[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=B22222]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=B22222][b]Location:[/b][/color] Bristol Ship 
[color=B22222][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Fal'shbort[/i] (Passive), [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] (Passive), English [/center][hr]

	Entering the cabin on board the ship felt familiar. He had done so several times, and while not the door to his vardo, back with the Circus, Vladimir found that methods of long-term transportation had certain things in common. One was a predisposition for smallish areas to lay down for sleep. This cabin was no exception. Vlad was accustomed to having the use of his own, private quarters while traveling, but life was not always thus. Long before he was The Great Bazhooli (for no one is truly born into Bazhoolidom, more than it was a lain upon them like a mantle), he was merely part of the Sem'ya, with brothers and sisters, cousins, and the like, all of whom began their careers living as a group. Even the eldest son of the Baron was not considered special in this regard. Family, Circus, Bazhooli; they were but words unless experienced by body and spirit both. Though now, his shared residence was with a fellow Circus performer and a guy from Germany who was a few beets short of a borscht. New experiences! 

	Vladimir went to his personal belongings. He was traveling light, or at least light-[i]ish[/i], considering the circumstances. One thing he made sure to bring with him (as always) was a healthy amount of sharp, pointy implements. But one thing among his belongings drew his attention more than most on this occasion: It was a large black shawl with bright floral pattern, wrapped around a set of weapons that were outside of his familiarity. So much as he could likely use the sword as a standard slashing implement of its type, he could not bring out the true art of the blade as much as a seasoned practitioner. Weapons of China; soldiers' tools. He gave himself a moment to study over the single-edged dao, admire the handwork, and then tuck it back away. The pistol he wanted little to do with, and the knives, well... he had better on his person. But he was already a surgeon with a thrown blade. Carefully, Vlad rewrapped the items intended for another's use and set the bundle back with the rest of his things. 






[hr][hr][center][h1][color=c0c0c0][i][b]Sister Mary Ignatia Hale[/b][/i][/color][/h1][/center]
[center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/dd4e4d8d-94e8-4f69-a8f6-1063154d3810.jpg[/img]
[sub][color=silver]“Blessed be the Lord, my strength, who teaches my hands to war and my fingers to fight.” -Psalm 144:1[/color][/sub]
[hr][color=c0c0c0][b]Location:[/b][/color] Carlisle (F7 -> F8) 
[color=c0c0c0][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Audist[/i], Athletics [/center][hr][hr]

	It was building into a lovely and amusing game between Virginia and Mary, calling kills by number. The notion even brought a measure of joy to Mary's work, breaking up what was ordinarily an event of regretful violence in the name of her Lord into something of a bonding experience between people of different Training and different faiths as they worked toward the same goal of preserving humanity by eliminating the threat of Soulless. Virginia had called for the third one down. It was time for Mary to get number four. The barest of smiles matched the brightness of her eyes as she closed to intercept the next nearest one. 

	The problem was that apparently, the lesson that needed to be taught in that moment was humility in the face of doing the Lord's work. At least, that could have been one interpretation of the events that followed. Mary nodded to her friend and made a dash to intercept the next Ryne, her halberd of sharpened, blessed metal leading the way. It was a solid thrust, intended to dispatch the creature quickly; unfortunately it went wide of its mark. The benefit of a polearm being, of course, the [i]pole[/i] was circumvented by the damned and torturous thing, slipping past Mary's defenses and raking its iron nails across her forearm. Being that she was not wearing the more protective garb she ordinarily wore as a Venator, her exposed skin bore the brunt of the attack and opened in four furrows which quickly filled with crimson which spilled into the cobblestones below. 

	Mary bit back a scream. It was all she could do as she prepared to answer this injury.