Sigil

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

Okay, okay...

I appreciate the fact that some of you guys are including Schrodinger in the new Relationship pages. That being said, you really don't have to. Schrody is a Claimed NPC, which means (among other things) that he doesn't have formal Relations, any more than Miss Sally or Guy the Virginia Sniper, or Jim at the Gate. Further, being that he is a Cat and not a People, he will never be able to get full PC status. Also, he is not posted for regularly; it's kind of the point with him. At any given moment, we aren't sure whether he's alive or dead.

If you'd prefer to put some kind of footnote concerning Newnan's occasionally glimpsed feline, fine. Jot down how you feel about the fuzzy orange bastich, I'll try to make any interactions with the characters fall along lines that are most beneficial to himself while still staying adorable and/or mischievous. You know, like a CAT.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

Alright, peeps. Got an alternative for skills, those of you who are unsure of where to go.

For a while now, Ash has been trying to make sure that as many people as possible are skilled with a bow and a knife. Use of a knife is a basic survival skill at this point, and we need to save bullets, seeing as no one has the capacity to make more.

James is trying to get together a standard group of people who can hunt, as well. Food is his main priority. We have seed, barely enough crops growing to meet the needs of Newnan. Alternate sources to take the strain off of the system are very welcome. Hence, hunting. Well, and/or hogging.

Everyone can go on runs, regardless of occupation behind the walls. Sometimes, the characters will be ordered to, by their leads or by Ash.

And with all thia interest in Medical, we're going to have to change the secondary assignment of our Doctor, opening someone to begin learning in the Distillery.

Keep this in mind, amd understand that I will take your preferences into consideration when I set the assignments. But mull it over, and elaborate on your skill/assignment preferences if necessary.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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_{"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."}

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Location: St. Etheldreda's - Infirmary

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Of course the soldiers didn't speak English. It was a shot in the dark at best, anyway, considering the lack of response when they refused to answer her earlier. Curiously, they seemed to understand what Bishop Mansfield was saying to them, using the same King's English that Mary herself employed for the purposes of conversation. Perhaps it was the Apostolic's more stoic nature while engaging in professional activities. The Bishop was most certainly a more expressive fellow. If they recognized him as the superior in charge of this church, and he demonstrated trust in Mary that showed through with tone and expression rather than actual spoken language, that could account for her entry into the Chapel, if under escort.

But that thought was secondary to what she was witnessing with the Russian noblewoman and her new charge. Some manner of divination, she surmised, involving physical contact and gazing into the eyes of the ill-stricken child. Perhaps this was a demonstration of another of God's gifts, bestowed upon his faithful? Or something else entirely. It did not look like the somaticism of anything she was exposed to at the Vatican. Jerusalem, perhaps? They were viewed with a little wariness by the Catholic Church, but disciples of the Holy Land received their abilities by God's grace and behest. Even from what comparatively little she knew about the teachings of the Middle East, she could not place this technique. Quite possibly, Mary had been shown something new. That would be a very interesting turn of events, especially if this were something that a Papist like herself could recreate.

Even this revelation, the means by which the task at hand was accomplished, was immaterial when held next to the result of said task. Elizaveta had somehow gleaned more information than Mary could have, and voiced her preference to share this newly found knowledge in a more private environs. Sister Mary began to nod her head for a good half-second before she began to speak.

"Absolutely, Lady Romanova." said Mary in a quiet, unassuming voice. "We can relocate this conversation to the hallway, if that suits you. If more is required, I have private rooms above us."

