[center][img]http://txt-dynamic.cdn.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjY2LjdkN2Q3ZC5RMkZ6WlNBeElGTmxlVzF2Y21FZ1FtVmhkWFI1SUdGdVpDQlFZV2x1LjAAAAAAAAAAAAA,/the-slavic-font.regular.png[/img][/center] [center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UH8wceJjbZQ[/youtube][/center] [u][b]Lancaster’s Estate - 9 am - March 9th, 2017[/b][/u] The driveway littered with police vehicles and news vans all trying to find a way to sneak behind yellow tape. “Awight, please move back, as we do a proper investigation,” Officer Pike, a slim, Frankenstein tall officer says pushing back a reporter. “What can you tell us about the case?” the reporter continues to push questions. Officer Pike brushes out a ginger curl touching his eyebrow, most of his top hair is in a jewfro, curly, and falling at different sides like curly noodles. “We’re currently not talking to the press,” Officer Pike continues trying to keep the ordinance, however, it’s going as well as you’d expect as one of the reporters tries to pull a Mission Impossible move and slide under the yellow tape when the officers were “distracted”. “Oi!” Officer Handel calls out to the reporter, “You’re not allowed in there. Get behind the tape.” As reporters were becoming antsy and several officers were playing a game with them, a old style black beetle began to crawl its way up a small hill, chugging at a pace that seemed comical to onlookers. Going around and parking at the side, with a small little light, followed by a van that read Medical Examiner. Like a scene out of a movie, two individuals came out the beetle like clowns. There was a shorter young man, wearing fashionable goggle sunglasses, and a black heavy trench coat that came to his knees. Leather gloves, and stylish hair, with sweeping brunette bangs, didn’t give the impression of an officer. Standing next to him and getting out of the passenger side was a man who wore a tan trench coat, of olden style, he was overweight, and towered over the man by a foot. Standing at 6’4”, they looked comical standing by side. “Medical Examiner Crawford and Wubbzy,” Officer Pike managed to say the sentence with a straight face while some reporters wondered if that was indeed his last name. Medical Examiner Wubbzy balding on top of his head, though had sandy brown hair like one of those Greek olive branch tiaras. “Pike,” Wubbzy greets with a firm handshake, “How’s it lookin.” “In there, a mess, whatever did this,” Pike notices some reporter, “A nightmare. Really.” “Though you think it’s SYNBAD worthy, else I wouldn’t be here,” Medical Examiner Crawford questions taking off his glasses, to look at Pike. The three of them look at a nosy reporters inching in. Suddenly there’s the sound of several cups falling onto the ground, as a heavy, squeaky door is opening. A young man, probably younger than Crawford is stumbling out of the Medical Examiner van. He throws the cups back into the van, and quickly slams the door. He runs up to the three discussing. “Anything I missed?” he ask, an average weight, average faced young man with wispy brown hair, and an excited enthusiastic look. “Sherman,” Officer Pike greets. “Pike, shite forgot my camera,” Sherman runs back to the van, making another squeaking noise. Slamming the door shut. “Shall we?” Wubbzy ask. “Yes, sirs,” Pike replies. Passing the yellow tape and heading towards the estate, the smell of blood was rich from the front entrance. Blood spilled on the entrance stairs to two large mahogany doors. A piece of arm, belong to a young man lay limp at the entranceway. “Couldn’t killers be more cleaner, especially of the supernatural kind,” Oliver remarked as they walked into the decadent estate. What use to be white marble floors, had now been smeared with oxidized blood, turning the floor into a reddish brown. The indigo dyed carpet Prime Minister Lancaster talked about getting from India had turned brownish purple. The suede, tan, leather couch meant to match the white marble tile, now soaked in so much blood it had turned a pungent dark brown. “Jesus,” Officer Pike gasped as he stared at body parts belonging to various people scattered across the living room. “That’s a 3 to 4 grand couch, you’re never going to get the blood out of that,” Oliver remarks. Wubbzy gives Oliver a look. Sherman is taking a picture. “You’re not phased by this?” Officer Pike