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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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Caesar Gonzalez
Location: Queensguard Private Airfield, Hangar
Yeah, he was angry. It was obvious that anger built a summer home in his brain a loooong time ago, imported all of its surly relatives, and just never left in the off season. This was bullshit. A private security team, even one as dedicated and cutthroat as his company, followed certain rules. These men did not. If they were anything, the people pursuing them were mercenary. At the far realm of possibility, they were contracted government assets. Not unlike what he used to be. But be they government, criminal, or other, these men were hostile in a way that defied local or national law. Plus, they shot Cecily. It wasn't lethal; as best as he could tell it didn't damage a major blood vessel. If Cecily had never been shot before, though, that must feel like impending death. The second shock went down, so would she. This was not something he took lightly. And yes, the thought most definitely occurred to him that these were representative of the suicidal bastards that killed his girls.
"Motherfuckers must pay..."
Yes indeed, motherfuckers must pay. But first, he had to get Cecily out of there with what evidence she had collected. Live to fight another day. And kill as many of these soulless fuckers on the way out as he could with a couple of clips of .45 ammo and two good knives. Let Cecily come back after she healed and collect evidence on that.
They were coming. No stopping that now. Maybe if he could clear a path back to the hole in the drain gate, he could get Cecily the hell out of there. "Niñita! You still with me? Need you to stand hard, Cici. This is what we do - we stand fucking hard! One bullet doesn't kill. It just pisses us off, you get me?" Obviously not the best motivational speaker there ever was, but hopefully a scarred-up old Mexican's advice would give some element of morale bolster. "Stay behind me. I'm getting us out of here."
In order of importance, Ceasar glanced over his surroundings looking for cover, an alternate way out, and any vehicle stashed inside the hangar. "Wish there was something I could blow up..." grumbled Caesar, always willing to cause an exothermic distraction/personnel neutralizing device to effect a dramatic escape. Otherwise, he would have to hope to surprise the guards coming into the building and shoot their way back out. Yeah, just like the good old days. Except now he had an innocent girl with him.
Okay, I've put out my initial post for this massively potential-laden RP. It is considerably longer than I usually post, but those who have RPed with me before know that I don't usually work with novels.
Sorry 'bout that.
But Mary says hi. Say hi back at your leisure, and let the games begin.
Sorry 'bout that.
But Mary says hi. Say hi back at your leisure, and let the games begin.
Sister Mary Hale
Grr, Mondays.
Mary sat bolt upright in her bed, taking in a gasping breath. "A dream." she thought, cursing herself silently. "A silly dream for a silly girl." Of course it was a false vision, probably brought on from overexertion the previous night coupled with that suspect block of havarti. She should have known that it was all some fanciful nightmare; the existence of all things hung upon the simple truth that God exists, his word the creating force behind everything that was and ever will be. His absence would be the undoing of all things. The Basilica would cease to be, she would cease to be. The concept of Heaven and Hell would likewise cease. But that simply could not be. God is infinite. He is "He Who Is Called I Am". No force can supplant that which is infinite.
She felt foolish. Also taken with a sense of vigilance; if she had doubts, even in a dream, there must be some spiritual weakness within her. She needed to pray.
Now, the way Sister Mary Hale prayed differed slightly from that of your average Apostolic Sister. It began simply enough, the young Sister poured herself a glass of water from a bedside pitcher, drank the contents quickly, and produced her long, chain rosary. The Prayer of the Rosary was fairly standard, a simple few minutes starting with the Apostle' Creed and ending with Our Father, moving her strong, dexterous fingers up the links as she counted off the requisite number of repetitions until she felt comfortable enough to rise, and begin her religious constitutionals in earnest. She dressed simply in white breeches and a long, buttoned blouse, grabbed her working bag and halberd, then exited her room for the courtyard. At a run.
Flying down the stairs, she passed by one of the few cloistered caretakers of St. Etheldreda's Church, also up at this early hour with laundry in mind; she appeared to be carrying a load of clothing up to her quarters, prompting Mary to give a quick "Thank you!" in passing. Down one hallway after another, making a circuit around the interior of the Church (minus the chapel proper) with special attention to maintain soundless steps going through the greater living quarters. She was on the ground floor now, with the courtyard in view through numerous outdoor archways.
