Sigil

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Galley/Lounge)
Skills: N/A

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The quiet. Despite the propensity of the man to mar the tranquility of an occasion with long, flowery speeches where a simple three word response would have sufficed, Foy did enjoy a meal every now and again with minimal distraction. It centered him, almost as much as brisk frontier dancing or putting his hands to the sharpened tools of his ancestral occupation. Even the most verbally affluent must pause to take a breath. Being one of the most affluent and the most verbose people on the Rim or Border (likely combined on the latter point) he knew this as well as anyone. Foy considered this minor moment of average dining as a necessary ritual to enhance his gentlemanly calm. Moderate quality food, okay surroundings, interesting company. No distractions.

Okay, maybe one distraction. No, not Harper. The man seemed to be much less welcoming of company than usual, more in need of quiet than himself. Private man, that one. This distraction came in the form of their Captain, Anisa. The woman sauntered in wearing a silk evening robe and house slippers, a manner described by many in polite society as "Not Dressed To Receive Visitors'. One did not ordinarily allow themselves to be seen, even within the confines of their own home, in such a way. At least upon Foy's native home within the only truly civilized portions of the fabulous and dapper moon of Farraday. Quiet time or not, Foy felt an immediate and insatiable need to comment.

"Why Captain Crowe, as I live and breathe. Truly, you are a breath of early morning air; a piece of the small hours of the day right here in the larger hours of the evening. At least one may suppose by the way in which you casually stride about your admirable vessel in a state of social undress." Foy gave a charming smile and continued his thought,"I must acknowledge a sense of temerity that exceeds even my own, Captain, else a sense of differing cultural norms. I personally would not have the courage to do so outside of the confines of my own cabin, though upon the more rugged yet unmistakably feminine, persons such as yourself, it is positively endearing."

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William Harper

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Galley/Lounge)
Skills: N/A

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Meanwhile, Harper was content to sit and eat, forcing himself to slow down and remember the niceties of simple table manners. It was all coming back to him, albeit with a hint of difficulty. In the extremely short span of time that he was piloting the I.A.V. Retribution, he had to maintain a role, part of which meant doing exactly that in front of others. Being military, certain things could slide. The idea was to insert the food as readily as one could and return to duties ASAP. Being an officer, there was a certain amount of emphasis on setting an example for the enlisted crew. Harper took his meals in his quarters as often as possible because of this. Still, rejoining the rest of society was important too. Details like that might tip his hand and allow others to catch a glimpse of some new puzzle piece about himself, and he wasn't too keen on that idea.

His practice at being human was stymied momentarily by the arrival of someone to the galley. A flash of silk caught the corner of his eye. Nothing moves with a person like silk, in his estimation. Both flowing and form fitting, depending upon need, catching the light as only silk can. He was fond of the fabric, though it would be some time before he would feel comfortable wearing something made of the rich, smooth cloth.

It occurred to Harper that he had stopped eating altogether. There was a nice, tender morsel of something suspended by chopsticks halfway from the takeaway box to his face, but he had fully ceased movement, and was unsure as to why. Then it hit him: This was the Captain, wearing a single layer of fine silk and slippers. No makeup, no richly styled hair. It was Anisa being comfortable, and while he hadn't known any of these people for an appreciable length of time, it was new to him. Harper had to admit, comfort looked good on the woman. Very good. It drew his attention in the same way that her evening dress and heels from earlier may have drawn the attention of others. When Harper realized that he was staring, he immediately shifted his eyes down to his food and shoved the bite into his mouth.

Three years, though. Over three years since he had seen a woman dressed like that. He was being unprofessional right then. An able Lieutenant, or whatever the hell he was supposed to be right then, shouldn't place that kind of notice on his Captain. She was just getting comfortable on board her new ship, period. And Harper wasn't being himself, entertaining the notion in the first place. It was all a byproduct of the last few years of his life. Right? Chemically no different than consuming large amounts of chocolate. As per usual, this wasn't an issue that could be solved with computers, engineering, or a sure hand with a console, so he was overthinking it. That had to be it. Had to be. Three years. And was it just him, or did she smell faintly of flowers?

It also didn't escape his notice that she walked right past them to look through he supplies in the kitchen area even though he had set her food up for her. Was Anisa playing at something, or did she have a specific item she was looking for in the galley? No matter. The proper thing to do would be to report to her, and let her come to her own decision.

