Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20200423213810/@comment-27666783-20200607035158

A large capsule of metal, painted in a bright and highly noticable green parachutes onto the area swamp. It crashes through the tree canopy and splashes into the shallow swamp waters. Scorch marks paint the lower part of the capsule. Inside it, Bertram begins to gain conciousness again. His vision returns, blinking he steadily regains his bearings, his muscles ached and the pungent odor of bile clung to the air and his flight suit. Those 'jee-forces' they called them must have been the cause, along with losing consciousness. His memory is jogged back, he remembers... an explosion, loud and sudden. An evacuation of air and loss of gravity, someone threw him in this sarcophagus, jettisoned him out. All the crew... Betram wrestles with the six slot harness keeping him seated to the chair, he'd been briefed on how all this technology worked, briefly... and though all quite beyond the scope of a primitive man like him. He manages to press it and release the straps, reaching for the yellow lever of the 'ROPE' and pulling it. The hatch releases, and Bertram quickly makes a hasty exit out and into the knee high swamp water. Cricket chirps sound, the smell of the bog replaced the bitter humid odor inside the ROPE. He was back... he was safe.

Betram turned to look at the ROPE capsule, he wanted to just collapse right at that moment, but he couldn't. "Chen." He mouthed, that apoapsis was high. Already taking something like a spaceflight for her was asking for alot, somebody whos never been in the *air* before. Chen could have been hundreds... thousands of miles away, even if she made it out... Bertram shook his head frantically, no. Don't think of it. Get your shit together and find civilization, good ones at least. He turns around, he remembers the ROPE carried a set of tools just in case. Before long Bertram exited the craft again with a rucksack slung, he removes it and plops it on the hatch opening to reveal its contents.

A knife, the handle made of... some sort of rubber. Its material and forgework were of space age precision, machine-crafted. To think Avalon they made these things to the point they would just throw them willy-nilly in any survival kit... A crinkly material, it reflected with the light in brilliant displays. A tiny mirror, a device with a spinning... is this what they call a compass? Sticks with directions on the side, some sort of flare... Bertram notices something, he dives a hand retrieve it and reveals a small revolver.

"Fucking Avalon." Bertram shakes his head, he's heard of these, heard of DLA 'gunslingers' using magical versions of it at least. They used no paper, no powder flask, Bertram finagled the piece around for a second. 'C-11 Crew Survival Pistol' he read on the frame. He'd need to look more at it later. Stuffing the pistol in the rucksack, he swiveled his head around the swamp. He needed to make tracks, he could tell this place was mamono territory, a certain gleam to it gave away it being a 'Bright Green Demon Realm'. Already his spirit energy was probably going to be an issue.