Trashscarf the Waywalker, as he is known, has lived many lives, and had many names. His choice to take up the Way, and venture into strange places so that others may one day follow the paths he makes, has led him through time, space, and reality. Something of him always remains, although like any variant of a new timeline, much will be changed by his surroundings. Like the namesake scarf he carries, he picks up things around him and becomes more than the sum of his parts, but the threads that hold him together are woven by the same soul behind them.

His previous path-- a simple enough passage through a foreboding forest, or so he thought-- has abruptly stalled. His companions seem unresponsive, and even the World around him has paused as though in stasis. He waits patiently for some time, and then sighs.

"Botheration," he mutters. "Happened again, has it? What is it this time? Don't make me come over there."

He glares around at the countryside, then up into the limpid sky. "You're going to make me go over there, aren't you?"

There is still no response. He grumbles a bit, writes a note and sticks it to the chest of the most competent of his companions, leaving her in charge. "Pardon me while I go give the Universe a rebooting kick up the backside," he says. "I'll probably die. A lot."

And with a twist and flick of his scarf, and a crack of reality, he is-- gone.

--and now... here. Stumbling out and landing on a shuddering surface, and the reek of smoke, sulfur, ammonia, and something like very bad clams.

Pain-- why does it so often start with pain? A headache that feels like someone's jammed a parasitic worm right into his frontal lobes. Memory stirs as the worm turns.

"Oh," he winces. "That did happen. Ugh."

He instinctively reaches for his scarf-- and his fingers brush only padded leather armor, full of extraneous stitching. He looks down at himself in horror.

"I'm a clown?! Please, no--" he tugs at the ludicrous leather, and a flute tumbles to the ground. "Oh. I guess I'm a bard. Again. Almost worse."

A small but lethal looking crossbow clatters to the scorched and glistening floor surface, and he eyes it with deep suspicion. "No, thank you," he says firmly, picking it up and stuffing it into his inventory-- which, he notes, is suitably capacious for this sort of thing. The flute almost follows, but he flicks it over his shoulder instead.

The floor beneath him gives a lurch, and crashes sound in the near distance. "Ships. Never trust a ship. Especially flying ships. I'll just--"

He looks warily around at the flaming devastation. "--well, they clearly have some technical issues, I'll just find whoever's in charge and ask to be put ashore, or aground, or whatever. Wouldn't want to interfere with whatever this all is..."

One of the cephalopod-faced fellows is sprawled nearby, tentacles twitching, and he approaches hopefully, but a careful poke shows the motion is just reflex; the being is clearly dead. Feeling more than a little lost and alone, he trots nervously off in search of an exit.

His surroundings are disturbingly organic-- he tries not to think too hard about them as he passes through what's clearly a sphincter. "Are you shitting me?" he mutters to himself. More corpses are strewn about the place, pathetically normal-looking in a place that looks like the HR Geiger Sims Expansion.

We are here-- we are trapped--

"Oh thank gods," he says, as he homes in on the pathetic little voice. "Someone to talk to-- I thought I was all alone on th--"

He stops as he sees the source of the voice is a man sprawled in a chair with the top of his head missing. He doesn't look well. At all. "Uh. Can I help? Maybe find you a... hat or something?"

--Free us! Please!

He's not sure about this-- for one thing, he's having trouble not vomiting at the sight of all this-- but it did say 'please'. That's the magic word, after all.

He grits his teeth, tries not to let his own brain think about what he's doing to this one, and wriggles the thing loose like a rotting cauliflower.

It plops to the ground, growing legs and tentacles, as he stares in horror. It's like the worst cat ever. So -moist-.

"The helm, is it?" he gathers, from the thing's fractured conversation. "Good idea! There's bound to be someone in charge I can speak with."

He has no idea where he's going, but that's never stopped him, not once. He sets off confidently, finding an elevator-thing, and circling the room a few times and banging off some walls before finding another way out, the Worst Cat scuttling along behind him.

Coming out into an huge ragged opening that probably wasn't on the original design plans for the ship, he takes a moment to admire the view.

The landscape below is dull, full of sulfur clouds and smoke, but there are some pretty red dragons sporting playfully around the ship, like dolphins riding the bow wave, except much more angry and firey.

"Majestic creatures, aren't they?" he enthuses to Worst Cat, but the creature ignores him.

Suddenly, a shadow passes overhead, and an armored figure, lean and stern, leaps right over him like an angry frog, and lands before him.

"Die, abomination!"

Her sword is leveled at his chest, and only the abrupt connection between them of the parasite worm stops her attack and causes her to exclaim in surprise.

She is so lean as to be almost skeletal, her sallow skin speckled with freckles, and her eyes are cruel and dark gold, but with a hint of fear that touches the Waywalker's sympathy; he's scared too.

"You are no thrall!"

"No, I think I'm supposed to be a bard," he says nervously, his fingers fretfully twiddling in the absence of familiar fibers. "I'm probably not very good at it, though. And you are--?"

"I am your only chance of survival. Together, we might have a chance," she snarls. She hasn't told him her name, and for that matter, he can't really remember his.