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

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Keystone

Location: Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Small Hours of Day Four

Interacting With: The Group

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Sana moved of her own accord in Keystone's grasp. It was the first voluntary action she had taken since casting that last spell and falling unconscious, and Keystone took it as a good sign. Of course, that "good sign" faded to instant worry as she shuffled around to face him. The Gypsy-Archer was a stubborn woman; perhaps more stubborn than himself. Depending upon how quickly she recovered, the big guy might be forced to defend himself against the volatile woman's more aggressive attention. The thought of it made him very happy that he didn't try to keep her warm by way of shared body heat. The idea had crossed his mind. Granted, bundling up in a blanket with the lady (as enticing as it might sound) was hardly pragmatic given their circumstances, fresh out of direct combat with dead people and behind a wall of ice with most of a tribe of Orcs looking on. Plus, it might have caused one hell of a misunderstanding when she finally came around. The kind that involves several awkward discussions about intent and/or attempted castration. He was keen to avoid either.

Instead of directly addressing the woman, Keystone locked eyes with her and gave a slight nod. If she wanted to further announce her sudden improvement, that was on her. The brawler would just as soon give her the opportunity to rest. He silently let Sana know that he knew, and turned his attention elsewhere.

"Warned ya there, didn't I? Eh?" remarked Keystone in a noticeably more upbeat tone. "Dwarf spirits. Takes some acquirin', it does - mostly use it for trade. Hard to come by, 'less you're in Dwarf lands."

Keystone had spent a good bit of time with Dwarves in his history. It had been a while, but given the circumstances of his career lately; mostly fighting undead in places neutral to his presence and sometimes openly hostile, it seemed like a good move to make. In his experience, they were gruff but hospitable people, respecting superior craftsmen and warriors of most races. It had been a long time since he had the occasion to spend a season in training, conditioning himself and reinforcing his techniques (or picking up new ones), surrounded by comforting stonework. If Keystone survived this foolishness, it was one of the things he had planned. Thinking about it, there might be one or two such strongholds more or less on the way back to his home, far to the north.

But first, his road took him to Salarn. As soon as possible.

Keystone dug into his pack nearby and retrieved a common-looking cup. He looked to Sana and motioned to the water on the fire, coming up to temperature for tea. He shot her a quizzical look, and mentioned aloud to no one in particular, "Water's almost good for tea."

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks (Officers' Club)

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Reginald gave his departing guests a final wave as the Rolls pulled away from the front of the Officers' Club. He waited until the frame of the stately vehicle cleared the main gates before turning back around and returning to his favorite seat near the bar. The staff had already begun to clear the dishes and put the excess food away (that which was still proper for later service, at any rate), and the few patrons that remained were settling their tabs and making ready to depart.

It was still fairly early so far as the scene went for the Barracks, but it appeared to be a dismally slow night. Enlisted men generally didn't come in here, and the officers apparently had duties to perform, else they found their diversions elsewhere. It was just the Lord Major seated in an obvious manner and the lay staff populating the Officers' Club. A slow piece of big band music played quietly amid the quiet din of plates and flatware being whisked away; not enough to draw attention away from whatever conversation the nonexistent patrons may have been having, were they actually present. Good enough time to get a little light reading in.

His earlier plans, those of looking up requisition paperwork and getting into his contacts; he decided that it was better left until the morning. They would be in his office anyway, and his clerk here at the Qasr El Nil was off duty. Proper provision and equipment reqs in a timely fashion would require the clout of a commanding officer and the contact savvy of an experienced clerk. Morning, then. Meantime, Reginald had been meaning to catch up on the periodicals back home. They had arrived earlier, but in the excitement of the day the Lord Major had cleanly forgotten.

"'Awadd 'an 'araa alddawriaat London, min fadlik." he requested of the barman present. "Thank you, there's a good chap. Ah, and please ensure that guest accommodations are made ready for the younger Lord Keystone upon his return. One of the dignitary's suites, or Officer's quarters near my own."

A few moments later, the Lord Major was presented with a short stack of newspapers, all written solidly in the King's English, of London and Brighton addresses. To his surprise, each one of them featured name and/or illustration of one Lord Peter Keystone.

"Oh, lad. Whatever have you gotten yourself into?"

The evening just kept getting more interesting.

