It was a touch unusual for the Lord Major to rise and exit his rooms later than most on his base. Not unprecedented, mind you, just uncommon. It could have been the heavy drinking from the night before, or the lateness of hour when he finally succumbed to sleep, or even the mystifying dreams of war and heart removal. Despite all of these things, Reginald joined the others with absolutely elevated spirits. Before he moved to the common area to partake of a proper breakfast, he took the moment to address his nephew, Peter.
"Yes, yes. Capital idea, quite!" pipped the Lord Major, "I shall send a line to the War Office to that conclusion later this morning. We shall have to find suitable assignment for you that provides requisite flexibility of duties to keep you of use in our little adventure. In the meantime, it's a Full English for me, don't you know? Ha ha!" Remarkably good spirits, evidently. He noticed the following interaction between Peter and Vera and took his nephew's advice, but not before tipping his cap and wishing the Lady Munn an agreeable morning.
He maintained his cheerful disposition as he entered the common area where breakfast was being served. Visions of grilled bacon and sausages, poached and scrambled eggs, scones, pudding, and strong tea danced in his thoughts while he entered the room, apparently just in time to almost run into a fast retreating Haakon J. Elvsgaard. Behind his Scandinavian guest, there quickly followed a dutiful armed sentry, the same one assigned to his door through the night.
Still smiling, Reginald held up a single finger to halt the sentry's movement, intoning a quick, "Stand fast there, Private." with the sharp tone of authority, his face hardening momentarily. He bloomed back into the sharp, jovial man from a moment ago, addressing the exiting reporter. "Aha! Mr. Elvsgaard, I trust you are having a pleasant morning?" He continued without waiting for response, "A trifle of a matter has come to my attention over the course of the evening, my good sir, one for which I would be ever so grateful to solicit your assistance. Let us say, shortly following the breakfast hour? Excellent! The Private behind you will ensure you do not forget our little appointment." Reginald looked to the soldier, "Private?"
The soldier snapped to attention and threw a quick salute. Reginald returned the gesture, and re-addressed Haakon, "Do try the tea, sir. It is remarkable."
The Lord Major found a seat near Aziza, Josephine, and Harry, collecting a good sized plate of Full English Breakfast, in all of it's Anglican glory. He leaned forward, into the table a bit, as if he were about to tell some open secret, "I say, you should all procure a stout mug of the Builder's. It is, gentle folk, just the world on this morrow. Reginald smiled and bit into a scone, carefully dabbing the corner of his mouth with a pleated serviette.
An eruption of cheers and laughter roared from the many tiers and balconies of Astley's that evening, in sharp contrast to the horror befalling others elsewhere in London. The stands were packed to the brim with men and women of all walks of life, come to see the star of the established star of the Russian Grand Circus, a performer of extreme skill and renown, the eternally indomitable Great Bazhooli. He was a very fit man in his early forties, possessing a vigor that made him the envy of men twenty years his junior.
The cacophony of voices faded back, replaced by thunderous applause; the last applause of the evening. His last trick was an intricate affair involving the impalement of various pieces of fruit placed upon the head and outstretched limbs of a volunteer from the audience with his weaponry of choice - thrown knives. To make the performance even more captivating, after the volunteer was chosen, The Great Bazhooli covered his eyes with a dark, gossamer blindfold. Neither the audience nor the volunteer was aware that the blindfold did not actually do much in the way of restricting his vision. Up close, the flimsy fabric did little more than put a sort of blueish tint to everything. He was good, good enough to do the trick with a true blindfold, if it came to it, but he wasn't about to put someone's life in true peril to sate the crowd. No, he just wanted it to look like he did.
The poor soul who volunteered, however, was not clapping. No, this was a young Baron dressed in finery who, when he called for a brave soul to face his blades, shouted and shoved to be up front, rude and willful in his attempts to get The Great Bazhooli's attention. The famous knife thrower smiled, acquiescing to his lordly demands. But he did endeavor to teach the man a lesson in manners. The young Baron now stood against the Impalement Target, quivering with leftover fear from the performance, surrounded by various knives and short blades. The remains of several slain pieces of fruit stained his exquisite clothing, and the shaken fellow appeared to have wet the front of his otherwise unsullied white trousers.