ask. “Have you ever seen a cyclops shit out a pile of bones in a massive heap of bloody feces?” Oliver ask Pike. “No,” Pike replies. “Then there you have it,” Oliver replies, walking deeper into the room looking around. Trying to figure out where to even start with this. While he wasn’t phased by the scenario, there were a lot of missing parts. Only a few corpses remain intact, skin leathery, eyes hollowed out, like mummies, mouth wide open, gaping in agony or torment. Frozen screams. “Still, there isn’t much left, we haven’t seen anything,” Pike looks around, eyes wide, “this bad in a long time. What do you think could have done this? This doesn’t concern you at all?” Oliver looks at Pike and places his pointer finger up, “I left something in the car. My concern. Let me go get that.” Oliver moves past Pike, Wubbyz is inspecting some blood splatters, and Sherman is taking photos of a hand. He walks out for a brief second and walks back in, he gasp in a dramatic way. “Oh my goodness, this is horrible, I am so concerned,” he says loudly for Pike to hear, “Who could have done something soooo horrible?” “Quit being ridiculous,” Wubbzy grumbles, “Find us something useful.” “So demanding, my heart is breaking right now, can’t you tell,” Oliver feigns a beathy, whining voice. “While Oliver continues to poke at Pike, we do have an issue,” Sherman says snapping a photo, “This is the Prime Minister’s son, is it not?” Jamie Lancaster head sat in the center of the room, the rest of his body parts still not found. Ghostly, dead, white eyes staring back at them. This was going to be a bit more complicated for SYNBAD, wasn’t it? [center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/266369913508200448/458520254906236961/kreepy-krawly.png[/img][/center] [center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xiK2JlBpzvI[/youtube][/center] The catacombs dripped with water. The musty smell and stench of rotting mummies overwhelmed the senses. As sarcophagus with unusual markings on them had beady, hollowed eyes staring out windows created for mummified men. Two large stone doors opened, illuminating the hall with a faint blue light, that shimmered on the slick, wet, and mossy walls. The stone doors only lead to a chapel, with pews, though instead of some Saintly Christian artifact in the center, there was a statue of black, skeletal looking dragon, with a single emerald eye staring down at what occupants entered this religious hall, with cyclops like vigilance. “Are you sure it’s dead?” Professor Alexander ask the Priest. A man, perhaps a woman, cloaked in an old robe, it was tattered and torn, even stained with old blood. The lower half of their face covered with a mask and all he could see were porcelain colored skin. Their eyes to shadowed in for him to be able to make any certain he was indeed speaking with a person. They only bowed keeping their hands in their sleeves without saying a word. He felt a bit of sweat run down his spine when he saw their arm move as they gestured to the center display. Porcelain skin, slender hands, with black, worn down fingerless gloves. It almost looked like the individuals own gloves had been worn for so long it was beginning to get worn into an old cut they had allowed festered. “And you’ve transferred the money into my account?” Professor Alexander asked. They nodded again. Was this a vow of silence thing? “Do not worry, Professor Alexander,” it’s the first words they have spoken this whole entire time, though it is hard to get a lock on their gender, their voice is raspy, quite frankly it sounds like if he were speaking the reaper. Deathly, cold, there’s a whispering that reverbs in the back of his mind, “You do what we ask of you. And we will fulfill our promise to you.” “I’ve never worked with this Order before, I’ve heard rumors,” Alexander says with a nervous laugh. Alexander goes cold when the individual places their infected hand on his cheek. “We take care of those who take care of us,” they say, “There’s no need to worry Alexander.” Professor Alexander nods. “All right, so I’ll have to do is take the key,” Professor Alexander says. “That’s correct, and when it is complete, we will know,” they say faintly sounding as if they were going to die right then and there standing. [center][img]http://txt-dynamic.cdn.