She kicked off of the wall next to her, instantaneously changing direction while simultaneously keeping her pace at a dead run. She made for the nearest archway just up the hall, and hurled her body through it. She sailed into the grassy, grey-lit exterior with a slight rotation, just enough to press her polearm against herself and hit the ground in a controlled roll. The inertia was utilized in a practiced maneuver, rolling once and springing up. She dropped her bag and weapon, and continued her run around the courtyard, enjoying the changing, less even terrain of cobblestones and grass on her bare feet.
After a punishing while, Mary stopped on the stone walkway, and dropped prone. She pounded her knuckles into the uneven rock beneath her and shoved herself upward, again and again, performing aggressive pushups and counting them off in Latin. When she got up to octoginta (that's LXXX), she paused, set a knee down, and allowed herself a moment of rest. Mary looked to her halberd, now resting peacefully in the soft morning light. She got up, retrieved her weapon, and jogged up to the nearest archway. She hung it up between two tapestry hooks and began a series of pullups, curling her knees to her chest and reciting single lines of The Lord's Prayer with each lift. Rather than take the easy route, Mary alternated lifting her head on either side of the weapon's haft.
Finally, her arms began to show fatigue. She dropped to the ground and took a knee. Mary made the sign of the Cross before her, finished her last recitation of prayer through controlled but ragged breath, and finished with a solid "Amen." Morning observations concluded, Sister Mary made her way back up to her rooms and cleaned up with the basin provided her, then changed into her working garb.
The black cossack, gilded at the cuffs and collar, and various trappings of her profession looked both ecclesiastical and militant. She was a Dame of the Holy Order of Saint Sylvester, but try telling anyone that in jolly old England. Here, the Anglican clergy and lay folk tolerated her presence for the most part because of her role as a Venator est Inanimatum, or Soulless Hunter. Her people still could not hold Mass in this country. It made observing the Sabbath more difficult than it should have been. Still, London was her assignment; until she resigned her station and broke her vows, else was ordered away, this is where she lived.
And as long as she lived here, she was going to make the most of it. Mary buckled on her various weapons; matched, custom shortswords, her chain rosaries, a formidable hand cannon, and of course hefted one of her Swiss Guard halberds. Her status as a Catholic in a Protestant nation could be ascertained from a great distance. Luckily, the people in the surrounding area didn't seem to mind. Most of the time. To be slightly less obtrusive, she donned her familiar and favorite robe; a hooded white one with red accented trim. She pulled the hood up, allowing a tumble of wavy red hair to spill from the front, and departed.
On her way out of the Church proper, she grabbed an apple, content in its fresh simplicity to serve as her breakfast. Within short minutes, Sister Mary Ignatia Hale was mounted atop her dappled grey stallion, riding out of St. Etheldreda's stables in higher spirits, on her way to the West End Market. She had a friend to say hello to, and quite possibly a guest for Tea later. She wanted to procure something special for the event.
@Lady Amalthea
Likewise, my basic relations section is posted for Mary. Despite the fact that I'm representing the Church, I still believe that I'm going to Hell for this.
Likewise, my basic relations section is posted for Mary. Despite the fact that I'm representing the Church, I still believe that I'm going to Hell for this.
Foy Coiffeur
Location: Foy-er
"Cinnamon, cinnamon... Aha! Here we are, my dapper sir! Cinnamon. And Cassia, though it is to more pedestrian liking, and... ah, here we are, my ebon compatriot! Capsicum! Yes, the extracts of our noble and most piquant Farradayan Ice Peppers, infused within the deliciousness of crystallized glucose. My good sir, you have a most troubling option, if your desire is heat: Do you choose the tincture of Cinnamon, or the infusion of Capsicum?" Foy looked over the latest bit of professional grooming he had performed for his childhood friend and now working companion, checking for any asymmetry or minor mistakes. Naturally, he found none, but it was just good work ethic that prompted the inspection.
In the end, Foy wound up offering a small handful of both.
The past couple of days were actually quite diverting; living, working, and socializing with his oldest friend in the 'Verse. Catching up was long overdue, even if it was done so while squatting under the shadow of Reaver involvement. With the good Doctor taking over the vast majority of orders given him, he took to what official work presented him with a certain sense of gusto. Not the type of man that responded to orders on a usual basis, really, but he was under contract and Moreau's orders generally contained such pleasantries as "Would you please...?" or "If you would be so kind as to...". The small elements of gentlemanly banter presented with respect and polite demeanor went far with The Esteemed Foy Coiffeur; Gentleman Barber, Entrepreneur, and Cutthroat Mercenary Extraordinaire.