The Great Bazhooli raised his sculpted arms, bowing several times to the adoring crowd. This was his moment, repeated a thousand times over the course of decades of performing. It was what he lived for. A gracious look to him, he strode confidently over to the fear-paralyzed nobleman and began removing the bits of sharpness from around his body. The slightest touch of compassion prompted him to lead the man away from his target by the hand, then begin clapping himself, motioning to him. When the crowd's favor shifted to his temporary assistant, however briefly, the spell holding him senseless broke, and he shakily returned to the stands.
A few paces away from his seat, he finally noticed that he had urinated down the front of his pants.
Much as The Great Bazhooli would have loved to have soaked up the adulation for a while longer, he was actually a little late getting to his next big appointment for the evening. His little Veta was meeting with the Graveolase this evening at Almack's Assembly Rooms. It was a venue he had not yet visited, probably because it was not the kind of place that requested his kind of entertainment, nor generally the kind of place that generally allowed Rusyn gypsies (or anyone with their blood) within a hundred meters of their front door. Luckily, his "Little Veta" was the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Romanova, and as such could pick anyone she pleased to form her entourage in state or social affairs. And so, he left the performing arena at a jog, headed to the backstage rooms to meet with his people and collect his pay for the evening.
The Event Manager was present, politely already there with a bank note and small purse of pounds sterling. He counted out what was necessary for his setup men and paid them accordingly, and handed off the bank note to one of them as well. Pocketing the remaining coins, he gave bracing orders to them in Russian, amounting to "Note goes to Chernyshev immediately, and remember your percentage to the Circus. Go! Ve are late."
One minute more found him in the carriage house behind the Amphitheatre, climbing into a richly appointed conveyance. The second the door opened, a massive, feline head poked out of it, vocalizing in a manner that any sane person would have found terrifying. As it turned out, the comparative sanity of The Great Bazhooli was left open to interpretation. "Tikho, Myshka! Back in carriage! Idti, idti!" he shouted, recovering his coat and hat from the driver and climbing in. "Seychas my otpravimsya v Veta. Schastlivyy?" he berated the massive tiger, letting him know that they were on their way to Elizaveta now. He was apparently at ease in its presence, a feat that admittedly took him a little time to accomplish initially.
Earlier that day, before he left the circus, the huge animal continually blocked The Great Bazhooli's path while he was trying valiantly to attend his own performance at Astley's. He was adamant about it, until the noble gypsy mentioned Elizaveta's name. When he offered to take the great cat to her, eventually, it allowed him to pass. No way he was going to mix it up with a tiger. Even if by some miracle he killed the beast, he would have Veta to answer to. There was no victory to be had.
The trip from the Amphitheatre to Almack's was relatively short, during which time he equipped himself with his various "walking around" blades. Slipping into his formal coat and top hat, he made the subtle and mostly insubstantial transformation from The Great Bazhooli to Master Vladimir Alexandrov, escort to the Grand Duchess. The tiger seemed to be staring at him during the last bit of the ride. "Vhat? Hat not straight?"
The door to Almack's blew open, admitting the large, white tiger into the place of upper class hobnobbery. Screams could be heard from within, but it was a moment or two until he could catch up to the beast. In that time, an animal of that size and reputed ferocity could cause major damage, which prompted the bombastic Russian to give chase from their carriage, even before it came to a stop. Myshka had escaped with a suddenness that caught Vladimir off guard, as if he had gotten wind of Veta and could not wait for the vehicle to stop, else he smelled something in the air he didn't like. Regardless, the tiger's exit from a moving carriage prompted Vladimir to do the same, hand on the brim of his very becoming top hat as he hit the ground with an executed shoulder roll. He used the inertia of the roll to spring to his feet and tear off at a run.
