[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=firebrick]Vladimir Alexandrov[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3068ada6-2525-4e47-b1a8-14d98dfb6177.jpg[/img][h3][color=firebrick][b][i]"[u]The Great Bazhooli[/u]"[/i][/b][/color][/h3][/center][hr][hr][center][color=firebrick][b]Location:[/b][/color] Russian Imperial Circus Tent City (Regent's Park) Front Gate -> Main Tent
[color=firebrick][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Fal'shbort[/i] (Passive), [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] (Passive), English [/center][hr]

	Granted, the first conversation that Vladimir had with Ludwig was ...odd... but this one seems to have slipped into the truly bizarre. Not that things within the Circus were ever very normal, by outside standards, but any time that they find an excuse to throw a party, things became colored with bright splashes of inexplicable. The members of the Circus who had been performing earlier were beginning to filter back into the Big Top, anxious to have full reign of their beloved tents and temporary walkways. Not to mention that a good portion of the food was there. Per Vlad's orders, the bulk of it was still back at the Tent City proper, where the Bazhooli Sem'ya and a good number of the Circus Folk were kicking off the party in earnest. It was where Vladimir wished he was right now. He wanted to speak with Veda and his father about their upcoming plans, now that they had told the Graveolase where they could shove their invitation (except for Mary, she was okay for a heavily armed Catholic lady, plus the Baron liked her).

	Fortunately, if he could not go to the party, it seemed that the party would come to him. Part of it, at least. Part of it that had alcohol. The whole of them made it a point to avoid the area where Vlad, Ludwig, and Thalken were standing, partly out of respect and partly because of the glaring looks issuing from The Great Bazhooli if anyone ventured too close. The presence of armed guards making a more-or-less circle helped in this endeavor as well, though they were scattered out a bit. One person did make it through despite the imposing demeanor of Master Alexandrov; a very large and tall man by the name of Igor, whose profession as Strongman was easy to guess by way of dress and musculature. Vladimir himself was noteworthy, despite his veteran years, for having very good arms. He was toned and strong, maintaining this by strenuous training in acrobatics and knifery. Yet next to this man, he seemed a slender reed. His presence was forgivable in this instance, if only because of what he carried: One massive hand bore several goblets of non-uniform design, two metal and two wood, hanging between his fingers, while his palm awkwardly clenched a thick glass one. The other hand held three bottles in a similar configuration. 

	Vlad stepped back and to the side a bit, keeping himself out of what he figured was Thalken's peripheral vision. For right that second, he wanted his guest's attention to be focused on the man to whom he would be speaking, in all of his random, confusing glory. Perhaps he had a way about him that the Russians did not, and Vlad was curious as to what might happen next. He had a date with a bottle. Moderately, at first. Vladimir paused for a half second, reconsidering his plan for the next few seconds. No, this may require a different approach. A three second discussion with Igor had Vlad's hands with the two wooden goblets, one filled with a clear, mostly odorless liquid and the other with a decent Novorossiysk wine of their homeland. 

	With something akin to respectful patience as to the events about to unfold in front of him, The Great Bazhooli took both cups into one hand, their stems clutched between his fingers casually. He walked a quick path around to the side of the pair of men, Thalken and Ludwig, so that both might openly see him approach. As he did, a quick whistle came from the giant man, Igor, who had made his way back to the food table. Vladimir's head whipped around just in time to catch a bundle wrapped in paper with his free hand, and he continued on to the Honored Guest of the Circus in the middle of the area. [color=firebrick]"Take, [i]Talink[/i]."[/color] he intoned, offering over the deep cup of clear drink. [color=firebrick]"Maybe you talk better vith, eh, to say... [i]vet vhistle[/i]? Da. Is made from potatoes."[/color] He raised an eyebrow knowingly, [color=firebrick]"And beets."[/color] He did fail to mention that it was deceptively potent (even for a distillation), but possessing a robust sweetness if one could get around the nigh obscene alcohol content. 

