[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=b8860b]Reginald Keystone[/color][/b][/i][/h1]
[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/f4cc5587-72f2-4513-a82b-7fea93fa6044.gif[/img][/center]
[hr][center][color=darkgoldenrod][b]Location:[/b][/color] Athribis (Underground) -> [b]?[/b]
[color=b8860b][b]Skills:[/b][/color] N/A [/center][hr][hr]

	So much as the ceiling's imminent departure weighed heavily upon the mind of the Lord Major, it was not so much as the sudden lapse that he had into self-doubt. Perhaps he was getting too old to do these kinds of things anymore; the running about and adventuring, shooting, driving fast, hopping into his aeroplane from the War and buzzing the outlying regions of Cairo whilst scaring the hell out of various livestockery - truly a sadistic joy he had gotten every so often watching herbs of goats stiffen up and fall over as he drunkenly gunned his engines earthward over a drove of the horned beasties. Not that he bore the goats any malice (they were excellent roasted or prepared with curry and a carrot souffle, he found), Reginald just had a boyish sense of humor sometimes that came out in ways occasionally inappropriate. Perhaps a defense mechanism from his decades of constant war on behalf of his Empire. Well, hindsight being what it was, it wasn't the most dignified thing for a man of his stature to do with his free time. 

	But he digressed. Retirement was not his lot, regardless of the his temporary dip into doubt. This was merely a step into a greater adventure, one with dangers and puzzles the likes of which he had not previous experience. This made it even more the adventurous task set before him, as it required preemptive thought and actual study of a situation, not the application of some lesson learned from an incident that happened to him some odd number or decades past that might partially apply in this case. This was truly living, even in his autumn years, and there was the very real possibility that Reginald would [i]not[/i] have the answers. He already didn't have very many of them as it stood, Perhaps this would even lead him to a death worthy of the old horned-helmed Vikings of lore, one deserving of a spot in the Halls of Valhalla, even though he didn't believe a word of it, himself. The concept did make for a charmingly romantic story, however. 

	No, he was not going senile. This was just another obstacle in his great journey with his Fellows (be they technically led by a Fellow-ette, or Lady-Fellow, or whatever the gynocentric equivalent of this was as the word escaped the Lord Major at just that moment, intent as he was upon being polite even in his own mind and even as it showed his more old fashioned and chauvinistic upbringing), one that he would meet with the headstrong certainty and puzzle their way around. Yes, the moment of uncertainty was behind him, ad this newly revitalized spirit of derring-do, the old man would stand and face this new challenge with spirit equal to the stories that still clung to his name. 

	But this was not to happen. Reginald could feel a change coming over him, and could see as his extremities were coming away like sand in a desert wind, parting from him effortlessly as a gradual lightening of his earthly form filled his senses. There was understandable alarm at first - but only at first. No. It wasn't fair. He had been ready for death for a long time now, if only there was one worthy of himself. Something not just for his vanity or because he was in love with his own legend, but for the honor of giving his life for a greater purpose; God, country, or king. Friendship would have worked, as well. To sacrifice himself for the mission. To save the life of one younger, stronger, with the potential to do real good for the world. His death had to mean something, if just to atone for the mistakes he made in every other aspect of his life. He had upheld the honor of the Keystone line, surely, but he had let down his own family. Wife and children both. Be it that he married out of obligation, he stepped into that obligation willingly and failed them through his lack of presence and his extramarital indiscretions. He had failed his mistress, too. Giving her a child out of wedlock and failing to publicly recognize her despite financial support, like she was a dirty secret. He had sired a whole other Keystone line, unrecognized commoners that now would [i]never know the truth of themselves[/i] and be doomed to poverty and hardship, rejected by the classes altogether. 

	He might have fixed all of it. The dust that was his corporeal form continued to blow away in a windless environment. If he could do certain things over, he would have, without question. But there was no fixing it now. This was not the end that he wanted, but it was probably the one that he deserved, once-hero or not. His only saving grace was that he had another Will drawn up back in his Cairo office that might help his illegitimate offspring somewhere down the line. He just needed his batman, Corporal Reddish, to access it, if only he knew to look for it. 

	So much left undone. Tears formed and evaporated instantaneously, spirited away the same force that blew away the details of his exterior, painlessly showing bone and blood that never touched the ground. [color=b8860b]"No,"[/color] his fading form intoned quietly, [color=b8860b]"I do not die like this."[/color] He had lived his like unafraid of death. It would be wholly unseemly to lament or cringe now that the Great Unknown summoned him. Reginald drew his sword, little more than a hilt and a handsbreadth of solid steel, and raised it in salute. Death claimed him, and he would stand unafraid, challenging the inevitable. Summoning the last strength his evaporating body allowed, he stood tall behind his sword and stated flatly, [color=b8860b]"[i]Have at you, sir[/i]."[/color] His brow quirked and eyes changed direction of focus at the last possible half-second, as if he recognized something. 

	It was at that moment the nothingness took him. 



