Sigil

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

...sorry, had to.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Queensguard Industries RnD Industrial Complex - The Diamond District

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Caesar grabbed a post-it and a pen from around the terminal, carefully jotting down the case numbers. SGJFE-1432 and 4827-IB-861. "Doesn't look like numbers we use... ¿Policía?" He sighed. Sooner or later, he was going to have to get police involved. Even if it was to turn over what he had collected and wash his hands of this whole business, local law enforcement needed a nod, eventually. Considering that Queensguard logos were all over the boxes, and MSS was in charge of security for their facility here, they might make for potential scapegoats. A gesture of Good Faith might be necessary to keep them all from suspicion.

On the other hand, it was within the company's mandate to look out for their client's interests. While it might not be the most moral thing with which to be involved, it is what they did. Further, the older man's own history wasn't exactly a series of bake sales and puppy adoptions. He had killed. Brutally. Viciously. He had taken lives up close and personal, on contract from various entities and arcane bureaucracies, all for the sake of the eventual common good. In exposing these incidents and the people involved, he may very well be betraying his contractors and setting back a series of operations to which he simply hadn't been read into.

But why for fuck's sake wouldn't "They" read him in? His company was going to be on site, they would be right in the middle of the fireworks. He had clearance enough to be told to avoid certain things or allow certain people access. But he wasn't. That was a strike against the possibility that it was Agency or Bureau sponsored. Or Federale, for that matter. It was enough to make his head hurt. Why the hell was he looking into this so hard in the first place? It was Caesar's job to see to his company and look after Alicia and Lorna. This extra ... But that was why. People dying in Boston Heights. He didn't want his girls to be next. Find the trail, follow the trail, stop the killings.

While he wasn't as computer savvy as his daughter, Caesar was familiar with the ins and outs of his company's intranet. His next step was to save the footage viewed and tuck it away in some dark corner, hidden under something mundane but generally inaccessible.

A non-work point of discussion was raised, his M'hija mentioned that she had a game later that evening. While Caesar was aware of his daughter's new sporting activities, he had yet to witness it for himself. "Tonight, M'hija? ¿Que hora? I'm meeting with someone early this evening, but I want to see you play." The elder man bobbed his head and gave one of a very few natural, unfettered smiles at Alicia, saying, "Even if I'm hiding in the rafters like a Mexican Batman, hmmm?"

🦄 After Miranda - A Firefly Rp - Season 1 (Completed)

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Cargo Hold

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"I should like to extend my sincerest regrets, my dear Dr. Moreau. It is an act of resourceful gymnastics, getting fresh butter aboard an Alliance Patrol Vessel. Unless of course, one brings it one's self. Even then, a gentleman must resort to bribery to secure storage in the galley's freezer. No, perhaps if we manage to set down upon our native Farraday, or a rock with a more civilized epicurean standard, I would be positively giddy to procure some fine, flaxen, Sugared Butter Shavings for ourselves."

The call for his childhood friend sounded through the Retribution's PA system, urging him to report to Cargo. Taken by morbid curiosity and a desire to remain with Jahosafat for the time being, Foy fell into step alongside the similarly well-dressed individual. The walk was short; it was a smaller vessel, after all, but it seemed just a touch longer than usual due to a distinct lack of crew. The fully staffed Retribution was cleared down to essential personnel only since his ebon friend boarded, a topic which he intended to discuss with the good(?) Doctor before too long.

Foy was pleased to see that all requisitioned cargo was stacked, neatly and orderly, onboard. Everything seemed to be in order, nothing out of place, but that one huge, extra crate drew his attention. Not that it was trying very hard not to be noticed; it was mammoth in comparison to the individual boxes around it and surrounded by some of the larger goons that the Alliance could gather from Persephone. The unusual color of black was only slightly off-putting and ever so slightly prophetic. Jahosafat seemed particularly pleased to see the container. Meanwhile, Foy wasn't sure whether to be wary of it, as those Alliance strongmen were who beat a hasty retreat, or merely content that his good friend was happy about its arrival.

