[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]

	So this little boat ride was turning out to be quite the exercise in humility for the prideful Vladimir. This "sea sickness" that he had heard about so many times was now appreciated on a more personal, and certainly more visceral level. The last bit was more accurate than ordinarily might be assumed, as his viscera was very adamant about divesting itself of all of its recently obtained contents, and as violently as possible. His instability on long boat rides was a very recent development, apparently. Though mostly  land-bound troupe, the Circus did, and have protocol for, travel by boat. Why it afflicted him now was an item of wonder. But not too much - wondering tended to make him nauseous in these circumstances, he was just finding out.  

	Such learned humility was a powerful motivating feature. It was a thing which would stick with him for almost five minutes after he left the ship, quite possibly a record. But for the meantime, he held onto the rest of his lunch even as he mourned the passing of at least half of it. Setting his head in his hands, Vladimir let out a soft groan. [color=B22222]"Curse you, Fishes & Chips! Vhy do you betray stomach of The Great Bazhooli?"[/color] The powerful and accurate Russian son of a Baron and proclaimed heir of a lineage of Circus royalty was holding himself together, but he knew that his fight against the combined powers of the open ocean and questionable dockside-stall fish was far from over.




[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]“Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might.” -Ephesians 6:10[/color][/sub]
[hr][color=c0c0c0][b]Location:[/b][/color] Carlisle (F8) 
[color=c0c0c0][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Audist[/i], Athletics, [i]Latin[/i] [/center][hr][hr]

	Blood. It almost always came down to blood. Hers, that of her enemies; the blood they consumed to survive or the constant references to the Blood of Christ. What was Mary in all of this? A soldier? A tool? Rhetoric would describe her as something more flowery and noble than she really was, whereas the people of this land looked upon her as a second-class citizen or an interloper of some kind. Papists were not always welcome in England. Strip all of that away, and you had Sister Mary as one might see her now: Defiantly serene, bleeding freely, and surrounded by Ryne with one of the few people in God's Creation the could trust. 

	Righteous fury burned within the eyes of the Apostolic Knight, though her face betrayed no sign of anything but cold surety. It was a habit acquired by others like herself, only adding to the reputation of the [i]Venatores[/i]. Mary knew that the enemy was closing upon them, and tactically, if she did not take this one down immediately they would have no place left to go. This one was strong. Fast. Experienced. And her benefit of range seemed to be of no help against it. Instead of strength, Mary chose instead to work through confusion. 

	She held her cruciform Swiss Halberd with her uninjured hand, taking a low grip on the weapon. Her left was still trailing drops of blood, now running down from the crucifix at the end of her rosary; this she allowed to hang beside her as balance. She began her maneuver by placing her feet as one might for a very ladylike curtsy, resting the haft of her polearm back over her shoulders. It looked casual. Suicidal, like she was surrendering. [i]Then she moved[/i]. Red hair spiraled about as she stepped backwards into a spin, utilizing the centrifugal force to reinforce the one-armed swing of her halberd. Even though the stepped backward, the choice of grip and swing very deceptively lengthened her killing range. The whipping motion, unheard of among conventional practitioners of polearm combat, definitely took the Ryne by surprise. Metal blessed in the names of the Holy streaked invisibly fast through the air, parting the creature's face with a single, diagonal line of red. It took a single, trembling step before the top half of its head slid along the angle and was deposited upon the street below. Then it collapsed. [color=c0c0c0]"Five."[/color] And it was about time. 

	Mary turned to the rest of the approaching Ryne. The glare in her eyes was palpable. Her left hand, red with her own vitality, rose into direct sight as she made the sign of the Cross upon her face with her own blood. [color=c0c0c0]"[i]In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti[/i]."[/color] The chain rosary still hung from her wrist, glinting with crimson and steel, swaying back and forth. Mary pointed to the Ryne advancing across from her position, invoking the Trinity at the Soulless thing and enticing it with authoritarian offer: [color=c0c0c0]"[i][b]Let us pray[/b][/i]."[/color]