@Caits
Your character, I believe. If Niesha is dead set on knowing if anyone died, she should give it a look.
Your character, I believe. If Niesha is dead set on knowing if anyone died, she should give it a look.
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Literary Hatchetman
STATUS: Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4… 8 yrs ago
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Submitted for your approval. Just don't let him at spicy foods, and make sure this adventure provides time for a nap every now and again.
@Lady Amalthea
Quick question concerning the last spot in his Residence equipment: Considering the nature of the character I PMed you, the use or ownership of an animal seems a bit inappropriate. Could I flip this out for a vehicle more appropriate to his profession?
Quick question concerning the last spot in his Residence equipment: Considering the nature of the character I PMed you, the use or ownership of an animal seems a bit inappropriate. Could I flip this out for a vehicle more appropriate to his profession?
Keystone
Location: Woods North of Salarn, Day Three, Orc Encampment
Interacting With: His Team
Splitting the group... this was not remotely what Keystone intended when he suggested that the group keep together. All the same, when the War Chief of an Orc raiding party politely (for them) requests the presence of the people who speak for the group, you go. Especially when surrounded by a hundred or so of his ardent followers, each armed to the teeth and not particularly happy with the local Human population.
Keystone decided to make another suggestion or two to the group. This time, with incentive if they acquiesced. "Bloody 'ell. Right then. Guess we're jumpin' 'eadfirst into this round-robin cobyank, like it or no. Make you lot a deal - Set up a presentable camp, get me a good, low fire a'poppin, an' I'll make us something hot for our bellies tonight, ey?" He looked around at the total of his group; some faces were more stoic than others. Nervous faces could make their night more difficult.
He unslung his massive pack, leaving it with his people. "Heads high, soddit. We're the dangerous bloody 'umans they've been told about, right? We're all we got, just now. Some o' you get some good burnin' wood, some o' you claim a space and look after our stuff, till we get back. 'Preciate, you all. Cyneburg? Mayhap you should come with. You're one o' them neutral woodsy folk, yeah?"
Regardless of his party movement, or lack thereof, the strangely "with it" Pugilist turned to follow Brezcar. He set his gaze to a curious visage of alert confidence, similar to the way he would appear when walking to a ring or pit for a prize bout. It was classic Keystone: part brash and cocky, part reserved and waiting. He was a warrior, no doubt. He wanted the Orcs around him to know it. Keystone made certain that the hood to his masterful hide coat was down, as better to show off his steel-grey eyes and collection of facial scars. He wasn't classically armed, obviously, but he intended to garner the grudging respect of the other warriors in this place.
William Harper
Location: Personal Quarters
Nothing. Nothing at all. No record of this ship, this crew, their orders. Nothing about cargo being loaded, no filing of a manifest. No record of his log, at least not outside of the ship's databases. This ship simply did not exist. Harper had heard of this kind of a thing occurring before, rumors of this from years ago. He had never actually seen a boat in this situation before, though that may very well have been the point. Or, he may very well have seen one, but did not recognize its true status. This vessel did not have a digital trail of any kind, except possibly to the highest authorities in the Alliance. For all intents and purposes, the I.A.V. Retribution wasn't there, and never was.
She was a Black Ship.
A slew of curses sprang into his mind, in both English and Mandarin, but they could not find their way out of his face due to pure shock. Simultaneously, panic began to develop in the back of his brain, threatening to overwhelm his senses. Liam's mouth tried to work, to enunciate any piece of word aloud to give himself reassurance, only to find that his potential for rational monologue was stifled by the bare, stark truth of the matter: He had quietly escaped a prison that barely existed officially, only to land himself on board a ship that didn't exist officially at all.
Finally, when his brain allowed his mouth to operate, he managed a fairly solid, "I am running headlong into a massive spray of Da Shiong La Se La Ch’wohn Tian.1 Damnit. Just, just damnit..." He needed a drink. Someone on board had to have an alcoholic beverage, smuggled in or distilled on site. He had stuff to trade, and really needed a little something to take the edge off of reality right then. He quietly powered down his terminal, remembering to remove whatever residual signature he might have left on the cortex and his machine. (He would have to program a shutdown subroutine to that effect later on; it was a new and very non-personalized piece of electronics.) Tucking his cortex terminal pack into his traveling case, he rose to explore the ship and try to find someone with booze. Not too much, he had to report back to duty in a few hours. A dram or so would be sufficient.
