[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 (Regent's Park), Just Outside Main Tent -> Vladimir's Vardo
[color=firebrick][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Fal'shbort[/i] (Passive), [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] (Passive), English, Sleight of Hand [/center][hr]

	It must have been a rather comical sight, watching the reigning Master of the Bazhooli Sem'ya traipse across the rows of tents and clearings, leading a young almost-Earl by the hand and his other laden with the Circus's equivalent of Russian street food. He knew exactly where to go; even if every tent was taken down and reassembled backwards, Vladimir would know. Every stitch and stake of this temporary city was committed to his memory, indelibly part of him as much as his generally flamboyant attitude or proclivity for all things sharp and pointy. He could find his way around if he was drunk, blindfolded, and juggling knives. Once, he even had to. It was an interesting Easter all around that year, as many within the Circus might relate. Drifting about his own his home with full hands, as quickly as he dared considering dual needs of speed and discretion, was child's play in comparison. 

	Vlad tried not to stop and stare at the oddly musical Ludwig, who apparently chose [i]right then[/i] to burst into lyrical stylings. He was unfamiliar with the song, in the same way that he was unfamiliar with many of the songs of this little island of Britannia. Maybe it was German, and just translated into English. Not that it would matter anyway; The Great Bazhooli was not overly familiar with songs of Teutonic origins, either. So out of place it seemed, even among the people of the Circus, that Vlad's attempt to [i]not[/i] stop and stare was doomed to head shaking futility. It lasted but a few seconds before the experienced performer shrugged the spectacle off and resumed his jaunt to his living area. 

	The tent itself served mostly as the landmark by which he navigated. The actual goal was the wagon hitched nearby. It was a fine piece of the carpenter's art, done up in muted red, black, and colors of natural wood. While it did not have the grandeur nor interior space of his tent, it served extraordinarily well as protection and shelter from adverse conditions. He opened the main door toward the front and motioned toward it for the benefit of the others in his immediate vicinity. [color=firebrick]"Viscount James, Master Adam and Master Zimmer, I give invite for three ov you to accept hospitality ov [i]Great Bazhooli[/i]! Vardo, eh, is vagon - home when on road. Is for having little stove, places for the sleeping, et ceteras, da?"[/color] His voice slipped into a harsh whisper, and he even managed to duck a little to provide emphasis, beckoning the two children and Ludwig into a huddle. Whether or not they actually responded was of little consequence to the oft dramatic man, who continued explaining his intent in the same voice that was overly loud for a man trying to keep a secret. [color=firebrick]"Most important: Doors bar from inside. Good for when having to load pistol, good for vhen sleeping if place not friendly. NOW! ...sorry. Now, three ov you use tent. Use vardo. Make each other safe. I vill attend to guest."[/color] It was a temporary solution, until their own space could be established. Vladimir knew that the boys were to be spending a lot more time with the Circus, and if what Veta arranged with the German held up, they would be seeing a lot more of him as well. The boys would need certain things; clothes, shoes, their own spot in the caravan. Vlad had and to spare, even if he occasionally liked his privacy. Temporary, he told himself, but necessary. They had to be kept safe. 

	The Great Bazhooli turned with a determined look welded to his face, snapping his fingers separately, only to fill his hands with sharpened steel. It was a tiny piece of stage magic put to the use for which it was intended: Drama. And practice. But then the rugged look evaporated, only to be replaced with one of mild foolishness, as if he had forgotten something. Vlad jogged back to the vardo and impaled a meat pie with one of his very shiny knives, then continued on his way back to the Main Tent to assist with the restoration of the Circus, purposefully gnawing down his purloined savory goodness. 



[hr][hr][center][h1][color=c0c0c0][i][b]Sister Mary Ignatia Hale[/b][/i][/color][/h1][/center]
[center][img]http://image.phimmoi.net/profile/356/medium.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] Navigating the streets of London
[color=c0c0c0][b]Skills:[/b][/color] Horseback Riding [/center][hr][hr]

	The steady rhythm of shod hooves upon cobblestone was filtered out of Mary's notice. They still registered as sound, but the keen senses of the young Apostolic were focused upon anything that might be a threat. Perhaps it was a fruitless endeavor; nonetheless one that Mary kept to, allowing her horse to maintain a straight and level course. Unless they had to turn, Mary's eyes scanned her surroundings. It was a benefit to having a horse trained for service under a Knight. 

	Mary could feel herself slipping back into the mindset of her Training. To that end, it galled her that she had to leave without giving word to her liaison with the Vatican, the Bishop Mansfield. She had given her word, however, and was bound by it unless a greater virtue or oath surpassed it. Neither could be the case in that instance. Her mission was to protect the life and safety of an innocent, to travel a great distance to do so, and to sate her own suspicions about the Lord in question. It was a righteous cause, without doubt. That knowledge firmed her resolve. The message would be taken care of in due time. Not to mention that a good chunk of her training revolved around the quiet, surreptitious removal of threats and obstacles from the path of other crusaders. Or for the common good. She was a Venator. It was implied by her mandate of service. No matter what title was bestowed upon her, or what honor lain at her feet, she would always be as she was - the tip of God's sword upon His creation, the unrelenting Agent of Our Lord's Church, a shield for the defenseless and a weapon for Humanity, until God bid her to take her place in His holy presence; and no man upon the earth could ever speak differently. 

	And upon all of this, Mary gave reverence to the Blessed Virgin in thanks that she was setting upon this quest with friends. Mary could not remember the last time that she had friends, let alone ones as capable as these. It made all the difference in the world.