"There you are! You look quite the rakish rapscallion yet again (if I may intone thusly), dearest Jahosafat. Why, were a cotillion afoot, I daresay that you would be verily swimming in young debutantes vying for your more carnal attentions." He chuckled heartily at his own observation, quite content with how the start of his workday was progressing.
Foy sauntered over to his personal caffeination station, pouring a small cup of something particularly dark and potent. Naturally, it reminded him of Jahosafat. "I say, would you care to partake in a demitasse of espresso? It's actual bean, sir." he offered, holding out the cup. Excellent method of starting out the day, especially..."
His words were cut short by the shipwide page for their pilot. They were almost upon Whitefall, which meant that soon, the nature of Foy's work was about to change. "Hmm... I should estimate that we've enough time for coffee, possibly a croissant depending upon how breakneck that Harper fellow handles this grand conveyance, before I must ready myself for a pressing social function." Foy looked to his fellow Farradayan, nodding gravely for a second or two. Their obvious fellowship aside, the two men were professionals that had trust in each other. Such a thing was rare. The more dangerous part of the job was about to begin; a tiny moment of seriousness was in order. But just a tiny moment.
"Now, a topic for coffee dialogue: What manner of tie is most appropriate for meeting this sort of people? Oh, and possibly opening fire upon them, of course. Bolo, cravat or ascot?"
William Harper
Location: Bridge
The call went out, and Harper stood ready to perform his duties to the best of his formidable abilities. Being back on board an Alliance vessel for a couple of days had jogged his memory quite effectively, even to the point of smaller idiosyncrasies common to shipboard personnel such as corridor right of way and the most effective use of a ladder (he didn't bother using rungs while descending anymore). He fell into the routine nicely. The work of a pilot was mostly one of observation and small corrections, based upon any fluctuations in local gravity, looking out for proximity alarms and the like; at least off in the Black. Now that they were approaching their destination, he had the privilege of taking a more active role in maneuvering the I.A.V. Retribution. Though he disliked being a part of an Alliance patrol boat crew, he was damned good at the job. And being honest, he was looking forward to getting behind the controls and really pressing the abilities of this boat. It was a fine piece of machinery.
Harper was at the Bridge in quick time, offering the appropriate salute at the appropriate time, giving just as much pause as was necessary before jumping into the pilot's chair and switching to manual control. The transition was very fluid, only a fraction of a second of system noise as he took full control of the Retribution. A sense of prideful competence washed over the man as he checked all instrumentation and engine levels, just the routine work of a decent pilot. The Captain might be in charge, but in this moment, the ship belonged solely to Harper.
"Systems are normal, Captain. We are approaching at full burn, and are within standard for short range vessels. Would you prefer to make landfall or establish geosynchronous orbit, sir?"
Oh my, the conversations that I walk into...
Alright, I've almost got my relations sheet done. Before I finalize it, does anyone else think that their character might have a bit of history with Sister Mary Hale?
Any characters that are Catholic? Live in West End, Cheapside, or Holbrook neighborhoods? Have a vested interest in hunting Soulless? Looking to convert? I am open to ideas.
Alright, I've almost got my relations sheet done. Before I finalize it, does anyone else think that their character might have a bit of history with Sister Mary Hale?
Any characters that are Catholic? Live in West End, Cheapside, or Holbrook neighborhoods? Have a vested interest in hunting Soulless? Looking to convert? I am open to ideas.
Black James!
Location: Building C (James's House)
It would never have been unusual, before the Outbreak, to see someone sitting on their front porch carefully writing in a spiral bound notebook. Yet this day it seemed strange. The indomitable blackneck known to mere mortals as James Mandingo Grady set his mind to penning his thoughts, ideas, and plans for continued Agricultural prosperity for the people of Newnan. Or really anyone who wanted to read it.
The last man to draft something similar was Cap'n Ash. His homemade books were clean, precise; they were textbooks with marvelous annotation and excellent penmanship. James had no idea how the man was able to boil down years of training into five notebooks, each basically outlining the successes of his labor here in Newnan and how to repair/reproduce any of it. Plus his plans for the future and detailed instructions on their execution. Of course, the militant Virginian had also written another text that worried James, when he found out about it. It was his Will.
James knew that Ash was taking things very hard. He retreated into his cold, stoic exterior and lived there for a long time. Bu inside, the irreverent Mr. Grady could tell he was hurting badly. He also knew that a loaded pistol lay on the desk in front of Ash as he penned his works, and surmised that their commanding officer was giving serious consideration to using it on himself after he was done. In the end, he decided against it. But it still gave James the creeps, especially now that he was attempting the same feat.
