Sigil

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Queensguard Private Airfield, Alicia's Secret Hideout

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"Si, si. Got it." remarked Caesar absently. It was time to move on, though part of him really wanted to linger in this place for a little while longer. He got to hear his daughter's voice again. It made getting shot at worth it. Ok, maybe not for Cecily. Her blood loss had been arrested, but she still needed professional assistance with it. They weren't even sure if the slug was still in there. He put his eye to the retinal scanner, and ushered his young escort into the darker unknown.

Caesar's phone provided a source of mild illumination, if required. In truth, he would rather make the least amount of noice or light possible, but it would be pointless if they just got lost down there and died of... whatever people died of in a sewer/storm drain system. Alligators, maybe. The older Mexican drew something large and sharp and readied his .45, just in case. "Niña, if it is okay with you, I will keep watch. You navigate. You need a Doctor, Cecily. Maybe your friend at the morgue? We need to recover my bike before long, too. It could lead them back to us."

He was starting to ramble. A mix of emotions welled up in him, threatening to fracture the cold, ruthless killer he was just minutes ago. That guy kept him alive, many times over. But concern for his new charge, seeing M'hija again, the reveal of her self-appointed mission; his own protective instincts sought to make him sloppy. A possible sign of this, he rambled. Hardening his thoughts to the necessity of the moment, Caesar listened and remained watchful to any threats that may be imminent, be they from people, their environment, or even alligators.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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_{"Retreat brings dishonor to the Order. But withdrawal is an acceptable strategy.”}

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Location: St. Etheldreda's/Ely House

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It was always a curiosity of Mary's as to where people managed to find fruits and vegetables with which to pelt people at gatherings. Even unplanned events like this, rescuing a child from a Ryne attack (that somehow inspired aggression from the populace) was met with the liberal application of foodstuffs in various stages of decay. Generally, this was not how people reacted when a service was done for them. This is not what people did when she saved a life. Something was very wrong here.

Her horse, Cassius, was well-trained and strong. He bore Mary and her unconscious cargo away from the market with surety and speed. Of course, Mary made sure that she did not get so far ahead as to lose her more vocal colleague, the Reverend Clerc. It was only a short ride from the market near St. Paul's Cathedral to St. Etheldreda's Church, but a more bracing run for the Frenchman following. The young Apostolic felt a momentary twinge of guilt, not offering him the use of her horse. But her priority lay with the boy.

The horse and rider made it into the stable entrance at a trot, with Sister Hale dismounting before the animal came to a complete stop. Mary was already removing the child from the front of her saddle and unwinding her bindings. She had thrown the child over a shoulder and was in the middle of re-wrapping the black cloth around her forearm when a one of the lay folk approached; a stablehand, flanked by two of the cloistered nuns assigned to the church. They looked somewhat annoyed at her appearance. Mary cut them off before they began. "There was Ryne attack in the market near St. Paul's Cathedral." she began, eyes narrowing at the trio as if to dare them to interrupt her. She was a Dame of the order of St. Sylvester, not a neophyte Sister or lay employee of the Church for them to scold at will. Though sometimes, she understood the confusion. Mary was a young woman yet, and she had the look of a fresh-faced girl half of the time.

"I healed the boy. His soul is safe, as well. The people in the marketplace weren't as sure; they wanted me to kill him. We might have started a riot." Mary looked back to see Jacques nearing the entrance behind them. "The moment he is inside, I want those gates closed and barred. All of the portals closed and barred. Riot or no, something unnatural is happening." Mary handed the reins off to the stable hand, and pointed at one of the Nuns who was still standing about, partially in surprise at what the Dame was telling her, partially taken aback at this younger girl speaking to her in a commanding manner. Of course, if the matter concerned the Soulless or the defense of Ely, she was the Knight assigned by the Order with the blessing of the Papacy; it was her call, to be overridden only by a member of the Clergy of appropriate position.

"You may overstep, Dame Mary. I should inform the Bishop before we..."

