The Taqueria's television set kept pumping out story after story about death. More and more. U.N. explosion (new one on him) and the new drama: murder/suicide at the psychiatrist's office. Add to the fun from yesterday - Lyle Marlestone's murder and Danica's "suicide", and Caesar was giving light consideration to putting available funds from his corporation toward establishing a Space Program, purely for the purpose of nuking this town from orbit.
Machete Security Solutions - EN EL ESPACIO!
Ok, put a pin in that thought for later. If he decided to actually go through with what was obviously working up to be a series of local adventures that already threatened to go global, and survived long enough, then Space was the logical eventuality. He had cousins back in Nuevo León that could work wonders with hydraulics and explosives; with a moderate helping of Mexican Ingenuity and his substantial financial resources, it was an infinitesimally short jump between that and the most colorful shuttle launch in human history. He could only imagine.
But back to supper. He was with a traumatized girl that might be able to give him some help, and Caesar being, well, himself probably didn't help matters much. Still, his reputation and demeanor were potent weapons in his arsenal, geared toward getting things done. And/or people separated from their insides. But still, supper. Caesar ordered a single bottle of Negra Modelo with his tacos and rice, lots of both as he had the strangest feeling that it would be an interesting night. He kept an eye on the door and tuned his proprioception to any other changes in movement around the two of them, then attacked his food with determination and vigor.
Halfway into his assault upon dinner, he took out his satellite phone and punched up the portions of his two recordings. Before forking it over to Cecily, he gave a suggestion that, being him, sounded rather presumptious at first. "I don't like the news. Too coincidental. Lots of "unrelated" deaths. Last time I saw something like this, I was in Chihuahua. Cartels hired out a series of independent contractors to find and eliminate ...well, its classified. Point is, I don't trust many people today. We need to keep ourselves busy and moving, in public if possible. And I'm considering a hotel tonight. If you've got someplace to stay, great. If not I can get you a room."
A thoughtful swallow of beer later, Caesar motioned to Cecily with his fork, "You know, M'hij... My daughter is playing in a Roller Derby tonight. When she's done, you'd be around two security professionals that are really, really good with guns and sharp things. Til you figure out what you want to do, anyway."
Mostly silence, on both the part of Bryn and Bridgette. Not that the taller Nordic-looking woman (that'd be Bridgette) spoke constantly, but her verbal presence was strong. Especially as it came to screaming obscenities when called for. Or when not called for. Or if she was drunk. Or merely conscious. So long as one of those conditions applied to a situation, there was a reasonable chance that Bree would find some way to edge in a colorful sarcastic remark, and/or a judicious application of several diverse variations of the word Fuck. It was art. It was fuck-fucking-tastic art.
Not so this hour. Her own sense of twisted proptiety led her to try and drown out the lovers' quarrel between Zoie and Dick, thus making her completely oblivious to the sudden attack of the Biter within Newnan's walls. Seems no one was safe anymore. Further, when she was alerted to the danger, the walking corpse was already upon Zoie. Her reservations about Dick aside, Zoie was a really stand-up lady. Bridgette felt bad that she had completely missed her fight for survival. Thank whatever God may or may not still be looking down at humanity that Brynja still had her crossbow.
That was another topic she intended to discuss - even if she was fully aware of the danger, being basically unarmed gave a massive disadvantage in the event like something such as this happened again. While she had no idea how Bryn's crossbow passed by the weapon policy, she was extraordinarily happy that it did that day. Bridgette absolutely had to speak with Ash and Zoie about that. A few additional people they could trust inside the walls with relaxed weapon restrictions, preferably including a tall angry woman with a spear and shield, could only help matters.
Bridgette's train of thought on the matter, along with the rhythmic crunching of shovel in soil, was disrupted by a loud crack. Bryn's shovel, possibly taking revenge for being mercilessly shoved into the dirt over and over again, decided to split along the handle and spill forward, a whack to her chin for her trouble. "Nice fucking shovel." mumbled Bridgette, seeming a bit of her normal self. "All those pearlies still attached there, Bryn? Aw, hell... I can finish up if you need to hit the infirmary. Don't have a lot left."