[center][hr][hr][h1][i][b][color=bdb76b]Haring Reddish[/color][/b][/i][/h1]
[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/f00cb42d-37a1-4194-bdd2-9a6b0b4ec02f.jpg[/img][/center]
[hr][center][color=darkkhaki][b]Location:[/b][/color] Benha (Sun Deck) -> [b]?[/b]
[color=bdb76b][b]Skills:[/b][/color] Pistol [/center][hr][hr]

	This... what the hell was going on here? And why was that one woman so calm throughout it all? This wasn't the calm of a person who was dealing with sudden and dramatic change, like he was seeing from Josephine. This seemed different. Speaking with a note of authority on issues supernatural, never so much as flinching at the sudden and dramatic change to their environment, things that were otherwise impossible without either himself succumbing to madness or intervention of things most infernal. Madness, he might understand. Reddish had seen and done a lot more than decent, brave men he had served with; soldiers who had lost themselves to the brutality of war. It might just be his turn. Some of the things he had done, Reddish figured he might even deserve it. Seeing as others bore witness to the world's abrupt change and disappearance of the entire crew, it was likely that Reddish hadn't gone mad yet. But if he did not, and this was the world around them all, then everyone else had problems much larger than going a little nuts. 

	But that [i]woman[/i]. Reddish was present for everything that had gone down with the formation of the Fellowship. He had seen the deaths that suddenly started to pile up. The older lady, Neema, by [i]spontaneous bloody combustion[/i] the moment that Priscilla showed up at the Museum. Neema's nephew. The writer, Haakon, down in Archives. Even the couple who just wanted to get away and start a new life for themselves, Sergeant Harry and Miss Tarek, good friend to the Lord Major. Death my misadventure, all within hours of this woman appearing on scene, talking about matters occult and the like. She had no tie to the rest of the group, supposedly bound only by the common strands of some dream or scarification, none of which appeared to weigh upon her in the least. 

	No, no something was off here. The way they spoke started this train of thought off in Reddish; the calm if circular conversation on the question of whether they should arm and equip themselves more properly, a thought that he assumed would be a foregone conclusion of logic but which apparently merited [i]talking more[/i]. And speaking about the shadowy figures with what he thought was supposition. Or was it? Could it not be direct knowledge, its origin nefarious int he fact that it was not explained? Did she in fact know more than she was letting on?

	Not directly related - what was she doing while Nora's group went to Athribis to look for more information and Josephine accompanied him on a lead for the thieves that had been plaguing them? The last he saw of Priscilla, she was smiling and headed to the rose gardens, far away from anything helpful to their expedition. Like this was a vacation somehow. Oh, things were piling up. Highly suspicious things. 

	But the last straw was right then. The thing which mortared the bricks of his suspicions as he began to fade into oblivion: She looked him straight in the face as his mortality was coming to collect, and gave him the smug one-liner of [b][i]"So much for that plan of yours."[/i][/b] He was vanishing. Vera was vanishing, both of them into the ether of nothingness, and Priscilla was [i]taunting them[/i]. Reddish was speechless. Reflexively, he went to Vera, wanting to protect her from the very thing that he could not protect himself from. Vera passed her journal to Josephine, just before she fully disappeared, leaving Reddish to see his own fate in a few short seconds. Mouth agape, he looked to the starlet. 

	A thousand words lingered on his expression, none of which he would have time to say. If this was the end, he probably shouldn't waste words on inconsequential things like his admiration for the woman, or that the previous night was one of the most memorable of his life and he wouldn't have changed a thing about it. A man less enamored might not notice that the Egyptian sun made her platinum hair glow an angelic white. He might not notice the way that she tucked her hair behind her ears when she was lost in thought, or might not notice that she indeed had an active and agile mind suited to the adventures she commonly portrayed on the silver screen. His look might say that if he were anybody of note in the world, Reddish could have told her so. But he was who he was, and she was who she was, and none of it mattered because he was mere seconds from fading completely away.  

	As Reddish became increasingly more transparent and fuzzy, and Vera had poofed away completely, he heard further taunt from the woman who went by Mosi: [b][i]"Good luck, got any words before you vanish as well?"[/i][/b] What was she, some dime-novel villain? 

	The Corporal drew his service revolver and pointed it directly between Mosi's eyes. [color=bdb76b]"What have you done?"[/color] he asked pointedly, a trace of whisper leaning toward a supplication, [color=bdb76b]"Make it bloody stop, [i]please[/i]."[/color] Perhaps if he had the strength to pull the trigger before it was too late, he could put a halt to the horrible things befalling these people, who had done nothing to her in their lives. [color=bdb76b]"Save yourself, Miss Clarke!"[/color] he said, tone to the imperative. There were weapons enough for soldiering in his room, and cargo held much besides. If Reddish failed here, Josephine still had options. Or for all he knew, they were all already dead. But he had to try. Even if this was just madness coloring his outlook, Reddish couldn't just [i]do nothing[/i].

	His finger depressed the trigger of his Webley revolver, a gun which once belonged to his personal hero. His aim was true and the weapon functional, if fading into nothingness along with its owner. The sound of the weapon discharging seemed echoed and far away, much quieter than it should have been and seemingly without source. The bullet itself streaked out of the barrel, unerringly striking Mosi in her forehead the very instant that Reddish faded out of reality entirely. 

	The force of the bullet slammed into Mosi like a bareknuckle boxer flooring someone with a devastating overhand right. It, like the gun it came from and the man who pulled the trigger, disappeared before any lasting damage could be done. Mosi could talk about gathering Reddish's supplies while she was picking herself up off the ground.