The enforcer was slowly getting to his feet, shaking his head slightly to rid himself of the daze he was put in from being out in the open water for some time. He was half tempted to work on drying himself off purely for comfort since a good amount of water had collected underneath his heavy mask, making it mildly uncomfortable and unpleasant to wear. His boots were soaked as well, which would make stealth difficult should the situation call for it.
The derelict buildings around him seemed to indicate that no one has lived here for some time though, so he may have plenty of time to recover and clear his head before searching the rough coastal area for any sign of his allies.
Wringing some water out of his tunic (a futile effort, as the rest of his clothes were still quite wet), the man took a few steps back and out of the water, carefully eying the objects floating in the water before him. Most of it was junk. Driftwood (possibly from his own vessel), garbage, and the occasional tail of a fish darting by. There was no sign of the other Keepers he had been travelling with, or even any way to tell what planks of splintered wood had fallen off of the rotting buildings and what may have traveled with him ashore.
The enforcer shuts his eyes, concentrating and attempting to sense his allies as far as his abilities would allow.
Nothing.
He was not terribly hopeful that he’d be able to detect the others after the boat had capsized, anyways. In any case, there was no sense in standing about in one spot. He’d continue the mission on his own, and with any luck regroup with any survivors along the way.
He had barely taken a step when suddenly his muscles tensed as if a jolt of electricity passed through him. In another moment, the world shifted slightly, as though he moved without being aware of doing so. The glyphs decorating his body were burning and he was hit with a wave of nausea. Stumbling forward, he barely managed to catch himself from falling to his knees, legs shaky but stable enough to keep himself upright.
Bile rises to the top of his throat and he makes a choking cough, doubling over and breathing heavily in his effort to prevent himself from vomiting in his mask.
Despite being disoriented from the sudden, inexplicable feeling of confusion and nausea on top of the prickling and burning feeling from all of his glyphs, the sharp voice behind him does not escape his notice. He whips around (a little too quickly as he stumbles and nearly loses his balance again) and spots a man that he’s certain was not there moments ago.
His instinct kicks in and his curved weapon is swiftly pulled out from his belt and pointed at the masked stranger, though he abstains from attacking him immediately. It would be much more beneficial to simply subdue him until he got a better grasp of the situation.
As quick as the stranger can draw his weapon, Rowan is on his feet. Though not quite recovered from the sudden rip from his target, the Whaler manages to straighten up and snarl from behind his own mask. The blade the other man holds is utterly ridiculous in appearance, but if there’s any lesson that’s stuck with him over the years, it’s not to underestimate a foe.
What a fucking shame he couldn’t keep his claws grasped in this one, he muses. Despite the obvious feeling of illness the man is trying to shake off, he has a good stance, and there is something about him that suggests he is not one to trifle with. Rowan would have loved to sift through his mind for answers to sate his own curiosity.
Again, oh well. He’s not going to forget that this one managed to repel his invasion, but right now there’s a greater task at hand. He needs to subdue the masked stranger and haul him to the refinery. Daud would certainly be…interested in this one. Perhaps a bit irked, as the boss never seemed to care for a mystery. But the high ups had more discipline, more ways of getting a man to talk if they wanted. They’d probably have a bit of fun with this one, and Rowan would have done something interesting. Everyone would benefit, save for the target still gazing at him silently across the way.
They stand like that, watching each other from behind their masks, neither really moving. Rowan’s sword remains sheathed at his side, his crossbow strapped to his other hip, arms crossed over his chest as he sizes up the stranger. No movement, save for the occasional shiver, until at last, the silence is broken.
"I’d put that away."
Rowan nods to the wickedly curved blade, moving one hand to rest on his hip while the other slid down to hang loose by his side. He’s indifferent to a fight, though his words hang in the air with the promise of violence should the other man not heed his advice.
"I’m sure we can talk like gentlemen.”
Probably. Maybe. He doesn’t care. He’s more interested in why this man could oust him so easily from his mind. Was he like them?
Leif had to give the other credit: his patient stance was not something just anyone had. The standoff the two share makes it evident that he's not an amateur, ready to rush into things when the cold silence drew out too long. Impressive, but also a point of irritation. It was much easier to handle a threat that made the first move and blindly charged forward.
He tilts his head a fraction of an inch to the side at the stranger's suggestion. Put his weapon away? No, that'd be foolish even if he intended to settle things in a nonviolent manner. There were too many uncertainties, and disarming himself or providing an opening would be an amateur mistake.
Though he supposes he could at least humor him somewhat.
He shakes his head, lowering his weapon a little but not sheathing it back under his belt. His position is slightly less aggressive, but still wary of the other staring him down. He concludes that there would only be two likely conclusions to this predicament: Either the stranger would bore quickly of the standoff and leave, or he would resort to violence.
With his free hand he motions to himself, gesturing to his mask before shaking his head again. It was a basic enough gesture, "I wont speak", though given that he's in a strange country the other might interpret it much differently than his intent.
If that were the case, then he'd simply deal with the problem his own way and be off. Something about the man sets him on edge, and it has entirely something to do with the spike in nausea he's recovering from.
He takes a step to the side, beginning to grow antsy. Grey-area confrontations were always troublesome to deal with as he could never quite be certain whether he'd be justified in simply striking the other with his glyph magic. Of course, he could do so anyways... after all, no one was around to watch.
