2021-02-08 - Dungeons and Dreamers II

For pokker da... Nothing stops Ravn Abildgaard from swearing mildly in his native as he opens his baby blues (steel greys, whatevs) and realises that he's not where he's supposed to be -- or if he is, then his humble trailer in Kickle... Huckle... Baffle.. Badgerbury has received one hell of a make-over while he slept. Maybe it's the opiates; he's been eating them like cereal for a week after signing himself out of hospital so prematurely that the doctor responsible wrote an angry letter to his lawyer.

He upgrades the swearing considerably when he realises that he feels a little -- drafty. Where's the Dane's usual black turtleneck, jeans, blazer? Replaced with a cream coloured livery jacket, Regency style, with silver embroidery. Black leather pants so tight that they seem to have been spray painted on. Tall black leather boots that go above the knee and show off his calves at their best. There's several things missing in this ensemble as far as Ravn is concerned. Gloves -- they're missing. This is bad. So is the fact that there is no shirt under that jacket, and the reason he feels drafty is that he's showing a hell of a lot more chest than the's comfortable with. All of it, actually.

He startles as his naked fingers touch his belt. Is that a sword?

It is. And on closer inspection, the strange sensation of weight at his calves turn out to be a concealed knife sheath in one boot and a concealed set of lockpicks in the other.

They're good lockpicks at least. He's experienced enough to tell.

"What the actual fuck..?" The Dane runs out of native swear words and gets started on the English instead, possibly for the benefit of anyone else nearby. This has to be one of Gray Harbor's severely fucked up dream experiences after all. Anyone else drafted into it are likely English speakers.

Please tell me I'm not alone. Please tell me somebody has a spare pair of gloves.

Rolling from his stomach to his side, a lightly armored figure near Ravn slowly pushes to his... her... their(?) knees, spending several seconds kneeling as they try to gather their bearings. Dark brown hair mostly obscures the face, though the bared shoulders are heavily freckled and slightly sunburnt. The figure pushes to their feet, looking around in obvious confusion.

"W-what?" Straightened hair is pushed back in confusion, and once the face is revealed, the figure is recognizably Turner, though... definitely in better shape than the little librarian seems to be.

Dressed in a decidedly regal blue and gold sun-and-snake motiff armor, he turns to look at Ravn as though hoping the man might have some idea of what's going on. "I... am not having midnight pizza anymore." he says softly, looking down at himself in blatant disbelief. "What the hell am I wearing. This has got to be some sort of cultural appropriation, and I am not okay with it." Bending down, he picks up a golden whip that definitely goes with the armor. "What..." (https://ibb.co/QnksrXb)

Xavier awakens to a room that looks nothing like his Aunt's guest room in the least bit, and he is wearing a lot more clothing than he went to bed in. It takes him a second to get to his feet because he's found himself clad in a long robe? "What the devil is this?" He murmurers to himself as he finally stands. He's wearing a high collared long sleeve white shirt with gold accents, over his shoulders is a deep blue robe trimmed with black. It cinches at his right hip where a heavy belt holding a large tome rests, and his fingers are capped with small rings to give the illusion of claws. His hair is long and wavy and still dark brown but a pair of pointed ears peek out from underneath. On his legs is a long skirt, or another robe, he isn't sure, but what he can tell is that he is lacking pants. He feels boots, perhaps some socks, but no pants. He's carrying a large smooth staff with a blue crystal embedded on top of it.

Not even his nightmares start out this weird.

He looks at the other two in the room? He vaguely remember Ravn from their first meeting in the Library, but it takes him a second to recognize Turner. His eyes get wide as his confusion only grows. "Okay so this is just some weird dream because we were talking about Tolkien when we had coffee right? There is no other reason why I'm dreaming of people dressed up to fetch a cursed ring." He's looking like he really wants this to be the answer, and it may be obvious to the experienced that this is his first time in the Dreamscape.

"Does anyone happen to have an extra pair of pants?" It's only a dream so he can say weird things, it's not like he's actually talking to people. Right? Right.

