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Post by Preacher on Apr 25, 2017 5:14:08 GMT -8
**Midnight Shadow, Medlab**
...Silas rushed into the Medical bay, Isabelle in his arms. She had lost consciousness, and there was no telling how serious it was. There was nowhere to put her down. One of the cabinets had opened, spilling its contents on the counter, and it seemed Doctor Saccharo was in the midst of some sort of inventory , as both exam tables were likewise covered in equipment and supplies. Using his inner strength, Silas swept the nearest exam platform clean, telekinetically sending the items crashing to the floor. Laying Isabelle gently on the bed and activating the overhead light, Silas looked around quickly for the Doctor. Nowhere in sight. "DOC?!" he called out, into the corridor beyond... "Could use a little help in here..." Nothing. Perfect.
He returned to 'his' patient, and again called on his inner strength, opening himself to her spirit, and her condition. Immediately, he felt her sources of pain. Lacerations, internal bruising, two cracked ribs, the stitches (self-administered?) previously applied had ripped out, and the likeliest source of her current condition -- her body had shut down due to a beating that would have incapacitated a lesser individual, resulting in mild internal bleeding which, coupled with a previously weakened state, compounded by whatever had transpired outside the docking bay on Naboo, and her prolonged malnourishment, created a potentially dangerous cocktail of issues for Isabelle. None of them on their own life threatening, but the combination and circumstances were worrisome.
Thankfully, nothing Silas couldn't handle. While still connected to her, he expended more of his gift, and knit her internal wounds. The ribs were a little more difficult, or time consuming -- it was always difficult to tell which, exactly, when Preacher was connected to an individual in this way. There would be pain associated with his ministrations, and he took that from her as well, visiting it upon himself instead. Lastly, he gave her a little boost -- adrenaline, epinephrine, dopamine. Just little tweaks to allow her body to recoil from the shock to her system... maybe allow her to regain consciousness. It was amazing, the things a body could do for itself, given the right motivation.
He could have hurt her. Badly. Killed her, if he had reason. Silas could have stopped her heart, shut down her organs, given her irreparable brain damage... but he left her peacefully. When he emerged, they were moving. The ship. They were offworld. He was tired, mentally drained as was the usual way of things when he joined a being for a time. But nothing like the fatigue he felt when he had kept Adrien alive a few days ago. He shook it off, and watched over Isabelle, waiting for her to come around...
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Post by Preacher on Apr 25, 2017 4:51:32 GMT -8
**looks the droid up and down**
hmph.
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Post by Preacher on Mar 18, 2017 4:30:52 GMT -8
Dislike. All of this. (meaning -- the loss of yet another good writer, and 3 good crew members.) Don't sweat it Trent. Post when you can, however you can. We'll be here. And Erly -- if it changes... if life revolves as it so often does... come back when you're able.
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Post by Preacher on Mar 10, 2017 18:23:55 GMT -8
**looks everywhere for Trent's post** is it under the rug?
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Post by Preacher on Mar 3, 2017 16:05:21 GMT -8
Post up! (great one Izzy!)
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Post by Preacher on Mar 3, 2017 15:37:35 GMT -8
...and then he was awake, jolted back to consciousness as if from a nightmare. His heart-rate was elevated, and there were a few dots of crimson on the common area's table. Wiping a finger across the underside of his nose, it came away bloody. running. it--she's running. nearly spent. danger. she's in danger. we all are. here. now. Who? Who was in pain, and bringing danger here? His heart pounded, as hers did. He stood, and a sharp pain flashed across his guts. nearly doubled him over. he coughed, and a thin line of bile escaped his lips. wiping it with the back of his hand, he staggered to the landing ramp, leaning for support against the exposed strut. images flashed through his mind, but all were disjointed, unfamiliar. Collecting himself as best he could, he moved down the ramp, glancing around, taking in Erly and Trent, finishing up their conversation, and the deck crew, fueling and prepping the Midnight Shadow for lift-off. He scoured deep in his subconscious, but saw no reason to ready himself for battle. This was not that kind of danger. Not yet.
...and then she appeared. Her. Isabelle. She was changed. She looked very little like the woman he had spoken with not an hour before. But in addition to thee sleek, purposeful clothing and equipment she now adorned herself with, she was also changed in almost every other conceivable way. This was the focus of his image, there was no doubt. She was injured, and on the verge of collapse. He started to move, his limbs obeying duty, not reason -- as he knew very well she brought more trouble than they cared to have. His legs carried him swiftly across the tarmac, closing the distance between them in only a few seconds. And as she collapsed, he took hold of her. Passerby and those not looking for trouble would scarce have noticed the woman in distress. Reversing his direction in a single, fluid motion, Silas carry / dragged her, his arm about her waist and her arm slung over his shoulder. In her semi-conscious state, it appeared as though he was helping a drunk friend back to the ship. Her legs moved, but sluggishly, and heavily. She finally lost all semblance of control a few paces from the bottom of the ramp, and went completely limp in his grasp.