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjcyLjgwODA4MC5VMmhsY0dobGNtUWdSbWx5WlhOMFlYUnBiMjQsLjAA/the-slavic-font.regular.png[/img][/center] [u][b]9:15 am [/b][/u] As the basement began to fill up and friendly faces chatted with one another morning anew, Roll Call was called and the group was told they’d be leaving in 10. Ten minutes being the moment Angelica got here on the community bus. Suited to fit 11, it only fit half that due to Bridget’s size. A common complaint among the group. Still they just put up with it. As they all had to put up with each other’s quirks. [center][img]http://txt-dynamic.cdn.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjgwLjA2OTRmZS5SbTl6ZEdWeUlFaGhjbkpwY3csLC4w/pwfluidhand.medium.png[/img][/center] [center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnGGkluWtrE[/youtube][/center] On the road and close to their destination, Foster cursed the fact that he was driving and hungover. Music is at a low volume. The sun is sharp, teasingly harsh with it’s sunrays. Sunglasses seemed to be doing nothing, but making him feel like they were suppose to work. “Do sunglasses really help with hangovers?” Foster ask Harper, taking a sharp left turn. “How you tink they should work?” Harper ask him. “You’re the one who suggested them,” Foster remarked. “Well it’s just a formality to make others not know you’re hungover,” Harper replies. Figures. Still London looked pretty during this time of day. To see buildings of old intermingle with the new. There is a nostalgic comfort that comes from seeing it. As he admired the view, a blue, luxury sports car of some sort, begins to speed up, zooming past them. The sound of their engine like a cup of rice rattling around in a bowl uncooked. Foster had to hit hard on the brakes as they merged in without a blinker and came to a near sudden stop after a display of sheer vehicular power. “Asshat,” Harper shouts. “Indeed, they could have dangered many,” Foster replies. “Honk the horn. Shout that motherfucker down,” Harper says. “I’m way ahead of you,” Foster says pulling into the right lane, since Harper got this car, might as well put it through its paces. Climbing easily from the forty they were going to sixty, passing the blue sports car and merging back into their lane in front of them. “So you ain’t always a stick in the mud,” Harper remarks. “I have my moments,” Foster replies with a smile. Slowing back to the actual speed limit, Foster feels a bit of anxiety beginning to bubble. They were getting close to the station and he realized what he’s committing today. Today is the actual day he ask Nilin on a kind of sort of date. Honestly, that makes it embarrassing to think of in that matter. It’s no different than hanging out, but it always makes him feel like he has ulterior motives. Going around to park at the station. He noticed a few things, Myles and Luka heading back into the station. Viorel standing out watching them for a brief second, then turning his attention to Stirling sitting on the edge of the sidewalk waiting for them. Well waiting for Harper, certainly. “Stirling is out,” Foster remarks. “Ay, aren’t they goin’ be so disappoint,” Harper replies. “Honestly, I don’t know why they hate me,” Foster says as he’s pulling into a parking space, aligning himself in an appropriate manner, not trying to take up too much room. “You don’t?” Harper ask. “No,” Foster says. “They hate you because you’re you,” Harper replies. “Oh, thank you,” Foster rolls his eyes, turning the ignition off. Sighing and grabbing the package Harper had wrapped for Nilin. Foster waves at Viorel. “Morning Viorel, you are looking well dressed,” Foster replied. “Fashion is and will always be used to make a statement, though I don’t know quite what statement I am trying to make,” Viorel “smiles”. Honestly he had gotten use to Viorel enough that he knows when he’s not planning to murder you in your sleep. “Sad vampire,” Harper pipes up in their head. Foster nearly chokes. “Something the matter?” Viorel asked. “No, Harper just thinks you’re looking smashin’ as well,” Foster replies. Foster looks towards Stirling and smiles. “Morning to you too Stirling, you are looking quite eclectic,” Foster greets them in a cheery tone. “Or like he raided a single hippies closet,” Harper retorts. Again Foster tries to ignore Harper’s comment. Hoping that this time might be an actual conversation between him and Stirling.