By the time he entered Almack's, he was a little surprised to see that Myshka was doing fine. He was with his little Veta, who was accompanied by what appeared to be a heavily armed Catholic, a pale noblewoman, and a dead guy. Obviously, the presence of a formerly living (and very fat) individual alongside the tiger and what appeared to be a particularly stressful moment for all parties attending caused him no small amount of alarm. However, as no one was being disemboweled at present, he treated the event as he treated all things: With panache.
Confidently, he strode into the main corridor, deftly tossing off his hat and coat to the nearest person to the coat check, whether or not said person was actually working the station. "Tell proprietors of House that they have honor of receiving Master Vladimir Dmitrievich Alexandrov! Qvickly!" he shouted, to everyone and no one in particular. A flick of his wrists brought out two sizeable short blades from among the collection on his person. He twirled them between his fingers as he approached, reprimanding the tiger in snatches of both Russian and English. "Myshka! Vhy you do this to Velikiy Bazhooli? Alvays vith begat', zastavlyaya vsekh bol'she bespokoit'sya! Bad Kitty! Very bad kitty! Scaring hell out of zhirnyye, lysyye, pompeznyye Aristokraty, and for vhy?"
He approached Elizaveta and company, sprinting two steps and leaping forward, flipping once in the air before landing on one knee, fists (still grasping large knives) planted firmly on the ground in a stance of bowed subservience. His head lowered, he addressed her in loud, clear words, using the locally standard English with more drama than was actually necessary for the occasion. "I am here for honor of serving your vishes, Grand Duchess Romanova! And! And to apologize hundredfold times, your Grace." he raised his head to better view both Veta and Myshka, seemingly ignoring everyone else in the room. It also served to show off the extremely showy but immaculate grooming of his facial hair, as only a Bazhooli can maintain in the Empire. "Please allow me honor to escort your Grace. I vill try to ensure such indiscretion repeats not this evening."
Yes, they knew each other. No, it didn't matter. In public, he would show Elizaveta the respect he insisted others should, even to the point of passionate histrionics. If it got the point across and drew attention in the meantime, all the better. In a slightly quieter voice, he looked to Myshka, "Do this thing again, Kitty, I vill Mamushka vearing vhite tiger fur." He shot a quick smile and wink at Veta and Myshka both, indicating a more jovial intent with his last sentence. "Vhat does my future Empress desire of her servant?"
Location: Crossed Swords Inn & Tavern, 2F Private Room
Interacting With: Sana, even more awkwardly
While it seemed a bit sarcastic on Sana's part, Keystone didn't mind a little verbal sandpapering. It was even endearing at times. Especially the incident she brought up. "Hellhound in a Tavern" wasn't a colorful, colloquial phrase, like someone might describe a horned, male bovine inside of a storefront distributing fine ceramics. That actually happened. Just as real and urgent as the pressure still accumulating on the inside of his bladder. Maybe even moreso.
Keystone fondly recalled the event. It happened the day that he and Sana met; they were both reluctant plane-hoppers. Though they did not arrive at the same time exactly, nor by the same means, they found themselves in a tavern that night, set upon by a Hellhound of proportions larger than the itinerant Pugilist had ever heard of. The damned thing was bigger than a draft horse. Much bigger. The big man himself even got the killing blow in, though it seared off a good portion of the skin on one hand. Another side effect of the incident, he lost something dear to him. It was a black, woolen, knee-length overcoat; one of the few nice things his mother was able to give him. It caught fire, due to the eruption of flame at the beast's passing. He fought to remove it from his person before he burned away with the tailored wool. Sadly, all he had left were a series of dull, fire-marked buttons. That unfortunate business aside, he could look back upon the evening as the time he met Sana, and the first time he prepared and consumed Hellhound steak.
His little trip down memory lane aside, he still really needed to access that chamberpot. It was maddening. He snatched up the heavy brass container and readied himself to relieve ...himself... but froze. He turned to look at Sana, stretched out on the bed. Now, Keystone wasn't exactly the most mannered individual. It could be said that he was, quite possibly, the least mannered individual he personally knew. But it didn't stop him from trying.
