer no more... but also to no longer feel, to love. Complete, utter peace. "Ah, peace" Or... try again. Even with the many times before life had dashed his hopes and dreams to the ground, and his past had come back to torment him no matter how much he tried to console himself with it. Try once again to find himself a place in this harsh and unforgiving world where he could live and be happy. Rhea would want him to... and so would Tarika, wouldn't she? He could see the healer's face before him, serene and beautiful in its gentle and calming aura, not at all like the arrogant, passionate beauty that was Rhea Heartsflame. Tarika had always been their team's healer, in any sense of the word... Yes, she would want it, too, and if there was one person in all the world, dead or living, that Ferron wouldn't want to let down more than Rhea, it was her. Deccon had asked him to face himself, Barok had warned him of the pit he was heading for, Marinna had reminded him of his identity, Tarika's memory now showed him what he needed to do if he ever wanted to call himself Ferron Marok ever again. First, Kuhrin, and then... he didn't know, all he knew was that he wasn't going to take this lying down. He gathered his belongings from the cave, noting that his cloak still carried a hint of Rhea's scent as he pulled it on. He took a ragged, deep breath and looked out on the horizon from where he stood at the mouth of the cave... So. Twenty feet up, on the ice-lashed labyrinth wall, heavy leather gloves grated briefly on stone, and then a looming black shadow dropped from nowhere, twisted mid-fall with simian ease, hit the ground lightly as an enormous tomcat. The gaze of Nero the Axe was flat and hard, and he looked straight into the eyes of the lone metalsmith, and his voice was deceptively even, eerily calm. "Good morning, Ferron." The third member of their group seemed to also be on his calmer side today, if his voice was any indication, and Ferron studied him with the practiced scrutiny of a hardened veteran. The rangy, bestial Le-Toa, Rhea's bodyguard, had more than likely assured himself that Rhea was on the right track since he now came to Ferron. If he'd gotten Nero pegged right, his first priority was Rhea, under any circumstance... including her whereabouts last night. Ferron was wary, he'd always been when it came to Nero, for he had a strong inkling that the mantra of savage brutality and silent stalking that he wore was at least in part an act, there was more going on behind the misshapen mask than one could tell at first glance. He gave Nero a disarming wave with his hand, his right hand, incidentally, although whether or not that was deliberate no one could tell. "The same to you, Nero," he said "I'm going to assume that the reason you're not with your employer is to point me the way out of the wilderness, no?" The Axe said nothing. His eyes said less. Without a word, moving silently, he stepped past Ferron into the shadowed cavern beyond, and his gaze flicked once around the interior and he nodded thoughtfully to himself. The gesture was slight, deliberate; nearly imperceptible. An abrupt draft slithered coldly through the air, faded and was gone. With the heel of his boot, the bodyguard of the hunter Rhea kicked apart the smoking ashes of the fire, grinding them out against the weathered stone, and then he turned and walked back, and this time he spoke. "You seek the Ice Village. You do not know the path. Without it, you will freeze and die..." His voice shifted, low and hard against the piercing wail of the wind without, and there rang a primal chord of challenge in its depths. "And what are you, O wielder of the mace, that I should guide you?" If there hadn’t been anything predatory in Nero’s movements before, there definitely was now. His loping gait, his challenging tone, he was waiting for Ferron to expose a weakness, he was challenging the Toa of Iron of to prove his worth. "I don’t expect you to do this out of the goodness of your heart, Nero. I’m only asking you because I feel there is no other reason why you would be here, when Rhea is now on her way out of the drifts, now that our business is concluded. I was her client, she has fulfilled her services to me and I am now indebted to her. I strongly doubt Rhea’s going to have any use for another corpse” "You wouldn’t want to hurt your lady’s business, would you?" Even as he said it, he could see the truth in Nero's eyes. He knew, and he had more than enough to say about it, and in this moment... Ferron was at his mercy. Nero's eyes glittered without humor. "You are cunning. Strong. My equal... my rival. I do not like you, Ferron, and but for the whims of her, I would kill you. Here. Now." He stalked abruptly out, one long hunter's stride taking him straight into the drifts of the tangled mountain wastes beyond, and he did not look back, but the wind carried his words. "Come." "I wouldn't expect anything less, Nero" Nero followed the law of the jungle, that much had always been clear, and the only code he followed aside from that was his unquestioning loyalty to Rhea. Ferron went after him, pondering the implications of his words. He had outright threatened to kill him, stating as his only reason for not doing so being not the wishes of his employer, but her whim. Ferron's forehead furrowed in contemplation, this went beyond mere loyalty of Duty, there was something larger at work. Nero saw him as his rival? Could it mean... oh. Of course it had to, there was no other explanation. Ferron felt an unexpected rush of fierce determination rush through him, then, as he begrudgingly realized what Nero just had done. In so few words he'd established exactly what the stakes were, and where the two of them stood in the game. Both of