Ash Holloway
Location: Southern Gate
Well, this was new. Looking down upon the stranger, who seemed much stranger than most, Ash could not help but squint his eyes against the daylight and stare as the odd man rambled on about himself. In the third person. This guy was either a total loon or an amazing infiltrator, down to the fine details of his costuming and accent.
Then he did something strange. His mask cracked a little bit, accent withered enough to very clearly pick out a single sentence: "I'm not good with Alone, anymore." Okay. This ...Great Bazhooli... wasn't being one hundred percent genuine about something, but he didn't think he was lying, either. The one line about being alone - something about the way he said it made Ash believe that it was the first non-scripted thing that came out of his mouth that morning. Whatever else this guy was, he was a showman.
And then he went on about his cat.
Tatiana appeared, hopefully for the purposes of translation if necessary, and assessed the man. The words "Not friend" gave Ash pause. This day and age, it could mean a couple of things. He was just about to ask specifically what she meant by Not Friend when the petite ballerina began a dialogue of her own with the man in a language Ash knew absolutely nothing about. He had just met her that day, too. It was an awful lot of uncertainty, and a hell of a coincidence that two Russian speakers suddenly show up, coming from different paths, both within a couple hours (if that) of each other.
Yeah. Today was one of those days. He reminded himself to make sure to picked up an extra clip for his .45, just in case.
The Great Bazhooli
Location: Outside Newnan's Southern Gate
The Great Bazhooli seemed overjoyed to hear someone speaking in the language of his upbringing. Well, the rarer one, anyway. He responded in flawless Russian (but with ever so slightly muddled accent), "Akh! Moya prekrasnaya step' tsvetok. Eto delayet moye serdtse priyatno slyshat' rodnogo yazyka snova."1 He immediately switched back to heavily accented English, continuing, "But let us please not to be rude. The man with grim face obviously does not understand. He is one to decide if I get shot on doorstep, da? You ask what I vant: I vant in. I vant help. And, vant to be help. The Great Bazhooli can be out, when is needed, but to have in, this is good. Plus, have cat. Very fuzzy."
This was probably not the most compelling, nor understandable argument he'd ever made in his life. The Great Bazhooli was just about to open his mouth to clarify his intentions, probably with less chewing of his words with his theatrical accent, but it was immediately cut off by Ashton.
"No place is completely safe, anymore. Not even behind these walls. If you choose to walk in here, it'll be without weapons. They will be kept safe, for now. We'd have to talk more." Ash cleared his throat before continuing, "The best defense against People, or the Dead, is more people. We give refuge for decent folk, unless they prove otherwise. Fine. Pile your weapons behind you, step inside. The minute you feel like leaving, you can have them back."
Hesitant at first, The Great Bazhooli lay down his fur coat and placed his rifle, extra bullets, and his many knives on top of it. He wrapped the coat up, creating a bundle of things that hurt covered in bear fur, and moved it to the grassy bit he performed on just a few moments ago. During this time, Ash was on his radio, "Newcomer at the gate, alone. Need an escort detail to search and accompany him to the Mess Hall. ...Zoie, if you've got a minute, we have a guest."
The gate opened just enough to admit a single body, and The Great Bazhooli stepped inside. He looked around at the contents of the Outer Wall, captivated by the sight. This was an actual community, with people working, animals, etc. Armed men and women willing to fight to keep it, too. They looked slightly untrusting, which was to be expected. He was very new. One of these armed men brushed past him, carrying his coat full o' fun. He remained close, but not as close as the two men with rifles. Just in case. "This place... vonderful. Better than train."
It may have been, but it was not home. Not yet, anyway. Ash urged the small procession forward, motioning with his hand toward the Inner Wall. "Welcome to Newnan."