For the meantime, he chose the latter. But it, like a couple other things, raised questions. "You know, Josie... it is very excellent to see you again, unexpected as it is. I must confess a growing sense that Providence (or some Admiral, at the very least) has something laying in wait."

It was true, this scenario looked awfully strange for a bread-and-butter run to Whitefall. His presence on board the ship, for anyone who actually knew him, was a serious red flag. Another big one was his old working partner from the Agency, blue gloves and all. Jahosafat, as well. This made three people on board a small ship, now with minimal crew, that could receive outside instruction at any second and make life on this boat very interesting. All the same, friend or no, too direct an inquiry might be hazardous to Foy's health.

"I am beginning to find all of this intrigue quite cumbersome, sir. Whenever you are able, you shall have to explain to me the importance of this box; it is obviously a contrivance that has appreciably piqued your gumption. But that aside, the interim goings on aboard the Retribution remind me of a darker period in recent history. I daresay, I would expect to acquire new orders any hour now - or finally get my full and genuine ones. For the now, sir, I do have items that would alleviate the cravings of your sweet tooth, and that lovely stash of Brandy, if you would care to join me for a snort."

At that moment, the call to secure all personnel came over the PA, temporarily halting Foy's plans for toasting with his fellow Farradayan. "But not the now, it appears. My good sir, we should find a quiet spot and strap in, forthwith! The Grav Boot and the local gravity have the occasion to wrestle with one another when entering or leaving the atmosphere."

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William Harper

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Location: Bridge

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Finally. It was less than the hour provided by the Captain that Lieutenant Harper was advised that they were fully stocked with all supplies requisitioned, medical and other, and were ready for prep for departure. His diagnostic program had trilled to completion a number of minutes ago, leaving a soft but repeating beep to indicate its status. Everything was running well within engineering safety parameters, no difficulties detected elsewhere.

With any luck, the Retribution's Medical Officer would take it as a positive sign, and tuck away his organ harvesting equipment now that they had Med Bay's pantries fully stocked with skin bonding agents and anti-inflamatories. At least, William hoped so.

The shiny and new Flight Officer hailed the Port Controller, awaiting response. He released the docking clamps and began startup procedure, running deftly through the steps with practiced precision, one after the other. Were one to look closely at the man, they would see his lips barely moving, as if reciting what he was doing from memory. His nimble hands fell upon the controls comfortably nonetheless - one may merely conclude that it was the jitters associated with firing up a new ship for the first time. Just following, the Eavesdown Port Authority answered his hail, prompting Liam to respond.

"Received, Control. This is the I.A.V. Retribution, requesting queue for departure offworld. We will be ready in Standard." Request processed, he pulled up the ship's PA, announcing himself to what remained of the crew for the first time. "Attention, Flight Officer Harper speaking. We have been cleared for departure in approximately seven minutes. Secure all personnel in that time, and remain until safely offworld. That is all."

From the helm, William couldn't help but give a partially suppressed smile. It had been a while since he had done this, for the Alliance or any other ship, in quite some time. It amazed him how readily it flooded back to his mind, and how his hands hadn't forgotten a thing over his time... away. He really enjoyed it, the power of flight, the freedom it represented. It was nothing short of irony, given his situation. He would be away from Persephone in a few short minutes. The docking clamps were already loose. His next huge hurdle was about to be overcome. The moment was tense, but hopeful.

Now if they would just let him at those engines...

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash & Bridgette

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Location: Exterior Mess Hall, Infirmary

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The pair of Newnan Leads, Ashton and Froggy, bore witness to the interesting sight of Bridgette zooming by on her horse. While they didn't actually view the spooking of the grand riding beast, Cadence, Ash could deduce from the specific profanities spilling recklessly from the violent lady's face what had transpired.

Ash's sense of wonder at the minor chaos a single small, scavenging mammal can cause in otherwise brave, stalwart survivors was brought to a fast and heavy halt as soon as Froggy slumped forward. Ash let go of the dolly he was pushing, causing the weight of its contents to slam it vertical with a flat, metallic crash. He managed an awkward grasp on the older man's shoulder as his form dropped bonelessly; it only served to temporarily slow his descent before Ash's grip gave way.