them held Rhea close to their hearts, and neither was interested in letting it go anytime soon. "But if he loves her, does she love him back... or did she choose me over him?" "Oh, Rhea, the sacrifices you're making" "Your employer matters greatly to you, doesn't she?" Nero grunted coldly. It might not have been an actual word, but it got his point across just fine. Yes. Nero was a man of few words, and to a lesser degree so was Ferron, and where the Axe was waiting for a reason to bring what was unsaid to attention, Ferron was waiting for an excuse. He decided to meet Nero halfway. He planted his feet, folded his arms and let his eyes pierce into the back of The Axe's head. "You have something to say to me, Nero, or would you rather let it out some other way?" The scarred Le-Toa hunter swung abruptly about to face the metalsmith, heavy muscles rippling ominously in his shoulders, acrid green eyes glowing strangely through the whirling snow. For an instant, he looked almost baffled... wary, bitter, and with a barely-contained anger rumbling through his nervous system, but baffled nonetheless. Puzzled. Vaguely hesitant, as if unsure how best to circumnavigate the sapient interaction he so detested. "What... do you not understand?" Nero's spoken language had nothing on his body language. Ferron could tell, he was craving a reason to charge forward, and deep within the orange-armored titan a similar fire rose and boiled. No, he shouldn't be doing this, but he was. "I understand perfectly, Nero The Axe" Ferron replied, his voice like a thunderous rumble. "There's something you need to understand" he said, his steel hard gaze boring into Nero's. "Rhea is not my lover, I hold no illusions of such companionship from her, but she gave me something beautiful, far beyond mere pleasure." "She is alive, Nero, and I gather so are you," He said, taking one deliberate step towards the surly brute that towered over normal men, but was on even ground with Ferron. He'd been walking between life and death for too long. Here, right now, in the aftermath of Rhea's words and meeting Nero's gaze, he swore he felt something that he thought was lost to him, even though this as well was only temporary. "I want to live again, and it starts with not letting anyone get in my way." Another step. "Are you going to be in my way?" The Axe didn't back down, didn't flinch. His gaze remained alert, cold... ready. "If it's Rhea wants you, I can say nothing." His voice was dangerously soft, the momentary explosive fury it had held fading abruptly back into an emotionless chill. "But if it's you who wants Rhea, I have every objection possible." "I would never dream of doing such a thing, Nero" Ferron replied, almost disgusted at what Nero had implied. "Rhea's choice in the matter is hers to make and hers alone. Truth be told I'm not yet sure I'd go with her if she asked. I just know I want the best for her, and I think she wants the same for me. I just want that, nothing more" "But no longer anything less" "I will not stand in your way, Nero, I have no desire to take anything that matters to Rhea away from her." "I just want to finish this hunt... I just want to be done with it all" The mind of the rangy Le-Toa barbarian was a strange thing, at once dark in its wildness but honorable in its ruthless creed, ever savage but sometimes staggeringly poetic, and it walked its oft-confusing paths with a complex intensity. Even in his most unpredictable moments, he reasoned and judged and plotted movement merely as his soul and essence dictated; he never wondered what or how or why, he simply was, and acted accordingly. And so when Ferron spoke, Nero listened, heavy simian skull half-bowed in thought. Carefully, with absolute single-minded focus, and for a moment, for two moments, for as long and as deeply as the words came clear from the Toa of Iron, the listener caught and weighed them in the balance all guardians use in the service of the ones they hold as dear. To kill, or not to kill; to live and let live or to go down fighting, this is ever the question. To do what's best, not for oneself but for the one a man is sworn to protect. And the weights were tested and the words were tried... and against all odds, they balanced clean and true. And slowly, almost incredulously, Nero the Axe lifted his head, and his narrowed eyes, eyes where fury now ebbed and anger now cooled, searched Ferron's, and found no falsehood there. And the hunter said nothing. But when he held out his right hand to shake, the age-old gesture of truce and respect and reluctant kinship said it all. Ferron shook Nero's hand willingly, pure, primal life meeting stained, veteran life. "For Rhea" he said, and nothing more needed to be said. Likewise. For Rhea. And nothing more was said. ... The rest of the morning's brutally strenuous journey, set at a tendon-wrenching pace over cliff and dale and deep-packed snowfield, through miles of drifts to fabled Ko-Koro, was finished in silence. A relatively companionable silence, to be sure, but dead and utter silence nonetheless. Even at the best of times, such was all one could hope for from Nero the Axe. And at length, as the two tall and battle-scarred warriors, respective weathered titans of the wild and the steel, emerged at last from the final tangle of labyrinthine ice formations, and watched the white noonday sun gleam on the Village of Ice, the chapter was finished. The ways had parted, to his own quarter each, and one, to hers, and now the last thread severed. The stage was clear; the script, full played. Restless wind stirred the crystal frost, echoing with it Nero's final words. "Good hunting, Ferron... fare ye well." And as a passing shadow, he faded in the breath of cold Mount Ihu and was gone.