	Vlad diverted his eyes over to the armed guards still around their position, then back to Thalken. He reached out his other hand, this one containing the bundle wrapped in paper, the contents of which were two smallish pies about the size of his palm each, stuffed with diced potatoes and what he hoped was seasoned beef. His voice picked up with just a touch of drama, that others in the vicinity [color=firebrick]"Hospitality of Circus is for everyvone given invitation. Or passage of safety. You have second vone for now, I am thinking. Eat. Might be here for a time."[/color] 

	  



[hr][hr][center][h1][color=c0c0c0][i][b]Sister Mary Ignatia Hale[/b][/i][/color][/h1][/center]
[center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/474x/82/54/0d/82540d6136ce1f6f809735b7e793127b--redhead-makeup-molly-quinn.jpg[/img]
[sub][color=c0c0c0]"In God's name let us go on bravely." -Joan of Arc[/color][/sub]
[hr][color=c0c0c0][b]Location:[/b][/color] Russian Imperial Circus Tent City (Regent's Park), Veta's Tent [/center][hr][hr]

	It was strange, hearing Elizaveta insist that they dress as commoners. Mary hadn't really taken a close look at her social standing in quite some time. It simply hadn't occurred to her that she wasn't a commoner. Mary was born into the family of a hereditary Knight, technically a member of the nobility, but that was rendered quite a moot point by the deaths of the male members of her family and their holdings in Stirling put under the custody of the Crown. She had been placed with extended family for a time who seemed to despise her, merchants who gladly shuffled her away to the Church the moment the opportunity presented itself. Her formative years were spent with the Swiss Guard and the clergy of Rome, learning humility and how to do remarkable, violent things with the Lord's blessing. She couldn't even take a secular title anymore, not unless the Church gave their blessing. 

	Oh, Mary had title. One that she fought and bled for, unlike the vast majority of the Ton. She earned the right to be called Dame, and most recently, she added Commander to the list for the purpose of protecting the common good. As for Arch Graveolase? She didn't earn that one. It was dropped upon her by the dying words of Lord Buckingham. It was a burden. Though she had not paid the cost associated with this authority, Mary had the feeling that she was going to. Still, the young Apostolic did not feel that she was of noble class. Not anymore. But the truth of it, the bare, rough truth, was that if nothing else, she [i]was[/i] the daughter of a Knight of the British Empire. Even though it was bottom-rung, it was a position of noble bearing. She spent her earliest years in a smaller castle of stone and brick, did not have to labor during that time, and never wanted for food nor friendship. It was halcyon. It was humbling. 

	[color=c0c0c0]"Yes of course. Thank you, Your Grace."[/color] she said quietly and accepted the bundle of clothing from Elizaveta. She did take her up on her offer to use the changing screen, making her way over to the moveable partition and stepping behind it. It felt strange, removing the trappings of her profession. There were the type of clothes that she had worn for a long time now; the entirety of her adult life. Similar garb when she was in Training with the Vatican. It had taken a step to the finer since becoming a representative of the Vatican and a Papal Knight, granted, but it was tough, it was functional, and it was suitable for wearing for extended periods of time. To embark upon a mission in this manner seemed almost like she was hiding her affiliation with the Vatican, a thing which she was not find of, not one bit. On the other hand, the mission could not begin until they got out undetected. She would be noticed, unless she resorted to true stealth. That was not the best option either, and infinitely more difficult with her horse in tow. Determined expression on her face, Mary quickly changed and reused the burlap wrapping to secure her cassock and other articles of clothing. 

	Mary looked down at herself after she had changed. This was a strange feeling for her, dressing as such. She looked a bit like the woodsfolk that the Crown might use to patrol their forests, or one of the yeomen that the Knights would employ as military scouts. She stepped back out from behind the screen, cautiously at first, but slowly becoming more comfortable with the new attire. A thought struck her, and she gathered her hair back as best she could, hiding it underneath the hood of her riding cloak. [color=c0c0c0]"There are few with hair like mine in London, and none within the boundaries of the Circus. It would give us away."[/color] She looked to her halberd, this time sighing. That would definitely stand out. Mary might have to get creative. 

	[color=c0c0c0]"As might a dappled grey stallion and a formidable white tiger. I should not wish to cause alarm to any of your people, Grand Duchess, but perhaps a distraction of some kind is warranted?"[/color] Mary had yet to get to her horse, Cassius. Another hurdle to be overcome without being seen. The sooner that they had this done and got onto the open road, the better in Mary's estimation. She began buckling on her weapons underneath her cloak, ready to get moving.