"Semi Senpai," Kyle mutters in his sleep, then opens his eyes in confusion. This was NOT the dream he was expecting. He started to stretch then his eyes look down to his scantly covered chest with very slightly flushed cheeks. His chest was almost entirely exposed other than two leather straps and some ridiculous shoulder pads. HE was still as scrawny as ever. His hand moved over a little bit and he felt it touch something hard and cold. His eyes went over to the sword that was so large that he should never be able to pick it up. As he sat up he looked down and his flush deepened instead of pants he was wearing skintight black booty shorts with some sort of fur loincloth things around his hips covering the back. HE was NOT apparently wearing much, in fact his boots which covered him up to the knee, were his primary garment. He stood up in a hurry picking up the sword without realizing it and not realizing as he did so that a cape billowed behind him, a cape that was basically a gay pride flag. Long green hair got in Kyle's eyes and he brushed it away and then stared at it... Why did he have his boss's.... " This is a/DREAM/ Isn't it?" He says with a sigh not knowing if anyone else would get the emphasis. He looks over at the others. Ravn, turner, and that hot guy from the library well at least he knew someone there.
( This but with green hair and a rainbow cape instead of red https://i.redd.it/x5tbipge56121.jpg )

Ravn stares blankly. At Turner, dressed like an escapee from World of Warcraft. At Xavier, in -- a dress? A robe, it's called a robe when it's a bloke wearing it. At Kyle, clearly run away from a Nickelodeon children's cartoon. He takes one more look down at himself. Suddenly, missing a shirt doesn't seem so bad. Compared to Kyle at least, he's positively overdressed. Conservative, even. Du godeste.

"I think the proper term is 'nightmare'," the Dane murmurs. "The Dark Men are clearly trying to murder us with fashion. Christ on a bicycle, we look like idiots."

He looks around. "Just the four of us? We should check the perimeter -- there may be other familiar faces curled up somewhere. And probably also looking like they just clawed their way out of Fox News' idea of what Copenhagen Pride looks like."

It had been a late night for Leon. He had stripped out of his work clothes and headed to bed to find his wife already fast asleep. This had meant she had already closed the bar for the night. So, early morning then. As he settle in to bed, carefully draping an arm over Maggi, he could see through the standing mirror nearby, the dull shape on his bare shoulder. It was dim light, sure, but it was far too blurry. His 75th Ranger Regiment badge, some of the oldest ink he had. He should get it touched up. At least that was the image in his mind as he fell asleep.

But when he opened his eyes again, it wasn't to a soft bed. He was kneeling somewhere near the others, a pose that might have made him mistaken for a statue. He was clad in full plate, surcoated, burnished with use. His head was dipped forward, both his hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword, it's point driven at least an inch into the ground. A shield hung from one arm, the crest of a screaming bearded vulture emblazoned on it. A helmet hung at his hip.

He raised his head and looks around, blinking, hearing the others, but trying to make sense, pushing back the feeling of panic into the dark corners. A weapon for later. He uses the sword as a crutch and lifts himself to his feet with the faint rattle of well-insulated metal. He takes stock of his own armaments slowly, brows furrowed, testing his mobility in the heavy armor, then glances to the others.

"No." he answers Ravn's question, with the confidence of a veteran, then starting to take stock of their surroundings.

"I... No... I... What." Seeing Xavier in wizarding gear and Kyle looking like he just escaped from a BDSM club's Fantasy theme night is apparently too much for Turner to process for several seconds. Finally, frustrated and flustered he looks to Leon and just throws his hands up in the air, the golden whip dangling to touch the ground beside him. "Whose idea was it to give me a whip?" he half whispers, before peering around. He begins to sidle toward Kyle, at least he knows Kyle better than the others. He pushes his hair back from his face, blinking in surprise. "Who pierced my ears?"

"Can someone please, please tell me what's happening? I... went to bed, and... okay. I went to bed, and fell asleep. And I'm going to wake up safe and sound and be in my bed with Juniper snoring on my face or something. Right?"

Kyle groaned a little to himself, apparently at least one person here if not more had never been in one of these before. He opens his mouth to explain them stops. He was the Barbarian, he thinks. So his just is to hit things. He'll try to let the responsibility of explaining what's going on to pass to someone else. Maybe raven. Or the shiny knight person. At least So far they had a decent party. a cleric, a magic type, a knightly type and Ravn... Ravn wasn't a Class as far as he knew... and he knew about 50 table top systems...

Xavier thinks to himself for a moment, wondering why his brain is making this sort of dream and shakes his head. "I don't know who gave you the whip, but they have to be weird if they think I'm Gandalf the not so Grey. I don't have grey hair." He clears his throat letting that moment of vanity pass before he spots the knight, and the shy kid from the library in bondage gear. "I'm just as lost as you." Xavier says. "Honestly, who wears a book?" Though part of him thinks that this is a great idea, who doesn't want to wear a book! "Maybe we should look around. If we let the dream play out we'll wake up and no one will ever remember this happened right?"