IC: [ Wulf Kharon ] - UFS Kestrel / Deck 1 / Hanger ... "Wulf Kharon here, now on site and awaiting orders."

IC: [ Shadowhawk ] - [ 12/20 HP ] - Terminating Pulse ... The Shadowhawk glanced around and decided it was high time to eliminate some of the unwelcome competition. Pulling out the Black Rod of Power, he waved it melodramatically about and watched, enormously pleased, as a horrifying black column of sizzling Shadow energy erupted from the earth and destroyed Pulse on contact because ten damage.

I do really quite like the sketch considerably more than the colored artwork... kinda has a bit more of the 'weathered' look, that I'm quite fond of. Also, a slightly more 'indistinct' feel to it, that lets one use their own, vivid imagination to 'fill in the gaps', so to say. Just my personal preference. You're a great artist in any case, but personally, I myself much prefer the tone and style of your simple, uncolored sketches when compared to, say, your colored digital or even colored sketch. Nice work on the swords, also. Somehow you made 'em look even meaner than does the real-life model, and that's definitely saying something.

Guess I should have left my feedback commentary here, rather than in the BZPRPG News & Discussion... *glances quickly around* Well, anyway. No point in repeating here what I've already said elsewhere. Although I may point out, my username is 'Shadowhawk', one word, and 'Heartsflame' doesn't have an 's' before the 't'. Check the thread title; you might want to edit that.

Well, thanks Kughii! That's pretty good; I expect the Mask of Possibilities is one of the harder Kanohi to sketch, but you pulled off the feat with unprecedented skill. Nicely done. Although, to be entirely honest, due to my exceedingly, incredibly, overwhelmingly picky perfectionist's mindset as regards artwork of any sort, and in particular, artwork featuring my main BZPRPG character, I'm not going to be accepting it as her canonical appearance by any means, but I certainly do appreciate it just the same. And it shall remain forever immortalized upon her wiki page, for the benefit of all.

IC: [ Wulf Kharon ] - UFS Kestrel / Deck 2 / Armory The Kestrel's intercoms continued to crackle, livestreaming multiple voices, orders, and status updates across the vessel's interior. The two engine room Mantis were down... the Brood Commander wasn't, or didn't seem to be... unidentified potentially hostile vessel, probably slavers... things happening... boarder team ordered to report to shuttles... blah blah blah... Not bothering to check if his teammates were following, Wulf vaulted over the desk and out into the hallway, took three strides aft, and swung open the armory door. His eyes darted rapidly across the dimly-lit interior, searching... Bingo. Seconds later, the privateer was back out in the hallway again, having supplemented his grey camouflage military fatigues and 9mm revolver with a standard-issue armored vest, combat-ready kinetic gunpowder SMG, and a full-tech riot helmet. "Wulf Kharon here, en route to the shuttle bay." he proclaimed, shoving the helmet com toggle to 'On'. A quick burst of static sounded in his ears as the wireless receiver systems calibrated, then leveled off into crystal clarity just in time for any replies he might receive. "Any errands I need to run on the way there?"

IC: [ Wulf Kharon ] - UFS Kestrel / Deck 2 / Counselor's office ... "It would seem," drawled Wulf Kharon placidly, "that our opponents have just secured a slight victory, in terms of overall damage dealt." Risking a cautious glance into the corridor, from whence the rattle of gunfire had abruptly ceased, the gargantuan privateer quickly espied two very much comprehensively extinct elite Mantis warriors, sprawled out limp and deceased across the polished floor. "Two bugs down, three to go. Medbay is no longer the subject of immediate threat; I guess we'd better--" The intercoms crackled. "--make tracks for the engine room."