"Excellent, Sister. Please inform Bishop Mansfield of my decision. I welcome his counsel. Before that, you will have those doors and gates barred, and ensure the security of our home without further argument. And you," she continued, looking to the other Nun in the group an spoke in a softer voice, "Please give the boy someplace quiet and safe to rest. Make sure he has a good, warm meal when he wakes. It is not safe for him out there, not for at least three days. Thank you very much, Sister. I shall check on him upon my return." She paused for a moment, before shrugging off her white and red robe, now splattered with the varied stains of market produce, courtesy of the mob. "And Sister, please? Would you be as kind as to make sure that this gets into the laundry before it all sets? I would be very grateful. Thank you."

As the Reverend approached, Mary held out her hand. She received her Howdah Pistol without comment and holstered it at her side. "You are welcome to stay within these walls for as long as you require, Reverend. I might suggest a walk in our Garden, maybe take some of our fresh strawberries. If you want, we can offer you food and quartering. For now, I have an obligation to keep. Good day, Reverend."

Mary excused herself from the courtyard and began walking further into the Ely House proper, away from the more village-like area of the Palace's grounds. She began to run as soon as she was out of sight, through the straight corridors and even stairs of the castleish structure, up to her private quarters. "Getting ready", for her, wasn't a particularly arduous affair. She chose a formal cloak, used by her Order on more official business. It was black with silver edging, and a particularly large equidistant cross decorated the back, and over the heart, stitched with fine white and silver thread. It wasn't her favorite look (her white robe was unmistakably that), but it was in order with her duties for the evening and matched her cassock flawlessly. She checked her weapons and changed into a fresh cassock, adjusted the cloth wrappings around her waist and forearms, and ran a brush through her hair. She looked quite the representative of her Order. But she knew that she would undoubtedly be referred to merely as "Sister" for the remainder of the evening. Mary supposed it fit; after all she was a Sister in the service of Rome, at large in the greater world. Almost as an afterthought, Mary procured a series of ampules containing holy water. Just in case they needed her to make a blessing, host or guests either.

After writing down a simple note describing her expected plans for the rest of the day, Mary exited her quarters and handed it off to a page, insisting that he bring it to the Bishop. She made a brief stop by the kitchens, grabbing a flask of water, one of wine, and a strawberry-rhubarb pie wrapped tightly in white cloth.

The next few minutes found her back at her dappled grey stallion, fresh and armed, readying to return to Greater London. There was an appointment at Almack's Assembly Rooms that Mary had to keep. She tucked her provisions and extra equipment into the saddlebags, swung herself into the saddle with the skill of a seasoned equestrian, and hefted her halberd into a rest position. Looking out past the gates, Mary had to decide whether it would be safe to venture out the main exit, or if prudence dictated a more discreet exit elsewhere.

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

@rivaan
You are good to post.

@The Grey Dust
Passing your turn is a viable option. Please alert a mod to the situation and have your post removed from the IC.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Gilbert Street & LaGrange, in front of Building 1 -> Lot in front of Building 4, across from the Courthouse (The Hordebuster)

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Froggy's words came through loud and clear, announcing that the centrally involved people of Newnan, in fact, "Got this" Noting the various announcements and orders coming through the radio, the townspeople were rallying around the people with knowledge necessary to handle their situation. He had a good group of people. Sadly, each and every one of them were in danger at that point. Moreso than usual, anyway.

"Heard. I'm counting on you guys." he responded, turning his back to the scene unfolding and jogging to his home away from home, the Hordebuster. Noting that Meg had already picked out a vehicle from the motor pool and was waiting for them down at the gate, he prepped himself to leave as soon as possible. Every second that passed was an opportunity for disaster. Ash was sick and tired of people that he cared about dying. And they all seemed to in new and interesting ways, seemingly every other day.

Ash opened the driver's side door to his big, modified dump truck, and climbed inside. He parted the curtain in front of the sleeper cab portion, and grabbed two things of some importance that he had left there earlier: A flak jacket, which he quickly donned, and an M4 Carbine, which he inspected quickly leaned on the dash next to him, safety activated. He settled into the driver's seat and exhaled a long sigh. It was quiet inside that truck. Almost peaceful. Ash knew better, though. Peace cannot be had from sitting someplace familiar, not when the rest of the world crashes down outside.