1 = Ah! My beautiful steppe flower. It does my heart good to hear the Mother Tongue again.
Harper exited the bridge, taking the main corridor down to his quarters. It was a short walk through a mostly empty vessel, thing which he just now took the time to appreciate. While the full gravity of his situation didn't weigh upon him at that moment, it had its beginning. A military vessel setting out to intercept an independent ship doesn't offload crew. It rarely brings aboard mission specialists, certainly not at the last minute. Suspicion bubbled up in him.
His door opened with a metallic hiss, common to ships of this kind. An overhead fixture illuminated automatically, giving the new pilot the lay of his new home for the next... well, however long it took until one of a short list of eventualities occurred. He still chose not to unpack, but he did go into his cases to take stock of his belongings. Most everything he owned looked like it had been purchased, very recently, on Persephone. There was very little in the way of personal belongings - a few small items stored unceremoniously in a bag to one side of his pack. He didn't even bother to look at them, pushing them out of his way to get to other things.
His cortex terminal and a small jar of desiccated fruit came out first. Next was a spare uniform, which he immediately hung up next to his bunk. This one he kept out. Of the other two, Liam plucked out a single, sugared peach and savored a bite, then jumped directly onto his Cortex Terminal. The changes made to the ship, both in new personnel and the downgrade to a skeleton crew, made him more suspicious about his situation.
The man he was supposed to be, who indeed he was now, got this assignment for a reason. If you're stripping down a crew, why would you bring a new pilot onboard? Punishment? Extreme confidence in his abilities? Did they know, deep down, that Lieutenant Harper was a non-person? Tì hóuzi dì dìyù, was everyone on this ship an outcast or a hired killer? Maybe he wouldn't have to blend in so much. Still, he had to know something. Hence his Blackbox.
He remained careful, ever so careful to cover his tracks, as he looked up routine files and specs that would be available to a person of his rank and clearance. And a number of things that were not. First, he looked into his own file for a hint of anything amiss. Next, that of his ship, The I.A.V. Retribution. He was curious as to what the Central file on this mission had to say. While he wanted to know was was being said, he was equally curious as to wasn't.
Tì hóuzi dì dìyù = Hell of the Shaven Monkeys
Foy Coiffeur
Location: Captain's Office
Reavers. Of course it was Reavers. Had to be. Now, the classy and quite unforgettable Foy Coiffeur had run into them before. Luckily, it was at a bit of a distance, and they had been riddled with gunfire before they got close enough to do anything more ungentlemanly than some particularly frightful grunting and trouser dampening unspoken promises of a tearing, penetrative death. Not Foy's preferred way to go. Nor anyone's, he would imagine.
If Reavers were landing at Whitefall, and the Alliance knew about it in advance, then that raised some serious questions. The fact that he had heard no word of this, likely also none given to Whitefall, aside, Whitefall wasn't all that much farther away from the Core than his native Farraday. True, Farraday was on the other side of the 'Verse, but if they were attacking settlements in a spiral pattern with the Central Planets at the end of their long-term campaign, they would get to Farraday long before Osiris, or Ariel, or the Alliance's seat of power, Londinium. It was odd, thinking of Reavers as creatures capable of that kind of planning.
His momentary thoughts on Londinium reminded Foy that he was still carrying a bottle of the planet's exported brandy and two glasses, cupped out of the way. Between that and the discussion of flesh-eating, ultra violent, yowling rape mongrels, Foy could really go for a drink. He set the glasses upon Captain Quinn's desk, filled them smartly, and kept the bottle for himself. Motioning for the other men present to have at the high priced hooch, Foy settled back into the briefing chair and blew out a long breath.
"Gentlemen; Captain, Doctor, if I may be as bold... We are here to give frank and earnest dialogue concerning the intimate study of Reavers, yes? To isolate that which gives a man the potential to Reave, if you will, sirs, and hide it from them, so as to promote the death of the individual, correct? I say, the very thought makes me wish to imbibe the sweet nectars of glorious distillations until my wits escape me. Why, if anybody were aware we were doing this..."