As he made the bottom of the ramp, his eye caught Erly's, and the look of urgency was unmistakable. Time to go. Now. As they swept into the common area, he moved straight for the med-bay, hoping that the Doctor would be able to stabilize her...
...so they could be rid of her. There was a pit in his stomach, filled with trepidation over the trouble she represented. He'd hold his tongue for now, as her survival was most important. But at some point, there would need to be truth between Isabelle the Chameleon and their Captain...
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Post by Preacher on Feb 24, 2017 14:34:58 GMT -8
**eats popcorn**
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Post by Preacher on Feb 17, 2017 19:43:05 GMT -8
Seriously. Erly, Trent, Krystal, Doc... if somebody doesn't show up and post soon, I'm going to either spontaneously learn to pilot, or else NPC the lot of you with monosyllabic posts.
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Post by Preacher on Feb 17, 2017 10:26:15 GMT -8
He watches her go, looks from her disappearing silhouette to the pistol, and back. Good. Hopefully Draykon was speaking the truth, and that would mean a place for Neassa amongst the crew. And if he was reading her correctly -- tough to say, easier without the visor, but still difficult --- he would have guessed she wanted that, as much as he wanted it for her. Suddenly not having anywhere particular to go, and a holster to make, he moved off through the ship to find a spot he might call his own -- at least for the time being. He found the staterooms easily enough, but didn't try any of the doors, lest he intrude on something he ought not to see, or invade a crew-member's privacy. No, until he was directed to a bunk, the common area would do just fine. He took off his jacket and hat, now knowing he'd be staying awhile, and placed his meagre belongings on the bench beside himself. Opening his pack, he withdrew the Law, and began to read. There was a piece of leather in his pack that might suffice for a holster... maybe after he finished reading the passage on immoral trading of goods for labour , and the wickedness of chemical dependence, he'd size it for the DC-15s.
He'd forgotten the last time he rested. It was good to read his book, its familiar passages comforting in their reassurance. But in little more than fifteen minutes, his head was down on the table, and he was asleep.
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Post by Preacher on Feb 13, 2017 17:28:22 GMT -8
Posted. Not for any good, pushing-plot-forward reason... but just because this can't stall!
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Post by Preacher on Feb 13, 2017 17:27:35 GMT -8
The Preacher listened to all that Neassa had to say. He considered the notion that he was expecting too much from himself, and was not happy to admit, it may have been true. Years of experience notwithstanding, it was a new weapon, foreign to his hand. It would come. She was right about the next point, too. It may not have been the right blaster. But his current financial situation made it the defacto best choice, as it was currently the only choice. Still -- given a range of options, he'd prefer something heavier. Time slows when she touches his hand, her fingers atop his. Even though they are gloved, he can feel the warmth of her touch, and though he wouldn't care to admit it, his pulse quickens, and he is forced to concentrate to still the blood thrumming in his ears.
It goes on for what seems like fifty, sixty seconds -- but is more likely less than ten. If asked, Silas would never be able to know for certain -- though in days to come, it would be easy to acknowledge that it would be quite fine if the former were true. And then she steps away, nodding, inclining her head at the target once more, the inference plain.
He quiets his mind, slows the beating of his own heart, and lines up the shot, taking in all the points that the Warrior has made. The second shot is better. Not perfect, but markedly improved. A 'kill' for certain. Silas nods, safeties the weapon, and stuffs it in his belt.
hrm.
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Post by Preacher on Feb 4, 2017 18:09:20 GMT -8
Preacher took it all in, listening, comprehending -- but not overly confident. Grasping the pistol as it was meant to be held, he hefted the weight, still uneasy about its lack of mass, as compared to his slugthrower. Casting a glance about the now-empty (save the detritus of the departed refugees) hold, Silas spies a likely target -- two cargo crates stacked atop each other, which, with the addition of some cloth and an exposed bulkhead on the exterior wall, had been turned into a hammock by some enterprising former slaves. Pointing to the top-most crate, Silas inclines his head at a red freight label. There. The top crate. Symbol on the flat side. He raises the gun fluidly and fires, one seamless motion. His form is correct. The intention clear. And it is not a bad shot. maybe nine inches high and wide. Still on the crate, but considering the range of less than ten meters, nowhere near the intended 'bullseye.' and it would be obvious to Neassa that in the field, over an extended range the deviance from target would be far greater.