"Victor? Victor!" started Ash, his earlier sense of morning duty replaced with growing urgency. "C'mon, we have to get you standing. Goddamnit Doc, let's get a move on!"

Ashton knew how to deal with fallen soldiers, he had before. Even before the Outbreak, during his earlier years in the military as a Combat Engineer. He had seen ammunition forcefully inserted into otherwise healthy bodies at high velocity, and witnessed comrades in arms fall both before and after the world collapsed. It had almost become second nature by this point, which is probably why a more mundane medical emergency threw him off. Ash attempted to pull Froggy to a less prone position, simultaneously calling for help, the barest twinge of panic on the edge of his voice. "Hey! Damnit, anybody! Help over here!"

His first instinct was to call for a medic, owing to his history with the Army. He even opened his mouth to do so before he remembered that the medic was the one in need of attention. "Christssake, Froggy. Ok, You're going to be fine. I'll get you out of here..." He didn't know if it was a lie or not. All Ash knew was that he had to do something, and fast.

As it turns out, there were two people within clear shouting distance of their location. Miss Sally opened the rear door of the Mess, hand rising to her slightly agape mouth. And Bridgette, when she was done screaming at Dick (he assumed, though from this angle all he could detect was the faintest hint of rotting liquid pork), rapidly switched from Bitch Mode to Caustically Helpful. She turned her mount around, coming to Ash and Froggy at a gallop.

"DICK! YOU SON-OF-A... Shit. On the way, Boss!" she blurted in the meantime. Cadence's hooves clacked against the blacktop with some amount of urgency as they neared the two men. Bridgette leaned down and extended a hand, eyes bright and face a vision of stolid sincerity. "I got him. Give him to me. Give him to me!" She repeated herself, a hair louder to ensure Ash's rapt attention.

Ash's head snapped up to face Bridgette. Her brazen speech and attitude seemed to have a focusing effect on the Captain, who felt the emotion drain from his face. In the quiet, unimportant back of his mind, Ash noted that while Bridgette wasn't a soldier in the contemporary sense, she was indeed a warrior in every sense of the word. Her clear eyes and outstretched hand beckoned to Ash's sense of duty, and the Soldier in him propelled his actions. He rolled Froggy over his shoulders and pressed the downed man upwards from the ground.

Bridgette grabbed the back of the good Doctor's belt and angled him over Cadence's haunches, behind her saddle. One hand remained to steady him, while the other fluttered the reins. Her heels nudged into the horse's flanks, urging him onward at a canter. Faster than a trot, slower (and more steady) than a gallop, the rate gave a quick trip to the Infirmary while promising that their precious cargo wouldn't be lost along the way. She directed Cadence around the building with skill and haste, promising horrifying things to anyone that stood in her way.

The split second before Ash hauled ass through the Mess on his way to meet Froggy at the Infirmary, he took in the scene unfolding. This was the first equine ambulance with a fuckscreaming siren to which he had ever been witness.

Flying through the doors, he blew past Sally. Her desire to be helpful in every situation possible got the better of her, as she called after him, "Where do you want the fruit, Ashton?". In response, the sprinting Captain called back (though did not slow himself) "DISTILLERY!"

"Right then, I'll have someone on it..." Sally did truly like to be helpful, in any small way she could.

Less than a minute later, Ash and Bridgette were carrying Froggy into his own workspace, laying him out onto a gurney. To anyone and everyone present, Ash blurted, "I think it's his heart! Did he tell anyone what to do about this?" In a quieter, but no less urgent voice, he spoke to the patient directly, "Come on, Victor. Open those eyes, talk to us."

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Black James!

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Location: Newnan, Inner Wall - Smoker

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"..short'nin' bread..."