Realization dawned on him. "You cannot imply this with veracity, sir. Goodness, no. That being the case, I have two questions: Why are we not employing more in the way of an armed and experienced presence on board, and precisely what do your Black Mystery Boxes have to do with this lamentable situation?"
Location: Road North of Salarn, Early Afternoon of Day Three
Interacting With: His Team
There was a certain focusing feeling, knowing that one walks forward to the inevitable. Like a mix of being totally free yet utterly screwed, all at the same time. It seemed a eternity since he had arrived in the area, dealing with the fun and open people of Salarn (sarcasm intended). It had only been four days, but it felt like months. He recalled the first complete sentence he had spoken to the militiamen at the ramshackle defenses of the beleaguered township, aside from his initial indication that he was seeking a spot in town because he was, to quote himself, "Hungry." No, it was his more serious statement that flooded to mind just then, from a half-week prior, when questioned about his business:
"Name of Keystone. I'm fresh out of a conflict 'gainst an army of the dead, some many leagues east of here. I need ale, food, and rest, in that order, and you're standing between me and it. 'xcuse."
Keystone had traveled for a long while before that, rarely speaking during that time. It was a fine time for weighty introspection, mulling over the lessons learned and friends lost during his last foray into battling the animated dead and their invariably abhorrent masters, some of which were, themselves, no longer among the living. Whether he liked it or not, he had become a skilled combatant against them. It was not the route he had intended to take when he set out on his journey, years ago. Involuntary, more than anything else - just woke up, circumstances flinging him against dead things like a battering ram.
And here he was again. Keystone was hoping to take a more circular route home, but this... par for the course, really. A simple bread-and-butter job as a merchant's guard turned sideways, as it tends to do when you're Keystone.
Sighing dejectedly at this new turn of events with the Orc, Brezcar, and his team of slightly cheesed off brethren, Keystone shouldered his massive pack. He recovered his large, covered, cast iron roasting pan, still heavy with tea-and-spirits roasted bird. A mote of forethought saw him ripping away a large scrap of cloth from the partially disarticulated wagon and cramming it into his belt. If this is where the Powers That Be are sending him, fine. Upon the hour of his death, Keystone would have a few choice angry (and largely unintelligible by polite society) words for said Powers. At least his people wouldn't be hungry in the meantime.
The scarred brawler fell into step with the mixed procession, speeding up or slowing down as needed to rub elbows with others in the group he set out with that morning. With each, he raised the lid to his pan, offering them a piece of the proficiently roasted animal. It wasn't the full meal for which he had hoped, but it was something. Again with each of his people, he mumbled something quietly, to the effect of what he said earlier, "Stay together, stay whole, right? Rules o' this game's changed."
He handed a reserved drumstick up to Sana, on her horse. He said nothing, but locked eyes with her and glanced around the group, then returned to her with a raised eyebrow, expectantly.
Location: Justice Memorial Hospital - Exterior, On the Road, Taqueria
"Do what I can, Detective." monotoned Caesar, in response to the imperative to keep Cecily safe. He gave another nod to the tenured law enforcement official before turning his attention back to Cecily, stating, "Yeah, I needed you to look at something for me. Professional opinion." As an immediate topic change, "Tacos okay?"
The stoic behavior that Caesar tended to give the police was birthed of mistrust, stemming back to his own days with the Mexican Federal Police. He had seen more or less decent men corrupted by powerful entities, and the truly awful ascending to positions of authority. Even with the the severe gutting the Federales took toward the end of his time under their employ, the damage, in his opinion, had been done. Caesar Gonzalez retired as a Commandant and never looked back. For this reason, Caesar both respected and detested the Police. A good cop is hard to find sometimes, and from what he was led to believe, a good cop is even harder to find in Justice. Trust a man until you have reason not to. A cop? Caesar needed a reason to trust one in the first place. Whether this was because of or despite his own experience with law enforcement was unclear, perhaps even to the Man himself. The rare occasions he found an honest one, well... It would be nice to have an ally with legal standing.
