He is spat out three hundred feet above the ground in a thick snowstorm. Boxy shapes emitting steam and many small lights bob and move under him, and there's a curious low rumble and faint screams, barely audible through the wind.

Right then. Grab a token of feather fall, be grateful that extradimensional storage lets you bring your entire youthful paranoid adventuring kit with you even when you're 300, peacefully retired from regular adventuring, and doing a site inspection to a rural ritual ground. Cast detect magic, and be surprised that the lights and machines aren't. Run towards the screams. No buffs for the moment, today is going to be a long day.

The screams are coming from a deep chasm in the ground! Twisted steel and groaning metal, smashed wood and lots of coal and debris scattered all around the slope and narrow bottom as some of the giant steam wagons have landed on their sides or backs or on top of each other. And they might be SLIGHTLY magic? At least a little bit? Hard to tell without a close examination. There's dozens of injured and dozens of dead. The screaming is coming from the injured. Or the trapped in a couple of cases. Most of the relatively unharmed survivors are standing around in shock.

He traded for a good recipe for healing salve from that nice young fellow out west and then traded the recipe on to one of his own guys more interested in alchemy in exchange for the first batch and he has a jar of that in his bag, a couple dozen doses of that is a small price to pay for goodwill whereever he's landed. They probably don't speak anything local to him around here, he's absolutely on another plane given the nature of the accident. (Elemental plane of cold? Probably not, there are too many rocks and such around). So cast tongues with his runestaff, and then.  "δοκιμές? Tinvaak? Testing? Ah, there we go."

Speak authoritatively and act like you know what you're doing and people will hopefully fall in line. "Alright folks, triage time! Everyone who isn't wounded please make sure you're safe and start rescuing those who need it! Figure out who's dead and who isn't! I have healing potions, so bring me to those who need them urgently!" He will deliver doses of the foul-smelling salve to anyone who seems to need it, unless they're actively refusing and don't appear to be at death's door.

Is that a skull? No, their eyes must be mistaken with all this damned snow. Right, more important things to worry about- Like screaming in pain, or attending to those screaming in pain.

One man stands up, injects himself with something, shivers all over, then starts moving energetically, shouting names and instructions. Line everyone up! Identify them, write the names!! GET THAT WRECK CUT OPEN!!!

The drugged-up medic comes over to him after things seem to be in motion. One of his arms hangs limply. He salutes with the other. "SIR! McKinney here! I was warned this drug will keep me functional for ONLY twenty minutes! You said you have medicine!"

"Yes, I have a salve -" (the salve is retrived from his bag of holding, a large glass jar holding numerous doses) "- a dose of this should staunch bleeding and close wounds, well enough to move people at least, and it might get some people back on thier feet who wouldn't otherwise be. I'm not sure how bad your arm is, but you should take a dose for yourself as well. I apologise in advance, I'm given to understand it smells foul to most people." (It smells like a yard full of composting flesh and plants, far in excess of it's mass).

"-Jesus Christ and Mary's left tit, that's wretched! Are you quite sure?!? I suppose the stuff the spark comes up with is sometimes just as bad! Well, nothing for it, I'll volunteer first! I definitely have multiple breaks- Any instructions on applying it?!?"

Triage is continuing in the background. They don't have full counts left, but of the not-actually-dead, they're leaving about a third as obviously doomed. Ripped in half, missing head, so on. And most of the rest are disablingly wounded. There's only nine people up and about enough to help.

"I have the assurance of one of the finest healers I know that it has no adverse side effects. It can be taken orally or smeared near the injured area; the effects will be largely the same either way." 

He will get to it! It shouldn't take too long to get everyone a dose. He will make note of the obviously doomed but the dead can wait, it's what they're best at. For now, the living. 

"Bottoms up! Or not!" He smears it on his arm through a rip in his heavy winter suit, and his eyes widen in wonder. "Ah, the wonders of modern science!!!"

"Time to treat the rest! How many doses is it?!?"

It also seems like the surviving party above is trying to send down a rope, but finding the craggy slope rather treacherous. The lantern-things they're carrying are gathering near the edge, the storm too loud to hear any shouting over.