The slow and steady production of hot smoked venison continued unabated by circumstances, seeing as James was in the empty parking lot around the side of the Courthouse and Medical Garden. This position kept him out of the line of sight of anything dramatic thusfar in the morning, and he could only catch the occasional faint sound echoing from around corners of the buildings of the Inner Wall. Even those were mostly covered over by the drip of liquefying fat striking the bottom of the cooking apparatus and hissing away with pleasing, aromatic optimism.

It wasn't until panicked voices were issued in front of the Courthouse proper that James took some note. He stepped out into the road to catch a glimpse of what was going on, only to see two indistinct figures carrying a third inside. He couldn't be certain with the half-second viewing time he got before the trio disappeared behind walls and doors, but it looked serious.

James was not a medical guy. He would only get in the way in there, no matter if they were performing thoracic surgery or placing a band-aid. All the same, he was concerned. He jogged back to the smoker and spoke into his walkie, "Hey hey, y'all. What's goin' on in the Infirmary? Y'all good, or you need some blackneck assist?"

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

@Jotunn Draugr

Hi. Quick reminder, you're on Day Four since your last post. TWD - Y3 is a "twice a week" RP, rather than Lady A's usual "Once a Week" or "5 Days" RP. Let's see some more Lawrence action.

This is an obvious copy/paste. Don't worry, I won't do it again. Thanks.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

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Keystone

Location: Road North of Salarn, Midday of Day Three

Interacting With: His Former Contractor

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Keystone had honestly thought that he was going to be running full-tilt for much longer than he actually did. In hindsight, he probably should have left his pan back fireside. The opposing point to that thought was that his pan originally belonged to his mother; it had fed him for the entirety of his life. A large, round, black, covered cast-iron roasting pan, seasoned with decades of care and use. It was his very favorite pan. Losing it to anything other than epic, world changing events would have been unthinkable, let alone the sudden skittish movement of a dishonest trader.

And so, with massive irritation, Keystone jogged the rest of the way up to the scene. Cremwise was on the ground. Kyra had an arrow pointed at him in a manner most uncomfortable were she to take tension off of her bowstring. Her dire wolf, Ash, was at the ready (and looked awfully peeved just then). Cyneburg was a bear. At least, he hoped it was Cyneburg. A few days ago, this would have seemed strange. Such was the spirit of the times.

Keystone's superior endurance despite carrying a potentially awkward burden showed; as he approached the scene his breathing slowed to a point that one wouldn't have known that he had just ran a breakneck pace after a horse. His mannerisms shifted as he continued past the destroyed wagon, becoming less like a cook or caravan guard, and more like the irate bouncer from which his career began. One skill he acquired long before his years-long journey training with various masters of the martially percussive arts involved coercion - coercion through fear. Keystone was particularly skilled at being a frightening man, as the occasion called for it.

By his present estimation, the occasion called for it.

The broad pugilist inhaled slowly, releasing his breath in a quiet, controlled growl. Every movement, every glance hinted at a false calm, the type of barely restrained rage that threatened to bury a city were it released from the eggshell barrier keeping it in check. Slow, heavy footfalls brought Keystone up to the man on the ground. Just inside his own reach but outside of the smaller man's, he squatted down on he balls of his feet to face his former employer. With force, he plunked his roasting pan down beside him, causing the lid to jostle and aromatic steam to escape for a brief second before gravity righted it.

Speaking in a low, tense voice, as a man searching for a reason not to bludgeon someone to death, Keystone opened the conversation. "Jolly news then, Cremwise. Lunch is ready. Anything you'd like to discuss, 'fore we dig in?"

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Queensguard Industries RnD Industrial Complex - The Diamond District

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"No me fucking gusta, M'hija. I have half a thought to checking us all into a hotel, cash. If not, we need to hit a ferretería and put something more than deadbolts in our apartments. We should scan for bugs, too."

So Danica had a unit at the same place, or at least was in very good with someone who did. That was, in and of itself, very interesting. She was the second one living in that series of buildings to die abruptly; the second of three. While Caesar had no idea if the police were remotely close to figuring this out, he didn't put a lot of stock in them getting anywhere before the next body hit the morgue. The older man wanted to ensure that his girls weren't among that number. Alicia knew the risks of this lifestyle. Had since she was little. Lorna was a military lady; she knew fully what she was getting into. All the same, part of himself would be broken forever if anything happened to either of them. Especially if there was anything he could have done about it.

