[Cold and damp is not unfamiliar to Barnabas, yet he cannot place why. He cannot place many things, he realizes, as his consciousness finds him, and he similarly finds himself in a strange stone room lit only by the shedding light of its torches. As he stands to his feet, he takes stock of his surroundings—of those that are with him. Unfamiliar all, and he accepts that seems to be the way of it. His attention only stays on them for a moment, before his intense stare turns to the door—the presumed exit.

The note reads simple enough to him, and he quickly glances to the torches, for the clue is as plain as the chill that hangs in the room.

Silently he approaches each one, examining them before moving on to the next...until he notices the metal key in one. Considering how he might retrieve it, extinguishing the torch perhaps, but without water or something else to snuff it quickly, the task would prove onerous.

Then he is hit with a realization, a memory about himself—that he cannot be permanently harmed though he knows not why. Thus does he reach forth into the flames with certainty, despite the pain of it and the burn against his skin.]

[Entering the shooting range, Barnabas finds himself among more unfamiliar things. Guns? Not that he knows the name of them, nor what they are, but even if his memories were intact, he would still be at a loss. Well, perhaps not entirely, there were similar things, like the aether cannons some of his men operated, but all of that is shrouded in whatever fog denies him the memories of such.

As he approaches it, curiosity keen in his expression, he cannot help but notice his own visage over yonder—a cut-out of himself, along with whoever has been so lucky to find themselves with him. His attention snaps to them, and with an intense and quick look over, he gestures to the guns.

As he speaks, his voice has a Scandinavian accent, his words spoken slowly and with purpose.]

Know you these contraptions?

B.

[As the sound of Barnabas' boots echo through the room to mark his entrance, he pauses when he realizes there is nothing of note in here. Save the actual note offering instructions. He scowls at it, slight though the expression proves to be with his lower affect. Then, he turns to his company, eyeing them as if trying to puzzle out what to compliment.

Barnabas himself is a larger man, impressively muscular in his build, broad and solid while standing at just above six feet tall. Though, his hair is rather windswept and somewhat unruly, his jaw covered in stubble, he is otherwise a well kept man. There is a handsome scar that reaches from collarbone to the middle of his sculpted chest, just above his heart, and his shirt does little to cover it. His tight black pants make obvious his muscular legs as well.

Certainly there's something to compliment with sincerity here.]

C.

[While a mechanical bull is nothing Barnabas is familiar with, he does know how to ride. He's uncertain why he knows this, just as the other scant memories or inclinations seem scattered and disjointed in their origin, this is no different. Similarly, he knows not the root of his confidence in the task, that he believes that this should be of no effort whatsoever, but that certainty is what drives him forward. Effortless does he saddle himself on the bull with a purposeful swing of his leg over it as he steps into the stirrup. Casting a look to his company with a silent and placid expression, he attempts to beckon them. However, to the receiver, he kind of just looks like he's staring at them. Unblinkingly.

Then, after a beat, he offers his hand.]