"Oh thank the gods," he says, with a sigh of relief. "Someone who knows what they're doing. It certainly isn't me. What do you suggest?"

"Exterminate the imps. Take control of the ship," she orders. "And that thing--" indicating Worst Cat "--may prove useful."

"Great, fine, excellent," he says, as she marches forward towards some winged creatures gnawing on a corpse. "Only--"

She's already attacking, after making a sort of belligerent croak, again like an angry frog.

"--I don't really do the whole violence thing-- but, I see you've got that handled," he concludes with a sigh, as the fight music starts up. Red devil babies with flappy wings converge, shrieking, and he looks unhappy.

"I guess I could play a cheerful tune? Or something? Or, hey, maybe there's something useful on these bodies!"

He gives a bustling frisk of some of the nearby corpses, trying to look busy. "Aha! I am helping! Look! I can heal you, if you get hurt--" He waves a potion he's discovered, and ducks as an impish firebolt goes overhead.

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Angry Frog and Worst Cat, meanwhile, are going through the imps like Cuisinarts through kewpie dolls. Screams fall silent and the music resolves.

(He's glad of that innate bardic sense that allows him to feel the mood of a situation by overhearing the soundtrack. You sort of have to be clipping through the fourth wall to use it, but he was practically born there.)

"You prove surprisingly adequate in battle," says Angry Frog, as the last of the imps falls.

He looks surprised. "I do?"

"I expected you to die in the first round," Angry Frog hisses. "Possibly by my own hand. Now, to the helm."

Scrambling up a net made of veins is a whole new level of horror, and he can understand why the squid faced creatures who apparently built or grew this ship instead prefer to float around everywhere. Which makes you wonder why they have elevators, but, never mind.

They reach a terminal of sorts; some kind of control panel in the center of the room, with more unfortunate bodies around it. He sees some shiny, gross buttons available for pushing, and trots forward eagerly, ready to do something stupid, but then an overheard, muffled plea-- "Let me out!" distracts him, probably for the best.

"You! Get me out of this damn thing!" cries the woman trapped in one of those pod things. She looks so surprisingly normal, and alive, that he's quite horrified to see her in a place like this.

"We have no time for stragglers!" is Angry Frog's contribution, but he's already looking for a way to help. He could no more refuse a cry for help than he could resist a path not taken; in many ways, they were the same.

The console is too alien, but then he notices the people strapped onto tables in the room are also still alive!

"We can help them! And maybe they'll know something about how to open the pod," he reasons, running back around to the buttons. "Maybe-- this will do something?" He pushes the middle button hopefully.

The zombie-like people spring to semi-life, but they don't seem ready for conversation, snarling in feral hatred as they lurch forward. One of them throws a splash of acid at him, and he sizzles sadly under the greenish goo. "Ouch."

"Over to you, I suppose," he sighs, as Angry Frog and Worst Cat charge past him and add a bit more gore to the surroundings.

He trots off towards yet another disgusting looking door, and on the other side, more corpses, more pods, another console. "This time, I'm not pushing anything," he mutters, and it's just as well he doesn't look into the pod.

He rummages through the corpses and finds a thingy that looks helpful, and trots back to the imprisoned woman. "WOULD THIS HELP?" he asks, shouting to be heard through the pod's window. He holds up the rune-thingy.

"Try it on the machine next to me!"

"I don't know," he says dubiously. "The last time I pushed one of these buttons--"

"There's no time! Hurry!" The woman pounds on the pod's casing.

"If you must persist in this stupidity, could you at least do it faster?" grits Angry Frog, flicking blood off her huge sword.

"You hero types are always in such a rush," he grumbles.

"This ship is crashing!"

"Well, it's been crashing for rather a while now. I think--"

The ship gives another lurch, though, and he concedes Angry Frog may have a point. He slots the rune home, and has a momentary unpleasantness connecting with an alien intelligence in his brain. It tries to tell him how he feels, and he resists stubbornly.

He does not like things in his brain. There's barely enough room in there for him, at the best of times. Stowaways are not appreciated. But at least in this case it proves useful; the pod creaks open like a reluctant oyster, and the trapped woman splats awkwardly onto the floor.

Trying to make introductions, it gets even more crowded, as he gets hints from this new person's mind as well.

"You keep dangerous company," says the new woman, apparently having some sort of complaint with Angry Frog.

"Did you feel that? Just now?" he asks, glancing between them. "We were in each other's heads. Again. Most unpleasant. I apologize for anything you're getting out of my brain-- I really haven't had time to clean the place up lately and there seems to be something very wrong behind my ocular nerve."

"Let me come with you," asks the young lady, and of course no Waywalker could refuse.

"Certainly! Let's get going. I'm--"

He hesitates, mid-introduction. His name doesn't seem to be where, or what, it usually is.

"I'm... Tra--? Ta? Trav--? Taash-- Tav..scarf?"