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

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Keystone

Location: Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Small Hours of Day Four

Interacting With: The Group

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Gretchin did seem the type to partake in the wonder that was Dwarven spirits, although she seemed sated by her own bottle of nerve tonic. Perhaps even the stuff that she had was of better quality than the solidly pronounced (yet subtly nuanced) notes of earth-and-oak aged, traditionally distilled Dwarven spirits; the type of alcohol produced with the collective knowledge of countless generations of a long lived, often perfectionist race. That being said, the stuff could peel the varnish off a footlocker. Maybe it was best she stuck to her own brand.

What did surprise him was the healer, Satilla, taking him up on his offer. He wasn't going to take it back, but he did feel the need to give a word of encouragement. Or a warning.

"Y'might ought take that snort slow an' easy, Miss. I bloody start fires with this stuff, yeah?"

Keystone looked down at Sana, still in the same state she was five minutes prior. If this is what you got for channeling magic through your body, he wanted nothing to do with it. Still, her spell did very likely save all of them, though the cost was high. The underclass brawler wanted very much to be far away from this place; all of them. Well, most of them. Someplace removed from ice and dirt to sit upon, with a warm, glowing hearth and a kitchen full of yummy things being prepared. Home would have been lovely. Hell, he'd settle for a more or less decent tavern, so long as it had walls and a roof. A bed for his Bard friend with thick blankets, too. Of course, the nearest place for any of this, so far as he was aware, was three days' journey south of their present location.

Through an Undead infested forest. "...peachy..."

"Right, look all... Terms of our contract're up. We can't hang about with the Orcs forever, right? Wherever the arse Cremwise is at, if he's not a fonging pincushion, he'd agree. I'm needin' to resupply. If we sod off from 'ere come daybreak, we can make it back to Salarn 'fore I run outta solid foodstuffs for us all."

"O'course, we gotta make arrangements for Sana. Wagon, litter we can drag, somethin', if she don't wake up strong an' soon."

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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_{"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."}

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Location: St. Etheldreda's - Infirmary

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The young Dame led her noble guest (and her bodyguards too, apparently) away from the Chapel, past the Quadrangle, Cloister, and up stone stairs to a corridor containing the rooms where visiting Bishops and dignitaries might stay. It is within this castle-like hallway that Mary found her lodging, and where she supposed that the Nuns from earlier brought the child. Not to her rooms, though in her search she did peek her head in, but into one of the Aide's rooms, positioned very nearby so that the people designated to use these rooms might never be too far away from trusted advisers or servants. She quickly realized that the child wasn't where she expected him to be. It was ...annoying.

To begin with, she believed that these Nuns, these women who had apparently earlier forgotten their oath of Obedience, had dropped the kid outside or left him near the stable. That reminded her... Mary took another look inside of her rooms, hastily grabbing her white and red robe, soiled from earlier. If the kid were stashed someplace logical by the Nuns, it would be in the Infirmary where people who were already watching over others could see to him, just to make sure. Laundry was nearby.

Their path led them back down to the Quadrangle and farther into the Ely House. Not very far away from the pale light filtering in from the open sky of the courtyard, the fresh faced Apostolic dropped off her robe with a cheery smile, giving the women present and warm "Oh, thank you!" before continuing a couple more doors down. She stopped, waving over the Russian Lady and her Imperial Guard. Her speech was admittedly mostly for the guards. "In this place we provide what service we can for the sick and injured. We try to keep it a place of calm and healing. If it is at all possible, could you men... um... please try to look a little less threatening? We are here to visit an ailing child, remember." Mary knew what it meant to be in militant service of another. But she also knew what it meant to honestly care for others. These men had families, quite possibly. Maybe they could show a modicum of compassion. Or at least pretend to.

Sister Mary opened the door to their smallish medical ward and held it open for Elizaveta. After she entered (rightly with escort, of course), Mary slipped inside and closed the doors behind her. She leaned her halberd against the line of cloak pegs near the door and retook her place at the head of their little procession.