He took a few seconds to scan the interior of the 'Buster. Everything seemed to check out. While he was not a man in the habit of wasting fuel, he did take an element of pleasure turning over the powerful diesel engine, and listening to the initial mechanical hum of the roadbeast as it woke from the slumber of disuse and the first bits of alcohol vaporized into flammable mist, ignited into tiny, controlled explosions, giving the creation life and mobility. It was truly centering.

"Alright. Security is on standby. Domestic has repairs underway. Rescue team: You have one good minute before I leave. People need you. Run."

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The Great Bazhooli

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Location: Armory -> Headed South on LaGrange Street

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Burning building, yes. Funny, it didn't seem burning from his particular angle when he was running up to it. But silly him, it's obviously aflame. Must be what they were talking about on the radio. And the mysterious explosions. But there was no time for suppositions ad the like, he and Jack had just unwittingly run into a building that was licking fire, containing the bulk of Newnan's firearms and ammunition. And some explosives, from the look of things. Yes, this was a less-than-intelligent idea.

But so long as they were in undue peril, he might as well make the best of it. The Great Bazhooli gave a very cursory look-around, trying to locate any ammunition suitable for his hunting rifle. He saw other weapons in there, possibly better suited to the task of dispatching enemies, live or dead. But he knew that his weapon was reliable. Bazhooli was no great marksman, anyway. Reliable, decent, but not an amazing rifleman. That's why he had knives. Besides that, he really didn't want to waste the time looking for ammo in an unfamiliar place. You know, that was on fire.

Now the knives, and a lot of them, were present. Some matched, many irregular, but most of a shape and size useful in his endeavors. Then he saw them: two sets of tactical throwing knives. Oh yes, he was home. Now, before "home" blew up on him, ending his concept of corporeal existence, he snatched up one of the sets, wrapped the belt around his waist, and headed back toward the door. "Good to meet, Mr. Jam-es." He had heard his name and voice over the radio, deftly matching both to the man in the Armory. "Jack! Please, ve must go. Grabbing of shit, da?"

The Great Bazhooli leaned out of the door before committing himself fully, in time to see a fuzzy orange blur up the road a piece. He exited the building fully, putting a little distance between himself and the structure. "Hey! Is Schrodinger! Here, kitty kitty kitty..." He saw the little animal raise into a defensive posture, tail straight and back arched, fur all puffed up in a manner consistent with an upcoming feline beatdown. The cat hissed and yowled at a lump in the road, now with continued observation identifiable as a body. A body that lurched and sat up, clawing at his cat even as it decided to take the intelligent approach and get the hell away from the crispy, moving corpse.

He had been with that cat long enough to know that it could easily tell the difference between an injured/incapacitated person and one of the Returned. He was especially useful at night - he would provide warmth and food, the cat gave an early warning system, of sorts. Feline senses, much sharper than our blunt human ones. Bottom line, if the Schrodinger was making that kind of fuss, then whoever that person was was a Dead Guy Walking.

"Um, Jack? We have problem."

The Great Bazhooli drew two of his professional knives, twirled them around twice, and began walking back up the road.

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Black James(!)

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Location: Building 6, Armory

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James was ordered into a sniping position with Guy, and told to take over responsibility of the safety of Newnan for a little while. Ok, he could do that. Step one was getting out of this building with his internals still internal. He had gotten what he needed from the Armory, and now sought to exit as quickly as he came. "Good to meet y'all, but if you smart, y'all better run."

The overall-wearing blackneck presented Jack with his box of goodies, gave them both a pert nod, and walked toward the door, stopping only to grab a pile comprised of three canvas bags. The last thing one might hear from him, as he removed himself from the premesis, was James mumbling, "Good thing this ain't Distillery storage..." James had a sniping post to get to.

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Retribution, Bridge

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Basic muscle work. The lifting and hauling of various vialed sundries from the ubiquitous Point A to the only slightly less attainable Point B. There was a hint of concern; after all, Foy was moving unknown materials into an escape pod that he suspected wouldn't be withing the realm of "stable". But his worry was for naught. They had arrived safely at their destination at the previously mentioned Escape Pod, regular as clockwork.