Just before he actuated the door to his quarters, hand held inches away from the release, three sharp knocks sounded from the other side. Considering that he was already a little jumpy from what he had discovered, the unexpected noise jarred his senses. He edged open the door a foot, maybe a little more; just enough to make himself visible, but not enough to invite entry. Then he saw who was standing on the other side.
Lā shǐ.2 Double Lā shǐ. The words echoed in his mind as he saw the blue gloved assassin Agent of our Benevolent Planetary Alliance waiting for him on the other side. He felt his eyes want to widen in alarm, but he forced the overlay of his generally cool exterior to take over. Harper cleared his throat, and spoke in confident, smooth tones. "Don't think we've met officially. First Lieutenant William Harper, Flight Officer. Captain need me back already?"
Foy Coiffeur
Location: Cargo Bay
"Of course, my fine sir. Always apt to lend an assist to a fellow man of class."
Foy Coiffeur gave a half-nod, half-bow to Dr. Jahosafat Moreau as he exited the Captain's office, following the two of them down the hall, to the lift, and finally down to the Cargo Bay. It seemed a little creepy, staring at those three large, black crates. His childhood chum had no difficulty walking right over to them, as if they were of no consequence whatsoever. Like they contained toiletries or protein nibs, ping pong balls, what have you. Foy guessed, and with no small measure of confidence, that whatever was in there was a game-changing affair. Otherwise, there would be little point in all of the secrecy. Otherwise, a man of his background wouldn't be there.
Truth be told, if Foy were called into contract by the Alliance (and he still wasn't vocal about which part within the Alliance held the other end of his contract) then something particularly dark might be transpiring that required a specific kind of operative. Or a madman. Or someone expendable. Not that Foy considered himself expendable, quite the opposite. That, and many people would take notice if something happened to the Dapper Gentleman of Fortune. Whether they would do anything about it... Well, another worry for another time.
Foy motioned over to the Cargo Bay's standard Grav Dolly, perfect for making these kind of short runs. But seeing as the man did like to take a more personal approach sometimes, he relinquished his desire to make the job easier, replacing it with the accepting nod of a man willing to do his friend a solid. Even if that solid did involve the lingering distaste of manual labor.
The esteemed Mr. Coiffeur rolled up his sleeves past his elbows, revealing a pair of Derringer pistols on quick release holsters along his forearms. Traditionally last resort weapons, and sometimes referred to as "hat guns", they were preferred by many as a good, no nonsense method of putting two bullets into at target at close range, particularly when they weren't expecting it. The unfailing gentleman took a moment to tuck his hold-out weapons elsewhere and get a secure grip upon the Black Mystery Box, heaving upward.
Now, though a man raised in the arms of the upper class, and somewhat slender of build, Foy was a lot stronger than he looked. His childhood was indeed privileged, but his teenage years and adult working life was spent in many vigorous, martial pursuits. He possessed a wiry strength of limb, and demonstrated exactly this now. "Dr. Moreau, Captain," he began with a hint of strain in his voice, "I would advise that we take this ebon monolith toward the ramp, sirs. Unless you have something with wheels picked out to expedite our transport?"
Caesar Gonzalez
Location: Taqueria
Caesar listened to Cecily's awkward verbal dance away from what she thought the older man was suggesting. And froze. His face contorted into a series of grimaces designed to keep something internalized, but over the course of the next two seconds, said defenses failed spectacularly. The veteran beater of wholesale ass exploded into a long stretch of coughing and laughing simultaneously. The mirth echoed from the walls and textured tile flooring of the establishment as the man himself covered the lower half of his face with his hands to avoid spewing partially digested taco fixin's all over his dinner guest. His flatware clattered to the table, a single, noble fork slipping from the rough eating surface to clang tiny, irregular notes upon the floor before coming to rest next to Caesar's square toed engineer boots.