The Infirmary itself was everything that one would expect from a hospital of the time and place. Mary had often wished that those in charge would take some cues from physicians much farther south; Europe proper seemed to have more knowledgeable doctors at their disposal. Here, vinegar and prayer seemed to be the catch-all treatment, except in the cases of obviously traumatic injury (and Mary had often suggested that even then, they snuck in Biblical verses and pickling fluids). The letting of blood was also a common practice, but thankfully that was not being demonstrated at the time.

Moreover, the Nuns taking care of this place seemed intent on murmuring incessantly, and mostly about Sister Mary. She had no idea that being a Papal Dame and Vatican trained Venator est Inanimati would earn her such undeserved scorn from the women of St. Etheldreda's. These mutterings, barely given a passing attempt to conceal, broadcast their belief that Mary's abilities (which she supposedly didn't have in the first place) didn't work right, and that the boy would turn yet. The Apostolic's face turned to the nearest set of them, face twisting into a look of hurt and outrage simultaneously until the thought hit her: Check on the boy. Maybe they're saying mean things for a reason.

Sure enough, the child did not look well. It couldn't be that the healing did not take. His wounds were closed and health restored. And he could not be succumbing to the Ryne - she knew by divine providence that her Lord had allowed the taint of the Soulless to be purged from his body. But the child's lips looked cold, even as is body showed signs of approaching fever. This was something else. Whatever the problem, it was most certainly beyond the capacity of the mundane healing techniques here. Also, seemingly untouched Mary's gift of Timyne.

"Here is the boy, my Lady. He was Healed, and his soul was protected. If you can do more to heal or give greater knowledge of his ailment, I would be very grateful. I know he would, as well."

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Morgue

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Caesar snapped on one of the doctor's exam gloves from a nearby box before returning to Natasha. He gingerly took the matchbook from her, careful not to cause damage to the thing. The choice to use gloves was a no-brainer; it was generally policy in places like this. But a more pragmatic if somewhat paranoid reason was called for in this instance: He did not know this Dr. Brinne, and there was most definitely a conspiracy in play. The last thing he needed was his fingerprints on something that might later be labeled "State Exhibit A".

Bar food. Lots of it, from the sound of stomach contents. This Afterdark place was a hangout solid enough for them to eat comfortably, else they had been there numerous times. Or they took a fancy to hot and salty bar fare and had apps with their entrees. Whatever. Point was, they (or at least Lorna) was at this place shortly before she died. The presence of the matchbook in her gut meant that either someone else shoved it down her throat to bait an investigation, or she did it herself knowing that her time might be up to give him a lead. Hell of a breadcrumb. Risky too, considering the discomfort passing the damned thing would have caused had she survived somehow.

So, either this was a trap, or Lorna was a smart girl who jumped on an opportunity when it presented itself. Didn't matter, he had to follow up on it anyway. "I have to look into this." He checked the time. It was approaching evening; he could afford to rest for a little bit before heading out. And though he didn't want to admit it, he could stand to take a few minutes. The day wasn't exactly ideal, and he was getting up there in age. He could do the same things he always ever could, but these days, naps and time sitting down were becoming more common. "It's been fun today, Cecily. Has. Really. But I'm done putting other people in danger, at least for now."

Caesar punched in the name of the establishment into his sat phone, getting the address and a couple of questionable reviews for his trouble. He'd do a more in depth look later, but for now, it looked like the kind of craphole he spent some of his younger days in; a seedy bar in a disreputable part of town. He reserved the tab, and moved on to another application.

"Cecily?" Caesar said in an almost friendly voice. He quickly snapped a picture of her (not her best angle, obviously) and handed his device over to her. "Enter your Social, Email, and sign with the stylus. You will get something in your inbox within five minutes. The moment you confirm, you'll have provisional access. Confirm whenever you feel like it. Now, tomorrow, two months from now, whenever."