Caesar revved his trike, intoning a further, "Grab my belt. Try not to squeeze." before throwing his coat back to accommodate and, three seconds later, pulling away from the hospital entrance. A series of turns and lane changes later, The pair found themselves at a Mom & Pop Taqueria. Standard fare, Mexican beer, coffee, horchata, and privacy - with public just a few steps away.
There was also a television set, simulcast en español, blaring something about a Mr. and Mrs. White of Boston Heights, dead along with a psychiatrist in an apparent murder/suicide. Hmm.
Caesar assimilated what information he could from the television, grabbed his order, and settled into a booth. Typically, he chose to face the door and loosen his pistol in his belt. "I've isolated key portions of the videos I took last night and earlier today. One is from Danica's fall. Other is from a private investigation. I need to know if anything looks familiar to you, anyone out of place."
It was a lot to throw at someone all at once. The older man softened his face (as possible as that was, considering it was HIM) and continued, "It can wait a few minutes, niña. Eat. Have a beer, three, whatever. On me. What happened today?"
For the first time since he started producing a feast from the recently truck-bludgeoned deer, Black James received a message through his walkie. It was cryptic, kinda. Definitely a thing which would pique one's curiosity. The words of their main Gatekeeper, Jim, sounding through the black, composite plastic box attached to his hip:
"Um... This is, ah, Jim? Yeah, Jim at the South Gate. Ah... Look, you guys have to see this one. And anyone who speaks Russian? Please. I wash my hands of this."
Now THAT sounded like an interesting turn of events. Something worth taking a look at, if he spoke Russian or was part of the Security team. Another new guy! Someone else to meet and greet, learn about, teach in the Ways of Newnan. After a lengthy assessment of their trustworthiness and capabilities, of course. Jim's words seemed a little exasperated, perhaps, but nothing along the lines of an emergency. If the fellow (or fellows) at the gate were hostile, a very different kind of message would have been given. The alarm bells would have sounded, something. This was benign in nature.
Too bad it wasn't his concern whatsoever. I mean, it was a concern for the community, but unless specifically called for, there were people that handled things of this nature. James was the guy you talked to about growing many and varied things suitable for human use and consumption, proper care, feeding, hunt, and slaughter of porcine livestock, and just maybe a colorful anecdote every once and again. Hey, you need someone shot, he's a more than capable marksman. Hell of a gun for it, too. But this situation? Nothing he could contribute.
Yet more interesting stuff going down in a town he was helping to make prosperous that he either knew nothing about or could not help with. Ah, well. But this time in front of the smoker with minimal distraction did give him time to think. He had talked to Ash about his little writing projects over the past month. They seemed a little morbid to him, like he was preparing for his own death. In truth, he half-expected the Captain to eat a bullet after he was through. But he didn't. Listening to the pop of slow burning wood and the occasional sizzle of liquefying fat striking the bottom of the hot smoker, he drew into a kind of meditative lull. A realization dawned on him - Ash wasn't preparing for himself for death. He was preparing Newnan for it.
Continuing with this train of thought, the grim sumbitch knew things that no one else in town did. He'd been making plans with Leann long before Eden invaded, same day as the walls were breached and the dead FLEW IN by means of tornado stowaway. Those plans hit a hiccup, no doubt, but all that death... if both he and Leann had died, Newnan would have been without direction, nor the planning to develop as a community. James didn't know how much was lost due to the original Commanding Officer's death, and was sure that they were just winging it with some things.
