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Micheal Crane


Micheal made his way into the warehouse looking around, nodding, "Place should be condemned really. But maybe I can get something out of this." He takes a quick tour of the ground floor of the place and after a few short minutes picks a place among the still standing shipping containers. A near perfect circle made of several crates and containers. With four openings leading into it. The significance is paramount atleast to the ritual magic of the indigenous peoples. The Circle representing life. And the four entrances the four directions. The four winds. The Four Prime elements. Spectacular really that such a spot would be here.

As Micheal went about setting up the spot he'd use for the ritual he looks to the left suddenly. The three gods who followed him look at him in surprise. Micheal then looks to the right, "There's someone here..." He says this loud enough that any of the other team who heard him might be able to hear him. He stands up his hand going for his tomahawk at his left hip, "What...who's there!?" He turned. And his godly friends came up beside them. Micheal spun again catching a glimpse of something or someone darting out of sight, "Who's out there?" He whipped around again, using his tomahawk to carve the cree syllabic runes for fire into the air beside him, a woosh and a orb of fire appears above his left shoulder. Then he spins again, and spots it finally. A child. Peering at him from between some of the crates. He blinks, "A child..." The gods turn and look the way he's looking. Manabozho whisper, "Micheal there's no one there..." Micheal blinks, "A sprite?...No...a spirit." The child a young girl no older then 14 or 15 edges out of her hiding spot, "You can see me?" Her voice is soft and wispy. Micheal nods, "I can child." the girl lets out a slow breath, "I'm lost...my parents...and I...we got lost on a trip...they...I think they went somewhere. But I can't leave." The three gods and shamans eyes go wide a little in surprise. This couldn't be what Micheal thought it could be...could it?

The quartet of gods and shaman trade looks. The gods can faintly hear the words. But not as clear as Micheal. Micheal turns and shouts back the way they came, "Hey! Amanda! We may have a problem here." He looks back at the spirit of the child, "I'm going to try and help you hunny. Just wait a short bit alright?" The girl nods and sits down by a crate.

In the meantime while waiting for Amanda or anyone else to show up, the gods begin to set up Micheal ritual gear. A cured buckskin sage, sweet grass, drum, and pipe set out correctly. They'd been watching Micheal do this alot, so they knew his set up. At the same time Micheal is going around and sprinkling tobacco at the entrances to the circle. Leaving room for people to come in and out, but still having the correct warding up just in case. While sprinkling some tobacco near the girl he looks at her, "None of this is making you uneasy is it kiddo?" The girl shakes her hear, "No...should it?" Micheal hums, "If it does...just let me know." Raven comes by, "Not causing the kid any pain?" Micheal shakes his head and whispers, "Atleast that means she's not malicious, the tobacco would be painful to her if it was." He sniffs and heads to the buckskin and starts to clean the bowl of the pipe, "Gotta let the boss lady know before I continue."

@Kumbaris
Shaman Crane


At the OMR HQ

Micheal blinks, "Under my control?" He chuckles. And looks over at the three gods who came with him. Now that the attention is off the projector, well the three are making a good go on it. Experimenting with buttons, lamp intensity, all kinds of interesting little things with the projector. At one point Raven crying out painfully as Manabozho blazes the lamp into his eyes. Whiskeyjack bursting out laughing at that a moment later.

Micheal snorts, "I wouldn't say under my control." He hums then reaches over to his duffle bag and from it he brings out a hand-drum and pulls the drum stick from inside it. The three trickster gods are so involved with the projector they don't see it. But they react when the first beats of the song reverberate from the drum. And it's not the music itself, or the beat of the drum. But it's a combination of his intent, the music and his voice and the drum that makes the three gods cover their ears and scramble back and away from the drum suddenly. They look a little affronted actually at Micheal. And once they are off the machine he stops playing, and puts the drum away, "We just have an understanding, if they wanted, and they know it, all three could easily over power me. I'm just one shaman. And they are three childish..." Raven flips Micheal off at that, "Gods." Micheal finishes, "Come on then you lot we got work to do." As if the bad moment is passed Micheal lets out a shout of surprise as he gets swarm-hugged by the three gods at once, "Ahhh hey!" The shaman shouts out.