Sighing, he clears and locks the pistol, safetying the action. See? It is the same every time. There is so little report from the weapon upon discharging. No transfer of weight or energy. No 'kick.' With the slug-thrower I can anticipate, compensate for conditions... even coax. Exert even the tiniest fraction of my will over the physical properties of the projectile. But this he holds the blaster as if regarding a spoiled piece of fruit seems dead. Doesn't move right. What am I doing incorrectly, warrior?
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Post by Preacher on Feb 4, 2017 13:23:46 GMT -8
Where the hell have you been McCready?
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Post by Preacher on Feb 2, 2017 15:12:17 GMT -8
...and get to the bridge, all in the same post!
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Post by Preacher on Feb 1, 2017 12:42:24 GMT -8
Hey Draykon Crew. Dan here. The Fed crew finds it terribly simple to maintain a Facebook chat page, so that we can easily inform each-other when we've posted, and discuss OOC things or story-line items.
Add me -- I'm Dan Gallo (in Hamilton ON. My avatar is currently me pulling a silly face.
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Post by Preacher on Feb 1, 2017 8:43:55 GMT -8
Post up!
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Post by Preacher on Feb 1, 2017 8:42:03 GMT -8
Midnight Shadow - Common Area After she and Isabelle have concluded their interaction, and Silas approaches on her three o'clock, Neassa smiles unseen behind her buy'ce after she turns her T-visor towards him when the clearing of his throat announces his presence. Unlike the complex sense of kinship between her and Isabelle, there is nothing confusing or complicated about the sense of connection Neassa feels with Silas; his purposeful, forthright, and upright nature just as appealing to her as his open honesty and the undimmed, at times almost childlike and innocent wonder with which he views the new things he encounters on his quest-like journey. The inquisitive arching of her eyebrow goes as unobserved as her smile when Neassa hears the question Silas has sought her out to ask. If I can help, I will, Neassa answers, her tone pleasant enough even when distorted by her buy'ce's speaker that it is clear she is both sincere in the offer as well as pleased to offer her help to Silas. What is it you need help with? Silas and Isabelle pass on the landing ramp, the Preacher remaining silent, yet noting the bemused look on the woman's face, and with a nod of recognition they pass and to the best of his knowledge, Silas is honestly not sure they'll ever see each other again.
There she is. Suddenly, the Preacher is certain he has found Neassa far too easily. Should he really be showing his hand this way? And with of all people, the warrior woman? How will she respond? Will his level of naivety be distasteful to her? Still -- the words come easily enough, and her answer, producing a sigh of relief, seems not only genuine, but... eager? That is a most welcome development.
Now the issue becomes explaining the trouble, and the help he seeks. Saying a small prayer, the wanderer hopes the words and language don't fail him. The Captain has given me this. Producing Adrien's personal DC-15S blaster, laying it flat on his palm, handle respectfully toward Neassa. My own sidearm is what I am familiar with, and I would say with it, I could thread a needle at 50 yards. However... I have never had much success with these weapons. They move and react strangely, and I don't understand their energy delivery. a pause, while the Outlander regards the strange weapon His next words are spoken as he turns the gun over in his palm. Captain Draykon has tasked me with the protection of this vessel going forward -- a position I have accepted. his mind strays back to the doom-sayer and her prophesy, which he shakes off to remain in the present. Looking up, his eyes lock with her visor, approximating where here eyes would be. He cannot hide the hope in his voice. The meaning is plain. I am also tasked with seeking you out, to relay that he would like to speak with you, as well. I dare say the news is, if not what you may hope for, certainly what I have hoped for. Clearing his throat, Silas returns his gaze and his focus to the weapon between them. In any case. I am woefully inaccurate with these. And I... need training. The last words are mumbled, obvious shame lacing his speech. If you had time... I...
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Post by Preacher on Feb 1, 2017 7:50:25 GMT -8
Touche.
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Post by Preacher on Jan 31, 2017 21:48:38 GMT -8
I could (and likely will) have one up tomorrow morning, though a piece of me wants to wait for Neassa. Never fear I'll make it easy enough for Neassa to continue her conversation with Izzy should the need exist.
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Post by Preacher on Jan 27, 2017 10:19:21 GMT -8
If it weren't for respecting post order, I'd have six posts up by now... though it would start to look a lot like talking to myself. This is standard pace...
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