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard R&D Industrial Complex: Outside Elisabeth's Office

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Keystone sighed heavily. He had no idea how long this was going to take, and there were too many questions in play. For the moment, all he could do was make periodic checks with his team there in the R&D campus. Otherwise, all he had to do to pass the time was imagine scenarios in which he would have to disarm, mutilate, and or dispatch the other security team in his territory, should they prove to make an aggressive motion in the slightest. Sometimes his thoughts on the matter turned to the fanciful or outside of the box, but mostly it was an exercise in cause-and-effect, What If style scenarios.

Mostly, they involved unarmed, personal assaults, possible in these close quarters. But just sometimes, the imagined roar of a 50 caliber handgun at close range imploding the better part of a face away brought an internal chuckle. Other than that, he waited.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Building 2 (Mess Hall) -> Building 4 Parking Lot (The Hordebuster)

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The interview process is a fairly short affair, individually. Each of the newcomers are asked their names and led to a room outside of the main area that served as a church office at one point in time. Instead of sitting in front of a desk, speaking with an established company man with suit and tie, the interviewees are given the option of where they wish to sit first and are eased into discussion with a few disarming queries as put forward by a strained military man in worn class Bs and a certified backwoods blackneck in overalls and cowboy hat. Much of this initial discussion dances around what they did before the outbreak. What their lives were like before the world imploded.

It is apparent that some of the questions were scripted, understandably basic questions; ones reminiscent of job interviews from days past. Others are a bit more telling, leading the individual down a path of potential occupation inside the confines of Newnan. Still more questions take on the expectation of narrative, as the two of them (Ash mostly) ask that the new people tell them a story, interrupted only by the occasional follow-up question or interjecting comment. The goal was not so much to find the truth to their statements, so much as judge attitude of the story in general and, perhaps more importantly, find out what they weren't saying. What a person doesn't want to talk about oftentimes was as important as what they did.

There were occasions where Ash began to overreach in the conversation. The somewhat older, more easygoing James stepped in to lead the discussion in a mildly different tangent. At first, Ash assumed a look of annoyance when this would happen, but gradually settled into the fact that this was the exact reason he asked the man along in the first place. A times, the Captain steepled his fingers in front of him and leaned back slightly, letting the agriculturalist take over questioning. He was novice, but much more personable.

Ash made observations, took mental notes, and did his best to appear reserved.

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"I'd like to thank you for cooperating with us. A point of good news: Sally will be giving you room assignments. They are spartan, but they are as safe as Newnan can provide. I would ask that you stay within the inner wall for the time being - your safety as well as ours - and to not wander around without escort. In case of an emergency, you know where the Infirmary is. If you want to leave in the morning, you are welcome to do so. Otherwise, I will let you know my decision then."

"In the meantime, it's been a rough day. If anyone needs me or you three have any questions, I'll be in the back of the heavily modified dump truck out that way. Can't miss it." Ashton gestured to the members of the security detail still present, waving them off. Leaving the newcomers, they would take position elsewhere in the settlement proper or simply drop off of shift to pursue personal endeavors. James smiled and, as a counterpoint to Ash's impersonal demeanor, offered a casual "Evenin', ladies. Don't be strangers." With that, Ash and James left the Mess Hall, crossed the street, and climbed up the loading ramp leading into the body of the Hordebuster.

Ash lit a hurricane lantern, its shaky, white-orange illumination spilling out the back of the vehicle. He noted the box of liquors set inside, and made comment to James. "I should have been more specific about the booze, huh? Don't think I can run through a whole case."

"Shit, I'll help!" quipped James, finding a comfortable place to settle on one of the couches nearby.

Ash cracked a rare smile. "I'm sure you will."

It had become a tradition of sorts - after a particularly taxing day, be it of good outcome or, like today, monumentally and arbitrarily tragic, Ash would climb into the back of his secondary home and crack open a bottle of something flammable and of decent quality. Either a celebration or a wake. Today was a wake, obviously. An optimist would mention that a wake was a type of celebration, but James was the only optimist in sight and he knew better than to say anything just yet.