At the warehouse

The ride over was pretty good really. But he'd somehow lost the gods along the way. Ah well, the city had the OMR headquarters nearby they were certainly to have a few people who could contain a few wayward gods.

Micheal looked out the back backseat window as they pulled up to the warehouse. He hummed softly, "That's alot of police..." He muttered. Not waiting for orders he got out of the car and while Amanda went to talk to the commander of the force on site. Micheal in the meantime went to the trunk of the car where he had put most of his gear. As Amanda went inside and reconed the building Micheal suited up. Part of being a ritualist is you need to have the tools. So as the others waited Micheal went for his gear. But as soon as he opened the trunk three shrunk down gods tumbled out with cries of relief. Micheal sighs, "You three...just...stay out of trouble and don't break or move anything. Do you understand? This is serious." The three sighed and nodded. Micheal let out a breath as he gathered his things and started to don his gear. The gods going to sit on a curb and watching.

Micheal tied his hair back into a pony tail and waited for Amanda to return. Then went to join the group as they all gathered up to look over the holographic model of the warehouse. He hummed, "I'll find a place in the warehouse to perform a scrying and ritual. Perhaps I can see something or get the magic in the area going enough to find something. There are always eddies and currents about. With a little time maybe I can stir something up." He smiled and nodded to Amanda and the rest of the group.
pîhtokahânapiwiýin, The Shaman


Micheal pushed off the table he's leaning on and grabs Whiskeyjack by the back of the neck as he dances by. Leaning in to look the god in the eyes, "Stop...for now. Later you can be silly but we need to get serious." The young-looking god pouts a little and nods, going to sit on a couch for now. And yes he does very much sulk and pout where he sits.

Micheal walks up closer to watch the presentation. He hums softly, one of his hands pressed to his cheek as he watches and listens. He hums. Weapons shipments...illegal weapons shipments. Sure not good juju, but why would the OMR...all the groups getting these weapons and ultimate Mr. X. "How cliche..." He said outloud, not realizing he did so. And casually reached out and smacked Whiskeyjacks hand as the god tried to reach out from behind Micheal to play with the projector. A second later Micheal did the same thing for Raven who reached a slightly feathered hand over too. And then a THIRD time when Manabozho did the same thing.

Micheal shook his head, "I have a trio of kids following me..." To which Manabozho grumped out, "Hey!"

Micheal nods, "Well I'll do my best to help out. Not sure what my skill set will help with." He grins, "But I'll help." He shrugs and nods, "So what next then?"
@Paradoxial

Sorry for the double post, but just want to go on record, I love the way you started your post with the rot munchers, maggot eaters, skid marks line. Really reminded me of one of the best lines from Mad Max 2. Smegma crazies to the left! The gate! Gayboy berserkers, to the gate!

Just want to say well done.
Interesting.

I would be interested in joining in on this.

Maybe the Scrapper perhaps. I like the idea of that.
If it weren't for the fact he had both eyes open the view at the moment would be rather myopic for Nolan. His eye set to scope, blue center dot against black target lines. And the view of the scope alone. But with his other eye open he can get a much much better view of what's going on. And at eight hundred meters it's good he did. At that distance, even with that big .50 cal Tac50 Rifle, the two shots he had to make while Andrew had made his way down to the radar dome had been muffled by distance alone. No normal sniper or marksmen would want to make a shot at that range. But Nolan like Andrew, is a breed beyond. He'd scoped on two men, both of them would have gotten views on either Andrew or Eric. The first shot had been a 900 meter shot that had pipped the ace. Punch a hole through a man that was about to round the corner on Eric, and the stealther had been busy planting charges on some AAA emplacements.

