The Ghost Ship Message Board: Fatalism. (Special Attn: The Cruiser, Hope Dreadslay, and relevant events)

((Current Theme music [hehe]: "We're in this Together" - Nine Inch Nails.))

The Mutiny Alliance ships off the coast of Odindrust were surrounded and beleaguered by the seas themselves. And now reports of U-Boats in the area had crackled in over the radio within the Raptors' one-man cockpits. Cypress Dreadslay absently gained in elevation, as did his wingman. He lids his saphire eyes in morbid contemplation as his biplane fighter races into cloud-cover made unsafe by the very prospect of the heavens themselves turning against the Mutiny Alliance. Sheathed within his jet black, alchemically-enhanced flight suit, Cypress Dreadslay calmly reflects upon the situation at hand. Magick seemed to be the key here. Of course, as the Angel of Caine himself had never known the touch of the true Arts of willworking - only the bloody substitute that was his sorcerous thaumaturgy, he knew that he himself could not be the savior here. The Arcanum of the Mutiny Alliance has shown no united or even any signs of assetive direction in the Battle of Odindrust, or its aftermath. The Warlock Order's militant jugernaut of technology and wizardry had, until they victimized their own troops in the High Command's frenzy for murder and desolation.

Cypress and his wingman banked towards the Cruiser, as he requested its current locale from the eyes of this ragged and desperado-style of resistance - the makeshift derigible that navigated its way through the treacherous heavens to relay vital information to the pilots futilly trying to salvage their maritime comrades' lives and warships. With the rampant destructive energies weaving its death-noose around the Mutiny Alliance's cripled fleet, the lumbering and poorly defended "ghetto" aircraft carrier would surely be one of the first casualties of the Warlock Order attackers. If not now, then later. Staying there was a death trap. The heavily armored and well-defended cruiser was the warship with the best chances of survival - if Cypress could rally its crew and work to save them, himself.

Wary of the anti-aircraft fire which had blitzed and taken out the seaplane sent to escort the Cruiser, upon the first few shots even, Cypress flies his plane low to the surface, about two hundred and sixty feet over the decks of the warship, and then unfastens the secure straps and buckles that latch him deeply into the cockpit of his fighter plane. Abandoning the Raptor in grim finality, Cypress climbs from his seat. With the chilling winds striking him with murderous velocity, the fatalistic Angel of Caine hurls himself promptly from the biplane - which soars out of control, perhaps a target for mindless destruction through anti-aircraft rounds, perhaps merely fodder for the waves and the wind. Cypress, himself, finds himself in a free-fall. He has tempted fate, and he knows it. But these are one of those situations, where one's innate inner-fortitude and courage come into play. Manipulating the air around him, Cypress smiles nihilistically to himself, allowing the sharp and bone-numbing cold all around him to deaden his nerves and erace his doubts, for a few, very precious seconds. His appearel, the jet black flight suit, combat boots, gloves, and wool hood, with his "dark sight" goggles lowered about his neck, blends the Assamite antitribu's figure into the night itself as he allows the wind to embrace him, carrying his lithe body down onto the decks with a feathery softness.

What few sailors guarding the upper decks, rushing to investigate, are in shock, when Cypress Dreadslay stands up from his fatalistic freefall, stands, and tears his hood and goggles from his head, neck, and collar.

Cypress glances at his subordinates gloomily, and proceeds himself, into the captain's private quarter's, where he last saw Hope.

* * *

Disheaveled, dark blond dreadlocks, an icily cold, white face, and numbingly hopeless saphire eyes greet the mortal girl as Cypress approaches her, shutting and locking the door from behind him. He hand commandeered a sabre and a Thompson, .45 ACP submachine gun from one of the sailors, which he wears strapped about his ebony flight suit coldly and professionally.

Cypress takes a breathless and needless intake of air through his cold, deeply-tanned lips, his ivory white features virtually unchanging in their depressingly somber appearence.

"Well... This war is not what I thought it was going to be, Hope. Congradulations... you're still alive. Let's go." How in the hell were they going to get out of this iron death trap? Swim?

((The only really necessary rolls. For Cypress' free-falling shit. ~l~ Movement of the Mind 3, Willpower 8, difficulty 6: 2 successes))