"No guarantees of safe and sound anything," Ravn murmurs and tries to close his jacket; it doesn't work. For a tall and slender guy, at least he's got decent abs. "Dreams don't work like that. You get hurt in one, you wake up injured. Be careful with those swords, eh?"

He looks around himself once again; there's something in his posture that hints of an awareness that there might be others -- and that others aren't necessarily friendlies. "You'll probably remember," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "But yeah -- we have to play through it, that's how it works. There's a story that wants to be told. We just got recruited to main cast -- just hope and pray it's one of those fun stories, and not one of those everybody wakes up enroute to the ICU stories."

His chest is still miscoloured on the right side where, just a week previous, a bullet went right through. Amazing healing speed, though.

"I'm suddenly missing the nightmares of drowning." Turner mutters to himself. His kohled eyes linger on Ravn's abs for several seconds, though, before he begins casting about once more, trying to see where they might be inclined to go next. As he moves, he speaks, sounding a little more confident than he does in the real world. "So, we're in some sort of fantasy setting. We should probably keep an eye out for traps in the stone, we wouldn't... want the floor to collapse into a spike pit or something." He slips the whip onto a small hook on his hip, shaking his head.

"Any way to... see our character sheets, figure out what we are, or we can do... anything like that?" he turns to Ravn once more, since he seems the most familiar with things, and not just because the man's borderline shirtless and Turner's a thirsty little nerd.

Kyle is taking a few basic swings with his sword and shrugs this should be pretty easy. Barbarian isn't what he thinks he would have chosen. Or IF he had he'd had made sure he got abs atleast. But it was a pretty simple straight forward class. He was supposed to hit things. "Turner when we wake up. I think we're over due for a talk... You've lived here as long as I have.... You really should know some ... Things." His eyes were avoiding looking at the shirtless Ravn he seemed deep in thought about... something

Pulling his sword from the ground, Leon tests the weight of it, the balance, making a flat-lipped face that says it wasn’t his favorite, but at least it was a workable weapon. As he takes a quick look around the wavering and possibly rallying, her offers more.

“This is as real to yourselves as anything. You may be hurt. You will remember this.” That was the reality: rather dour, but still delivered in that same confidence, “I’ve been in a few of these. They’re made to test or torture. Focus on the first. They’ll try to make you use your powers, because they want to feed on it, make you hurt, bite off pieces of you. But we’re strong enough to live through it, and sometimes they give us things they don’t know we can use. Gary Harborites survive.” He looks at each person in turn, as he says this, letting them know he counted them in this title, “The only way is through. So through we go. Look sharp, watch out for your friends. No one is left behind.”

Aura of Courage activated (not really, but he’s a pretty affable guy), Leon’s eyes go to the middle distance for a moment as his mind unlocks, reaching its senses outward and seeking. His eyes immediately look left, toward the barrier, his brows lowered in stoic assessment, determination, “Minds. A lot of them.”

Ravn glances at Turner. "Now is not the best time to find out what you can do -- but anything you can do when you're awake, probably. Maybe more. Depends on the whims of whoever came up with this crazy setup. I bloody well hope they have decided that I know how to use a sword because if they haven't, I'm ditching this thing first chance I get. It's heavy as hell and I'll probably end up stabbing myself."

The folklorist gives up on trying to turn his jacket decent and takes another look at the assembly instead. "We're... roles, aren't we. Wizard. Knight. Other guys. I have lockpicks, what am I -- the thief? How bloody appropriate. I guess that means I have to check for traps and spot hidden? Oh lord, we're screwed."

Xavier needed a moment to process what everyone was saying. This is really happening, and what happens here could happen in reality. He stares between Leon and Ravn as his little mind wraps around that concept. "Got it. Don't use powers, don't die, or get maimed, it's fine. I got it." He doesn't got it.

When Ravn starts listen off classes he frowns. "Well they chose poorly for me, I'm terrible with spells." Though Leon's announcement makes him pause and he looks where he is looking. "Why wouldn't happen to be friendly minds would they?" He knows better, that's not at all how it happens in fantasy novels. For now he sticks close to Turner since it's the only person he knows well.

"I meant... here. I already know what I can do in the real world... sort of. In a vague way..." Another glance over to Kyle, and Turner nods emphatically to Kyle, before looking away. "Okay... Wizard," he points to Xavier, "Fighter... maybe Paladin..." to Leon. "Barbarian," for Kyle, "You're either a drunken noble or a Rogue..." to Ravn, "And I'm..." he looks down at himself, "Problematic. But... based on the motif... cleric of a sun diety... who's kinky. And likes snakes." He moves closer to Xavier, as well, pausing, before speaking softer.