Here is what's going to happen. You will be assassinated on the very first night, and my name will somehow mysteriously crop up on the suspect list. I will then be promptly and unanimously lynched, irregardless of whether I'm guilty or not or even try to talk my way out. Or vice versa.

Slot 21; element of Stone.

IC: [ Wulf Kharon ] - UFS Kestrel / Deck 2 / Counselor's office "I say, we sit quiet and wait until they shoot down or scare off whoever was stupid enough to try jumping them in an open hallway in the first place, then ambush them as per previous strategy." countered the privateer calmly. "Because, in case you hadn't noticed, we're all fresh off the space station and haven't had time to pick up the proper combat equipment. Most notably, body armor and heavy firearms. I don't know about you people, but I sure as don't plan on sticking my head out there without a good solid riot helmet on it." He paused, thoughtfully passing a huge hand over the day's growth of salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw. "Seems to me, from a cold tactical standpoint, the best option our group has is to hit them off guard, at absolute point blank range, and overwhelm them using our superior weight of numbers before they get a chance to respond. If they do get that chance... well, I think we all know could happen, eh?" He thought about it an instant more, then shrugged. "Of course, I'm just the heavy close-quarters berserker. Specialty; kicking literal butt of bugs. I'm suggesting what I'd do... which may or may not be the best course of action. Back to you, Miss Mantis. I reckon you're the boss."

OOC: Oh golly, it's a FIREFIGHT! IC: [ Shadowhawk ] - [ 5/20 HP ] - Dueling Chro Still rejoicing over his fallen foe, the Shadowhawk didn't even notice Chro's countering fire until the hurtling fiery missile blew his own skull to smithereens, dealing the appropriate damage (-10 HP). As soon as his eyeballs (and mouth) reformed, the necromancer shouted another black curse from his vast stock of necromancer's black curses, then threw the now-useless Rocket Launcher of Exploding Heads of Undeath straight at his new opponent.

OOC: Hey thanks, Chro! I sure appreciate it. IC: [ Shadowhawk ] - [ 15/20 HP ] - Terminating Luroka "I think I owe you one from Round 12, Makuta Luroka." snarled the Shadowhawk, green eyes flaming as he struggled against the crushing weight of his own armor (-2 HP). "Time for the payback." Pulling out the Rocket Launcher of Exploding Heads of Undeath (because Cloak of Void), the necromancer took careful aim and blew Luroka's skull to smithereens, dealing another ten damage and effectively removing the unfortunate Bionifighter from the battlefield. "Ha ha, loser. Chew on that."

IC: [ Shadowhawk ] - [ 17/20 HP ] - Utilizing Ultimate Weapon Another day, another battle-to-the-death. What fun. And I'm not even getting paid to do this. Grimacing wearily as he found himself in the icy wastes of Ko-Wahi, the Shadowhawk glanced at his teammates, eyed his foes (one of whom was already blasting away with magnetism blasts (-2 HP)), and promptly whipped out the Black Rod of Power. Might as well land a few hits while I still can, I suppose... The necromancer spun the Rod melodramatically above his head, once, twice, and then he brought the powerful artifact level with his victim's face and, chanting a black curse, called down a searing blast of dark Shadow energy upon Luroka, dealing the standard ten damage.

IC: [ Wulf Kharon ] - UFS Kestrel / Deck 2 / Counselor's office "I wouldn't know." grunted Wulf. "Never been inside a counselor's office before. Mebbe they're actually little idols or something." Muscles rippling in his arms and shoulders, the privateer grappled the gargantuan walnut desk and heaved it clear of the ground, watching without emotion as papers, books, and pendulum cascaded off its surface in a noisy tumbling crash. Not too loud, fortunately. Shouldn't be enough to give away their presence. "Pretend you never saw it. I'll set this against the hole in the wall, then?" Swinging the heavy chunk of furniture around, he dumped it squarely in place in front of the open doorway.