As much as the Esteemed Mr. Coiffeur did not appreciate the finer points of pure manual labor. Not that it had any fine points, in his mind. None at all. Objectively, it did fit within the confines of his all-important Contract. He was read into a situation that the others were not, he was nearby on a time crunch, and so the awful responsibility to exert himself in a manner that did not involve actual field work, nor training. And so he acquiesced to the instruction of his dear friend, cheerfully and without complaint in the slightest.

"You realize, good sir, that if your situational puppeteering bears fruitful result, we shall have to celebrate with the nearest bottle of bubby wine. What say you, old boy?"

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William Harper

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Location: Retribution, Bridge

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This seemed an odd situation, from a military man's point of view. Generally, orders came down the chain, reports went up the same chain about the results. But the situation, obviously, was not general. At least not for Harper. So when the PA addressed him with Moreau's voice, giving him instructions on how he wanted the ship handled, he had to stop himself from committing his hand to a rude gesture, and continuing the Captain's orders. Not that he would have extended the appropriately insulting finger in the first place; he was a stalwart professional pilot and Officer in the Alliance Military. At least for now. The thought did cross his mind, though.

But as mentioned, this seemed an odd situation. There was a ship full of self-mutilated monsters hellbent on having angry sex with everyone present, so the "rules" may have changed. There was nothing about this situation that gave him any sort of reassurance. And the core of electric ice that lodged within him, due to the presence of the inhuman creatures pursuing them made Harper a little more susceptible to following any course of action that allowed him to escape or destroy them, regardless of the source.

With this in mind, he began to adjust their heading, glancing over Captain Quinn for a nod, or conversely a look of disapproval. He had no plans on dying today, nor getting eaten, nor raped into unconsciousness before either of those things happened. So unless Quinn gave a better plan, Harper piloted the Retribution to the specifics set by the visiting Doctor Moreau.

But he refrained from saying, "Aye aye, sir", instead voicing the less official, "On it." Principle of the thing, you see.

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

@Dragoknighte

And it looks like Cyneburg is good to go.

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

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Keystone

Location: Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Evening of Day Three/Morning of Day Four

Interacting With: Bloody Smudge In The Air

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Keystone had heard the expression "hold a tiger by the tail", before. It was an idiom that described having a dangerous situation in a seemingly advantageous position, only to realize too late that it is just as perilous to keep hold of it as let go. But the errant Pugilist hadn't a tiger - a creature bound by the laws of mammalian physiology; the kind of creature you could riddle with arrows or drive a blade through. Or, if you were a man of Keystone's bulk and conditioning, wrap both hands around the offending kitty's tail and beat it into a striped skin-sack of pulp and shattered bones upon a sufficiently hard object. A large rock would have sufficed. No, Keystone had a death grip on the tendril of a blood consuming, semi-corporeal undead creature. Possibly for the first time in its unlife, puny mortals had caused it harm. It was afraid now. Scared beasts were far more dangerous than merely predatory ones.

Of course, no one had to tell him this. As Keystone was very much aware, he had ahold of said creature by one of its manifested, misty tendrils. He was unsure exactly how long he could keep this up, considering the solid-but-not-solid condition of the pinkish red bastard, but as long as he could immobilize it, he was going to do just that. Maybe give enough opportunity for someone to finish the thing off. But just now, hitting the thing was immeasurably difficult without the aid of magic.

Then it dawned on him: His big, bone handled knife! It caused quick and easy damage when he threw it, if not extremely impressive in severity. And it was expelled right through the bottom of the Mist after it had made its wound. Keystone craned his neck around, locating the hurled piece of masterful steel. It was glinting coldly in the moonlight, on the ground several feet away. It would be so much more useful in someone's hands than on the icy woodland floor.

Digging his heels in as best he could, given the circumstances, Keystone begins his attempt to drag the creature back with him, his other arm outstretched to his lightly enchanted blade. His eyes darted about to the members of his group that were presently unsure or unable to do anything direct thusfar in the conflict, and he bellowed, "Hey! Rest o'you tosspots get offa your arses! Get the bloody knife and make use of it, or I'll 'ave at ya next!"

🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S.

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks (Officer's Club)

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Reginald became very aware, all of a sudden, that the conversation had gone quite past him as he sat, seemingly lost in thought. It must have been frightfully rude to the others assembled before him; here he was, their host, staring off into space as if he were caught raptly by some manner of quiet seizure.