"You left your Kindle at Espresso Yourself... I grabbed it for you... I haven't... looked in it." though the way he colors suggests he MAY have snuck a peek at the book Xavier was reading before turning it back off. "Should... we head that way?" he indicates the way forward, worriedly, but makes no move to head that direction.

Ruiz is a little late to the party, and not particularly fashionably so, either. Unless one considers the garb of a woodsman or ranger, to be fashionable. Which, hey, perhaps some people do. He's decked out in leather, leather and more leather; a cuirass and snug-fitting breeches, boots laced to his calves, and a dark undershirt laced with a leather thong that reveals a flash of ink at his collarbones. Doeskin gloves as well; three-fingered on the right hand, curiously enough. Or perhaps not so curiously, considering he's toting an ornate recurve bow and a quiver bristling with arrows. A short sword rests in a scabbard at his side as well, though it appears to be a weapon of last resort, given the range on those missiles.

"What the fuck kind of Tolkien shit is this?" are the first words out of his mouth as he gets an eyeful of the others. And himself.

"I'm sober, and I carry lock picks. I'm clearly some ignorant D&D player's idea of what a thief is like. Which is ironic, considering that I actually used to be one, and I assure you, I never dressed like this in the waking world." Ravn makes a face and glances down at himself again; he's actually kind of appropriately dressed -- for a mid-80s hair metal band lead singer prancing around in thigh high boots, tight leather pants and an open livery jacket without a shirt under. Get some mascara and a wig on him, and he's practically Jon Bon Jovi.

For some inexplicable reason the expression on his face when he spots the police captain borders on existential terror. He manages to swallow and compose himself -- after a few more unsuccessful attempts to close that bloody jacket. "Evening, de la Vega. Looks like we're -- yeah, Tolkien shit just about covers it."

He's actually blushing as he heads towards the nearest of the statues, proceeding to inspect it very, very carefully -- looking for hidden compartments, poison darts, secret messages, inscriptions, Indiana Jones. Anything that might offer a hint as to what the hell is going on here, and keeps him from having to meet Ruiz' eyes. The occasional muttered swear in Danish probably has more to do with the fact that the man isn't wearing his usual gloves, though.

There was a non-committal shrug given to Turner’s assessment of his class, then a brow raised at the second guess. To Xavier he clarifies, “Try not to, but ultimately, your life is on the line. You do what you have to to survive, and none of us are going to look badly on you using it to save someone else. I know I would in that case.” The commentary about kinky just has Leon’s eyes rolling away. He didn’t have time to let that fill his brain space.

Leon wheels on the new voice, shield arm lifting to bear. He spots Ruiz, recognition drawing on his face, the sudden start melting back away, “Fuck, de la Vega, nearly pissed myself.” Though there was a lift to the man’s shoulders, like the locksmith was at least relieved to find another friendly, trained combatant. Maybe he wouldn’t have to drag the rest of these boys through this after all. “Just glad this isn’t the desert. Kit was bad enough.” He makes a wave at the full plate.

Xavier raises his brows at Turner and when he mentions his kindle his face reddens. "Oh uhm, thank you for grabbing it, I completely missed that I didn't grab it. All the books are boring on there you don't have to read them. They're dull, so very dull. All of the dull. I can fetch it later." He clears his throat, and when Ruiz arrives he tilts his head at him. There is so much to take in right now and his little brain is going into overdrive.

When the others talk about their weapons he looks down at his book and then to his staff and quirks a brow. "I suppose I could bash people over the head with it? I'm terrible at baseball though. Do we have better skills in here?" He hopes so. Looking to Leon he nods, this guy is talking like he knows what he's doing so he's going to follow him.

"Completely dull, I'm sure. Not that I looked. Because... I didn't look." Turner is scarlet, and it's not just because he's got a slightly sunburnt look to him. "It would be rude to look." Ruiz gets a long, long look of what is clearly appreciation for snug breeches, before he remembers to look away. "Technically it isn't Tolkien, it's just inspired by him, though I have to admit the gender imbalance might lead one to think it's Tolkien..." flustered. Turner rambles when he's flustered. He shuts his mouth firmly, pausing to gather his thoughts for a moment, before speaking once more. "You're probably a ranger. Long ranged weapons, wilderness skills like tracking..."