The only thing that had alerted Eric was the mean ffffwip! of the round as it sped over him and took out the man who was just coming around the corner of a barracks building. The man was luckily unwired, and the shot had pitched him back behind some boxes where he'd be hard to find. And in the cold the body wouldn't rot to quick. The second shot had pitched a man who had yet to fully wire up down off a gangway across two buildings. He'd have had a great view of Andrew as he made his way into the radar dome. The shot had traveled just over 810 meters to slam into the man, pitch him back over a railing and down between two buttress sections to the main base. Hard to see from all angles but the one looking right down it. And no one would expect him to report quite yet. Good shots all around. As he lifted his head a little to check other views his comms beep and he hums softly responding, "Ten-Four there Cordite One. I have eyes on Osprey right now."

Moments later Eric responds, "I can feel your eyes on me Cordite Two. Fantastic shot earlier. I moved that one into cover abit more. I'm about a third done right now. I've managed to wire several of these sites up together. Hidden the cords and patched them into one of four detonators I have with me. I'm moving into section Alpha one four Beta right now. Along the back of the Control tower. I saw afew SPAAG's back there. Tunguska's, Gepards, and what looked like a M6 Linebacker. I want to get rid of those things of course. They could be really dangerous."

Nolan sniffed and watched as Eric ghosted along past patrols and OpFor standing around drum fires and at security posts. It was like watching Sam Fisher or something in action. A silver, blue, grey and black one eyed ghost picking his way over the ground. Nolan was privy to a point when Eric had to unsheath a karambit and stuff it into the back of a OpFor skull. He could almost imagine the crunch. What surprised him though was the barely heard over the comms, "That's for my brother Markus." As he'd pulled the body out of sight before continuing on.

Nolan's eyes narrowed, "Amen brother..." He whispered, and unholstered his pistol pointing it in the direction that Andrew is coming just in case the foot steps he hears aren't his fellow snipers.

----------------

In the tilt-rotor Victor smiled, "I've been hoping to do this for some time my dear." He moves his paints and turns in his seat. And not caring it anyone watches, begins to apply them to Natalie's face. Deft strokes with his thumg and forefinger. The blue-black base across her face from brow to chin. Carefully applying the color of the night sky. He smiled, lovingly applying the paint. Then after that he applys a layer of white and grey, the colors of the moon. He nods as the shapes come out carefully. He takes his time, making sure it looks as good as he can get it.

As he works he whispers, "You know...there's an ancient custom, that a future married couple before going into a momentous occasion would paint each other with a chosen theme." He nods as he carefully spreads the paint, "This...could very well be our courtship painting."

He applies the last stroke then grinds the last of the paint on his finger across the back of his armor, if anyone got close enough to see the white-grey streak it'd be too late for them anyway.

He leans back and nods, "The Moons Gaze. Steadfast, strong, wise." He nods, and leans in and gives his fiancee a fierce kiss. Fuck anybody who gets uncomfortable about PDA.

Carl had watched the whole thing. Observing the moment. His own native origins saying this is a solemn and special occasion to see. When it's over he nods, "Hoka...that was magnificent."
Michael Crane and Whiskeyjack


Michael gazed about the room at the assembled people. Appears to be quite the interesting group. All of them standing out to members of the OMR in some way. Quite interesting really. Why they would call up an unofficial and reserve member like him is curious. Perhaps they needed his skills. Ah well it'd come out in the open eventually. Michael took himself off to the side. Easily addressed but not too far away as to play the loner. It also afforded him an interesting view.

That being the byplay between Whiskeyjack and one Faye Hayward. See the trickster god is used to being overlooked, it's how he does some of his best work. In fact all the trickster gods work better that way. So for the teenaged looking god to suddenly have someone besides Michael walk up, look him over and speak to him. Well Whiskeyjack is taken quite a back. In fact again it takes him abit to regain his balance. Then the god walks right up to Faye and with a slightly affronted tone to be honest atleast at first starts to spin a tale.

