[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=f9ad81]Foy Coiffeur[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/de/32/ca/de32ca1bb56ed12e256aa147a7a911c4.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=f9ad81]Location:[/color][/b] Prometheus (Lower Level Bunks)
[b][color=f9ad81]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][/center]

	The sound of feet moving upon stairs and growing quieter with distance was pleasant, except for the fact that now he could hear his partner in domestic labors with slightly greater clarity. It seemed that his knack for conversation was a bit of a double-edged sword with this woman, nonetheless he endeavored to keep his words turned toward the gentlemanly as their work continued. [color=f9ad81]"Such a fusillade of inquiry concerning my selections of attire, madame. Though it warms my spirits greatly that one with indeterminate background take such an interest in the haberdasher's arts, and as I must confess a particular proficiency in style and selection therefrom, I hesitate to provide a full edification in such with duties present."[/color] 

	Foy gathered up that which was necessary to tend to the bedding in the second dormitory-style room, curious as to what these new people were gong to add to the already variable collection of eccentricities that made up Anisa's crew. Even if the expected payment was far below what the Alliance would pay him to keep his contracts, he could already tell that this collection of human oddities would make for a much more amusing - and much less boring - series of interactions. It counted for a lot, in his opinion. Money he had, even if he could not take full advantage of it at the time. Dexterous hands flew over the sheets, folding and tucking as necessary. His dislike of domestic chores was tempered by his preference for order and neatness; if one must do something it should at least be done correctly. Attention had to be paid.

	Nonetheless, it would be considerably rude to simply cease what was turning into a diverting conversation with his new acquaintance, despite the obvious fact that she was attempting to get under his skin. [color=f9ad81]"Pursuant to the nature of my unmentionables, Miss Croix, which I might add is not the most ladylike of material for discussion but for which I shall attempt to bear you no judgement seeing as the circumstances of your social development differ wildly from my own, I must confess leanings toward the more athletic boxer brief, given its lack of lines, presence of support, and overall flexibility. However, depending upon factors of climate, I do make the occasional use of an older fashioned union suit of breathable, natural material."[/color] If there was one note to his long-windedness of speech, it was that he could make and smooth out a bed in the time it took to explain his undergarments. [color=f9ad81]"There..."[/color] He took a moment to review his work before depositing a few of his Farradayan Wrapped Candies upon the pillows, and returned to the sitting room. [color=f9ad81]"I am finished here. Now, unless you have inhibitions of discussing such topics about your own habits of dress, perhaps you could sate my own curiosity in the reciprocal: Whatever does a lady of flexible social bearing wear close to the skin?"[/color] 


[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.cinemablend.com/filter:scale/cb/6/4/a/b/d/a/64abda9122910e2617318cdc3d43516062ebc1ae5b880e96ddb5beadc78d4655.jpg?mw=600[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Prometheus (Galley)
[b][color=008080]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][/center] 

        The puppet was clearly offputting to Harper, as evidenced by the small, polite smile that he forced onto his face and the fact that he declined to continue the discussion with the much larger man. It seemed to him, not being familiar with Cyril, that whatever else was wrong with him he was using the sock as a means of being rude without having to deal with the consequences of his actions. A poly-cotton scapegoat of sorts. The reality of the situation lost on him at the moment, Harper just decided that it was best to keep interactions with the guy short and direct. Anisa had given them six months, barring something catastrophic, so that's how it was. Although he was curious to see how she would react to Cyril. 

        Until something changed in the dynamic on the ship, Harper was going to fill his role as best he could, adhering to the persona of former Alliance now serving under a private Captain. The problem being that every time there was a change to the group, logically there was a change in group dynamic. Hopefully the addition of two more sets of hands, albeit difficult in their own ways, would alter this in only a minor capacity. 

	Steadfast in demeanor, Harper followed Bridgette and Cyril up the spiral stairs and into the public Lounge and Galley area. Motioning with steady hand over to the tables they all had just vacated, adding, [color=008080]"I'm sure that the Captain will be right with you."[/color] He paused, as if just remembering something, then addressed Bridgette directly with, [color=008080]"Oh! Excuse me for not saying so earlier, but I'm very sorry for your loss. Atticus seemed a decent fellow."[/color] When she did not respond immediately, Harper simply found a countertop near the Galley and leaned on it, waiting for whatever was going to happen next. 

	Hopefully, they could officially receive orders and get underway soon. As long as he had something to occupy his mind, it prevented it from wandering with survival scenarios in mind. He had already played his chances for getting out of this room alive if things became too tense with these new people, and sadly he was not very optimistic. This was a "make friends" moment, not an "assert dominance" one. At the very least, defer and deflect to those in charge while appearing to be nothing more than support. Until conversation swung directly his way, he was going to try to keep in the background as much as possible for the meantime and study these new people. 



 
[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=ff4500]Bridgette Vinters[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/ee08c0f4-d9d6-4483-837d-cef5143cc12c.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=orangered]Location:[/color][/b] Prometheus (Galley)
[b][color=orangered]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][/center]

	Bridgette looked to Cyril for a second or two and gave him a quick smile. Though she was outwardly warm to him, inside she was worried. Maybe it was just the sudden changes, but he seemed to be relying more and more on that fucking sock to speak for him, which was going to lead to problems. Especially when they had to work. If anything, it appeared that he might be getting worse. Maybe this gig shouldn't last longer than the six months that Anisa had promised her. Hell, maybe it was almost time to bring him back home for more professional surroundings and treatment. Bridgette was no psychologist, [i]obviously[/i], which was made worse by the fact that she had her own breathtaking issues with anger due to natural personality, coupled with her own significant traumas. It could be argued that it made her stronger, but she worried about her little brother. He seemed fractured. Maybe this kind of life wasn't for him. 

	Such thoughts were not new. They were immaterial to the subject of the hour, that being meeting with Anisa and handling Atticus's funeral. His final wishes were her responsibility, though for the life of her she had no idea whatsoever [i]why[/i] he chose her for any of this. It's not like they were especially close in any massive emotional capacity. Well, there was that one thing, but she never got put in anybody's will for a little stress relief before. Whatever. Here and now were important, and that's what she had to deal with. Speaking of, [color=ff4500]"Hey Cyril?"[/color] she inquired in a sweet, almost maternal voice, [color=ff4500]"We're about to meet the Captain of this ship, okay? The pretty lady on the screen from earlier? Yeah. Her and her crew in a little bit here. Her name is Anisa Crowe. We used to do business back home sometimes. I need you on best behavior, okay? [i]Best.[/i] Like we're in court or something. If you're not sure what to do, just keep quiet. I'll handle our business and get us set up."[/color] 

	The otherwise vulgar woman unslung her spear and shield, setting it down on the table in front of her along with her container of rice pudding. With practiced ease, she also removed the great mantle of white fur and folded it casually, placing it next to her shield. She gave a long stretch, popping various joints in the process in a manner that was actually rather impressive, but that signified repeated injury and intense physical activity. Her arms flexed and tensed, showing off the raw, brutal physicality that she could bring to bear on obstacles both living and inanimate, but they also bore the scars of a warrior that had seen the close sort of combat that few contemporary soldiers ever had. She was something of an anachronism. Take away the modern armor and pair of sawed off shotguns in gunslinger's harness, she could fit easily into a more barbaric period of human history. But some places in the modern 'Verse, her kind was exactly what was needed. 

	[color=ff4500]"Hey Harper! Did Anisa say how long she was going to be? I mean, [i]I[/i] got nowhere to be, but if this is going to be a while do you think I could put my shit away?"[/color]