The joy of grace unexpected, even vicariously, is a wonderful thing.

"Perhaps two dozen, and I think I have another jar in my bag."

He thinks about how he could get these people out of this cliff. Making people climb and then healing the ones who fall is what his less sensible coworkers would do, despite it's numerous obvious flaws. He could use that amulet he has in his bag somewhere to summon a giant wasp, but it would only last a minute so he couldn't get more than two or three people up. Wall of Stone shaped into stairs or a ladder, the cliff is too high for a single casting, and he needs to conserve spell slots. He could ritual-cast a few more casts times, or do the same for mass fly (the most efficient of the spells to that effect - spider climb, polymorph into a flying creature or an earth elemental, mass-cast summons, rope trick, dragging a tensor's floating disk behind him, etc, but it'll still take two and a half hours), but that would take hours. Better than many alternatives, though, if the alternative is being down here for hours. Hoard gullet doesn't work for things he can't swallow. Lots of options if he burns (part of) his soul to perform a grand ritual, but quite frankly, he has more efficient ways to save lives by burning his soul at home and he didn't do it then. Actually, if he can get people onto stretchers, he could probably get away with only one cast of mass fly, and then have the fliers carry up the non-fliers on stretchers. If people are milling about lacking a better plan, he'll float it, but 50 minutes of spellcasting time is worth waiting and seeing if someone else has a plan first.

Right now, people are doing triage!

They try the miracle cream on one of the obviously-doomed, and when it fails to really un-doom them, there's some cursing and then some triage.

Shortly, everyone is back on their feet or at least stable, and they're searching the vehicles for anyone else in distress. McKinney is clambering over one of the more intact ones, and someone else is flashing morse code at the rest of the party up top.

After a good bit of morse back-and-forth, the plan is announced- Lorries eight through twelve are intact, but can't see anything in this snow and fear they might be lost- Bad maps? They're going to lower a heavy steel line with Eight's towing hook, and roughly half the party up above will come down to try and salvage what they can, sleep for the night at least slightly sheltered from the wind, and bury the dead. Hopefully, when the storm clears tomorrow there will be some sort of landmark.

It is not often that he envies the healers, for thier labours, but when people die in front because he lacks the magic to save them is one of those times. He is still sure that they envy him for his versatility and ability to win a fair fight working alone much more often, though. 

He makes note of the ingenious local flavour of light-language, which, while slow, is remarkably resilient and accessible, which is useful given the circumstances, while quietly eavesdropping on thier communication. Ah, they have a crane, how convenient. He will leave the planning of such things to the locals, who presumably know what they're doing, and more importantly, would not care for unneeded meddling. Hopefully the lives he did save will be an in with them, at least. He will help out as his admittedly frail frame permits, take a silent mental inventory of which of the dead might be useful for reanimation, and keep an eye out for any needful meddling opportunities.  

They seem to be managing more or less well without him, though- They're pretty clearly confused about where he comes from and what he can do? And certainly not ungrateful. Well, there's a lot of damned work to be done right now.

McKinney straight up collapses into the snow after working like mad for another ten minutes. Luckily, they've assigned him a minder, who carries the man to a safe spot to rest. This was apparently expected.

They have a temporary shelter raised against the side of the cliff after an hour, crudely bolted together with sheets of scrap from the downed machines, and with a humming boiler from one of said machines keeping it warm inside. All the injured retire there, leaving only fresh hands from above working into the evening.

One comes up to him eventually. "Hello there sir, mighty appreciative of the assistance, I say, but I'm going to bother you and beg for a little more - or at least, ask if you know anywhere we can find a cache of food. It's been half-rations for a while, and that's not good for the health or spirit, you see. If there's nothing, no worries, but it'd be negligent to not even ask about food- And other supplies, or perhaps the path to our Generator site, but food most essentially."

He's glad McKinney is okay, the fellow seemed competent. Hopefully he got some good soul growth out of that, anything which leaves you passed out in the snow is usually good for your spiritual development. 