Unfortunately, trying is the first step toward failure.
Keystone wasn't 100% sure what the Big Book of Manners had to say about getting his morning constitutionals in front of a lady. He looked around for a screen of some kind, but alas, there was none. No time to set up a fort with the furniture and bedsheets, either. He was not a man bound by shame, ever really, but he did not want Sana to feel uncomfortable. "Right then. 'xcuse." The broad man took himself and his chamberpot out of the room, closing the door behind him. He set the brass vessel on the floor next to the room entrance and dropped trou on the spot, leaning forward against the wall and letting himself relax. The relief was palpable. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to notice that his bedroom overlooked a balcony, and that balcony overlooked the common room, below. The guests were privy to the unsettling image of an obviously scarred, shirtless Keystone, showing off half of his ass as the sound of liquid hitting metal rang out across the Crossed Swords Inn & Tavern.
"Aw, bloody 'ell, that's the melody..." he grunted out, sweet, blessed reprieve from nagging discomfort coloring his deep voice.
Oh, good. So Keystone's presence was noted by the syringe wielding psychopath down the hallway. Maybe noted a little too well. The extra piece of aggravation wasn't really the large man's intent, but if it kept the attention on him, all the better. Unfortunately, this woman appeared to have no regard for the girl in her grasp, as if any hostage taker might. Further, the American Federal Agent gave him a stern suggestion that it would be prudent to not fire upon the rampaging she-hulk. For the sake of the girl or because they needed answers from her; whatever the reason, he did in fact agree. The barest nanosecond of thought had him focused on the potential to end the situation - Keystone carried a Desert Eagle .50, a nasty piece of hardware. If he fired once, and that bullet caught any part of her skull, it would paint the wall behind her with half of her head long before her nerves would allow for the plunger of that syringe to depress.
That was a huge IF. Keystone was a competent shot, rated by Caesar's company. Competency did not make him one for trick shots, nor very comfortable shooting around hostages. So yeah, the Agent was right. It was not his place to make that decision. He was about to soften his dialogue and lower his weapon when he saw the door crack behind them, on the far side of the hall. He detected the barest hint of black leather and long, dark hair. Good.
New plan! He cleared his throat and forced a slightly more jolly tone to his voice. "Tutwiler, ey? I remember 'avin' me a few pints o' Tutwiler back in Jolly Old, y'see, with a plate o' fresh chips. Not great lager, but it ain't quite scary, lady." He was playing up his humble, Londoner origins, taking the role of the big, stupid muscle. People wanted to believe that about him a lot of the time, and so he obliged if he felt it was to his advantage.
On the other end of the hallway and closer to the action, Caesar got a glimpse of what was going down. Momentary understanding of his employee's tactic came to him: He was acting the part of the Braying Jackass to buy time and keep Proserpine focused forward, so that someone like him could have a moment to act. But therein lay the problem. A needle in a girl's neck, hand on the plunger. Limited his options. If he had one of his machetes on him, it could be a simple matter of hacking the woman's elbow joint. Or a good slash across her inner forearm would disable that hand, surgery being a later option. Not that he cared if she regained the use of her hand, but he wanted answers. With the Feds on scene and local (read: corrupt) police supposedly coming this way, he wanted her to be able to answer some questions. Big questions, asked very painfully.
And if he was even a little off mark, what would happen to the girl? Used as a human shield, maybe? Or just killed outright for the purposes of lightening her load? Caesar didn't want any more loss of life. Wait, scratch that. Caesar did want a loss of life. Hell, he was making a list like a murderous Santa Claus, ready to drop his blade over and over and over until it, he, and everything in the surrounding twenty feet was soaked in warm, red blood. But as far as he could tell, this kid was an innocent. It pained him to do so, but he was going to have to play it straight. Damn it.
Caesar tucked his knife into a concealed, underhand grip along his forearm and brought his .45 to the ready. He quietly nudged the door the rest of the way open with his foot and stepped through, then to the side. If shots were fired, he very much did not want to be caught in friendly bullet trajectory. As the door swung to a close, he stated in a calm, direct voice.