IC: [ Wulf Kharon ] - UFS Kestrel / Deck 2 It is the nature of a warzone scenario to evolve and shift with uncanny, often alarming, speed, and it is the nature of a combat starship to respond and react with equal, if not superior, speed. Such is life on the universe edge; the weak and the slow never get a second chance. They might get a memorial service, though. If they're lucky. Wulf Kharon, having just transferred his genetically-modified feminine cargo into the capable hands of the medical bay personnel, was moving straight back down the starkly utilitarian central corridor of Deck 2, rather vaguely intending to rejoin the Mantis and the Slug he'd encountered a few minutes before. And then the alarms went off with an abrupt wailing shriek, detonating the silence like exploding glass, and the Colonel's voice, terse and commanding, crackled through the loudspeakers. Mantis boarders, a decent-sized squad of elite melee, heading towards... the medical bay, of all things. The good news? Wulf Kharon and Co. were essentially on site already, armed and dangerous. To even get close to their target, the hostiles would have to come straight through the weapons, blades, and cold dead bodies of him and his teammates. The bad news? See above. Breaking into a run, drawing his heavy 9mm revolver as he moved, the massive privateer reached Kelezaag and Francis just in time to catch the latter's words. Adjusting his long-legged pace to theirs, he jumped right into the conversation with nary a 'please' or 'beg your pardon'. Pirate-under-fire manners at their best. At least he made a curt nod of greeting. "...you can add my brains, brawn, and firearm to that list, slime-boy. Nice to meet you, O all-powerful arrogant queen of non-hostile insectiod warriors." A ghost of a smile; the heavy scars on his jaw rippled slightly with the facial movement. "Suffice to say, from what I've heard in my time, a Brood Commander will comprehensively kick your unless you've got some good moves. And a really big gun with lots of bullets. Or a quick hand with a knife, if you're feeling right lucky... yeah, I think I'll let you handle him, Miss Mantis." They ran on. Or slimed on. Or scuttled. Whatever. "So, then... you two know this ship better than me. What's the plan?"

Thanks, man. Glad you enjoyed it.

IC: [ Wulf Kharon ] - Galaxy's End "Yeah. Fun." rumbled the privateer dryly, a trace of sardonic humor glinting in his tawny eyes. "Too bad you've a bullet hole through your side and enough drugs on the brain to kill a water buffalo, right? Except for that, it might actually be intriguing, having a massive scary pirate... hold you. Right?" With practiced ease, taking care not to disturb her injuries, Wulf slid the cat-girl into his arms in a standard 'carrying helpless women' carry. The kind you see in movies, with one arm supporting said helpless female's head and upper body, the other curled around her legs. Turning, hefting her weight with no apparent effort, he exited the half-track with studied deliberation and headed across the starship hanger towards the waiting UFS Kestrel.

