<span style="font-weight: bold"><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="text-decoration: underline">M.E.R.C.Y. (approaching from the west)</span></span></div></span><br/><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Icarus</span></div>stepped away from Morgan and the man he had found. He knelt beside a boulder twice his height, then placed his hands on the earth, flared his nostrils, closed his eyes, keyed into every sense, scanned the horizon with is black eyes.<br/><br/>Icarus had no hair on his body. His skin skin was almost entirely covered by tattoos; winding murals populated with animals, people, scenery, writing, symbols, his bare feet sported thick black callouses.<br/><br/>Icarus drew himself up to his full height and looked back, loose dirt sifting through his fingers. He made a few quick hand signals. (Morgan would not be able to interpret them, he had not been with the team long enough to learn Icarus’s obscure sign language.) It was practical to keep quiet in the field, and use hand signals rather than words to communicate warnings and tactical decisions, however it should be noted Icarus never spoke at all.<br/><br/>Then the tattoos on his body began to<span style="font-style: italic">move</span>, a red bird fluttered across his cheek, a stormy cloud blackened on his shoulder, then the rest of the imagery began to twist and warp. He became the dark warm colors of the landscape, then seemed to disappear completely.<br/><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Twain</span></div>was standing to several meters to the south west, had seen and understood Icarus’s signs clearly. He turned on his radio, intending for the whole team would hear: “Morgan caught a live-one, but there are more moving about, not to mention a few partycrashers coming in from the south.<span style="font-style: italic">Scatter and take cover</span>, keep off the radio unless... eh... you're on fire or something.” He straightened his glasses before moving out. He wore a long faded black vest full of pockets and combat boots, while his long sandy hair was streaked with white and tied back into a long braid.<br/><br/>NO ONE had heard him. Like Wolfe’s squad, radio-communications would not work in this place. Oblivious to the error, Twain headed for the lower south-west mound. He moved with his back to the cracked and dusty wall. If<span style="font-style: italic">trouble</span>was coming from the south he wanted to intercept it, or at least see-it before it-saw-him.<br/><br/>He craned his neck and looked out around, he was surprised to see something something unexpected. Among the corpses there was another live-one. Between the south-west mound and the south-east mound (apparently it was a squarish ruin) there was a... man... of immense stature. He was drawing a sword...<br/><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Zesiro</span></div>was skirting around the north-west corner mound. He chattered into his radio. “These readings don’t make any sense.” He had a large square backpack on, thick chords emerged like tentacles from the pack, and attached to various pieces of strange bulky equipment hanging from his belt and in his hands. Zesiro looked to be in his late teens, sandy blonde hair falling over his eyes, jeans and a t-shirt. “Bro, can you hear me? Helloooooooo?!” He would walk around the north side of the temple, making faces as he stepped over carcases and burned rocks.<br/><br/>He heard a strange noise, a sort of crackling or clicking sound. He struggled to reach his flashlight strapped to the side of his pack (he had given Ascot his night-vision goggles so the boy could ‘keep a look out’ while waiting). With a *click* the light shone on the side of the ruin where the noise was coming from. He saw movement there. Curious, he began to climb. It was not too steep, but there were not many solid holds either. The ancient rocks crumbled under his hands and boots. He managed to make it up almost to the top, where there was a tall wall.<br/><br/>He swallowed hard. Against the wall he found the body of a woman, perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her golden blond hair and crimson red blood spread out around her. She had a large gash in her stomach, cuts and bruises on her arms and face, her left hand rested on her chest was twisted at an unnatural angle, the hand also been cut open.<br/><br/>She was not the one making the noise, she did not move at all, she was probably dead. It was the little bird... [url=http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2008/02/photogalleries/reptile-pictures/images/primary/2_REPTILE_461.jpg] it was no bird at all[/i]. The little thing was no bigger than his own hand, and had no flesh. It was skeletal, yet all the bones were all wrong. It’s beak was actually a cracked claw of some sort, the rest of it was smaller bones, or fragments of bones, somehow held together in the shape of a… a… pterodactyl?<br/><br/>The little thing hopped across her arm to her hand. It pecked at the open wound, making the ‘clicking’ sound that Zesrio had heard from down below. It flung little pieces of skin and flesh to the side until it fished out a bone from the woman’s pinky finger. It tenderly used its beak to attach the small bone to it's bottom, and the pinky bone became it's left leg. It hopped around experimentally on it’s new limb. Then continued to peck at the hand, presumably looking for toes…<br/><br/>“Ahh.. T-Twain? Twain? Morgan? Diz? Anyone?” Zesiro used his radio but received no response. He knew immediately that their communication was out.<br/><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Dizzy</span></div>Held back. She had been commanded to take the rear-guard. She didn’t get the radio message from Twain, and therefore, made no effort to conceal herself or advance much closer to the mound. She watched Twain skitter off around the south mound, and his brother Zesiro wander off around the North side. Somewhere far behind her Ascot was playing around by the chopper. Morgan was halfway up the central mound of the ruin, with someone new.<br/><br/>She was able to see in the dark with a set of huge night-vision goggles. They made her look like a great green-eyed bug, wearing a green tank top and a black skirt. She wore a black bandolier and belt to hold her basic field equipment. Green high-tops on her feet. She had short nappy hair that made a black puffy halo around her round dark face. She had a scrawny stick-like figure. She looked to be in her early teens.<br/><br/>There was a flash of light on the mound as<span style="font-style: italic">someone else</span>struck a torch. The light traveled to the top of the mound and hovered at it’s peak. It made the ruin like lighthouse.<br/><br/>Then there was a cry in the distance, a desperate scream, a woman’s scream. A damsel in distress…<br/><br/>There was evidence everywhere of a fire. A particular type of fire. She could smell it,<span style="font-style: italic">dragonfire</span>. She turned away from the ruin, searching the night. Would it return? Or was it long gone? Escaped into the world?