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Before the safe zone ejection
After a mutual agreement that someone else, probably that poor goblin child, would need their bracelet any more than either of them would, Sigmund had handed it over to Gascoigne and the hunter had gone off to give it away. The cultist, on the other hand, had his own mission that he needed to pursue. His hood pulled low, the priest stalked through the safe zones, one hand tucked into his robes.
His face hidden beneath his cowl, Sigmund couldn’t help but cringe at what he was about to do. Giving a shifty look around to make sure no one was watching, he rapped his knuckles on the door of the nearest barracks. A few moments of silence passed, in which he briefly considered changing his mind and making a break for it, but before he could make up his mind the door swung open.
“Can I help you?” A bored looking soldier asked, furrowing his brow a little at the stranger. Sucking in a raspy breath, the priest produced the item that he was smuggling beneath his cloak: the copy of Play, Boy magazine.
“I have been informed that someone here may be interested in exchanging this… thing for something that could be a little more helpful in the Abyss.” Sigmund murmured as he displayed the cover to the man. The soldier seemed to contemplate his offer for a second, chewing his lip before turning and heading back inside. The cultist silently cursed his luck. Of course, who would want something as perverse as th-
“Here you go.” The soldier whispered as he returned to the door, just loud enough for his bizarre dealer to hear him. The man gave a few glances either side of himself and behind him before placing a small canister into Sigmund’s hand. “If anyone asks, you don’t know me, and I didn’t give that to you.”
“I don’t know you.” The scion whispered back, pocketing his new… Whatever it was.
“That’s right.” The soldier grinned before sticking out his hand, into which the cultist quickly shoved the magazine. “Just don’t lose any fingers when you activate that thing.”
Sigmund was about to ask how he was meant to activate it, or even what exactly it was, but before he could the man simply slapped him on the shoulder and went back inside, the door shutting behind him. Pursing his lips in vague concern, the priest turned and left, wondering if the canister would make much of a difference in the coming conflict.
After the safe zone ejection
“Ok, so… if I were to just…” The psion murmured to himself, fiddling with the weapon that the soldier had given to him. He had intended to try to figure it out with Father Gascoigne, but after Mr. Jak’s latest indulgence in his uncontrolled teleportation fetish, he found himself racing to find out how it worked, praying that it wasn’t some sort of explosive that he was about to detonate on himself. “And… aha!”
Finding the right button, the energy bayonet flared to life, barely missing the cultist’s hand in the process.
“Oh… don’t lose any fingers indeed.” He murmured to himself, shifting his grip to a more appropriate position. After a few moments of admiring the weapon, a lightbulb went off in Sigmund’s brain. This was it! He had found what was missing before! Taking out the energy sword that Gascoigne had gifted him, the second plasma weapon activated, and the priest found himself dual wielding energy blades.
“Hahaha! Ancestors, Father! Witness me!” He cackled, swinging the blades in patterns partially retained from Erik Vrell’s memories of wielding his twin psi blades. Illuminated by the crackling energy, Sigmund’s face was cast in a sinister shadow by his cowl, his wide grin all too visible. After a few moments of reveling in the serendipity of it all, he deactivated the weapons and cleared his throat, forcing himself to settle down. There would, hopefully, be celebration in the future. For now he had to make sure he wasn’t going to be jumped by anyone while he began his search for Gascoigne. The larger man was a reliable, steadfast presence, and Sigmund felt quite vulnerable without him.
So, he started walking. And walking. And walking.
Even with the unmaking closing in on all sides, the Abyss contestants still had enough distance they could roam around than the priest knew what to do with. Assuming that the hunter was moving at a similar pace to himself, they could easily be running around in circles looking for one another, assuming that Gascoigne even was looking for him. Sigmund didn’t know what kind of life the older priest lived, but he had undoubtedly been touched by the madness. For all he knew, his lost companion could be out hacking heads from their necks at the moment.
The scion continued his trek through the wastes of Cevanti, humming quietly to himself to distract himself from the impending return of soul-crushing boredom, when he caught movement in the trees out of the corner of his eye. Freezing stock still and glancing towards its source, there was silence for a long, tense moment before curiosity for the better of the young man and he started to creep towards the source of the sound. When he pushed through a few branches, however, he wished he hadn’t.
A burly man who wouldn’t have looked out of place back at home in Ranvier was standing there, his back against the tree for both support and protection. He looked bad, having clearly been through hell in his time on Cevanti, and as Sigmund glanced down, he realized that the weapon currently being leveled at his chest also looked bad, but in a very different way. Cursing under his breath, the cultist subtly pocketed his energy weapons, praising all the Old Aesir that his cloak concealed his arms, before slowly raising his hands until they were all the way above his head.
“Um… hello there!” He croaked, unsure of what exactly he should be doing right now. “I come in peace! My name is Sigmund, I enjoy reading books on snowy nights and not being blasted into giblets!”
The grizzled stranger let out a harsh grunt that could conceivably be construed as a laugh and squinted his good eye, quietly analyzing the psion for what felt like an eternity. Finally, though, he let out a quiet sigh and lowered his weapon, apparently deciding that starting a fight he didn’t need to take wouldn’t be worth it, and Sigmund breathed his own sigh of relief. He felt as if his soul had been about to evacuate his body and had quickly sucked back in when safety was assured.
“Kolith.” The man replied, still giving the priest a skeptical look despite his lowered weapon. “My name is Kolith.”
The Northman’s smile fell by an imperceptible degree at the stranger’s response. Neither his name nor his accent were Ranvian. How disappointing, he thought he might have met one of his countrymen, as absurd as those odds would have been.
“A pleasure to meet you, Kolith.” Sigmund said, giving the spirit vessel a broad grin. The two stared at each other for a few seconds, which extended into a few minutes, the cultist looking expectantly at the grizzled man while he gave a strange look back.
“You can put your arms down now.”
“Oh, thank you!”