"Ah, dear girl. My sincerest apologies for the conversational hiatus. I was just now exceedingly curious as to what the great Michelangelo would have done with this ceiling, proper. Artistic musing, you understand." Every so often, the Lord Major thought himself somewhat hilarious. He gave a wink in Lauren's direction following his statement, partially to indicate that he was indeed joking, and letting her know that he understood that he had displayed a lapse of hostly etiquette. Mostly, it was to cover the fact that he felt a bit foolish.

"I have indeed heard of this "Moonshine", madame. A fancy name applied to quick brewed grain alcohol; the lads in the Highlands have been known to make very young whiskies that, to be quite transparent, were not the most sophisticated of beverages. Yes, a good snort of that stuff might be just the thing to exorcise the flavor of sour haggis from one's palate, but by Jove, the cost one paid for an antiseptic gob was high, indeed. Now, some gentleman from the Colonies I had served with insisted that, like with many things, you have The Good Stuff, and you have The Frightful Stuff. I do not have the experience to select one from the other. Pity, that. I fear my education involving intoxicants has been rather slight in that regard."

He raised his glass to the young lady, and drained it. After pouring himself another, he poked about his plate of goodies for a bit, satisfied in the quality of the breads, meat, and local fruits. "Yes, yes of course, you are all welcome to stay for as long as is needed. I can have diplomatic rooms readied in a quarter hours' time. And it should go without saying, but I shall do so anyway - The food and drink of this Officers' Club, indeed this Barracks, is intimately at your disposal. Or as you Yanks so ineloquently phrase it, "Dig In", Sirs and Madames."

"Now... Miss Tarek, Miss Ridgeway, Lord Captain, Retired Sergeant Walsh... The night is quite young yet, so all are, of course, welcome to continue the festivities. Indeed I would be most grateful for the company and good cheer. But, if some or all of you feel the need to pursue other venues, or even go so far as to end your evening early (by means of your own lodging or what can be provided here), then I should prefer to have us all take a toast."

"To our continued health, well being, and inevitable success in our forthcoming mysterious adventure! May it be educational as well as profitable, and may we all come back to this place to toast our fellowship when it is done, wiser and stronger for it."

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Gilbert Street & LaGrange, in front of Building 1

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A second explosion rocked the streets of the Newnan settlement, just as Ash was crossing the street. He looked around to see yet another casualty laying on the pavement, this one fully aflame. The usual emotions flashed through him; shock, fear, anger. Cruising up from a pit of nowhere, though, deep inside of himself, Ash felt a growing, encompassing fatigue. He was tired. So very tired. Everything seemed to pile up all at once, as if perpetrated by some unseen force with a sick sense of omnipresent humor, like a vast, sadistic child with a magnifying glass standing tall over an anthill on a sunny day.

Two of theirs were in trouble, far from their walls. Then inside their walls, someone else dies. Then another one. Injured parties, more people important to the community. Friends. Family. An explosion that threatened to engulf the Armory, then another that dashed the life out of a newer arrival. The Captain had enough. He looked to the guard that had just been assigned to escort Bazhooli, commanding him in a loud voice, "You're with Dick on repairs. Help him gather the tools, do whatever he says. Go!"

He then hopped on the radio. He even sounded tired over air and light static. "Okay, we've been hit. People are down. Security teams: Stay on the Walls. Last thing we need is someone taking advantage. Domestic teams: Need people to get our down and injured to the Infirmary. That's a now thing. Sally, organize this. James: You are now my Acting Second and Acting Security Lead. You and Guy get your asses up to the Tower, after you bring me what I asked for. Drag out the new guy's box, it's marked "Jack". We are still going out. Our people still need help; they are surrounded by the Dead. I expect this place to be in order by the time we return. Rescue team leaves in two minutes, everyone who's coming meet me at the 'Buster, across from the Courthouse."

"And someone find out what that second explosion was."