What if James himself died? He was the only guy who was making plans, and damned good ones, about the agricultural future of his new home. The people working under him were goodly folk, no doubt, and knew their way around shovel and seed, but simply lacked the foresight and experience to really blossom Newnan into what it could be. It was time to make plans. Years in advance kind of plans, and write it all down. He could die just as easily as anyone else, and he also knew things that no one else in Newnan did. At least, not as well as he.
Well, that was that. He was going to pen his plans, both short and long term. Shouldn't take long, there was plenty of reference material on the actual planting aspect of it all. Following that, he was going to approach Newnan's new leaders and request to lead a team to execute those plans. Of course, for everything to work out, they would need people to explore outward, look for more people. The base of recruiters may have to expand.
But these were all plans that would occur after this delectable bit of flesh was done accepting the appropriate levels of heat, smoke, and time necessary to bring it to culinary perfection. And to Hell with the drama elsewhere. They don't want to talk to him, he'll concentrate on what he does best. Now, to the Gravy.
Ash Holloway
Location: Interior Courthouse, Southern Gate
When it rains, it pours. The whole of the apocalypse reminded him of sentry duty, during his early military career. Hours upon hours, days upon days of absolutely nothing but the rigid discipline and rituals thereof; the waiting, saluting, speaking the proper words in the proper tone to your superiors and relief - and then the times when something happened, few as they were, the shit really hit the fan.
Today was going to be one of those days. Almost a full month of rebuilding, reorganizing, and setting in new additions to their community. Relative quiet, really. Growing of crops, construction of gates, establishing wells, putting up fences. The Valkyries were especially happy about the last two points, not that you could tell unless you looked closely. Their little stronghold just outside the Inner Wall was an excellent regrouping point, with its own water source and rough hewn wood fencing. James had done a wonderful job getting their crops back on track, even instituted something involving "companion planting" and "crop/livestock rotation", or something like that. Zoie was training the hell out of the Newnan folk, now that it was apparent that they had definitive enemies. They had been coming together and growing stronger, quietly, for a while now. Today just had to happen eventually.
Today looked like it was going to continue in a manner of escalation, or at least consistent of questionable events. This feeling was confirmed by the next radio transmission from Jim, the Gatekeeper:
"...Ah... Look, you guys have to see this one..."
Froggy was ok, at least well enough for now. No one else had come on the line for a few seconds, meaning that Zoie was either indisposed or without her walkie. Ash responded in her stead, "Received, Jim. I'll be along shortly, and I think we have one person who speaks Russian, arrived today. One minute."
One Minute Later
"Jim. You understand that, when you took this job, you would be the first to observe and evaluate new people." He voice was understanding but slightly impatient. "I understand your hesitation, but you really can't give me a "wash my hands of it" explanation."
Ash sighed. He got it, the guy certainly seemed colorful. Add to it a thick accent and a moustache that could probably signal a rescue chopper... it had been a strange day. Looked to get overwhelming if they didn't stay on top of it. "So what's his deal?"
The Great Bazhooli
Location: Outside Newnan's Southern Gate
Okay. The Great Bazhooli hadn't been let in immediately. This was not ideal. On the other hand, he hadn't been shot, either. Not ideal, but not the worst way to kick off a meet & greet, by anyone's standards. Perhaps the reason for his lack of instantaneous welcome came due to the unfortunate and unexpected attack of his semi-adopted feline, Schrodinger. The fuzzy orange bastard had never really seen him pull off a routine, and acted like a kitty possessed.
The truth of the matter, from the cat's point of view, was that the big, strange human had decided to play. He seemed nice enough, giving him food every now and again and allowing him to enjoy his warmth when it got colder at night, but he never wanted to do anything fun. Now that he had discovered other humans, he seemed to want to play. This was good! Playing was good. Though he seemed ever so put out when the nimble tomcat pounced in honest joviality. Humans were strange. Schrodinger decided it would take more time to figure them out.