"The story goes that it was Oymantiou who was here first. Along side others like Uranus and other creator gods. They made the world. From highest peak to lowest gorge. Light, dark, cold and warm. They did it all. But it was Oymantiou who made the first man you know. From clay and mud and sticks and berries. He formed the shape of the first man. And when Oymantiou breathed life into this first man. He named him Wesakechak. Meaning First-born. And you know what. I was right there to see it." Whiskeyjack grins. "You wanted to know stories. I have many." The trickster chuckles then dances away pulling a handdrum from the air and begins a Round Dance beat. Singing and dancing about the outer edge of the room.

Michael sighs and shrugs if he gets any looks, "He's harmless." Said moments before Whiskeyjack manages to break a coffee table. The shaman grins "Kinda?"
Micheal Crane


Micheal had gotten some directions from a well meaning OMR agent in the foyer. He'd waited of course for the others who arrived just right ahead of him to enter first. And he's standing at the rear of the group slightly to the left, his duffle bag over his shoulder. He smiles, "Good medicine."

The reveal though is astonishing, "A living machine." Micheal's eyes wide as he observes. The initial shock broken when standing up from behind a drape Whiskeyjack mutters, "Damn! new reason to a hard life. She's all hard." Micheal growls, "I swear. I will bind you if I have too." He then turns to the rest, "My apologies. I have a trio of hitchhikers with me. usually I'd charge gas money but I came by plane." He turns to the grinning god with a stern look, "How did you get in here anyway?" Whiskeyjack grins, "There's a door, and it's not my fault if no one is paying attention to the guy in the headdress." He shrugs and gives a really good impression of the cheshire cat right then. And all Micheal can do is shrug in apology.

"But seriously, that incredible eh? And the rest of us. Quite a crew here. Makes you wonder what's we're all going to be able to bring to the table." He idly begins to flip his tomahawk in hand, almost casual in it's movements, "Hello everyone." He finally finishes with, a big grin on his face. He's about to ask for information on what is going to happen when his gaze fell on Ullross or Ross. His eyes narrowed, and gleamed. Staring right at a tall dark formless mass hovering about him. He'd seen free spirits that could walk and move and interact. He'd seen gods not quite ready to manifest. And he'd faced dark spirits, malicious and angry. But this thing hovering over Ross, is something else. For a moment he grips the handle of his tomahawk tightly, then reigns in his reactions, not a good time to react.

He gulps then looks about, regaining his composure, "Micheal Crane, pîhtokahânapiwiýin among the Shamans of Canada and the United States. Don't expect me to speak much German. It's a pleasure to meet you all."
Micheal Crane


Six Years Ago
Somewhere in Ontario Canada


The lodge is huge about a kilometer wide by a kilometer and a half long. Just a little over a thousand shaman and shamaness were stuffed into the massive wood post, buckskin leather and pendleton blanket made structure. And it's more then enough for what they needed to do. In the center of the circular structure sat the 20 eldest currently serving shaman. And they lead the chanting of the Great Sundance ritual. In the third line out a younger Michael Crane, tomahawk on the ground in front of him, and handdrum in hand. He sang and beat his drum along with the others in the lodge. They could look up and see the moon through the open ceiling of the lodge above. They could just make out the silver of great ships far far away. So tiny are they though.

But their song and the ritual start. As a ball of the soul of all things, magic, begins to form above the lodge. And then like a beam of blue light. It rockets skyward, the beam projected up and up, producing a strengthening effect for several dozen ships high high above.

They would sing and dance and drum until the world shook, this plane and many others shocked as the moon, broke!

But soon, a young man comes running in from outside. The beast had died! It had fallen! The joint forces of the world had won!

The lodge is silent for a time as the gathered exchange looks.

It's Micheal who breaks the silence. He surges to his feet and lets out a war whoop of joy. Soon trills, other cries and more drum beats follows as they celebrate the victory.


The now


Michael comes awake from the nap on the plane to Germany with a snort. And a grumble, as Manabozho the trickster of the Iroquoian peoples eeps and jumps back having just about to have taken a sharpie to Micheal's face. Micheal makes a grab for the god. Who jumps back and then runs back to first class at a decent clip.