"Your friends aren't coming." he started, gun leveled at the dangerous woman. "It was a setup, puta. You've been sold out. And you know what I'm willing to do. One professional to another: Put it down."
The day was long and hot in Newnan, sun striking down upon the blacktop. James had opted two measures to beat the heat; his gargantuan smoker/grill was pulled under the shade of nearby trees, and he had stripped to the waist, letting the shoulder straps of his overalls hang around his knees. He was cooking, obviously. If he wasn't out growing food, killing food, or planning either, he was cooking. Birds called overhead, high in the trees under which the amicable blackneck took shelter from the sun. James turned, shaking his big spatula at them. No way they were going to drop their birdie bombs on his picnic fixin's.
Many people had began to gather around him, anticipating the smoky, meaty pieces of well-seared (but not well done, he was not a Philistine) animal flesh. Lots of people, keeping a little distance, each politely waiting as they approached one by one, plate in hand. They said nothing to him, content to pass by and collect their food from him with big, warm smiles. It felt good, providing for people. And these were his friends, every one of them.
Dexter and Lorna walked arm in arm, sharing a pulled pork sandwich. It was difficult to manage; the sandwich was messy but good, and one paper plate between them. He never really imagined the two of them getting together, but it wasn't just about survival anymore. Peace makes for as strange bedfellows as war. Even stranger if it comes after an especially prolonged conflict. Jonas and Victoria were together before all of this, and here they were still. Maria reached out, beaming at James and holding out her plate with both hands for him to load up. And load up he did. Even Leann gave him a little smirk, as tough as ever. She was a great leader. Strict, but worthy of respect.
A very familiar, very tall blonde lady sauntered up to him, holding out her plate. She put an arm around him as he slapped a slab of good, smoked pork down, the cooler metal of her mail armor providing welcome relief from the heat of the day. Then she took a step back, simultaneously stuck out her tongue and extended her middle finger in a vulgar but playful gesture, and stepped back into the crowd around them, joining her sister.
Everyone came up to him, one by one. Everyone took meat, enjoyed themselves, and in their own way let him know that they were his friends. And then as sure as the setting sun, everyone walked away. There seemed to be someone James was missing. He scanned the people around him through the now hazy air, as if his vision were blurring or the world was whiting out. He did find who he missed from before, one of the last people to become obscure by the pale haze. His favorite troublemaker, in tank top and ponytail, hands on hips in the way she would when about to give someone a good yelling at. Then she smiled, gave James a hearty (though strangely muted) laugh, and walked into the whiteness with the others.
James started to walk after her, his arm outstretched as if to take her hand and pull her back to him. He didn't get more than a step or two when he felt a hard hand slap down upon his shoulder and hold him in place. He froze in place, slowly turning his head back to see what apparition had latched onto him. While technically, he had been described as "One Of The Scariest Men Imaginable", James was not afraid of him. Maybe a little before, but not now. No, the venerable Mexican badass looked at him with understanding and sorrow. Suddenly, and in startling contrast to the others, he spoke to James in warm, honest tones.
"Not yet, Hermano. You're not done yet. We're good, James - we're all good. None of us can get hurt anymore. We don't starve, we don't need protection. But the others are still in danger. You're a good man, James, and they still need you. The hardest part hasn't happened yet." James nodded to the older man, taking in everything he was saying as the world turned to blank, pale nothingness behind them.
"You're not really going to remember any of this, and that's okay. Just a dream, right? But it will stick with you, deep in here." he prodded James's forehead with a steely index finger. "I want you to do me a favor, okay, hermano? I need you to wake up."
"Who teaches us more than the beasts of the earth, and makes us wiser than the birds of the heavens?" Location: Almack's
Mary gazed one more upon the deceased Arch Graveolase. Was his death the overall goal of this assault, or merely a coincidence? The Soulless, if guided by a single intelligence or purpose, could have taken many more victims this evening. They might yet. This could merely be a lull in the attack, or a setup designed to pick people off as they left for their homes. Another gruesome thought: If Buckingham was the objective in this assault, then Mary would be a target soon, herself. It might take a little time for word to get around, but when it started, it would prove to be scandalous.