After Foy rattled off whatever if was that Foy rattled, which sounded vaguely like a compliment and just a little like classist arrogance, Harper cleared his throat and respectfully addressed Anisa, "Ah, Ma'am? I have you set up over here. Please let me know if I can get you anything else." Yeah, he needed that drink. And some time to clear his head later.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Museum - Vera's Office
Skills: N/A

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While the offer of a meal and change of scenery was appealing, the Lord Major was having some difficulty looking favorably upon another social event of his evening, past that which he had already partaken. Much was going on in his mind, and even the subtleties of their little adventure were not enough to divert Reginald's thoughts away from the initial grief of losing his dear, dear friend, nor his worry about his nephew's absence. The man really should have been back by now. Perhaps the others in the room were aware of his mildly fragile state, which is possibly why they silently declined his offer to look over the material that they were able to retain following the break-in.

"Regrettably madame, I shall have to decline your most generous offer." he stated simply, addressing Neema. She had so far been an enigma to the Fellowship, albeit a helpful one. The Lord Major had nothing against the woman, and indeed did hope that everything worked out well for her and the interactions with the others embroiled in this highly unsubtle business. "Someone shall have to remain at the Barracks, else here, upon the return of the Lord Captain and his associate. I trust that Lady Munn will pass along anything pertinent, should it be necessary. Again, I do thank you for the offer."

Briefly, he wondered where the detachment of soldiery was to assist with the items in question for safekeeping. Then he realized it had only been a very short time since the order had been issued. Patience would have to be exercised.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: La Hacienda
Skills: Investigation, Security Tech

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Caesar gave the terminal a quick once-over. Though he was no master of All Things Computery, he could tell that whatever caused physical feedback like this was intentional. His niece wasn't the type to forget to clean out an exhaust fan or cram paper in the casing. It specifically targeted the motherboard and the flash drive. He wasn't even aware that tech like this existed. But Thalia did.

Tech was her forte, almost as much as stabbing was Caesar's. Moreover, she took a split second to realize that something enacted intentionally probably meant that someone was observing what was going on, and the only reason they got anything at all was because it took time for the cyberintruders to get around their countermeasures at La Hacienda. Had they a team at their disposal, they might have repelled the attack with a single programmer with fast hands on the defense. But they didn't have that, they had a pissed off girl of mixed heritage, both heritages known for quick tempers, curious as to where the next limb and/or organ removal was going to take place. Her contribution to her machine exploding was a mad dash to keep the information from roasting her data from the inside out. Oh it looked like this was going to happen, one way or another.

"Tio" she began, her voice a little too faux sweet for Caesar's liking, "Go ahead and add me to the company roster. I want a crack at these asshats and I want access to Central to do it, 'k?"

Caesar's response was pragmatic. "Not until we're on a secure company hardline. If La Hacienda is compromised, I don't want them getting all of your information on a silver platter, sobrina. Revenge tomorrow. Mourn today." Thalia nodded in agreement, mouthing the word "Okay" before turning to her uncle and giving him a big hug. He returned the gesture warmly enough, despite his reservations at getting another member of his family involved with this awful business. But if he did not, as sure as the sun would rise, the girl was going to take her own path to find revenge. This way, he could at least attempt to help and protect her.

"Alright, time to suit up." she said, very matter-of-factly. Caesar looked like he was ready to do battle, so Thalia figured it was her turn to look the part as well. The first thing she did was to pull a half full backpack from beneath her bed and go into it, producing from it a well looked after Glock 17 and holster. She looked at it with some consideration for a moment, that moment broken by Ceasar's inquiry, "Has it been a while?"

"Yes."

"Are you still sharp with that thing?" It was a valid question. There was always time for refresher course at the firing range.

"Hell yeah, I'm still sharp. Who are you talking to, heah?" Her Boston was showing, if just a little bit. She inserted a magazine and chambered a round, then slipped the weapon into its holster and tucked it onto her belt at her back.

"What else have you got there, Angelita?"

Thalia just smiled and set her pack on top of her bed. She always did like to be prepared, especially if she had to run on short notice.

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, En Route to Elizabeth's Office
Skills: Leadership, Security Procedures

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Tonight was a series of events that Keystone did not need whatsoever. He maintained the image of stoic professionalism the entire way to Elisabeth's office, pausing only long enough as needed to return a verification of personnel movement or similar working situation. Upon final, blessed arrival at the door with the platinum embossing that read simply "Queensguard", he posted Vinters on the outside and entered the room with drawn firearm. It might have been overkill, but then again, there had been a break-in. Suspected, at least. There had definitely been a murder.