Ash poured a small amount of his family's handiwork into two jelly jars and passed one to James. James took it gladly, offering a toast. "Absent friends?" It seemed to be the standard toast with which these things were kicked off, not to mention a simple toast of great military antiquity.

"Absent friends." He wondered who would be showing up to this installment of "Inside The Hordebuster", as if it were a post-apocalyptic talk show centered around survivors and their personal idiosyncrasies while they discussed current affairs. "Well, let's get new business out of the way before unannounced guests arrive. Good?"

"Cool." responded James, holding out his recently emptied jelly jar.

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

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William Harper

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Location: Retribution, Bridge

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"Aye aye, Captain." barked Harper, responding to Quinn's orders to find a spot to land. The Lieutenant himself would have felt a ton happier if they had made use of the Short Range Enforcement Vessels located in the Retribution's hangar, or if they wanted to go for a less martial opening, perhaps one of the shuttles. Meanwhile, the main ship could stay aloft and give plenty of cover as needed. But, Cap'n wanted to land. Maybe it was a reaching act of goodwill. Maybe the crew of the Vengeance would recognize that an experienced, decorated Alliance Captain was giving up a massive tactical advantage and be more willing to parlay. The instincts of the good Lieutenant told him that this was a mistake.

Of course, a deft man could turn a mistake into an opportunity. Either way, First Lieutenant William Harper, Pilot of the I.A.V. Retribution was going to follow his Captain's orders and set the boat down within short distance of the Firefly vessel. Naturally, as he wasn't entirely a stupid man, positioned to set her down in a manner that allowed the use of some the armament available (should they be playing possum). He did take the time to voice an observation, just in case the rest of the crew hadn't noticed.

"Bringing her down, sir. If I may; the Vengeance has made no sound nor movement after being repeatedly hailed and receiving a positive weapon lock. Either they've got gāowán of solid, shiny cadmium steel, or they don't even have operational sensors."

As for joining the cause outside, well... Harper was the pilot. So much as he would love to get himself involved in a firefight on a planet he'd rather not be on for a ship serving a military he'd rather not be in for presently unknown orders, his job was to fly the damned ship. Perhaps that well dressed socialite could hang his immaculately groomed head out onto the landing and see to getting himself shot in a prompt and forthright manner.

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Retribution, Bridge

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Foy was positively beaming. It had been a good, long while since he had gotten the opportunity to work with either Jahosafat or his old partner from the Agency, Carla, and here he was entwined in contract with both of them. It was good to have true enough comrades around him as he readied to head into a potential combat scenario with impressive sidearms and a crisp, mottled charcoal suit featuring cream on cream osbaldean-tied cravat and platinum pin. He was freshly shaven and smelled faintly of wood and floral notes, tempered by mellow pomades of varying application. It was a good day, regardless of whomever else was being crushed by the past hour's events.

"Gregory?" questioned Foy, at Carla's familiar use of the Captain's name. He continued in a playful voice. "No no, Miss Lobo. One must relinquish the expected, etiquette-motivated deference when alluding to the ranking military officers in our immediate proximity. Why, without them, this summer picnic would be short the very tubers of its prize potato salad."

He regarded the mention of nonlethal tactics, "Although I do find myself betwixt the horns of that most singular of dilemmas: Kill or Capture. The innate contractual distinction is important, mind, but I am afraid that I did not bring the proper dancing shoes for a two-step, as you have most eloquently metaphored the situation. My attire is fluidly and completely ensconced in the full regalia of the ballroom waltz. That is to say, I have packed little that would assist in capture, but very much to the affectation of kill. I shall have to improvise."

But he would not let this little detail ruin his mood. "Nevertheless! I find it particularly agreeable to be in the presence of one of my most favorite dancing partners, whatever the music playing." Foy set his black, felt bowler hat upon his head, running a finger along the brim. The dapper fellow then smoothed his black, very fine duster about his form, motioned in the general direction of the airlock, and in an optimistically gracious voice, queried, "Shall we, my dear?"