Another reaching "if": Provided she actually survived to attend the meeting of the Graveolase, Mary would need a fair amount of support backing her, possibly with powerful fighters in entourage. With some disgust, Mary conceded to herself that she might have to play her hand at politics. She was familiar with the concept, having trained for many years at the Vatican and bring privy to some of the dealings of the Cardinals, Bishops, Grand Crosses, and the like, vying for Papal favor or trying to increase their status. Politics, indeed. She would need to surround herself with people she could trust. But that could wait. She had to tend to the scene at Almack's; detecting for the presence of any hidden Soulless and retrieving the mortal vessels of the recently departed, in hopes of helping to secure their eternal rest.
Mary was just about to open herself up to the extra-perceptive sense of Tanter, when a scream sounded from nearby, followed by the roar of a great cat. The Apostolic had not heard a Tiger in a good, long while, let alone viewed one outside of a perilously rare visit to a zoo. When the beast entered, her first instinct was to protect those nearby, especially Elizaveta. But when it took up a defensive posture between the Grand Duchess and everyone else (including herself and Virginia), Mary forced herself to refrain from taking a fighter's stance. Still, her eyes were wide and knuckles tense, gripping her halberd.
"You have a lovely companion, Your Grace." was the extent to conversation that Mary could quietly muster at the moment. This would take some getting used to. "With your permission, please excuse me." she intoned respectfully, resuming her duty and utilizing her Trained skill of Tanter.
Thanks. Edit made, I'll likely repurpose the huge chunk of text I had to cut off for Harper's next post, but we're all back in continuity and whatnot. Go team After Miranda!
Harper could hear the commotion over the PA. It was faint(ish) from outside of the ship, but what with the cargo door open to facilitate movement, it could be heard that the new Captain was rather upset and demanded an audience with the very lady he was waiting on. Naturally, he wasn't sure what to make of her last comment before she left, promising a promotion in the event that gunfire broke out. It was a little troubling. But, he had hitched his wagon to these people for at least the next two years. That was the plan now. Stay out from under the Alliance's scrutiny with these people, reemerge as a released P.O.W., retire as a Captain at thirty-five. Then do whatever the hell he wanted to, even if that meant becoming a dedicated Browncoat. Though in truth, he'd rather retire on a border planet somewhere. Not too far away from tech and convenience, not too close to the Core and their agenda. Persephone, maybe. That rock looked inviting.
But he digressed. The wait for Dorothy would be a bit longer than expected, and Anisa did tell him to hold fast for the potential buyer. Harper had a streak of impatience milling in the back of his mind, having been given permission to search the belongings of their former crewmate to replace his Alliance issue sidearms. It was rather like waiting for Christmas morning, seeing what he might unwrap. Harper did not consider himself a "gun person", persay, though he understood the necessity of staying armed in this part of the 'Verse; how it tied directly with survival. Besides that, his training with the Alliance Military gave him familiarity with all manner of firearms. While no master marksman, Harper passed all of his practical examinations with marksmanship well enough, and had a little combat experience to boot. Ditching his present gun was a prudent move. He most certainly did not want to be caught holding a weapon with a serial number and shot signature issued to a Black Ship crewmember.
Until this business with Dorothy and the Captain was over, Harper was just going to hang around until one or both of them decided to return. Unless something pressing came up, anyway. Hopefully, the buyer would arrive in the next three seconds, followed by Anisa over the course of the next three. Then he could have his Christmas morning.
Foy Coiffeur
Location: Foy-er -> Cargo Bay
Meanwhile, as the PA barked at Dorothy, Foy found himself participating in the wonder of manual labor, carrying his own things down below for what would likely be very upsetting poking and prodding, shuffling through his things (none of which were Alliance in the least) in a manner that he would find quite disagreeable. But, it was the price one paid, living the high life and then suddenly getting sucked into speaking glibly with a Shepherd as he made an effort to recruit him into some cause or another. At least the Man of the Cloth was giving him an assist, carrying his belongings down below.
