[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=steelblue]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1] [img]http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a203/D__S/michael%20biehn/american%20dragons/tonyluca3.png[/img][/center] [hr][center][b]Location:[/b] Interior Courthouse (Infirmary) [/center][hr][hr] Ash nodded, allowing himself to feel true relief when Froggy spoke out loud. [color=steelblue]"Ha! Good to have you back, Victor. You were out for a few minutes, but damn did you give us a scare. You can get to your bed in a little while, ok? Nothing for you today. Please, have Astrid give you a workup, find out what happened if you can. Next, you're taking it easy."[/color] Ash smiled from one side of his mouth, as if he were suppressing it. [color=steelblue]"That's an order."[/color] His radio crackled, Bryn's voice unfamiliar coming through. So Lilly had passed. It put a gloom on the day, another one, but it was part of the whole Circle of Life that mankind had been shoved violently back into fully. She was an okay lady. [color=steelblue]"Understood. Make sure you get her brain. Same spot we bury all our dead. Umm... dig a hole, lay the body to rest. Anyone who wants to can come by, help fill it in. If it isn't covered by suppertime, take care of it after. You guys get to that Wall as soon as she's in the hole. Domestic will let people know."[/color] [hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=orangered]Bridgette Vinters[/color][/b][/i][/h1] [img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/d5/b4/78/d5b478ac0063ce48f5bab3cb5648b0a1.jpg[/img][/center] [hr][center][b]Location:[/b] Exterior Courthouse, Burial Site [/center][hr][hr] Bryn and the Newnanite seemed to have the body well under control. Bridgette mounted her Cadence and quickly set to the task of locating two shovels. By the time she had made it out to the burial plot near the school, Lilly's remains were already there, mostly wrapped up in bed linen. She handed her work partner and friend one of the shovels, set the blade of hers into the earth, and leaned hard into it with her right snakeboot pressing it underneath the grass ad dirt. Bridgette worked silently for a minute or two, before quietly saying, [color=orangered]"Thanks, Batgirl."[/color] She mostly kept quiet while she dug. It wouldn't be any massive length of time for this to be done, it's not like they were going for the full six feet here, the traditional depth for a job like this, either. Far enough down to be respectful and practical, not so far down as it dominated their morning. They all had jobs to do, despite the insistence of fate to delay hers. Perhaps with hindsight, deeper meaning could be put to the series of events of this morning. As usual, only time would tell. [hr][hr][center][h1][color=firebrick]Black James![/color][/h1] [img]https://v.cdn.vine.co/r/avatars/6AE78329E91063505631975227392_pic-r-1396533712688c4afde8ecf.jpg.jpg?versionId=ZnGOSit0zozlhxpJk0w6QVx4cSozVRdq[/img][/center] [hr][center][b]Location:[/b] Newnan, Inner Wall - Smoker [/center][hr][hr] [color=firebrick]♫"You know, you got-ta got-ta got-ta, Thank [i]GOD[/i] for the [i]GRAVY![/i]"♫[/color] [hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=c0c0c0]The Great Bazhooli[/color][/b][/i][/h1] [img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/0c830ac3-637e-4722-a654-d4192b0bd4c2.jpg[/img][/center] [hr][center][b]Location:[/b] Somewhere on the Norfolk Southern Railway System, headed Southeast [/center][hr][hr] [i]...squeak squeaky... ...squeak squeaky... ...squeak squeaky...[/i] The railway handcar was in dire need of oil. Maybe graphite would do, but stopping long enough to shave down a buttload of pencil leads didn't seem like the best idea at the moment. At least, not until he found said buttload of pencils and someplace secure enough to hole up while he extracted their cores and ground them down to fine powder. For whatever reason, he hadn't been able to find oil for quite a while, either. Luckily, the handcar that formerly belonged to his troupe's locomotive was a sturdy means of conveyance. Not a whole lot of moving parts, the benefit of which being that there wasn't a lot to break. The fact that he strongly suspected it was an antique notwithstanding, it had been a serviceable means of getting from Point A to Point B that was faster than walking and carried a small amount of cargo. Except that he really had no cargo anymore. And though he definitely had a Point A, the idea of Point B was as demolished a concept as pulling his handcar around a drive-thru for a quick burger and fries. Dear and smiley God, could he go for a burger and fries. Maybe one of those artisan dealies with a brioche bun and pepperjack, topped with a liberal helping of lightly vinegared, shredded cabbage and fresh cracked pepper, with a thick, medium grilled angus patty sprinkled with tiny amounts of mustard powder and cumin... Ok, now he was torturing himself. He hadn't seen a burger in years. [i]Years[/i]. The last of his own, less-than-gourmet stuff was consumed the previous day, late morning. Scraps really, and even that he shared with his diminutive, orange companion. Yes, somewhere along the way, he picked up a cat. Took to calling it Schrodinger, for reasons that were utterly hilarious to himself at the time. It stuck. He saw the cat, once or twice a day as he squeaked along on the railroad tracks; it was clearly following him. He could not ascertain why, for the life of him. Sometimes the little guy would curl up on the handcar and sleep for hours at a time, only to disappear from under his nose without so much as a polite [color=FF8C00]"...meow..."