The rush of teleportation was a novelty that really never wore off; Koralheim had traveled the entirety of the continent and he still reveled in the odd feeling of oneâ€™s entire being becoming one with something outside this plane before, finally, forcing its existence back into the realm of mortals.<br/><br/>Some more fanciful teleportation mages, of which there were very few, believed the space in between to be the proper realm of the gods. As such, some endeavored to find a way to stay there permanently, awash in the disorienting, topsy-turvy feeling of hot-and-cold euphoria that was there. As a note of personal pride, Koralheim had only been tempted thusly once; he believed he had heard his wifeâ€™s voice in his head mid jump. Eventually, however, reason got the better of him; that place merely intertwined with oneâ€™s thoughts and manifested in peculiar ways.<br/><br/>His wife was gone; that was a fact. Hopefully he would have a chance to enact his vengeance before something more dire claimed his life. Perhaps Mordrake was this dark force, but for the entirety of his adult life he had acutely suspected the Fifth would be his killer.<br/><br/>With any luck, he could do some good before then. At the moment, however, he was more interested by the most distinct change to the scenery around him; a newcomer.<br/><br/>Apparently scrappers moved quickly nowadays. He was otherwise surprised, however, to see the entire wurm engine in a state of partial disassembly. Someone, perhaps this woman, had defeated the mechanical monstrosity.<br/><br/>Appearing someone from memory was very different from appearing at an anchor point. Besides being decidedly more dangerous, one also had a more violent reentry into the normal world, and it took him a moment to realize that he was actually tumbling a few feet through the air before impacting the ground with a wet, grassy thud. He tried to blink away the stars in his eyes and shake the odd feeling of something from the beyond grabbing on to him.<br/><br/>With one blink, he could see angels high overhead, circling beyond the clouds, bathed in their wreaths of golden light and bizarre morality. In another, they gestured below, towards him. And in a third blink, they were gone.<br/><br/>He sat up shakily, the woman now between him and the mechanized wurm. If the loud snap that was often audible when a teleporter entered an area without particular precautions had not given his arrival away, the fact that he had landed some odd feet behind her must have. Koralheim considered that perhaps he may be too lucky to expect this one to understand basic sign language; she was, after all, a drakefolk. They were not necessarily known for being cultured so much as being blunt.<br/><br/>They were also known for beating people with blunt things, but Koralheim put that thought aside; they were also very good with sharp things, like the two blades she carried. Perhaps he would be lucky and she would possess the same alluring worldliness that Lady Rasha did. He was no fool, though, and suspected she did not.<br/><br/>Koralheim held up his hands and immediately regretted it, feeling a sharp pain run along his back. That could be a problem. Still, he more cautiously raised his hands and started signing.<br/><br/>â€˜Hello, it seems youâ€™ve met an enemy of mine. Did you dispatch this model?â€™ his hands fluttered. He paused politely before repeating the gesture a bit more slowly. He quickly mimed writing and motioned to his satchel; he often carried a small supply of parchment squares and a charcoal pencil for such situations where someone was incapable of understanding his signing.<br/><br/>He stood, shakily, and struggled to hide a wince at the sharp sensation traveling up his back; he pressed a hand to his smooth flesh and pulled back, his hand slightly bloodied. Indeed, after looking at his side, he seemed to have landed on something small, but sharp, and had lacerated his lower back deep enough to draw some blood.<br/><br/>How terribly inconvenient, he thought. He hoped the woman would not be much in the mood for a fight; all he had was the little automaton on his forearm, and that was a nasty sort of thing to inflict on a scrapper with little more than a typical drakefolk disposition.<br/><br/>He wondered if, out in Rez, Brass was already rallying his troops. They would have quite a march if they were to head to Razorplains, and even longer if waiting for reinforcements from the other two main citystates. He had some time to work, so long as the draconic overlord didn't do anything too rash.<br/><br/>Who was he kidding? Things never went quite as planned anymore. Still, better to work with an idea than to run ahead without one. On that last thought, he pressed one of his hands back against the wound and stared expectantly at the woman, awaiting her response.