The coughing came under control long before the laughter abated. Tears formed quickly, obscuring his sight with liquid filters, blurring his view of the nigh ridiculous scenario but not removing it from his ever-sharp recollection. Every detail of her face and inflection of speech as the Forensic Technician tried to evade what she perceived as an attempt to engage her in nocturnal coitus-ly activities.
"Oh, oh... Oh Dios. Oh my God, niña... that, that was... You made salsa come out my nose, little girl! I haven't laughed like that since I was a little bandito. Seriously, haahhhh... Gracias, really." Caesar wiped his eyes dry and took a quick breath through his nose, attempting to dislodge the grains of rice and spicy, chopped tomato that presently resided therein. It took a couple of tries. "Trust me here, Cecily. You're a little young, even with my history. M'hija's got more than a decade on you, and you are seriously not my type. Safety, child. Talking about safety. Your own room with locks and a mini-bar. I don't date, anyway."
A rather awkward silence fell over the table as Caesar finished his plate and Cecily reviewed the recordings. After business concluded, he spoke again. "Look, I'm headed to catch the Derby. If you want to join, offer's open. I would still suggest staying away from Boston Heights tonight. Stay with your cop friend, if you can trust him." He paused for a moment, regarding the very junior woman. "Supper's taken care of. I'll call you a car if you want, give them my card info. Go anyplace you want to. Otherwise, I'll be waiting on my trike for the next five minutes if you change your mind. No hard feelings. Either way, I've got somewhere to be."
Ash Holloway
Location: Southern Gate, LaGrange Street headed North to Inner Gate
Ashton regarded Tatiana's request with a mix of gratitude and suspicion. Two Russian speakers arriving within the same morning, unrelated in any way, was a hell of a coincidence. At least in central Georgia. He slowly nodded, granting her request to stick around and help. "Yes. That might be a good idea. But you're staying with the escort. Priority is safety, and you're both new." He turned to the men on security detail that morning, noting the very ones that previously accompanied Tati and Jack earlier, upon their arrival. Zoie had them trained to keep to their duties, he noted with some satisfaction.
She was a newcomer, too. Arrived the previous month, and from the very place that threatened their community. The Apocalypse made for strange allies. This new man was about as strange as they come. Maybe it would work out. Might not though, hence the armed escort.
And speaking of Zoie, The radio crackled to life with her voice on the other end. When she intoned that Miss Lily had tried to "have her for breakfast", Ash's forward momentum came to an immediate halt. His mouth fell agape for a second or two, as his brain tried to process the information given and formulate an appropriate response. He had just had a discussion with someone about Lily. Seems that she had died; Bridgette and Bryn were on burial detail. Ash even reminded them to make sure to get her brain. Seems everyone forgot to mention that Lily's last physical act upon the earth was to rise from the bed in which she passed away and try to make a mid-morning snack out of his Second. That seemed an important detail.
Ash pressed the button on his radio, intending to say something Leaderly and Commanding. In his present state of irritation and mild confusion, he was able to mouthe the words, ...what the shit...? before realizing his thumb had been on the button for a bit too long. He finally snapped from his moment of wanting to strangle someone, addressing the issue. "Understood. Take your time. We'll be in the Mess for a while."
The procession moved steadily from the Outer Gate to the Inner Wall, during which Captain Holloway motioned for Tatiana to remain behind for a moment. He looked at her in the stolid, military manner of his former life, searching for any hint of machination or betrayal. "Two things: You said his accent was "Cloudy". Muddled over time, rural part of Russia, faking, what? Also, when you said, "Not friend", what exactly did you mean?"
The Great Bazhooli
Location: Southern Gate, LaGrange Street headed North to Inner Gate
The Great Bazhooli was fairly certain that he was not being led off to certain death and consumption by rabid, slobbering half-men. This was good. He would have felt much, much better with his knives back on his person, though. They were part of who he was. While he had no problem hurling other objects, sharp or otherwise, for sport and/or personal defense, those blades were really part of who he was. Hopefully he could get them back soon. Of course, the grim faced man from atop the wall made some mention about getting his stuff back if he expressed a desire to leave. Likely after he was already back out. His rifle, he didn't care quite as much about. It was merely a tool, and a fairly common one at that.