"I don't usually carry food with me when I travel, much less when I'm transported unexpectedly by a lab accident, and I think if I divined for food I'd just find your own supplies. I think I can do a stone to flesh spell if you can give me an hour? Which should leave us good for meat of mysterious but mostly edible nature if you have someone who can butcher it. I have some other supplies but mostly it's intended for one person, at most. If you have monsters that need killing, I'm your man." (He hasn't seen anything that looks like a veteran, let alone a name, while he's been here, which would be unsurprising on base rates in the population but this is a desperate struggle for survival of some sort, he's gotten the impression, so he'd be expecting something a little more impressive. Nonetheless, unless there's some archmage napping at the top of the cliff because this is all beneath them, then he's probably the deadliest thing around by a long shot.) 

"...I now have additional questions! Such as, a spell? What? I am under the impression that magic is mere charlatanism and fakery, sir. Your medicine Sparkwork, as it's become known, at best, and your ability to stand without a lantern or coats to warm you, and your - decidedly strange appearance - some combination of further Sparkwork and a trick of the light or visions brought on by stress. I wouldn't describe the fauna as monstrous, nothing that won't go down to a couple rifle shots and damned scarce besides, hence why we're not bothering trying to hunt. But at any rate, for the sake of pragmatism I'm sure everyone will tolerate the mysteriousness of the meat if the alternate is not eating. Oh, I suppose I should ask your name. Roger Mason, myself, I am."

"Senator Grafikrastos, at your service. Magic is certainly real." He doesn't have spare spell slots for a dramatic gesture of fire, not one which couldn't be mistaken for a use of alchemical tricks, at least. "I don't need you to believe just yet, of course - when I turn the cliff-face into meat, that will be quite obvious enough for you?"

And unless there are any objections, he will settle down to start casting. This involves finding a good clear bit of accessible rock to transform, peering at it for a bit, then getting out an ancient-looking parchment tome with skulls mounted on it and paging through it to find the right arcane diagram and beginning to meditate and chant in a long-dead tongue. It will take about an hour. 

Well, they're not going to stop him, though they continue setting up camp and salvaging while giving him a wide berth.

And lo and behold, a 3ft diameter, 10ft-long cylinder of stone in the cliff-face is converted into meat which did not previously in any capacity exist. 

WELL THEN!

They have some boys with axes go at it before it just freezes solid. And then, after a volunteer fails to keel over dead in ten minutes, are hungry enough that roughly half of everyone is eating a double portion of strange rock meat.

This is really quite unusual. Is he sure he's not a Spark? They didn't used to think those were really a thing before, either.

If, by 'a Spark', they mean someone who uses their intellect and profound insight into the fundamental forces of reality to force the world to bend to his wildest whims, then yes, he is a Spark. If they mean, like, is he an engineer, then no. If they mean "someone who isn't doing magic" then no, he is absolutely doing magic, he's sort of concerned about that now that he thinks of it. What do they do for healing? 

Magic isn't real. But Sparks can do insane incredible things with the laws of physics.

Oh, surgeries. Antibiotics and other medicines. Other such things. They didn't manage to bring a lot along in the evacuation.

He will shelve the question of whether magic exists or not for another time, they're not disputing his abilities even if they are possibly disputing his ability to teach students (or for students to teach themselves from books of the correct theory). And for all he knows, they're right - it's not that surprising that another world doesn't have arcane magic, for all he's never heard of such a place, but it's very surprising to have no magic at all.

He will make mental notes about mundane healing techniques but it's not really his area of interest. 

Who seems to be in charge around here? 

There's two women who seem to be organizing things for the camp, and a sharply dressed man with a steel badge leading the salvaging.

He doesn't think he'd be of much use of the salvaging - he's done a fair bit in his time, but they know the material better than he does and that's the thing that really matters, when it comes to efficient salvage. So he'll go find the women organizing things, to aid in his plan to orient to the local situation and also ingratiate himself to the locals. They seem like nice enough sorts, at least for the moment. They could be a secret apocalypse-cult. (fun fact: It's always possible that your acquaintances are in a secret apocalypse cult. Even being in a public apocalypse cult doesn't preclude membership in a secret apocalypse cult. Grafikrastios has lived an interesting life, as any 6th-circle caster necessarily has.)

The older of the two women comes out to meet him, arms crossed.

"Don't disturb the wounded. What do you want? Where did you come from?"