Seamus chortled at the newcomer's question. "Aye, lad. I "died" in the Tan War, fightin' for me kin's freedom. I'm an engineer at heart, though, not a warrior. I keep the guns around to marvel at the advances in technology over the last mere hundred years. If'n I could, I'd collect bridges, but they be harder to carry. And, well..."
Looking at Zala he nodded. "Aye, yer point is valid. I just feel...more secure, if'n you will, with somethin' at me side." The burly Irishman shrugged. "Call me a fool, but gunmetal feels right in me hands."
Zala smiled at Fredrick and his enthusiasm. It had been so long since she'd met someone older than herself that she'd forgotten about the curiosity it engendered. "Yes, we certainly have no shortage of stories among us." Perhaps she did have something to learn though. There were certain things she'd only been allowed to be or places she could go in disguise or through others. To have the span of her time and not be limited by youth and being a woman... Although she had certainly seen her fair share of places none of them would have because of that as well. "Where would we begin?"
To Seamus she showed a flash of amusement. "We all have trades we're attached to I suppose. As for safety, well... It comes at it goes." She had long since ceased to fret much over her own personal safety more than in passing.
Giorgio again fell silent to Zala's response. This news did little to reassure him- it seemed either he could continue to live forever, or succumb to madness. What would an eternity in madness be...? Perhaps this journey would tell him.
He looked to the group. Zala and Fredrick were ages older, but portrayed much more levity in their demeanour. They had likely faced just as much, if not more, loss than he; why were they so sane, then?
As Xandus discussed his death, he found the memories of his own resurfacing. Torches flared in his mind, the weak fell beneath the trampling rioters, and various objects hurtled through the air striking men and women relentlessly. He bit his lip slightly, the taste of his death shutting his voice.
More of the paper peeled away as the breeze picked up and showed a picture of a nun. Clearly it promoted some form of charity, but the picture strikes you as important for some reason.
Meanwhile, Sachiro raises his head, and sighs. "Perhaps I am too young to appreciate this situation, but I am...in no mood to adventure. If I am meant to go, I will arrive there, but for now...I cannot trust...any of this. The world is too strange now..."
He takes one last look at them, and wanders out of the church.
As he leaves, he is physically picked up and thrown back in by..something...
He lands with shock on the pedestal where the statue was, which gives under his weight.
As the night settles over the church, a strange mist builds, and a whispy figure forms, and whispers like a breeze, "But we've only just begun..."
With that the floor they were standing on falls away, and plummets them into a series of catacombs.
You can hear dogs howling mournfully outside in the distance, and the dust rises and settles in its time around you. You find that the catacombs are half flooded, so you are currently in a repulsive pool of stagnant water.
The walls have lots of moss hanging on them, and are made of worn granite. Architect junkies will be shocked, of course, because the whole of New Orleans' geography is not very conducive to the keeping of such places, nor is granite a particularly prevalent building material here.
It would seem that the catacombs are older than the church, and the church is the vestigial organ to their vastness.
[You may decide to climb out, and scontinue to St, Michaels, or you may want to continue on and explore the catacombs.]
Zala seemed to take the collapse in stride, if her intensity made another, stronger appearance. She stood out of the water, trying in annoyance to straighten out her appearance, her plait of long black hair being anything but cooperative. She muttered curses in ancient Babylonian and shook out both her hair and dress, both of which clung to her developing curves heedlessly anyway.
Finally she seemed to give up on a dignified appearance and simply looked about. "Well, well, looks as this place has a few more surprises for us."
Njord did his best to maneuver during the fall and he almost landed on his feet but he fell back onto a piece of wood that had fallen onto the floor and it lodged itself into his shoulder.
"ARGHH, no matter how many times something like this happens it never hurts any less." He growled reaching back and pulling it out. "And these shirts aren't easy to find."
"I'm not going to disturb a burial site and I'm definitely not leaving my guitar in a crumbling old place like this, I'm going to find a spot to climb out of here."
Taken by complete shock, Giorgio fell on his legs and, losing his balance, crumpled to the ground. He groaned, feeling the cool, mucky water seep through his clothes and the draft from the church above send an uncomfortable chill. After taking a moment to ensure that nothing had been broken or twisted, he rose to his feet, feeling his jeans weigh heavily and his grey shirt cling to his frame. The imprint of a necklace appeared beneath his shirt.
He glanced up toward the hole they had fallen through. They might be able to climb back out, but... what would happen to them then?
"The man," Giorgio said, his voice eerily loud in the hushed catacombs. He hushed his voice. "Something threw... What on Earth was that?"
"Interesting... I was not aware that there were catacombs under New Orleans." Fredrick said thoughtfully, gazing around. The fall seemed to have had little effect on him, the fact that the grimy water had ruined his expensive shoes and pants not even registering. The tips of his hair and beard were also wet, but he seemed to not notice that either. "Very interesting... under normal circumstances, I would want to explore and learn more about this place, but perhaps some of us are in haste to get to England?" he said, rolling up his sleeves. Haste. It's been so long since I've experienced it, and I can't imagine many of these people would still feel it, but we shall see. I have all the time in the world to come back here if I wish.