He looked to Tatiana, obstinately continuing to speak his own heavily accented brand of English. "Of course is cloudy, malyshka1. The Great Bazhooli has been many places, seen many things. Life of travel. Come, come! Talk vith me more. Tell me vhat place is like, da?"
The second before the gate clinked closed, a fuzzy orange blur could be seen darting inside. It stopped, sniffed the air a little bit, and let out a quizzical "...Meow?" before locating the object of his search - the strange man with whom he had tussled earlier. The cat wasn't 100% on the smell of livestock coming from the immediate east, it was something he would have to investigate thoroughly later, and just wanted to get to the one human with which he knew he would be safe. The cat turned back into a muted blur of color, making a beeline to Bazhooli's pant leg and digging in with a half territorial, half pleading yowl.
The stranger was taken by surprise, crying out from the unexpected feline attachment to his lower extremities. "Yaah! No, is okay. Is okay. Is only Schrodinger. Little bastard..." He bent to pick up the mercurial cat, detaching Schrodinger from the cloth and skin that parted beneath his tiny, sharp claws. The process paused the group for only a second or two, leaving The Great Bazhooli to carry the ten pound mass of fur and apathy the remainder of the way inside.
Bridgette Vinters
Location: Burial Site, just east of the Inner Wall
"Good call. I'll finish the hole meet you at the Wall, 'k?" said Bridgette to her friend and work partner, Brynja. She settled into getting the last of the loose dirt out of the hole and onto the pile next to her. She considered humming a jaunty, anger filled tune to pass the time, but that led to a near heap of trouble earlier. Too soon. Instead, she kept her ears open and hands busy until the hole was the appropriate width and distance down.
Bridgette's work was made ever so slightly more difficult by her insistence upon wearing her bracers and greaves. It was stylish, kind of, but there was more of an element of function involved here, as well. Due to the weapon restrictions put in place by the ruling body of Newnan, she only had access to her weapons if she was working on them, training, or about to go on an "Away Mission". Frigging Star Trek. While it was not her full set of titanium chain armor, it was something. The fact that it also gave the more pain-making parts of her body (elbows, knuckles, forearms, knees, shins, and insteps) steel plating didn't hurt, either. It gave her more options in the event violence was called for. She was used to wearing it, anyway. Felt more comfortable than not having armor at all. Still, she would continue to bitch about not having her spear, or at least her axe, for quite some time.
The hole was finally done. Per Ash's request, Bridgette rolled the wrapped body into the opening, careful to ensure that she was face up. While the generally vulgar lady seemed to have little care for little customs like this, everyone else obviously did. "Well Lily," she began to the still corpse of the native Newnanite, "I didn't get to know you all that well. Hell, this is the longest conversation we've ever had, isn't it? No no, you don't have to answer. I understand that you're dead and all. Just saying, this whole thing sucks. At least it's over for you. Died in your sleep, huh? This day and age, that's goddamned hilarious. Really. I mean, it's not going out in glorious combat, but that was never really your thing, huh? Well, fuckit, old lady. War for you is over."
Bridgette affected a quick salute to the body of the fallen woman, and readied to leave. "Next time I feel like looking crazy, we'll have ourselves another chat. I mean, you're a hell of a listener. But I got shit to do; so I'm out. Seeyas!" Unsure as to whether her sudden desire to speak to a dead lady she didn't really know all that well was a product of budding insanity or a poorly executed nod of respect, she tried to laugh it off internally. Turning to the nearest person on the Inner Wall (as she was still quite close), she called up, "HEY! You've got a radio, right? Tell whoever has their ears on that Lily is in the ground, uncovered, and I'm hauling ass to the crack in the Outer Wall, okay? Thank ya!"