A barrier of some kind -- a force field? magic? sheer bloodyminded stubbornness? -- separates the air bubble from the water outside. The statues are out there and Ravn is in here. Much as he wants to occupy himself doing something constructive, he can't tell much from this distance. "I guess somebody needs to find out if we can survive out there," he murmurs. "And since I'm the bloke here who's best dressed for the occasion and I did a stint as a merman once, I guess that that somebody is me."

He pulls off the jacket and drops it on the floor. It'll only get in the way. The bullet exit wound on his back is neatly closed up, but the flesh around it still gleams with all the colours of the rainbow.

Attempting to move through the barrier, the Dane holds his breath, ready to retrace his steps if the water outside turns out to be too cold or too hot, the current too strong, or something else prevents him from getting where he wants to go. He braces. Controls his breathing. And very carefully opens his mouth to let the water in, trying to remember what it felt like when he was half man, half tuna and could breathe underwater. Preferably before inhaling more salt water than he can safely spit back out.

Whatever the outcome might be, the Dane attempts to return to the side of the barrier that the others are on right away. If he can breathe out there, the others need to know. If he can't -- well, then staying out there seems tactically unsound.

Tracking? Wilderness skills? De la Vega grimaces slightly, and he's probably inwardly wishing he was back at his fucking desk doing his fucking paperwork right now. Because signing a stack of bail bonds is infinitely better than this. Whatever this is. Scruffing his fingers through his beard agitatedly, he fixes Turner with a steady look in return, and ambles in closer to the group while muttering something about Robin fucking hood. Because he's shrouded in a cloak, too, whose cowl sits over his head and casts stark shadows across his weathered features.

"What are you supposed to be?" he enquires of Leon, as he looks the man over. Xavier he doesn't recognise, and Ravn? Well, he might just be a tad amused once the shirtless Dane starts blushing like that. Brows furrowed, he keeps half an eye on whatever stunt he's trying to pull with the water breathing. Tense, like he's preparing to lunge for him and haul him back out.

"The tin man? Fuck if I know, Dorothy." Leon fires back at Ruiz, the ghost of a smile softening the bite of the clapback. Leon had given the police chief a once-over, but honestly it didn't look anywhere near as weird as the stuff the boys were in. "I just wanna get back to bed with my wife." He mutters under his breath. He briefly looks about himself, shield arm lifting to pull down on his gorget, trying to assess his own scabbard situation and eventually slipping the sword away. He moves to inspect the columns around them now, though catching sight of Ravn. His face falls as he sees the rogue wander out of the protection.

"Wait, fuck!"

"Paladin. Um... very charismatic, and you can smite evil once a day... and you're basically a walking tank of lawful good." Turner sums things up for the man as best he can.

"Should... should he be doing that? It looks dangerous out there..." Turner brings a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing at it absently, before he makes his way over to the barrier, gently touching it, but not trying to push through it. "Some sort of... wall of force. Did you cast a spell before we got here?" he turns to Xavier, tilting his head to one side slightly.

Salt water tastes -- salt. It definitely does not taste like air. Ravn remembers what being able to breathe water felt like. This isn't it.

Turns out I can in fact not breathe underwater. What a surprise. We needed to know, though. Fancy that, we're just a little bit, you know, trapped. Underwater. At the bottom of sea. Where we can't breathe.

The folklorist puts himself in a mental stranglehold. There are good times and bad times when it comes to having anxiety attacks. This moment definitely qualifies as one of the latter. He stares at his naked hands a moment, glaring them into submission. Then he backtraces the few steps he took and, like a careful hot knife through butter, eases himself back in through the mystical barrier.

He drips as he reaches down for the cream-coloured jacket and pulls it on, trying to ignore the clammy squelching of tight leather pants and boots full of sea water. "The bad news is, the water is real. And from the pressure, we're far down -- trying to swim out is probably not on the table. There is a gate of some kind out there that the statues look like they're headed for. No idea where it leads -- didn't have time to get a good look. The really bad news is that the barrier felt thinner when I came back in than it did when I went out. It's like a soap bubble -- wouldn't be hard to pop at all. Probably best if we don't screw with it again until we've exhausted other options. There's got to be something in here that tells us how to proceed before we run out of air."

A slender hand goes through wet, bedraggled hair, pulling it out of Ravn's eyes. "Somebody who's a native speaker tell me how a berth can surround a body? To me, a berth is where I, uh, park my boat. It's a space, not a thing."