Rhea / Ferron: Hot Steel

OOC: Jam with Geardirector. As per extended inactivity on the part of Wotsiznaim (Alex Turner), currently roleplaying Kuhrin ('the deranged murderer') and Desuka ('the werewolf minion'), a brief timeskip has been hereby instigated by those of us involved in this subplot who do remain. Namely, Geardirector and myself. Fair warning given; for purposes of reference, the last post in the chain may be found here. IC: [ Rhea / Ferron ] - Ko-Wahi / Drifts Light. In the blackness, the swirling grey at the edge of an infinite void, a lone mind shifted and neurons fired, cold and emotionless against the nothing... somewhere, out there, something glowed, at the edge of the dark horizon a splash of flaming crimson, dancing orange. Heat. First it came, the scorching caress of a fire's ragged kiss against her armor, the seeping warmth radiating inwards and downwards to her very core and she-- the female, the Su-Toa, the white-clad bounty hunter-- stirred and sighed as she felt its touch, instinctively basking in its presence. Slowly, the sane flush of reality began trickling through her veins, first the merest of fractions and then the hazy dream-state and then, in a breaking flood of brutal awareness, of knowing, two emerald eyes slid open and a quick, puzzled gaze stabbed at her surroundings. She was alive. She was Rhea. Rhea Heartsflame. Pain. The rough, ice-sheathed inner surface of a granite cavern... a crackling huddle of half-dried wood, smoking dismally in the shadows... a looming, broad-shouldered silhouette that could only be the forgemaster, his back turned towards her, his face leveled at the flames. Pain... oh, ye gods. Ye gods. She moaned softly, snuggling her cheek, her mask, tighter against the coarse woolen blanket beneath her, seeking something, anything, even the slightest of releases from the wracking agony that pounded in her skull. In the back of her mind, a memory stirred, and she remembered... Kuhrin's voice, the lashing snow, Ferron's fury breaking with the storm. Greyness. An empty void. "Fer... Ferron. What?" A drop of condensed frostwater dripped from Ferron's forehead and evaporated in the roaring fire he was looming over. The orange glow of the fire creating a vivid sheen on his armor. The Fe-Toa had been in a partial haze until he heard Rhea's voice. The last clear memory he could make out was Kuhrin's poisonous eyes leering through the Pakari, Ferron's Pakari, as he used his powers to blind Ferron with a blast of ice and frost. After that, everything melded together. Picking up Rhea, finding shelter, struggling against the howling winds again and again and again... He sighed, wearily, his anger over the failure for now mellowed, he'd already let his frustrations loose earlier while Rhea was still unconscious. But he returned his attention to the material world as he turned to Rhea with a concerned frown. "You've were out for at least a couple of hours, how are you feeling?" Two... hours. It was too long. Far too long. Perhaps it was to be expected; she was a trained and hardened warrior, after all; she'd faced a thousand different foes on a hundred different battlefields, and she knew the risks. But if Ferron had not been there, if she'd been hunting alone as was her wont... if Kuhrin hadn't outright killed her in her defeat as he had killed so many others, he would have no doubt left her alone for dead... the savage chill of the eternal empty Drifts would have done the job instead, then, and with equal ruthless efficiency-- But no. No, they wouldn't have. For of course, there was Nero. Her green eyes slid shut, a muscle twitched gently in her cheek, and she sighed deeply, wearily in her chest. A shuddering sound, born half of pain, born half of puzzled emptiness. Nero. A half-second later, the eyes snapped open again, wide and alert, and she spoke. Her voice was clear, but distinctly hesitant, tentative, as if she was listening closely to herself and not at all enjoying what she heard... or didn't hear. "Not well. Not well at all. Purely wretched, in fact. I think... I think something's broken. Somewhere. Sounds aren't coming in... like they should." "Hmm" Ferron grunted in concern, shifting to face Rhea, the glow of the fireplace etching his body in sharp relief. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't halfway expect it. Tangling with Kuhrin tends to have that effect" He didn't need to say any more. Just meet Rhea's eyes with his own as he got closer. "Look, Rhea" he began, tapping his metal finger against his mask. "I'm not a healer, but Tari... her, she was" he said, correcting himself before naming his former teammate, as if letting Rhea know would break some unspoken conduct. The Forgemaster's moral quandaries remained an enigma for the moment as he continued. "Point is, I know a lot about the effects of the Mask of Healing, and as you can imagine my powers have given me a good insight into our anatomy. If you want, I could try and heal your injuries" Something deep in Rhea's gaze crackled momentarily, sparked in flame, faded just as quickly back to the cool, level emerald it had been. "And what could be hurt by an attempt, Ferron?" she asked softly. "The least it can do... is nothing." Grimacing, she pushed herself painfully up on one arm in a reclining position, facing the Toa of Iron. It was the slightest of movements, really, but it left her face ashen and her breath coming in ragged, tortured gasps. "Do it. Try." It wasn't just Rhea's ears that were in less than stellar condition, the cold seemed to have had adverse effect on her. That would have to come later, Ferron calmly reached out, and cradled Rhea's head gently in his hands, sparing a moment to look at her before he closed his eyes, wracking his face in concentration. Feeling a sting of chill insecurity rush through him. "Can't make anything worse, right?" Ferron told himself, that was a lie. For the very first time, he called upon his new mask power, feeling a rejuvenating energy flow through his body and directed where he wanted it to go. It was a sensation he recognized oh so well, and he almost stopped right there from the painful stings of sorrow, but he pressed on. "Heal" he commanded, unsure of what else to say, he could only hope it would be enough. The energy flowed through his fingertips as his mask was surrounded in a glowing aura of a similar color to his eyes. Ferron did know one thing about the healing process, though; Rhea's injuries were comparatively minor to most of the ones he himself had been healed of with the mask. He only needed to release a moderate amount of power. He stopped, looking at Rhea with concern in his metallic eyes. "How do you feel?" The Su-Toa blinked back at him, her gaze unfocused. Carefully, not speaking, she lifted her hand and gently touched the skin where fading pain still lingered in the nerves; long slim fingers tentatively caressing her forehead, tapping against her reconstructed audio receptors, sliding across the relaxing muscles at the base of her skull. And then she spoke, slowly and with a crystal grace that belonged more to the polished halls of imperial assemblies than to the wind-hewn chamber of ice-locked stone, her face tilted slightly to one side as she looked up and smiled at the broad-shouldered forgemaster. The dancing firelight cast his features in brooding shadow, but her quick eyes noted the telltale lines of etched consternation, half-hidden beneath the Mask of Healing, and she felt an unexpected rush of warmth sparkle through her core. "Thank you." Rhea's voice was gracious, and her thanks also gave Ferron a warm rush as he stepped away with his eyes closed. Before his inner eye, he could see her face before him, and he could pretend like the warmth came from seeing that face... rather than the one that was right behind him now. He spoke, without looking at Rhea, it made it easier to talk. "You found Kuhrin," he said gravelly, omitting to mention that technically Kuhrin had ambushed her, "you have completed your service to me and earned your reward." He silenced for a bit as he stirred the fire before looking at Rhea again with