The name doesn't taste quite right, but it doesn't seem like a good time to linger on introductions. Angry Frog is already looking at him like she's ready to lop his head off and use his corpse as a battering ram against these sphincter-doors. "Tavscarf. Yes. That's me."

"Shadowheart. One moment."

"Oh, it's all 'hurry up, let me out' and now it's 'one moment'," he complains, as Shadowheart-- talk about a made-up name! --forages in the pod and grabs some trinket. "Let's go!"

"Finally," sighs Angry Frog. "Let us make for the helm."

They pass through another sphincter, and his two humanoid companions are already squabbling, full of emotions.

"Do as I say!"

"Who put you in charge?"

Tavscarf tries to exchange a weary look with Worst Cat, but it's hard to do that without any eyes to contact. Party members acting up was a very familiar situation to find himself in, and he wearily wonders how long it will be before they start kissing, instead. Not long, if he's any judge.

At last. The helm. Apparently.

Somewhere beyond a nightmarish scene of devils and squids and a big pig-thing and just all sorts of mess. One of the squid-things gives booming orders into his head, and for once, Angry Frog and Shadowheart Moonmoon Ravenshadow Heartdarkness de Gothickka seem to agree. Even Worst Cat is enthused by the idea.

"So, you all want me to-- Connect the nerves of the transponder? All right, that, I think, I can do," Tavscarf says, actually brightening a bit, squinting into the fog of war. The fight music was quite loud and emphatic, so it was probably not a good time to mess around. Much.

"I'm good with string, and cables, and ropes and so forth. Looks pretty simple. Just need to get at it," he concludes, a bit dubiously watching the chaos before him.

"Useless," spits Angry Frog.

"Here," says Shadowheart, muttering a quick prayer and throwing an aura of Sanctuary over him. "You'll probably need it."

"I'm sure I will," Tavscarf responds nervously, as the three (and a quarter) make their way forward.

Tavscarf concentrates on trying to cover the ground as quickly as possible, though he pauses as he gets to where a squid-head and a devil are fighting.

"THROW THEIR CORPSES IN THE STYX!" roars the devil, although Tavscarf doesn't see so much as a twig anywhere.

"Leave him to me! Connect the transponder!" booms the brain-wave of the squid thing.

Tavscarf looks from one to the other, and puts on a soothing voice, and a friendly smile. If he had remembered to cast his Friends cantrip, he would have done so, but it would seem awkward now; borderline rude, even. Just have to appeal to the better natures of a brain-eating cephalopodic slaver and a literal devil from the pits of some variety of Hell. Easy.

"Look," he says, "Do you really need to do this? I can see there's a lot of negative feeling on both sides, but I'm sure if you just talk things out--"

Shadowheart shouts something in magic-talk behind him, and the devil drops his flaming sword with a clatter.

"See? That's a good step! Good!" Tavscarf congratulates them, picking up the sword and tucking it away safely. "Now you," he addresses the squid, "Put your ... tentacles away, or something, and let's--"

"KILL THEM!"

"CONNECT THE TRANSPONDER!"

"Fine, fine fine be that way--" Tavscarf hurries away, sidestepping the pig and the imps, who seem reluctant to attack him.

Behind him, the sounds of carnage continue, and he hopes that the ladies and Worst Cat will be all right. Judging by the imp screams, they're doing fine, though.

The transponder is a mess of tentacles, but Tavscarf grabs a couple at random and ties them in a rather pretty bow. The cables writhe, and somehow manage to grip eachother's fibrous interfaces in spite of this. There is the sickening lurch of dimensional travel-- this, at least, is a familiar sensation. For one thing, it's always a sickening lurch. Never a pleasant bounce or a rather dull slide.

This sickening lurch, or something like it, perhaps air resistance, results in the entire ship going vertical and apparently it doesn't have any sort of internal gravity system-- only a quick grab of the console manages to save him as they plummet into some sort of doom. Bits of things fall past him and he hopes that they're not bits of his friends, but the entire ship is made of fleshy chunks, so who knows?

The transponder cables strain under tension above him, and he frowns slightly. He's connected them, as ordered, nay, nagged incessantly to do. Why was there no applause? The taut cable triggers something in the Bard part of him, and he feels an overwhelming compulsion to --

"Plunk the magic twanger," he wheezes, grabs the linked transponder, and --

--BOINNNNGGG--

Again a lurch and now quite clearly a lot of both gravity and air resistance and velocity and all sorts of unpleasant physics are asserting themselves. Non-Euclidean geometry still can't compensate for streamlining, and you can't try to glide in a thing like the Badly Coiled Garden Hose Of The Gods.

The music is very exciting, and Tavscarf can't help but think this must be a marvelously cinematic spectacle, the catastrophic dying dive of this mighty and malignant craft searing across the sky. He only wishes he was somewhere he could appreciate it more-- perhaps safely on the ground somewhere, for preference.

There's some crashing and then the sensation of falling to his death-- also familiar, and he experimentally flaps his arms a bit, just in case, but to no avail, as the ground rushes up-- ooh, a beach! I wonder if it will be friends with me?-- and a jolt, and then-- nothing.

The music goes silent.