The only question for Caesar was: Does he turn over what he has to the police, or does he press on with his own resources? Maybe there was a way to do both.

"Interesante... Por favor, go to earlier today. I want to see where this lady moved her boxes - and what's printed on them.

Caesar was quiet for a time while Alicia worked. He had been wondering how to break a piece of news to her since early that morning, unsure as to how it would be received. It involved a matter that was both company and personal in nature. Naturally, this put it in a sort of grey area. Being as tactful speech was not the forte of the venerable human Cuisinart, Caesar decided to speak plainly.

"Local staff aside, M'hija, there are three of us out here in Justice. Lot of shit can go wrong, fast. I don't really know anything about these California hires, least not yet, and with all this dying happening I worry. Probably more than I need to." Caesar exhaled a deep breath, and spat out the core of his speech. "I called for someone to help out. He's not an investigator, and he's not a tech guy. He's an MSS Security Agent with Special Projects. And I know we can trust him. We're going to start working in pairs, switching out when needed. People are dying, Alicia. We need to start playing this smart."

🦄 After Miranda - A Firefly Rp - Season 1 (Completed)

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William Harper

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Location: Bridge

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At first glance, this was a typical Alliance crew. Standard patrol vessel, common launch point. Not that there was anything wrong with that, quite the opposite. It looked like the perfect opportunity to fade into the background, eventually get back to a life. Maybe even one worth living. And the ship? That "standard patrol vessel" had one hell of a range for a ship its size, decent speed, and could be crewed with a few choice personnel. Not to mention that it was easily repairable with the most common types of parts available in the majority of the Verse. It was nothing grand, but it was enough.

At least, it would have been enough. Being back in the Alliance military wasn't exactly the most ideal situation, but it sure as hell beat the situation he had left behind. Now, less than a half hour on the ship and Liam was convinced that he was surrounded by the clinically insane. A tight-lipped Captain who was dead set on leaving port ASAP without briefing his pilot (and fellow officer) on the nature of their orders, a bonafide Dandy who apparently arrived just after himself, and the ship's Medical Officer who was particularly insistent that William disobey orders upon pain of using the crew as spare parts for his Traveling Medicine Show.

Now, if the good Captain had orders to stay put on account of supplies, and was superseding orders from above, then that would be problematic. If on the other hand, he was just handed orders to lift off from Persephone posthaste, then the gaunt figure trying to bore holes in Liam's face with his eyes probably had a point. Of course, if he was that adamant about the whole fuzzy ordeal, it would be a simple matter of filing a report with Local before their hour was up and they exit the world.

Lieutenant Harper was not in the mood for drama. Really wasn't. Instead of engaging the Doctor, he pressed the fingers of his right hand onto his temple, rubbing lightly. He squinted his eyes, then smiled at the man and turned his chair back to his console. Shaking his head, Liam fired up two vid screens: One with an interactive map of the ship containing full specs (so as to better acquaint himself with this ship type), and another to pull up his Officer's Log. If the time of departure were really a problem, he wasn't made aware of it yet. In the interest of being thorough, it would not be out of place to log every direct order given to him by superior officers on board the boat. He could start immediately, submitting his log to Central. If this was a pressing issue, chances were good that outgoing logs were being monitored and the situation would be rectified. If it was not, there was no harm in it.

The timestamp on his Log entry was highlighted, and it read, "Retribution Flight Officer's Log, Initial. First direct order received: At the strong insistence of Captain Quinn, we leave Persephone for Whitefall in one hour's time. Performing a pre-flight warmup and diagnostic system check presently. Hoping for a smooth flight."