steely resolve. "Name it, and if I can give it to you it'll be yours" Rhea met his gaze briefly, cautiously. Almost shyly, if such a thing was possible. "You are very generous. Especially considering my relative lack of usefulness." Rippling easily into a sitting position, she drew her blankets tight around her shoulders like a cloak and sidled closer to the fire. Not so close to Ferron as to make him particularly uncomfortable, but certainly closer than the roomy confines of the cavern warranted. "Forget about it for now. Do me a favor sometime, or never. What is debt? Nothing at all... if you don't mind owing me." She smiled again, faintly, her green eyes locked on the crackling red-black embers that burned before them in the darkness. "I don't mind you owing me." A smile formed in the weatherbitten face, a calming grunt issuing forth. "Let me tell you something" he said, stirring the fire a little again before reaching out, letting his prosthetic hand flicker in the light of the fireplace. "Iron," he began "is the element of reliability. Iron, metal, is what we work with, what me make our tools and weapons out of. With Iron, you know what you're getting, that's something you can always be sure of, you can always trust it to do what you expect it to" Ferron's unfeeling metal hand plunged into the fire, rooting about until it emerged with a still glowing piece of firewood in its grasp, the steam of his breath tangling with the wood smoke. "What kind of Toa of Iron, or smith, would I be if I didn't try to hold to that ideal?" He tossed the stick back into the fire where it broke in two, the smoldering remains of the firewood disappearing in the flames. He looked at Rhea again. "Besides if I remember rightly I technically owe you a favor from our little... talk, under the cliff face last night" A quick sidelong glance, level and calculating. "Mm-hmm, I suppose you do. Technically speaking." Ferron nodded. "In any event, you're welcome to call in a favor at my forge anytime" One issue remained in Ferron's mind, present in the embers of his gaze. What about him and Rhea? Given that her assignment was complete, Ferron could reasonably expect her to call it a day and head off, off on new hunts and travels, away from here, away from him. And he wasn't sure whether or not he was okay with that. His teammates were dead, his best friends were dead, the memories all stained with the pain of loss and the agony of severed roots. His desperate heart cried out for someone who could understand his pain, someone who could bring comfort and calm the raging inferno within. Rhea had shown she could, and she had shown herself to suit his hardworking ways. But of course, it could never be, she was young, with her whole life ahead of her, and him? He was just an old dog who was almost out of tricks. Her morality was too dark, she valued riches and power, he was a working man who valued honesty and self-sacrifice. But then again, opposites attract, right? He sighed in resignation, that was just him making excuses to himself again. "What are you planning to do now?" Another quick sidelong glance, this one lingering longer... just a trifle longer, on the Toa beside her. Firelight danced across the rugged, muscular lines of his aging body, mirrored in the wearied steel of his deep ember-orange eyes, and she felt the weight of the question hanging silent in the cavern's air between them. She was not naive. She was not a fool. And she held no illusions; for all his strength and his vengeful purpose, he was a simple man at heart, asking little of life and receiving less and yet holding on for the next trial by torture with foe with and foe without, and ever intuitive, ever the schemer, she guessed his path of thought with a female's instinctive ease. The faintest hint of a blush faded delicately across her cheekbones. For all her free spirit's style of step and command, beyond the devil-may-care rhythms that beat a theme song to her path, well-nigh as deep and as true as the rebel heat that burned within her core, she had never been a wanton girl as regarded romance. In all things, the arrogant beauty that was Rhea Heartsflame had eyes only for the best, and the best was rarely found, if ever. And in Ferron, Toa Ferron of deep Onu-Koro, the meticulous craftsman of fire and steel, the battered warrior with a thousand burdens that he would carry to the end, and keep moving despite the weight, any weight, and who would never surrender, for to surrender and fall was to admit defeat to those he had known and those he had loved... in him, in this scarred and lonely and hunted man, this aging vessel with a hero's heart, she had found a shard, a diamond rough, of all that was right and best in mortal life beneath the brilliant sun. In her own way, she loved it... loved him. And tomorrow, she would be gone with the wind and she would walk the wastes of the empty lands, and she would walk alone, for such was her way, and such had it ever been. Where the storms rolled black, where the tides broke cold, where blades flashed silver in the dimness of a dungeon's sultry depths, there would she be, and she would be there. Tomorrow, tomorrow... Ah, yes... tomorrow. She looked up at him for a moment that was a breathless eternity, and then carefully, the bounty hunter took his strong right hand in her own and laced her fingers through his, every movement light and deliberate. Her voice was soft, steady; strangely sober, inexplicably sad. "Do me a favor now, Ferron. For now, just for now, forget all you lost... all that once you loved and that haunts you still. You loved her, and I know it, and I am not so blind but that I know, also, that deeply and truly you love her still... but now, here, right now-- she sleeps and is lost, but I... Ferron, I live. I live!" Her green eyes burned. To forget. Ah, wasn't that a pleasant prospect? Ferron wondered for a second if fate was working against him, as he saw, rather than felt, Rhea lock her hand with his prosthetic appendage, barring him from feeling the sensation of her touch, like cosmic events foretold that this was a union doomed to ruin. But he really would like to forget, to shed all his concerns and worries, put down his burdens and, even it if was temporary, just let it all go away. Such bliss had been given to him by that extra pint of beer after a long day many a time, he knew what it meant to forget for just one night, it'd kept him going before. In the back of his mind, he swore he could see Deccon frown, but he was caring less and less as he continued to meet Rhea's gaze. He reached out with his left hand, his actually feeling, sensing hand, and caught Rhea's as he got closer. He didn't say anything, just grappled with Rhea's gaze as his eyes leveled with hers, his heart pounding till all else drowned out, the sparks flying between then. Fire and Steel, Plasma and Iron. Rhea... and Ferron. He leaned forward, and kissed the Bounty Hunter. Told you. Forget it. It's killing you, forgemaster, and you're too strong, too good a man to die like that. Fall in battle, fade in your sleep... but never, never like that. Her eyes slid lazily shut as their lips met, and she lived the moment and was not ashamed in it, and at last they drew slightly apart and she gasped for breath and laughed, clear and exultant. Let it go, you haggard old fool. With a easy flick of her wrist, she flung his metallic hand from her, and slipped her now-free right arm around his neck and tilted his face down to hers and kissed him again, fiercely and with all the unchained heat of her rebel's heart burning around them. Let. It. Go. The smoldering embers of the forgotten fire beside them exploded into full crimson flame, shredding the darkness, and the chill and the ice and the Drifts without and the pain within splintered and dissolved on the crackling brimstone tide, and all that was and all that wasn't was the same, and there was nothing at all in all the world but Ferron and Rhea, alone and together with time breaking down and the universe in flux about them through the haze. Two hearts. One beat. And for a long, long while, not a word was spoken.