[/color] Whatever the situation of his semi-adopted feline, the man himself was perilously low on supplies. Zero food, little ammunition. The only thing he had in abundance was knives. Sharp, pointy implements designed to be hurled and/or inserted into people and/or things. Next to his rifle on the handcar lay what appeared to be a bundle of thick, grey-brown fur. One hoped it was for wearing. Being as the fur would be a near psychotic choice to wear for any period of time in the middle of a Georgia summer, his present choice of clothing was somewhat more sane - black cargo pants, well patched from years of abuse at the knees, heavy black boots, and a muted red vest. He wore a thick and formidable moustache, possibly his best identifying feature. The odd man's face was a mix of emotions common to survivors of this perilous time: Sorrow, fear, regret. Yet despite it all, a clear light burned in his eyes, conveying a sense of determination and cautious optimism. A piece of Hope had not yet been cut away by the years of the Apocalypse. Not yet. The spark of whatever remained of him from Before kept dragging him forward. In this instance, it was dragging him on to the rhythmic creak of restored, 19th century railroad steel. [i]...squeak squeaky... ...squeak squeaky... ...squeak squeaky...[/i] A breathy groan caught his attention from the side of the tracks. It was a woman, or rather used to be. Mostly naked and very legless, it was dragging itself across the gravel piled up on either side of the tracks. Just the one, for now. Too slow to cause him any harm, no reason for him to stop. The animated corpse pawed impotently up at the handcar as he passed by. Not even a shudder of revulsion anymore, at the sight of it. When all this started, he had the natural human responses of fear and disgust - plenty of both - but now? Now it didn't even register to him anymore unless they posed an immediate threat. Such was the adaptability of humankind in the face of true horror. Now, he had been up this set of tracks before, a long time ago. Around the time all this crap started, worldwide. He was skirting a little close to the Atlanta Metro area for his liking, being as he was alone. Higher chance of Returned crossing your path, also higher chance of meeting people. As he very well knew, it wasn't always a good thing, meeting people. Were it not for people, he would still have his friends, supplies, and an ambulatory train from which he could live and work. He didn't like being alone. It was dangerous, now more than ever. More than dangerous, it was lonely. Being as he had been down these tracks just before dead people stood back up and made a meal of the living, it came as something of a surprise when he saw a [i]Wall[/i] constructed in the distance. It was still morning, so he had no desire to find a spot to settle into for the coming night, despite the residences that were coming with more and more frequency. He was sorely tempted to stop for an hour maybe, enough time to try and scavenge, but that [i]WALL[/i] caught his curiosity with both hands. Did someone build a settlement here? Were they still alive? Would they swarm out from behind their defenses and cut him to pieces? Or would they just shoot him out of jealousy birthed of his very fine facial hair? It was a mad world, these days. He had to know. The pumping of the handcar's lever quickened, pushing him forward with marginally greater velocity. [i]...squeak squeaky... ...squeak squeaky... ...squeak squeaky...[/i] Coming closer, no trap was sprung. No mass of Returned flooded from behind the treeline to rip him asunder and chew upon his eyeballs. But there [i]were[/i] people along that wall. Not all along it, but in regular intervals. And speaking into radios. And looking down upon him with great confusion. The earthen banks around him suddenly shifted up, accounting for the construction of a roadway overpass leading into what looked like a great gate along this manned wall. The people inside knew he was there. Might as well introduce himself. The colorful man gathered his meager belongings and climbed up the far bank, away from the gate. In truth, all he had left was that lump of fur and his rifle, a standard Remington 750, but he swept up both of them and made them ready. As it turns out, the big grey lump of fur was a well crafted and rustic looking bear fur coat, in a style that could only be described as "vintage", along with a darker fur Cossack hat, an accessory that looked quite stereotypical for a man of his parentage. He slung his rifle on his back, careful to put his hands nowhere near the trigger in the process. The last thing he needed was to get shot because of some jumpy sentry. When he reached the top, the odd moustachioed man walked across the overpass bridge with his hands out to his sides. He very well could have made the climb on the closer side, but he wanted the people to observe him for a little bit before he introduced himself. When he reached the nearer side of the bridge, he unslung his Remington and leaned it against the side of the guardrail. His coat followed, hanging upon the barrel of the weapon. His hat remained upon his head, purely for ambiance. The large knives on his person stayed in plain view, just to start. He walked a few short steps onto a grassy spot, and stayed quiet for a few seconds so that they could observe him further. That is, until he began to give his peculiar salutations. [color=c0c0c0]"Naiboleye otlichnoye utro, Damy i Gospoda!"