He submitted the Log entry, and not to be found as a liar, began a diagnostic routine. William's computer trilled quietly along as his attention redirected to the Retribution's specs. Maybe next he'd check the ship's manifest, though that could probably wait until they were in the Black. Meantime, he was the Pilot, so he'd be the Pilot. Routine boat stuff until he got word otherwise, either by the Local Authority, Central, or the Captain.

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: "Foy-er"

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"Why Mr. Moreau, am I detecting more than casual curiosity about our dear Captain?" began Foy, leaning against the back of his classical, sturdy barber's chair. He motioned to the seat with an expectant look, silently offering his services. "Haven't much to say on the man, if you simply must pry. I daresay he is a man of some bearing and grace, in his own way, which by my reckoning is positively glacial, sir. He is a touch resentful that a private contractor such as myself is breathing Allied Navy oxygen, instead of a more predictable Ensign or some such."

Foy began stropping his smaller razor, the one he had just used on the Yeoman from moments ago. Working, he continued his monologue to his dear friend Jahosafat. "As you probably well know, the Alliance is generally keen on utilizing their own people. Easier to corral and threaten. That Quinn fellow - he's likely a skosh nervous about the amount of manpower he doesn't have total control of on his little boat. Add to that, the staff (the uh, majority of them, you see) is content with the belief that I merely cut hair and pass out hot lather."

"There is one, though - powerfully talented lady - of the type that wears blue gloves and causes the occasional gentleman to excuse themselves for means of trading out their undershorts for something more unsoiled, who knows precisely what I am. Well, a good some of me, perchance. You should meet her; she is well acquainted with our brave Commanding Officer. Amazingly useful working partner, if one finds the occasion to require a social difficulty solved quickly and quietly. Takes a room on this ship."

Ah, but I do ramble on, now do I not? Perhaps we should take that ship tour now? Afterwards, I have the most excellent flask of Londinium Brandy we may toast with, possibly after we hit the Black, and then you can tell me what you've done with yourself on the recent."

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

The Great Bazhooli

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The Great Bazhooli

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Character Summary

Name: Boris Alexandrov
Aliases: The Great Bazhooli
Age: 30
Birthday: May 5th
Ethnicity: Caucasian, of Cossack descent
Birth Place: St. Petersburg, _Florida
Location: Somewhere on the Norfolk Southern Railway System, headed Southeast
Gender: Male
Major/Minor: N/A

Occupation: Performer (Russian Knife Acts, Tumbling, Orator, etc.)

Languages: English, Russian (fluent in both)

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Appearance

Height: 6’1”
Weight: 187
Build: Athletic. Very good arms.
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Brown
Skin Tone: Paleish
Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: Numerous minor scars about his hands and forearms from years of knifework and training.

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Psychology

Adaptable * Proud * Optimistic * Showoff

Sexuality: Hetero
Relationship Status: Single
Personality:
Ever the showman, The Great Bazhooli generally enters into new situations with an entertaining display of his talents, learned over generations of family history. He is very proud of this history, and will tell the story of his people (at length) to whomever will listen.

Preferring to go by his stage name, The Great Bazhooli (or Bazhooli, if pressed for time) rarely lets slip his birth name, unless he has been with someone for some time. It is a mark of trust on his part. The man himself, whatever the name, is a bit of a histrionic. He is proud, noisy, and remarkably optimistic despite the apocalypse crashing around him. Whether this is genuine or merely to raise the spirits of those around him has yet to be determined.

The Great Bazhooli has a stopping point to his revelry. When the worst of events threaten to happen, his persona drops away, revealing a man driven to do whatever is necessary to protect what little he has left. The skills learned over a lifetime of Impalement Arts assist greatly with this endeavor.

It is of note that, despite being born and raised in the United States, The Great Bazhooli’s upbringing (and parents insistence of correcting his diction) has resulted in him keeping a Russian accent. It gets much stronger as he gets excited or flips into his “Showman Mode”, but it’s always a little present. As a caveat, it is not a flawless accent. Time and distance made muddled it somewhat, giving it a kind of showy feel.

