In the back room of Brenwicke's Books...Scott clears his throat in a dignified fashion, then informs his compatriots of the people present.
"TO ARMS! WE HAVE RIGHTFUL OCCUPIERS! SIGMUND, YOU BLOODY IDIOT!"Sigmund turns to look at the guards. Well, damn.
"Niklas, distract one. The rest, focus on the six armed one!"Sigmund then backs up against the wall and tries to shoot the six-armed dude in the arm. His sword-arm, to be precise.
[Sigmund vs. Six-Armed Guard: 3+1+
1 vs. 4+
2-
1]
He fires a single, somewhat decently-aimed bolt down at the six-armed guard, who half-dodges, half-deflects the thing when it hits the armor on his sword-arm, which he has been prudent enough to use the mail sleeve for.
Scott, feeling a bit more adventurous, tries a daring dive down the stairs, hoping to catch him by surprise!
[Scott dive roll: 6-
1]
The zombie flies downstairs in a single, mighty bound, harpoon outstretched toward his enemy!
[Scott vs. Six-Armed Guard: 1+
1 vs. 2+1]
He, however, finds that the leap was slightly insufficient, coming to a stop a few feet short on the rather disappointingly non-slippery floor. The six-armed guard appears to be slightly confused.
Niklas, meanwhile, though he feels a bit absentminded presently, thinks about what would be a good distraction. Ah, yes, he thinks he's got it. He looks at the non-transformed guard with his strange chair eye-stalks, outstretching his arm.
His arm immediately detaches and flies screamingly at the guard!
[Normal Guard dodge roll: 6]
The guard, seeing the horrid magical chair coming on some instinctual level, dives right out the open door before the chair can hit him, rolling outside as the chair explodes into pieces upon impacting the wall.
[Six-Armed Guard dodge roll: 6]
[Grapple: Six-Armed Guard vs. Scott: 3+
2 vs. 4]
The six-armed guard, having noticed the projectile as well, has an equally wonderful idea, grabbing Scott and placing him between himself and the shards of extremely unusual material coming right for him.
[Scott endurance roll: 6]
Scott yells as a great many shards slice into him, but finds himself mostly unharmed by sheer fortunate happenstance.
Kevin, not really all that used to combat, looks at Sigmund confusedly as things go down, his eyes darting between his guisarme, Sigmund, Scott and their mutual excessively-limbed adversary. An excessively-limbed adversary who, one might add, seems to be trying something unusual.
[Six-Armed Guard throw roll: 2+1]
He attempts to hurl Scott to the top of the stairs, but the awful bastard proves too heavy, only making it halfway up and hitting the steps rather noisily.
[Scott agility roll: 6-1]
Despite being manhandled in such a fashion, Scott doesn't miss a beat, grabbing onto the railing to prevent a rather unfortunate tumble downward, taking a moment to regain his balance.
On the deck of the shrieking ship of Shriekpot...Morton is rather intrigued by this paranormal listening business. And since he doesn't have any readily explicable ears anyway, he figures he might as well try to sense equally inexplicable phenomena.
He listens and he listens, but doesn't hear anything. He... wait. He does hear something. A very distant sort-of voice, he'd say. He listens in.
"Morton... Morton... your tea awaits... step overboard... the water is so nice..."How very interesting! Wonder who it is?
However, Morton is suddenly interrupted by yet another sound, a sort of low *shoom*. He turns to look at its source, and what he sees is quite unusual.
It appears to be a very feminine-looking, pronouncedly beautiful humanoid as far as he can see, although a bit too transparent and crystalline - in fact, this would be an apt description - a crystal woman garbed in prismatic, equally crystalline armor. She has a rather curvy build and large, very brightly glowing solid white eyes, and she is about a head taller than Tailor Craig. There is a moment of quiet stares exchanged, then the woman speaks.
"You know, gender-flip aside, I feel pretty great!"Her, or maybe his voice, though slightly higher, softer and with a decidedly inorganic jingling sound to it, is somewhat recognizable as Art's, if only by the pronunciation. The Artiste, upon noticing the new arrival, raises his mug and hoots, then chugs down all he's got at the moment.