Zala got her hair into a semblance of order, but her dress was a loss. Flowing fabrics like her sun dress had been didn't hold up well to muck or water, transformed into a combination of dust-stained and non-existent. "Whatever it is. It seems to wish us to explore... It's not as if England won't wait for us." She grinned at those around her, especially at Fredrick's enthusiasm. "I'm certainly up for some trekking through these tunnels, if perhaps one of you gentlemen has a jacket to spare." She gestured with a self-deprecating smile at her ruined and now immodest dress. "I'm not exactly dressed for it."
Giorgio nodded with Zala and looked to Fredrick. "That... spirit, if you will, doesn't seem keen on such an option." He looked down the catacombs, into the darkness that seeped into every nook and cranny. "...What if there's more to this riddle below the church...?"
He paused, then looked to Zala. "Ah- scusi." He pulled off his light black jacket, draping it over her shoulders. It was rather large on the 'young' woman, but then, any one would.
Zala accepted the jacket with a smile. "Gratzi, signore." She thanked him, sliding her arms into the sleeves and settling the fit more comfortably. "I'm sorry to leave you without it, but suits are a bit more substantial than sheer fabric." A flash of a wicked smile. "Wouldn't want to catch my death of cold."
Seamus fell and rolled, trusting his old instincts to keep him clear of debris. He moved quickly however, retrieving his guitar case before the water and grit had a chance to soak in. He undid the clasps, opening the case at speed, and took out the assault rifle, moving to a fairly dry spot before removing the cleaning implements, laying both the P90 and the M1911 in the case that sat across his knees. "Cannae allow the munitions to become dirty, a dirty gun is a useless gun, keep yer gun and your gun will keep ye..." he muttered to himself as he cleaned the guns with the oilcloth and soft cotton rag. To the bystanders, it would seem like a drill ingrained into the man's personality more than a conscious choice.
As he checked each of the magazines (which, fortunately, were intact and untouched), he looked up and grinned sheepishly. "Apologies, 'tis a goo' habit, and goo' habits're ta kill than bad'ns." Replacing the pistol in it's back holster and the bullpup in it's case (only after checking the safeties, of course), the Irishman stood and looked at the deeper parts of the catacombs. "Hm. I cannae understand it, the muck o' the Mississippi delta oughta eliminate all underground buildings below first basement level. This is good masonrywork, the edges are summa th' smoothest I've ever seen." Running a hand along the stone wall, the hulking man walked deeper into the catacombs.
Edwardo lay in the fetid mud, his heart thumping after viewing the expression on Sachiro's face. It wasn't a look of pain, or surprise. It wasn't anything. The man whom he had not known had flown backwards into the altar with a slack-jawed look, one of mild observation. The sickening crack of the man's ribs had set his own humming in sympathy as the air moved to occupy the space where he had once been.
He sat there, the other's conversation a mere tune compared to the aria of fear and incomprehension playing behind his outwards display of shock. He had not comprehended death after his crushing, and would not have if it weren't for the thoughts in the dark of the mind proffering doubts about his and the other's immortal status.
Only after thinking of what may have befallen the quiet Japanese man did he roll over, his non-porous leather jacket squelching in the by-product of time and dead bodies, did he realise that he had the dead man's lighter. Sachiro was probably dead, and all there was to remember him by has his goddam lighter! He sat up, and looked at the chatting group accusingly. "What the hell are you doing? Sachiro needs us! Look at you, sitting there trading jackets, cleaning guns and talking about the stupid, stupid architecture! Let's go, and kick the crap out of whatever was up there!"
Zala stared at Edwardo as if he had done something embarrassing and uncouth. "Sachiro is one of us and perfectly capable of taking care of himself. A little bump is nothing to get so upset over. You show your youth too keenly, sir."
"You weren't standing right next to him when that... thing flung him across the church! I saw his FACE! He's not okay!" Edwardo screamed at the bronzed figure. "We have to go get him! God knows what it could have done, or what it's doing to him now!"
"I doubt if you went back up there you'd find anything," Anna noted. "Whatever we're chasing, or is chasing us, seems to be nothing more than a shadow right now. Why did it push us down here though?" She shook her arms off and squeezed out her hair.
"I think I'll explore down here. Obviously there's something strange here, and St Michaels isn't going to dissappear in a day or two."
Zala regarded his screams as nothing more than a panicked tantrum. "Do calm yourself. If it wanted to do something awful to us, there is nothing stopping it." She didn't seem at all alarmed by this prospect. "If that was it's intent, it should have done so while we were separated. As it is, he shall likely recover quickly. You perhaps to not have as much experience with death, but that does not mean he does not. Even if he managed to break his spine by some miracle, it shouldn't take long to fix. I have certainly walked through worse. The... presence, knows of our circumstance, obviously. A physical attack can do nothing more than inconvenience one of us."
Sachiro groans, and looks up. No one is in the room, and he wonders how long he has been out. He gets up, his spine, neck, and ribs cracking into place systematically as he does so. He sets his jaw, and lets his body do the work it's supposed to, and it does. He crawls over the altar, and is about to light on the floor, when he realizes that his legs hang over the edge. He looks down bemusedly into the muck at his sullied accomplices.
"Are you alright down there? Do you need any help?"
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