[/color] he began in flawless Russian, then made an exaggerated wave as if to atone for choice of language. [color=c0c0c0]"Apologies,"[/color] he began again with a thick, if ever so slightly muddled Russian accent, [color=c0c0c0]"I vill start again."[/color] He turned to the side, head still facing up at the Gatekeeper, Jim, and flashed a great, showy smile. A flourish with each of his hands somehow produced two large daggers; a solid feat considering that he had no sleeves in which to hide them. His smile grew just a little wider, and tossed one into the air in a graceful arc, quickly replacing it with another knife from his belt. [color=c0c0c0]"Ladies and Gentlemen please, I vish you a wvery excellent morning."[/color] A fourth knife joined the trio he juggled before himself, and he began switching out catching them from both in front and behind his back. Continuing to seamlessly hurl them skyward in controlled movements, he spoke again. [color=c0c0c0]"If you vould direct attention to center ring, you vill see amazing feats of Cutlery Prestidigitation, performed by [u]The Great Bazhooli[/u], formerly with assist of Russian Bazhooli Sem'ya."[/color] The speed of the knife juggling increased, almost to a blur for the people manning the southern section of the Outer Wall. Two more knives joined the existing four, making a dangerous half dozen spinning blades moving in vertical orbit around the strange performer's face. Without warning, he jostled his head to either side, dislodging his Cossack Hat from firm fit upon his cranium. The bulky fur thing sat at a rakish angle, threatening to tumble away, until a quick jerk of his head backwards shifted the headgear forward, partially onto his face. It covered his eyes and nose, quite effectively robbing him of his sight, and held in place intentionally by his teeth. The swift and coordinated movements of his hands ceased abruptly. He held two blades in his hands, the remaining four descending perilously close to his restricted eyes and heaving torso. Instead of impaling him, they landed, blade first in the grass, all grouped within a few inches of one another by his feet. The Great Bazhooli tossed the two in his hands up and forward simultaneously, the blades rotating slowly in the air. A quarter second later, the spry performer leapt over his earthbound knives and flipped once - catching his two aerial blades and shoulder rolling forward. At the end of this maneuver, his hat deftly covered the four knives behind him (spinning about [i]just a little[/i] on their hilts), and he was on one knee in a deep bow, arms outstretched beside him, each holding a large pointy implement as if they were always there. Truly, he was a performer of no small ability. [color=c0c0c0]"[i]Had[/i] Great Bazhooli [i]but time[/i] to show you the best part of act: The long range hatchetry and precision throw-stabbing, I assure you would be moving. Moving perhaps, enough to invite The Great Bazhooli inside to discuss his Amazing Feats of Amazingness, vozmozhno? And maybe snack?"[/color] From out of nowhere, a fuzzy orange blur streaked unerringly toward his head, attaching to it with the precision and grace of a feline, crossed with a belligerent, drunken bowler. It began yowling a truly awful sound that could have been taken as either a playful bit of cat-ry or a declaration of war. The fuzzy, orange blur began moving in the same manner of the contents of a blender on frappe, except around his very dignified noggin. The Great Bazhooli immediately dropped his knives and clasped his hands to his face, rolling around on the grass beneath him and sharing his thoughts on the matter. [color=c0c0c0]"Schrodinger! You bastard! Why? Oy-oy-oy OW! I eat you! I fucking eat you vhen I get chance! ArrrrRrRRRrgh!"[/color] [center]***[/center] From atop his position at the main gate to Newnan, Jim stood with his rifle at the ready and his mouth agape. Maybe he didn't get a lot of sleep the night before. Maybe the utter randomness of the situation put a strain on his mind. Maybe it was a combination of these things, but he didn't have the slightest fucking clue what he was looking at, nor what the poor bastard being assaulted by a cat was saying. Not a word. Without so much as a glance away from the action, he picked up his radio, and addressed anyone else who had one tuned to their standard channel. "Um... This is, ah, Jim? Yeah, Jim at the South Gate. Ah... Look, you guys have to [i]see[/i] this one. And anyone who speaks Russian? Please. I wash my hands of this." [hider=Translations] Naiboleye otlichnoye utro = A most excellent morning Damy i Gospoda = Ladies and Gentlemen Sem'ya = Family Vozmozhno = Perhaps Oy = Ouch (or nearabouts) [/hider]