As they dropped off the first load near the loading ramp, Foy stepped outside to retrieve the grav dolly, looking to Harper with a curious expression. "You're certainly settling in with the riffraff quite fluidly, are you not? Hmm..." There was something about that man that he didn't quite trust, but that intrigued him. This man was hiding something. He had to know.
Foy smiled, waving his hand dismissively at the man as if he were merely joking, and then returned to Atticus in the Cargo hold. "Yes, my good man. I shall strike a bargain with you, Leviticus: You exercise whichever manner of businesslike influence you may have upon your dear Captain, mainly to ensure that my professionals, intimates, and personals all find space in whatever boat she intends to acquire; further that said space is liberally adequate for a professional such as myself can ply his trade with ample elbow room, and I sir, shall give you until your next planet, as you so eloquently discussed earlier. Though I must do some dealing in the nearest civilized polis on hasty condition beforehand. Have we an accord, sir?"
Foy removed his bowler cap and extended his hand to the Preacher. He flashed a quick smile. "Have we?"
[hider=Lady Absinthia's GM Awards]
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[*] Save Another from LLA Card
[*] Kill Any NPC in LAU Card
[*] Plot Insight Card
[*] Single Day Extension Card
[*] Single Day Extension Card
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[hider=Death Scenes]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3622266]Dexter's Death (or Hammertime!)[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3837944]The UnBEARable Case of Lawrence Long[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4020657]Malfunctioning Space Toilet[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4557122]Rube Goldberg Decapitation[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4569229]Shitter's Full[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4602115]Dirigible (warning, SAD)[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4538295]After "The Last Barbecue"[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4723699]Detoxing Pilot[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4745239]Girls Stick Together[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4749807]Oops[/url]
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[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659]"Character Flaw"[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/2968914]Keystone's Daydream[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3040161]Checking for Mental Intrusion[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3594115]The Power Of Pain Compels You[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4670484]The Greater Good[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5134610]Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady[/url]
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<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Lady Absinthia's GM Awards">Lady Absinthia's GM Awards [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><ul class="bb-list" style="white-space: normal;"><li></li><li>Save Another from LLA Card</li><li>Kill Any NPC in LAU Card</li><li>Plot Insight Card</li><li>Single Day Extension Card</li><li>Single Day Extension Card</li><li></li></ul></div></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Death Scenes">Death Scenes [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3622266">Dexter's Death (or Hammertime!)</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3837944">The UnBEARable Case of Lawrence Long</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4020657">Malfunctioning Space Toilet</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4557122">Rube Goldberg Decapitation</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4569229">Shitter's Full</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4602115">Dirigible (warning, SAD)</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4538295">After "The Last Barbecue"</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4723699">Detoxing Pilot</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4745239">Girls Stick Together</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4749807">Oops</a></div></div><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659">"Character Flaw"</a><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/2968914">Keystone's Daydream</a><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3040161">Checking for Mental Intrusion</a> <br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3594115">The Power Of Pain Compels You</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4670484">The Greater Good</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5134610">Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady</a><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Signature Images">Signature Images [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://media.giphy.com/media/xT0GqpswuzhOqHP6gM/giphy-downsized-large.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://media.giphy.com/media/iMnyx7HWjZgPu/giphy.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/wUTjLTf.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K04tQV9pRE8/UCFQiE8aoVI/AAAAAAAATJk/hIK7mzvvYpk/s430/99.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/rigeWJc.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://uproxx.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/throughthedoor.gif?w=650" /></div></div></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://image.ibb.co/jVrOhp/Scythefalling.gif" /></div></div>
Zman
Shadow Dragon
Not a Sayan
Simply Not Real
Fetzen
Lewascan2
Arty Fox
Lady Absinthia
Archangel89
