Sitting cross legged in a room filled with the sounds of a very old refrigerator, Rook visualised whisps of blue and white energy being drawn to him through the crumbling walls and rotten wood of the floor boards. And they did.

Meditation experiences varied wildly between practitioners, Rooks hardly entering the kyladiscope world sometimes raved about. He steadily drew in the slow moving orbs of energy, his will reaching out for each. One by one they passed through his dark plated armour and touched his skin, disappearing like water droplets on a sponge. Occasionally he'd half open his eyes to read a passage from the old leather book he held through a pair of thick gauntlets.

"Wake up, now!", from across the room a deep voice suddenly grunts the command.

Rooks eyes opened in alarm. The figure was just off to the side of a window, making him barely lit while hard to see against sun light streaming in. A heavy silver pistol is in his hands, power cable being plugged in. Various bandoliers, holsters and other survival equipment covered the tough body armour he wore. He was ugly, bad teeth and a heavy brow, under which two continually calculating eyes scanned everything.

It wasn't the man that bothered Rook. This man had given the name Krieg, as in Blitzkrieg. A flamboyant handle, but his lack of extravagance or trappings of style suggested he earned it somewhere. Maybe out in the wastelands. Lifting a helmet up in both hands, Krieg donned it, then snapped the seal of his poncho on over that. What worried Rook was whatever worried a man like Krieg. Rooks own helmet felt heavy in his hands as he put it on. Grunting under the weight of his backpack as he stood up, a burden of various books and old tomes, he prepared himself.

There's a sound like that from the artic and suddenly an icy wall comes into existence in front of Rook. Light sparkles and refracts through it, as machine gun fire races along the ground and then across the icy sheet. There's the thud of each shot, all of them explosive, blowing up fist sized chunks of earth, while the mystical wall is barely scratched. The wooden lion in Rooks gauntleted hand glows briefly then fades.

Krieg snaps off a shot, the plasma blaster mounted on bionic arm spitting out a fiery retort. It manages to miss the machine gunner, who's still a moving target as the truck he's standing on is still coming to a stand still. The plasma bolt instead snaps into a small out house further away, sending the roof spinning off and catching it on fire. All the while launching himself toward the protection of the ice wall, machine gun rounds cracking open the ground behind him.

Turning to Rook while bracing his back against the mystical ice protection, Kriegs somewhat piggy eye's smile behind the visor of his helmet.

"Cooking one up for them, are ya?", he asks his companion calmly.

Rook almost interrupts his own spell by replying in anger. Weaving gesture, arcane knowledge and personal power, his hands are wreathed in mystical energy. Krieg laughs at his vexation, as a fresh wave of bullets crashed into the wall.

"Oookay, they'll be out of ammo about now…yeah, they've gone quiet!", Rook comments laconically.

Leaning out at a crouch, he levels and braces the bionic blaster again, both foes frantically busy trying to reload their now empty weapons. This time the aim is true and nasty, the fiery blast bolts straight into the face plate of the attacker on the back of the truck, sending him reeling back with a fresh clip now feeding rounds into the air.

A moment latter Rook raises his himself just above the wall, nimbus of power around a hand he now reaches forward toward his target. Suddenly the glow is gone as a bolt of fiery energy erupts from thin air and screams toward its target, the other gun man. It tears against chest plate armour, sending the figure over backwards, the sound of ceramic protective plates snapping and popping. He stops moving, smoke rising from his chest.