She tidied up her work area, stuck her shovel into the pile of loose dirt next to the almost interred Miss Lily, and mounted Cadence. The next minute or so saw her in route to the eastern section of the Outer Wall. She wasn't a huge fan of coming out that way by herself - it was largely unused, a hopeful area for expansion. There were people posted along the Outer Wall out that way, but it did little to alleviate the hyperaware sense she would get while out that way. Best to get this done and return to her home. She had a few things to accomplish back at her little Newnan stronghold, anyway.
Black James!
Location: Parking Lot between 10 (Medical Garden) and Gilbert Street - Present location of his Smoker
There were a multitude of interesting things coming across the airwaves that morning. Many interesting tidbits of information regarding the events of the day, people going about their daily business. Someone died, too! Very sad. James liked Miss Lily. Not a key player, mind you, in the comings and goings of Newman, but she had her moments. As did everyone, really. James made a mental note to visit her gravesite after he was done for the day. The news that she had returned as a Walker came as a massive surprise, when Zoie finally said something over the radio.
Then of course, there was Ash's reaction to it. He could tell when dead air came over his walkie, and surmised it was the Captain trying to compose himself before speaking. He could see it now: Ashton, blood pounding in his temples, getting red-faced over the whole gooey ordeal. Probably trying hard not to growl "damnit" in the manner that he does when really annoyed. He was a good guy, mostly, their Captain Holloway. Not sure if vacations were a thing anymore, but James was certain that Ash could use one. Today, a bit of smoked venison and rustic gravy would have to do. When the crops started coming in, he could do them all one better. But for now, do what you can. Keep breathing. Keep others breathing.
And make that deer more useful to them in death that it ever could have been in life. "Yum muhafuckin' yum."
@Caits
Please check your location with the maps in the OOC original post. As long as Niesha is in the Inner Wall, but outside of a building, we need the street names.
Please check your location with the maps in the OOC original post. As long as Niesha is in the Inner Wall, but outside of a building, we need the street names.
Keystone
Location: Woods North of Salarn, Day Three
Interacting With: His Team
It wasn't everyday that Keystone was invited to camp alongside a tribe of Orcs. Point of fact, it had never happened previously, ever. The itinerant brawler's experience with Orcs was admittedly limited, though he did have a traveling companion for a while, Half-Orc, swore by codes of obedience and chivalry. Knightly type, as was obvious to anyone who spoke with him for more than five minutes. Keystone had not maintained the company of a Paladin before. In hindsight, he had learned quite a bit from the man, some of which he even retained. A little of that concerned him accepting his role in the greater plan of the world, as directed by powers greater than himself.
If he could have given the gods a collective finger at that moment, he would have. Maybe even two.
This was different. This was a whole tribe/war party/family reunion of pissed-off Orcs, all armed and rather unhappy with the state of affairs between their people and the local Human population. Keystone assumed that, if Brezcar wished them dead immediately, he would have ordered it as soon as they met. On the other hand, a similar group found them in the woods not too long before and they made short work of them; it was possible that word had gotten back to the main group about the dangerous (mostly) Humans that had taken out a patrol, leaving no survivors.
Of course, if the Orcs knew about Cremwise and the deal he had worked out with their people, why would they have attacked? Miscommunication somewhere, perhaps, or was there more at play here? This was a scenario that screamed of a lack of information. Throw Keystone at an enemy, enemy went down. At least, that's how it played out so far. Sometimes he required help, sometimes he didn't. In this particular situation, he and his new group (because let's face it, they were all in this together now) suffered from a distinct lack of information. And they were surrounded by Orcs, more than they were likely capable of taking out without a serious advantage. They didn't even have the benefit of group tactics yet.
When Kyra stopped to survey the extent to which they were potentially screwed, Keystone spoke up. He directed his words to his colorful group of misfits, careful to keep his voice straight and low. "Right then. They ain't taken our arms. Well, your arms, anyhow. We're walkin' in 'ere under our own power, and we're likely to leave that way if'n we keep our heads about us. They're not all that different that the gangs I had'ta deal with when I was a kid. Wantin' respect, gonna jump on weakness if they see it. We stick together, do not show a bloody hint of "scared", and set a defensible camp. They wanna talk, we'll talk. Who 'ere knows Orc?"
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