(TorrentHKU) Anthony M. Lovegale (4)
Healthy

Whatever. You decide to just head towards the place where you figure a medical center WOULD be. You begin heading towards the center of the city, from which you're sure you can access whatever part likely contains what you're looking for.
You practically leap down the battlement stairs and start run down the central road, and you've almost reached the gate to the center, when...

... a large, glowing white sphere runs smack into you.

"Oof!" You hear a sound like wind chimes as the orb hits the ground. You stop. It sits still for a moment, then rises, seeming to shake itself. The chimes can be heard again.
It doesn't seem to have any facial features, but you can feel it's gaze as it floats near you. It seems at the moment to have a long, ribbon-like tail of light, then the shape shifts and it has two glowing wings. Then it changes again, flowing like smoke until it settles into a mist that surrounds the central, pure white orb.
It freezes, then you hear a voice that reminds you of the chiming again.
"Ah!" It floats excitedly about you, bobbing up and down a bit. "Perfect. You'll do nicely."
You're not sure what that means, but you don't have time to argue as the orb perches on your shoulder, the strange light tendrils seeming to grasp and hold tight to you. It's an odd feeling.

"I'm Silmein, and I'll be accompanying you from now on."

Isaac | Arcalane (Roll: 8 )
> Isaac: Gtfo out of the alleyways you silly bastard. Keep heading for the castle. Try and save any defending soldiers along the way, round 'em up and drag 'em along to the castle.

I imagine Silmein sounding like an old gentleman.

Wait, whats the roll order?

(Psygnosis) Tarik Morskorj: [9]
Healthy
You raise a leg with a rather heavy, large boot on the end of it and roughly shunt the freakish cube away. Its gyroscopes fail for a moment, sending it plummeting to the ground, but its turbines rev and it comes back for a second run, projecting flickering images of dismembered corpses, Steinen, Olvite, and Cherman. For a brief moment, fire lights behind your eyes as you lash out with the improvised Magite bludgeon.

There is a resounding crack and it drops dead, smashing on the cobbles and collapsing in a heap of crackling tentacles and shattered metal. An occasional arc of electricity jumps from the downed contraption. Good riddance to that thing; whoever created it must have had a sick mind indeed.

Vacating the area, you progress towards where the smoke from the blasted gate generator is wafting into the air. A clank and faint wheezing from behind alerts you to the imminent presence of Old Harold. He brought company.

"Harold! Good to see you! ...so you're going to fight, are you?" you inquire.

He nods slightly, makes a motion to pause the conversation, and coughs up a few drops of blood into a handkerchief. Behind him are what dregs of the Chermanshire resistance he managed to rally at the Broken Drum.

There's Horace, the grim, dour, perpetually serious scribe and occasional insufferable magic bastard, who was always working in the sorcerer's quarter to cipher runes or some other fiddly job. As far as you could tell from years of observing the Broken Drum's clientele, he didn't get out much. Though he never did explain the story behind his missing eye... and that faded picture of a strange woman he keeps carrying about.

There's Geldmann, the small-time con man and confidence trickster, who has escaped punishment from official authority solely on the grounds of, and this is a direct quote from the guard, "E' makes me laugh, that chap does." His appearance can be described as average and unremarkable in every respect, making him difficult to pick out from a crowd, and he has an uncanny talent for barefaced lies and persuasion (as measured in hapless people swindled). Looks like he's trying to do something good for once before he gets killed by Stein or Olvitium.

There's Anthony, who had passed out the other day after "overindulging" in the Chermanshire ambrosia, the young army recruit who still pissed his pants at the thought of a fight, barely a man now. That sap always did get drunk before he got any women. Idealistic as well, enough to believe that a war for Chermanshire was worth fighting. You know better.

And lastly, there is a fat, old man you don't recognize, who looks at you hopelessly with sad eyes. Probably just some poor person too slow to run and too dumb to avoid getting caught up in the fight. He hefts a smith's lump hammer with the determination of someone expecting to die.

Somewhere behind you, the guttering remains of the cube project a face, twisted with hate. Its rotors begin to spin again as its cracked casing stitches itself back together...