There was a sensation akin to a lucid dream, save that he could interact and change it. But the habits of a lifetime could not be easily broken and he had learned the value of patience. Aside from that, he had certain priorities that took center stage as it were, despite being called upon to help.
Allied he may be, but the Tower loomed above them all and the sheer solidity of it made his breath catch in his throat. The tower was a lighthouse of worlds, told in parable and story in variant ways across the multiverse it watched. Avalon the distant utopia, where Merlin was imprisoned and gained his insight, great Babel that was tossed down for forbidden ascention, so many stories. All of them true, for a given value of true. He could feel it, so much more omnipresent than the weakened state of his own home dimension and if that was so...
Perhaps others of his kind would be here. The Mid-World Guardians of the tower, it's defenders and protectors. One and all, wielding mighty weapons forged from the First Table from Arthur to Lancelot, where his own pistols originated. Would Roland be among them? Surviving as the true heir to their order? Or would there be others? Peaceful Gareth, Scrappy Garrett, both brothers in blood and deeds. Fallen during the betrayal of their order, their names and lives a litany of hatred with every bullet he fired. Would little Galad be there? The youngest trainee, but the purest in heart, who looked at him with eyes untouched by wariness, so much better a memory than as he last saw him.
And there was another. The final one that put his mind into a frenzy, calm as his outward appearance looked like now. He could see this particular gunslinger as clear as the waking world. Clad in black like him and Roland, identical in uniform but not in style. Where Roland was pure business and he bore a touch of faith in his clerical inspired garb, the third greatest of their number was a dandy born.
Green eyes shone mockingly in memory, as it's owner posed with a flirtatious smile. Hands like a pianist gripped pistols of silver and yew wood handles, etched over with thorns and roses. The guns borne from Clarent, blade of the Knight of Treachery.
Mordred.
Such reminisces would-
must wait unfortunately. He could hear the roar of the Lower Umbra in his ears, like the sounds of the sea in a shell to one's ear. Hell knew he was here.
....Good. Perhaps Hercules had an inkling of his rare, urge for action because his next words was addressed to him.
He whispers to Lucifer, loud enough to be heard by those of his quest nearby... " In the world of my father, Nyx is powerful enough that Zeus himself dare not earn her wrath. Please bare this in mind, that she is not someone to be threatened or intimidated by the likes of any of us. "
He nodded curtly. He then turned and moved down into the audience area. Taking a seat with his back to the wall, he slipped off the latch on his revolvers. Any enemy that stepped into the club would find the hands of a Gunslinger more than ready to greet them.
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