His handwriting wasn't as clear as his literary predecessor, nor was he as mentally organized, hence his slower work. But he did work nonetheless, and it was legible, and James was making excellent progress. He detailed the logistics first; how much land they had, how many pounds of food it could produce (based upon type and availability of edible flora), he number of people it could feed, and growing/harvest times. Then he moved on to the processes. What to plant, when and how to do it, when to harvest. Staggering. Companion planting. Simple and alternate methods of fertilizing the land. Traditional methods, contemporary methods. James really poured the extent of himself into this notebook, enraptured with his mind accessing and recording the cornerstone knowledge of his upbringing. He had grown up in farms, often boasting that he received a more complete education there than public schools.
Admittedly, his knowledge of Agriculture, plant and animal both, had become a hell of a lot more important to the survival of mankind than solving for X. At least at face value.
James's plans for the sustainability of the community called for off season plantings and hopefully an array of supplementary goods. Some of these items they didn't have yet - but he knew a place where he could get it. Stonefruit, pears, citrus that could flourish in their latitude, nut trees perhaps. Things that required minimal upkeep but produced maximum, reliable yield and nutritional diversity. Things that they could grow in large tubs or barrels, that could turn any part of Newnan (even blacktop) into verdant, food producing space. Hell, if he could, James would turn every last inch of ground and rooftop not already claimed into crop space, one form or another. He began to write down plans for that, as well.
In his near-meditative state, something else clicked. Tea. Tea grew well in this part of Georgia, and could grow in poor soil almost as well as okra. They didn't need it to survive, persay, but by God it would help so much. And as it turned out, a lightbulb moment hit the rural gentleman. James even started giggling to himself. Risky proposal, all of it.
But when it came down to it, what wasn't risky anymore?
On a separate sheet of paper, James made two columns. One was labeled "Dunaway Gardens - Tea & Stuff", the other one "Ison's Nursery & Vineyard - Motherlode". He put aside his budding textbook project for the meantime, intent upon getting out this set of ideas while the muse had him. Oh yes, James could make this place green and growing. He could keep food in Newnan all year round. And possibly more importantly, James could keep Newnan caffeinated until the end of time. The Boss would appreciate that. It wasn't coffee, but a strong cup of black tea was just as effective in a pinch, not to mention the medicinal and fertilizing applications. This was important, and he could do it for his new family, even if it was the last thing he did upon this earth, it would be justifiably worth it.
Then remembering his promise to Ash, he flicked on his radio to Zoie's personal channel, "Hey girl. You a'ight? Need anything?" then he thought for a second, "Hey, you mind if'n I come by, run somethin' by ya? No pressure, ain't a thing, really. But I'm hopeful."
Keystone
Location: Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Evening of Day Three
Interacting With: Bloody Smudge In The Air
The dashing and knightesque figure of the Occidental Monk known in the realms of Men as Keystone very heroically picked his oversized, leather clad ass up from the cold ground, trying like hell to dislodge the sheen of ice from his massive boot with short and mostly ineffective kicking motions. By all the decent and virtuous gods there were (and a few that were merely agreeable), the last time that Keystone faced down an army of the Undead he was much more robust and dignified. Dangerous. Feared by his enemies, even. It would be an understatement that the last few days were not the most valiant nor noteworthy of his career. Were he not locked in a fight with mortal consequences, he may well have been depressed. But there were more important things at hand.
The suddenly eyeballed, crimson mist in the air was drifting down toward Sana, a malevolent glow about it. At first, Keystone mistook the inhuman grin and downward movement as being directed at himself, on account of his admittedly comical escapades involving falling over and shaking his foot about. "Oi, ya smilin' waft o' blood-fart! Think that's funny, does ya? I ripped arse vapors tougher'n you..."
Then he understood. The things eyes moved past him, paying the empty-handed pugilist zero attention. It looked to Sana, a little way behind his current position. Something in Keystone's voice changed; it went straight past "businesslike threatening" and over to "dedicated controlled rage". "No, you bloody well don't." he growled with believable certainty, and raised his fists. That thing was trying to hurt Sana, so by all those gods mentioned earlier, Keystone was going to respond in the most violent manner possible. The second it got within range, Keystone leapt to attack, fully, and without hesitation.
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