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The Great Bazhooli

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Location: Headed North on LaGrange Street -> Armory

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Explosion number two killed yet another person. This wasn't a horrible attack from the outside, oh no. This was infrastructure coming apart. Usually a damaged infrastructure didn't randomly kill people, but today seemed special somehow. The Great Bazhooli stopped, if but for a moment, to attempt to help with the injured. The Armorer, Tom, was carried past them to the Infirmary. Not much for him to do there. The Second, a lady that he didn't remember seeing before, lay dead with a cloth over her face. Not much to do there. The other... just died from shock and fire. Bazhooli felt awful. He could do nothing to help these people, just as he could do nothing to help his Circus in what seemed like so long ago.

The Great Bazhooli existed to entertain. At least he used to. He would like to take up that role again, but he sincerely felt it would be a very long time before such trivialities would become important again. He was as his environment had made him, in his solitude and will to survive, despite the best efforts of living aggressors and the Returned. All of the qualities at his disposal that might be of use to these people, actual use, revolved around his physicality, his accuracy with a blade, and his ability to remain stealthy in the face of adverse conditions. While Bazhooli was unsure as to how any of these would be of use in the coming rescue mission, he knew with near certainty that he would be of even less use inside the Walls.

"Can do nothing, Mr. Jack. Nothing I see.Let us get your things, and go back to angry man. Save damsels in distress, da?" He picked up the pace, running into Armory, hopefully with Jack in tow. He turned back for just a second to share a thought, "Hey... if I die, you and bride take care of Schrody?"

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Black James(!)

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Location: Building 6, Armory

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He heard Ash's orders. They seemed fitting. Tactically sound, even. The kind of hard decision that a Commanding Officer would make, and the kind of trust that needed to be placed in the right people under his command, phrased in such a way as to inspire confidence in one's abilities yet still prop them on with a sense of urgency. You know, just in case the multiple deaths and explosions didn't already instill enough urgency in the first place. There was just one flaw Ash's logic, from James's point of view, one which he most wholeheartedly expressed over his radio.

"Um... Bossman? I'm with ya, but you gotta understand... I ain't no leader, Ash. Just ain't."

It would be a basic observation for one to make. He was a farmhand, first part of his life, and became an excellent Hogger. Probably the best one on the continent. Definitely the best one now that the population had been near annihilated. And true to form, he had gotten the agricultural needs of the community started, before he handed it over to Maria. Then took it back after her demise. He had a lot of help with the actual work of it, but did not make him a great, multitasking leader, capable of making hard decisions in seconds of time. The people that could do that were either leaving town, or laying dead in the streets.

Oh, dear God. Zoie. James's heart hurt, actually hurt when he thought of her extremely recent passing just moments before. The shock of the situation covered it up almost instantly, but he could tell that it was still there, lurking until blood cooled again, waiting to destroy him. Zoie was his friend for years before the Outbreak. It was a matter of pure chance that they met up again, here in Newnan. A single spot of pure, uplifting joy in the middle of a world that suddenly seemed designed to kill them all, and in the most horrifying ways imaginable. Now she, the last living link to a time back when the world sucked far less, lay deceased. She took a gentle part of James with her.

Meanwhile, Ash didn't seem to give a more or less decent rat's hindparts about any insecurities James might be having at that moment, and decided to let him know. The radio barked with his now-strained Virginian accent, "Goddamnit, James. You are a leader today. Newnan knows you, Newnan trusts you. Move your ass, and move it now."

The ebon-skinned hog hunter sighed. "Yeah, Boss. I'm on it."

Alright, fine. Just for today, he was a leader. James moved to do exactly as he was ordered, locating and moving out the box labelled "Jack". Then a Russian-sounding man barged into the room, mumbling something about his "Schrody". That was awkward.

Just for today.

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

@Lady Amalthea @Sigil @Dragoknighte @rivaan @POOHEAD189 @Lucius Cypher @IcePezz @The Grey Dust

Yay! Another round down, hopefully not too many more to follow. A word of note: The event that occurs outside of the ice wall (in the IC, of course) is visible only by those with clear view out that way. Unless I missed something, that's just Lerraina/Gretchin. If I did miss something, please let me know here.

Initiative:

Calanon
Keystone
Cyneburg
Lerraina
Kyra
Thomas
Satilla
Ntaj
Sana - is unconscious.

Feel free to include the previous round's resolutions in your next post before declaring action, if you are so inclined. Remember: Declare actions, not results. Also, tag the next person in the lineup after your post. Last person in the lineup tags me.