Xavier shakes his head. "No I didn't cast anything.. but maybe I can cast something?" He pulls the book from it's weird side holster and opens it up, flipping through it quickly. "Well the good news is, whatever this is written in, I understand it." He flips though the pages skimming each one while Ravn is out poking past the barrier. By the time he's back he looks up at the group.

"Okay so there is a water-breathing spell in here, but it only works on three people and there are.." He trails off as he counts. "Six of us here. So half of us could go past the barrier and the rest will have to figure out another plan.

Leon squints through the barrier as best he can, but listens to the assessment from Ravn of the entrance. “If it’s going to be an attempt to swim across, I’m not going to be the fast mover. We could use some recon.” He looks to Xavier and glances down at the book, craning his head as he sees it open, eyes following the pages as if he can read the words, then it all starts to click in his head. “I think... I think I can read this. If it only covers three apiece, maybe I can try it as well?”

"You don't know if there's anything out there to swim to," Ravn points out, still dripping, and shivering a little because who'dathunk, oceans are cold. "There's a lot of pressure -- we're down deep. Floating up -- not an option, we won't have air enough. If you blokes can make us able to breathe under water, somehow, though --"

He trails off. Breathe under water. Come on. But then, he was once a fish.

"I realize the hypocrisy of me saying it but, uh, let's not poke the barrier again until we agree we're going out. It's really fragile." He glances at it. Soap bubble.

Don't think about how far down we are. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

Itzhak must have just dozed off, in the overworld. Surely everybody would have noticed him before now, if he'd been here, because he's dressed rather extravagantly. Tight, soft leather breeches that ride real, real low on his narrow hips; thigh length heeled boots that make him way too tall; a form-fitting sleeveless doublet; a cream silk shirt open at the throat, its sleeves billowing. And a hat. A really bloody magnificent hat with a vast broad brim, ostrich and peacock feathers nodding from the band. No lace at his wrists, despite all the rest of the foppery. He needs his hands unimpeded to play his intricately-carved fiddle. A real-world instrument could not be so carved and still be playable. This one is, though, an impossible masterwork.

He's looking around at the other men, blinking, trying to get his bearings. "...Why are we letting Abildgaard try to drown himself?" When his gaze finds Ruiz, he actually staggers a little, theatrically, one hand going to his own chest as if to hold his leaping heart in. "God damn, well at least I get to look at you in that."

The dark-eyed ranger is standing right there when Itzhak pops in, ostrich feathers and foppery and all. A gloved hand drops to his hip out of reflex, but finds the hilt of a sword instead of the grip of a firearm. "Mm," he muses, gaze narrowed slightly as he looks the man and his instrument over. Then his hand drops away from his weapon, and he switches his attention back to Ravn when the folklorist reappears. "Going out? Why the fuck would we go out?" He strides forward a few paces for a closer look at the barrier, brows furrowed, cloak clouding his bulky frame.

"Maybe I can... do something. I mean, in D&D Clerics can't do water breathing spells usually but... this is not D&D. I think. It might be, but I'm not sure which edition..." Turner trails off, looking at the wet, shirtless Ravn. "... this is not the time for getting in touch with my latent sexuality, dammit." he mutters, very softly, though he's blushing scarlet. It goes from the face down his neck to both bare shoulders. Who knew Turner was a full body blusher?

Kneeling, one hand around the sun medallion at his throat, Turner closes his eyes and sort of thinks at whatever he might be getting his Dream powers from, rather than trying to use his psionic abilities. Maybe he can sort out what he can do through thoughtful prayer and meditation. He's never been much for the power of prayer, despite Grams' urging... maybe this is her revenge for all those years he blew off church.

Xavier presents the book to Leon so he can give it a proper glance at it and when he says he thinks he can cast from it, he smiles. "Great, so if I do three and you do three we'll be just.." That's when Itzhak joins them and he sighs. "Still not enough. Fuck they do not make this easy." Still he isn't thrilled of the idea of swimming in a freezing dark ocean but surely they can't sit in a bubble all night. Or they could but.. he's not sure what happens if you don't follow the dream.

He looks to Turner as he trails off and turns red, and follows his line of sight then quickly looks back at his spell book. It's safer if his eyes remain on neutral things. "Okay so what are the clues? Let's lay out what we know, something about berth, and we know there are minds out there some where."

Reading the passage from Xavier’s book one last time, Leon steps back and looks at the group. “We haven’t really found anything here, so the idea is sound we probably have to go out, or at least try to figure out why I feel minds out there.” He trades looks with Ravn, then his lids lower.