Habits: Twirling knives, mumbling to himself
Hobbies: Practicing gymnastics, trick throwing sharp things
Fears:

• Being turned
• Dying without fulfilling family obligations
• Trusting the wrong people

Likes:

• Music. Any kind will do.
• Dancing
• Sharp Things
• MEAT
• Reading
• Exercising

Dislikes:

• Slugs. They creep him out.
• Too much down time
• Not knowing where his cat is
• Flash photography
• Buzzkills
• Being alone

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Cards On The Table

Pre Outbreak Skills:

• Knife/Dagger
• Thrown Weapons (high proficiency)
• Acrobat
• Performer
• Juggling

Post Outbreak Skills:

• Rifle
• Hunting
• Reading People
• Stealth
• Sleight of Hand

Current Supplies:

• Clothing: (Red vest (reversible black), Black canvas cargo pants (thick patched knees), belt with dual pushdagger buckle, hightop boots, white sleeveless undershirt. Sometimes sports a thick, Bear Fur coat and matching Cossack Hat.)
• Knife
• Knife
• Knife
• Knife
• Knife
• Knife
• Remington 750 Semi Auto Hunting Rifle
• Spare clip for Remington 750
• Railway Handcar

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History

Your First Walker Encounter:
The worst of the whole Dead Rising stuff started while Bazhooli’s circus was in transit. Preferring to travel by train, they didn’t experience the beginning hours of the outbreak. The morning of Day Two, the train slowed to pull into a refueling station. The sight that the merry troupe of circus performers were greeted with involved a mass uprising of dead people tackling and chewing on the living.

A few fleeing people managed to hop onto the slowed but still moving train with the assistance of those already onboard, but mostly it was a slaughter. The Great Bazhooli uttered a sentiment that was unanimously concurred by the rest of those present: “Da. Ve get gas, next town.”

History Before Outbreak:

Before dead people began to eat the living and civilization collapsed, there was a bouncing baby boy born to a proud line of performers. The name on his birth certificate clearly reads “Boris Alexandrov”, but try telling him that. Boris is a direct descendant of the original, world-famous “Great Bazhooli”, champion Russian Knife-Thrower. You see, the name was an important part of the act, and so it was passed down through generations: At any given time, the leader of the Bazhooli Troupe, by inheritance, became the next Great Bazhooli if they were worthy.

Boris’s father was the previous Great Bazhooli, as was his father, as was his father, back in the former Soviet Union. Circumstances of the Cold War sent the Bazhoolis across the ocean to the United States, where they hooked up with the other disenfranchised performers of their era, forming many of the carnival, circus, and sideshow acts touring the continent. As a matter of no small coincidence, where else would a Russian family set down roots? Why, St. Petersburg, of course. St Petersburg, Florida.

In present day, few people remembered The Great Bazhooli, relegating the legacy to one of the few remaining circus acts still touring North America. The proficiency with which this family plied their trade was such that it endured, but never again received the acclaim it once did. They survived by moving from circus to traveling show to carnival, the strength of their reputation among such folk assuring them steady income, seasonally.

The modern incarnation of The Great Bazhooli was educated to the standards of the Florida State GED program; mostly home schooling. He was not a man destined for college. His life was one of experiencing grand adventures and hardships on the road, among his people, flinging sharp things at pretty young maidens strapped to spinning wheels while blindfolded and somersaulting through flaming hoops.

And then one day, a lady within which he showed interest said, “Grow a moustache! It will make you look more like someone named “Bazhooli”. So he did. Big one.

History Since Outbreak:

Since the Outbreak, Bazhooli’s life has become more interesting. He was with a circus at the time, traveling by train when the worst of it came to light. Following his Walker First Contact, he and his group of circus folk bid the rest of society a resounding “Nuh uh” and stuck to themselves. The self-reliant nature of these people worked in their favor in the fact that they had no problems coming together and helping one another against what seemed to be the rest of the world; it went against them because they had to learn each lesson of survival in this new world the hard way. Additionally, the superstitious nature of many of these performers (hazard of the trade) led them to believe many things about the walking dead people that simply wasn’t so. They lost a good amount of their numbers before readjusting the group outlook. By that time, there weren’t remotely as many left.