The Cree Shaman groans and stretches, "Darned gods." He sighs softly and rubs his face. Looking up and down the aisle of the middle class section of the plane he's on. Elves, dwarves, orcs, one really odd looking goblin party way down the way, dressed in bright tie-dye clothing. Humans all up and down too. And atleast six spirits chilling on the plane. Connected to this or that passenger. He hums and shakes himself, nodding to the side. The flight attendant nods back thinking the gesture is for her, but it's really for the young child spirit who's standing there looking at him expectantly, just wanting some attention.

There's a ding shortly after. And the PA system starts up, "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, dieties and that techni-color sea in between. We will begin our approach to Frankfurt, Germany and the Flughafen Frankfurt am Main airport. Please observe all precautions. And be prepared to take your seats again. The attendants will be by shortly to gather garbage and any other items. Thank you for flying with us and welcome to Germany."

About 45 minutes later Micheal Crane, Canadian Indigenous Shaman and Reserve member of the OMR is retrieving his baggage. As he's grabbing a duffle bag suddenly he feels three entities approaching.

The people around him part as he pulls the tomahawk from his bag. The runes on it flaring into bright blue white flame. And a rune for lightning, is carved into the air in front of him. But soon the rune flickers and gutters away as Raven, the East Coast God of mischief, Whiskeyjack or Wisakechak from his own Cree Nations and Manabozho of the Anishinaabe, Ojibwe and Algonquian peoples are gathered about him. As one the three gods are grinning ear to ear. Raven's mismatched black and grey feather get up on a thin boyish form. Whiskeyjack's late middle aged heavily creased face on the body of a teen, and the joyful face of Manabozho at odds with the body of a women that she wears. Micheal groans, "What the hell are you three doing here?" Whiskeyjack grinning, "Wanted to make sure our best friend is okay."

Michael groans, "Well come on. We got to get to OMR headquarters. See what these moniyew want of us." The three gods cheer and follow in Micheal's wake.

It takes them some time to get there but soon the quartet are marching into the OMR building, "Great..." Micheal says under his breath as the Three Gods suddenly race off. He looks about, "Now who do I talk too."
Banard


To his left a trio of dwarves hammered away at a wall. A very nice vein of mythril being revealed strike by strike. To his right the team leader and seven other rookies marked out part of the wall for a mining charge explosion for later. The old dwarf gruffly telling the seven young beardlings how this was going to go and detailing their individual jobs during the operation. Further to his right and left Banard could hear the strike of pick-axes, and the laughter and voices of the rest of the fifty dwarf team of deep miners working away.

Banard smiled and lifted his pick-axe again and with a grunt he brought it down. The light is ruddy right now. Orange and smoky from the lamps each dwarf wore on their helmets, burning a mix of oil and wax that is slow burning, but sheds weak light. So when his pick strikes the wall and a blaze of light flares out he shields his eyes briefly. But the call down down the shaft, "A heart of the Mountain!" Banard looks at the large head sized blue-white crystal with an internal white fire sticking into the wall. Banard gasps, "Beautiful..." Then the crystal spoke.

"So bright...Banard...can you hear me?"


Banard came awake. Laying on his back. He coughed and groaned then remember what they had been doing he almost kips to his feet. His axe in hand and he gropes for his tankard that had fallen near by. He looks about rubbing at his eyes to clear them of the blurriness of having been knocked out? Had he been knocked out? He shakes his head. Then takes a good look around, "Where the feck are we?" He growls out, and looks around the clearing. His eyes spotting Wender first. Remembering him from earlier, "The plant lad? What the hells? What's going on?" He spots the others next.

Banard takes a moment before sliding his axe away figuring they're safe for now. He sniffs, "We better get them up out of the wet." He takes a step forward and his legs protest. He growls, "Fecking! I'm Dawi! Stone Folk!" He takes another step forward and sighs, "Come on then lad, grab one or two, then let's move them to high ground of some sort. That or start slapping them." He stops though as he spots the being with the wings, "What in the actual feck is going on here? Better yet, where the hells are we?" It finally hitting the dwarf that something is really off.
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