Focusing, Leon thinks about the things he read and the feeling it conveyed. This was much like the way he’d learned to really use his powers. It wasn’t so much about ritual or knowledge, it was a question of focus and mental actualizing. He convinces himself that seawater was just another form of breathable substance. Technically, water had all the elements once needed to breath in it, humans were just less efficient at taking that oxygen off the water molecules. He imagines the world where they could. His mind unlocks, it reaches, and it asserts its own reality. All can feel his powers reaching, much like they would in the real world, and all can feel his will settle comfortably over himself plus four of the other members of the party.

He opens his eyes and glances to Xavier, “The rest are on you.” He steps to the barrier, but waits for the others to be covered before he dares risk touching it.

"We know that there is a gate out there, and that these statues all seem to be headed toward it." Ravn glances at Leon. "And that there are minds out there, in that direction as well? It seems pretty obvious where we need to go. The question is how we're going to get there. I'm pretty damned certain that whoever or whatever I'm supposed to be -- besides Bret Michaels -- I don't do magic. Do we have enough? Or should we be sniffing around here for any hidden caches of scuba diving gear?"

The folklorist is not good at just standing still and waiting. But the idea of touching base with the more experienced people does seem to be occurring to him at last. Maybe it should have, before he decided to go try to drown himself. Better late than never?

Itzhak flashes a smirk at Ruiz, before eyeing the all-too-lifelike statues. "Uhhh... okay, we all know that that means there's a basilisk or something, right?" He winces as the plan to breach their fragile chamber of air continues apace, but he doesn't say anything against it. How often does a guy get to go free diving in underwater ruins, after all? However, he does look down at himself, as if to gauge how badly it's going to ruin his clothes....then mutters, "I look fucking amazing," in a tone part impressed and part dismayed.

One eye cracks open, and Turner sighs. "Really hard to pray when you don't KNOW who you're praying to." The kneeling pose is shifted to sitting, and Turner leans back slightly, staring up. "I almost don't want to leave. It's... sort of beautiful." he does push to his feet, nodding to Itzhak. "Probably not a basilisk. I don't think any of the figures have bite marks. Maybe a Medusa. Why they didn't call them Gorgons I'll never know... but..." he sighs, shifting from one foot to the other, and back.

Xavier watches Leon as he does... something. He isn't sure he understands what just happened, but he takes his word that four of their party are taken care of. "Oh yes of course. Good on you, I'll just.." Cast a spell? Like a wizard. He shakes his head and decides to stop over thinking it and just go with it. He focuses as the crystal at the edge of his staff glows and that light expands out to cover himself and the remaining party members. He mumbles something in French as the spells ends and looks down at himself.

"I think that worked. I suppose we're about to find out if we head out there and start drowning." He says dryly, gripping his staff a bit as he tries not to think of drowning in his own bed back home, or the impending doom that waits them outside of this safe bubble. For now he folds his book back onto it's holster and hopes it's not going to get ruined in the water.

As Turner begins to feel himself slowing, greying, his mind reaches up and OUT and, however briefly, finds a connection to the divine. Slowed but still struggling through the water as best he can, Turner fumbles in his pouch. A piece of cork floats into his hand. Crumbled and cast above him, the cork seems to sparkle as it floats off. Turner, looking more like a magical girl mid transformation than a cleric, radiates golden energies in the shape of benevolent serpents that snake forth from him, surrounding Ravn, Leon, Xavier and Kyle in their radiant glow before dissipating.

Not what Itzhak expected when he dozed off 'just for a minute' on the loveseat at his garage. That's life in the big Harbor, baby. He gasps ocean and somehow doesn't die. That is pretty amazing, but he's also distracted because-- "I know this song," he mutters. His voice is weirdly resonant underwater. "I know this song. Welcome to my cage, little lover - Attempt to rearrange with you, baby..."

He swishes around in place, lanky body graceful, and sings to Ravn and Turner and Kyle. Power swells from him, given life by the music.

He doesn't like the plan, but to be perfectly fair, he doesn't have a better one. So when the others go plunging into the water, de la Vega grabs a handful of Ravn's belt (he's careful not to touch any skin), takes a big ol' gulp of air and follows suit. Whoosh as his big frame slams into it with a low thrum, dragging the half-naked Dane along with him. His cloak fans out like ink in the water, shrouding them both as he swims with powerful strokes. Don't pay attention to the fucking gills, or the fact that your throat exchanges oxygen with the water like it's done this all your life. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if Itzhak is keeping up, but doesn't have time to check.