The few that remained trained each other as best they could, spreading the skill sets around for a better chance of group survival. One of the rednecks that pounded in tent stakes and wrangled animals taught Bazhooli how to hunt and use a rifle, in return for crash tutorials in throwing knives and close quarter fighting. The troupe cutpurses and stage magicians gave him impressive skills with stealth and sleight of hand. Everyone the remained alive after the first few months realized that in order to survive, they needed to step away from the strict specialization of their previous professions and become more rounded people, capable of taking care of themselves and each other. Particularly in the event that someone died, having a backup was important.

They continued to live on their train for a long while, making forays out from the railways to hunt and scavenge. The elevated train cars provided excellent protection from the Dead, even hordes of the rotting bastards. But not living people.

One day as Bazhooli was scouting the track ahead on a handcar, a sizable group attacked their train, hoping to raid their stores and make off with whatever and whoever took their interest. After a hard fight, both groups were annihilated, or near enough that the bitter skirmish could not continue. The Russian heard gunshots from a long way off, prompting him to return as quickly as he could. Between the battle and the Dead that showed up to finish off the dying/recently deceased, he figured that he was the last of his people. He searched as best he could, given the conditions, but found no one else. If any survived, they had long since scattered.

The Great Bazhooli gathered what few supplies hadn’t been set on fire or befouled, loaded his handcart, and continued down the tracks. He didn’t do “Alone” very well, he found out. He survived, but it was a very low point in his life.

As he carted down the tracks, he caught sight of a cat that seemed to be following him. A little orange tabby, to be precise. Sometimes it came close when he was camping, but mostly the little guy stayed out of sight. Sometimes for days at a time. Because of the fact that, at any given moment he had no idea whether it was alive or dead, he had taken to calling it “Schrodinger”.

Onward he drove his little hand cart. Dangerously low on supplies, he now has no alternative than to push forward and hope his luck changes.

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Extras

Character Quote: "Now, let us try the same trick… ON FIRE!!!"
Theme Song: Saliva - Ladies and Gentlemen
How Many Walkers Have You Killed: "Dozens, I do not know. As many as vas needed."
How Many People Have You Killed: "Eleven. Eleven people I have killed. Other people I know have killed more, people I vas vith. But for me, eleven.
Why: I vant to live. I vanted my families to live. It did not help them, but I vould try again.
Anything Else:

roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659

_{*By submitting this CS in its completion I am stating I have read all the rules for this Rp and am agreeing to follow them to the fullest with respect and courtesy.}

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

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Keystone

Location: (running down the) Road North of Salarn, Day Three

Interacting With: His Rising Irritation

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"Bloody bronzecocking wankstain!" growled Keystone. He had so many questions now, the answers to which he felt less and less compunction about beating from their employer. If he saw something and got spooked, that would mean a change in plan from hard and scary interaction to a mere scolding, but the timing was way to coincidental. Plus, the unconscionable bastard still had all of his stuff on that wagon. All of his supplies, provisions, and a huge hunk of his personal finances - representative of his time, blood, and fallen comrades.

Some of the items in his pack would also be considered very valuable in this part of the world. Most of his treasures were being held in reserve for plans he put into action years ago (and had yet to complete). The lady he started this grand foray into lunacy with, Kyra, was in pursuit faster than he was fully aware of the situation; others were following suit. And obviously, the terms of his contract were just rendered moot. For those reasons, and a couple of lesser motivations, Keystone chose to haul ass after Cremwise and his wagon.

Keystone was not a sprinter, at least not amazingly better than a man of his size ordinarily would be, but he was a stellar distance runner. His endurance bordered on the legendary, but he could not outsprint a horse. Or whatever it really was up there. He could not simply sit there and do nothing, so in the second or two in which this bunkum all started, the irate brawler grabbed his covered pan by the handle on one end and a work towel on the other, and hauled ass back down the road with all of the speed an grace his situation allowed him.

The moment he caught up, someone was going to have some quality face time with Sweet Missus Brick.