OOC: No problem, Simon. Let's get this legend on the road again, people. IC: [ Wulf Kharon ] - Galaxy's End The titanic privateer didn't bother responding to Daniels' curt command; he'd been around the taut clipped battlespeak of Federation authority long enough that it didn't rankle him anymore. Then again, few things ever had. At least to the casual external eye. Rippling to his feet, half-crouching to avoid cracking his skull on the low metal ceiling of the half-track, Wulf Kharon holstered his revolver and took a measured step sideways to speak directly with the injured cat-girl. She was still operating at roughly half mental capabilities, seemed like, and he took care to keep his words particularly clear and deliberate. "Miss Landes, you're wanted at the med bay. I'm going to have to carry you there; you don't mind, I assume?" Not that it matters if you do.

IC: [ Shadowhawk ] "Cheater!" snarled the Shadowhawk, rapidly kicking away the dead corpses of the sharks as they gravitated towards him with discomfiting speed. "What I am supposed to do with this? You, my friend, are overpowered!" To emphasize his point, the necromancer began to sink, overcome by the fishes and the deep blue sea.

IC: [ Shadowhawk ] "Aghhh..." groaned the Shadowhawk, now desperately treading (shark infested) water as the ceiling collapsed around him, showering tons upon tons of assorted rubble into the silver depths. "This is so stupid. This is so ridiculous." Poising his left-hand talons, he prepared to stab himself in the chest, then remembered that suicide was never an option. Especially when you'd just regenerate anyway. So instead, everybody's favorite necromancer spat a few disgruntled curses, unlimbered the Black Rod of Power, and called down a devastating area blast of raw shadow around him, killing numerous sharks on impact as they hurtled up from the infinite expanse of rippling ocean on course to rip him apart and devour his entrails. Smoke curled from the water's surface, mingling with the taste of crushed sheetrock and the scent of fresh tropical breeze. OOC: This is totally worth it, just watching you guys fight. I've never had so many 'LOL this is so stupid' moments in my life.