"Well, I seem to be doing fantastic," Ravn murmurs, more or less into the back of Ruiz' hood. He's obviously not comfortable with the situation -- but to be fair, no one sane would be. He's under the sea, hoping to hell and back that the magic that lets them breathe holds, and now he can't walk. Great news for a bloke who spends half his life worrying about whether he's inconveniencing anyone.

He tries to sneak a look at the gate up ahead. "I still don't know what the voice means, talking about a berth as if it is an object. A berth is a space -- unless my English is failing me. But the decorations on the gate make me think 'tree of life'. Whether that's good news, though? Trees need fertiliser."

Leon was a bit surprised at the pulling, leeching feeling, the sensation that could have slowed him. He looks like he might turn, grab for those that slowed, unwilling to leave men behind, then Turner's efforts give them the freeing burst, and he waves as fast as the deep water would allow, bubbles trailing as he beckons, 'MOVE!' He spots Ruiz grabbing the last laggard and continues to push on, Leon knowing any pause in the weight of the armor he was pushing with, and he might not be able to start again. He grits his teeth and shoves forwards, sure to turn his shield sideways so it didn't create drag in the deep, pressure-laden water.

Moving freely once more, Turner sends up a silent prayer of thanks and brushes his hand over his holy symbol. He can't decide if Grams would be pleased or upset, but he doesn't have time to worry right now. Looking to make sure the others are able to keep up, Turner hurries toward the stairs, the flowing fabric and long hair trailing behind him as he moves almost as if he weren't under water, once more. Slowing beside Leon, Turner unwinds his whip and leaves that trailing too, golden though far less magical than the divine energies.

Should he or Leon be slowed or stopped once more, here's hoping the other can keep soldiering on toward the doorway.

Itzhak slips through the water, tall form eeling through abyssal pressure. Most of his clothes are form-fitting, but the billowy sleeves of his shirt ripple with his swimming like the long fins of a betta. The hat, however, immediately got swept off. He didn't leave it, he's got it in hand. Would a man like him leave a hat like that behind?

The ocean should taste intolerably salt, but instead it's mildly, pleasantly saline. Like kissing someone. The water should be filling his lungs and agonizing him to death, but instead it gushes out his gills. Joy in these unlikely things, in the sight of Ruiz showing the water who's boss and dragging Ravn for the ride, in having worked his will on malevolent magic and rewoven it with the best power he has--music--makes him laugh, makes him yell for the sheer hell of it and twirl in the water like a sea lion.

The bastard is having a fantastic time.

Ruiz hardly needs help, but Itzhak checks on him and Ravn. "How youse boys doin'," he says, and swimming backwards a moment, checks on Kyle and Turner and Xavier. "Keep goin', big man, we're right behind ya!" he shouts at Leon.

His voice really is curious underwater, and of course he can't shut up in this situation any more than he can in any other. It's layered with undertone and meaningful timbre, like a virtuoso performance on an extremely expensive instrument.

"Fantastic," Ravn repeats, though when he does, his glance travels south to where the police captain is literally dragging him by the belt. There's a lot to unpack in that look.

Gratitude -- who wants to be left behind to drown when the water breathing spell wears off, or left alone on the bottom of the ocean? And gratitude, too, that de la Vega has the mental presence to remember Ravn's issues with being touched and work out a solution on the spot. Humiliation at being literally yoinked along by the belt -- yes, but, see above entry.

Fear -- the folklorist is biting back on his anxieties but anyone who knows him well won't have a hard time to tell that he is; the set jaw, the frown, the inwards-focused body language, those are all qualities of a man who wishes he was anywhere but here.

Clearly playing the part of armored vanguard, and making a quick check that those with him were taken care of and keeping up, Leon muscles on, footfalls on the ocean floor carrying him forward, as swimming certainly wasn’t an option in his current state. He doesn’t wait, the area was dangerous, and the gate was open. If there was anyone better suited for breaching the next area, it was going to be him. He finally brings his shield arm around as his steps carry him toward and through the gate, ready to meet the other side with a wall of metal and momentum. His other hand went to his sword hilt, ready to draw.

Ruiz is simply doing what Ruiz does best: being a stubborn motherfucker. As if he's going to fucking die a statue at the bottom of this goddamned Dream ocean. Or let Ravn do the same, apparently. His grip tightens on that belt, and teeth gritted together, he pushes forward to the gate. No chit chat, no showboating from him; the sharpshooter's already got his eye on the distance for any threats they might encounter at range.