Meanwhile, The Great Bazhooli had moved to recover his knives, hat, and coat. He kept the rifle where it leaned, still wary of these people and hoping not to make a threatening first impression. He then remained standing, adopting various histrionic circusy poses as the (now) two men stood atop the Wall post, discussing his fate. It was when the freshly arrived man posed a question, "So what's his deal?" that he decided to cut in, leading the way with his girthy Russian accent:
"Deal is, good comrade, dat you have honor to vitness The Great Bazhooli, alive and in flesh! Da, internationally recognized Great Bazhooli, Master of Impalement Arts and..."
From bushes nearby, one could hear an attention grabbing "...meow..."
"..and... and his faithful Cat, Schrodinger! Eh... chert voz'mi. Look, I level with, okay? I am Great Bazhooli. My circus train, assault by peoples. Then Returned, afterward. Dead and scatter-ed, all of. I look for them, I look for place too, yes?" His accent softened just a touch with his next sentence. "I'm not good with Alone, anymore."
"Meow!", as if on cue.
"Except for Schrody! Yes! I have the Schrodinger, who I have decided not to eat today..." he added, looking in the direction of the now emerging feline as if in warning. "I could use thing to eat, and kitty can use milk, or mouse, nyet raznitsy. Uh, I vork! Vork if need. Vork for Schrody, too. Is handful, but good kitty."
da = yes chert voz'mi = damnit nyet raznitsy = no difference (used as "whatever" colloquially) Vork = Work (if it wasn't clear from dialogue)
[hider=Lady Absinthia's GM Awards]
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[hider=Death Scenes]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3622266]Dexter's Death (or Hammertime!)[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3837944]The UnBEARable Case of Lawrence Long[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4020657]Malfunctioning Space Toilet[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4557122]Rube Goldberg Decapitation[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4569229]Shitter's Full[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4602115]Dirigible (warning, SAD)[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4538295]After "The Last Barbecue"[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4723699]Detoxing Pilot[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4745239]Girls Stick Together[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4749807]Oops[/url]
[/hider]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659]"Character Flaw"[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/2968914]Keystone's Daydream[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3040161]Checking for Mental Intrusion[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3594115]The Power Of Pain Compels You[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4670484]The Greater Good[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5134610]Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady[/url]
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<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Lady Absinthia's GM Awards">Lady Absinthia's GM Awards [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><ul class="bb-list" style="white-space: normal;"><li></li><li>Save Another from LLA Card</li><li>Kill Any NPC in LAU Card</li><li>Plot Insight Card</li><li>Single Day Extension Card</li><li>Single Day Extension Card</li><li></li></ul></div></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Death Scenes">Death Scenes [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3622266">Dexter's Death (or Hammertime!)</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3837944">The UnBEARable Case of Lawrence Long</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4020657">Malfunctioning Space Toilet</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4557122">Rube Goldberg Decapitation</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4569229">Shitter's Full</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4602115">Dirigible (warning, SAD)</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4538295">After "The Last Barbecue"</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4723699">Detoxing Pilot</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4745239">Girls Stick Together</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4749807">Oops</a></div></div><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659">"Character Flaw"</a><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/2968914">Keystone's Daydream</a><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3040161">Checking for Mental Intrusion</a> <br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3594115">The Power Of Pain Compels You</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4670484">The Greater Good</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5134610">Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady</a><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Signature Images">Signature Images [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://media.giphy.com/media/xT0GqpswuzhOqHP6gM/giphy-downsized-large.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://media.giphy.com/media/iMnyx7HWjZgPu/giphy.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/wUTjLTf.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K04tQV9pRE8/UCFQiE8aoVI/AAAAAAAATJk/hIK7mzvvYpk/s430/99.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/rigeWJc.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://uproxx.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/throughthedoor.gif?w=650" /></div></div></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://image.ibb.co/jVrOhp/Scythefalling.gif" /></div></div>
Zman
Shadow Dragon
Not a Sayan
Simply Not Real
Fetzen
Lewascan2
Arty Fox
Lady Absinthia
Archangel89
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