Still, it seemed like the murder had been used as a distraction for something else, or was perpetrated using that something else as cover. He doubted that the two incidents were directly related. It didn't seem to add up. But he was no investigator, as he may or may not have previously established. He was a private security agent with certain specializations, pure and simple. Clearing rooms and guarding bodies was his forte. Okay, beating the living snot out of people was his forte, but he was good at this, too. Priority was to the client, not the crime committed.

Satisfied that the office didn't have someone lurking inside, Keystone stepped back out and waved the rest of the party into the room. He gave a gruff, "All clear." before ordering his backup inside with the other two women. As the door shut behind them, he gave a small assessment of his suspicions. "You got someone close to you doin' you dirty, Ms. Queensguard. This looks inside."

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

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Keystone

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Location: Deymin's Tower (3F)
Interacting With: Cyneburg (I'm so sorry)

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Troglodyte. Troglodyte Zombie, to be precise. Put simply, an undead variation of a shortish, reptilian humanoid that ordinarily dwelt underground when not summoned by some power-drunk necromancer. Also, not ordinarily a zombie. This put Keystone in a foul mood. Not a massive threat for a man like Keystone, who had knuckled back to death many more powerful things of the undead variety; some of them very recently. A few months ago, he even had the pleasure of ripping the animated bones of a Death Knight out of its armor and crushing them beneath his bootheel in the middle of a bustling, major city. Good times. Perhaps this was why, when something as insignificant as a Troglodyte Zombie sunk its teeth into his arm and refused to let go, it was the last straw. Absolute last.

Kyra's extremely likely death, Ash's likewise extremely likely death (he had nothing against the pup), the repeated near demise of Sana, and now the utter indignity of wearing a reptilian dead guy as an arm bangle had turned his foul mood even fouler. From the corner of his vision, he could even see the Hooded Figure that started all of this mess making a dash for the stairs.

Something inside of Keystone gave way; a sense of what others had oft described to him as "moral outrage", though morality was rarely a thing that gave him concern. This feeling went well past pride, farther than the reaches of rage. It demanded action beyond the pull of any king or civil authority; immediate, deliberate, decisive action. It was the klaxon call of a godly or elemental power, one which Keystone was compelled to answer, nay, filled with an overwhelming potency, fueled by his willingness to waylay this monster of a person, to prevent him from escaping a fate that he so richly deserved. He would not do this to anyone else, ever.

Keystone didn't beat a war tribe of Orcs in a farting contest just to lose here. No sir. It was time for action.

The arrow-drilled troglodyte still hanging onto his arm, Keystone turned to face the retreating Hooded Figure. The brightly lit, flaming magician served to mirror the inferno of his soul as the erstwhile tavern brawler with aspirations of Monk-dom felt his Chi, his very spiritual energy flow through him, bidden to his manipulation by sheer force of will and the desperation of necessity. He was going to halt this man's retreat, even if the gods tried to intervene. "Not bloody likely..." he growled, taking one, two, three steps toward the Necromancer. Keystone could not make it over to him in time to prevent his escape, but maybe, just maybe, he could hurl something to intercept the antagonist's retreat, but what? Nothing was big enough. Nothing was heavy enough. Nothing within reach could possibly harm this mad, spiteful man. Unless...

Keystone's eyes settled upon the form of a large black bear, poised over her latest kill. His pupils instantaneously dilated with raw happy, coursing in his veins like a drug. "Right then. That'll do." Of course, it was their resident Druid and respected party member, Cyneburg, but those were mere details that might slow down a less decisive man. The Greater Good was at stake here. The Greater Good. That, and the touch of mild insanity that made him, well, HIM really wanted to see if he could pull this off. With all the grace of a lightly wounded bar bouncer (which he was) and slightly off-balance by the lizardkin zombie attached to his left arm (which he also was), Keystone bounded toward Cyneburg, who was resplendently making her luxurious coat of black fur and long, hard claws into a statement of function as well as fashion. Keystone didn't even pause as he swept his powerful arm beneath the Druid's forelimb, his other reaching over Cyne's shoulder, holding on to her around his black knuckle dusters with hands strengthened by years of physical conditioning.

The invigorated Pugilist whispered a quiet, "I'll apologize later, yeah?", voice strained by effort as he immediately transferred his forward momentum, coupled with his intense brute strength, to lifting the Bear-That-Was-Cyneburg into a modified, terrifying hammer throw, spinning her about once fully and a half turn more to line up his ursine missile before releasing her in the direction of The Hooded Figure.

Cyneburg sailed through the air like a huge, shaggy falcon. Keystone almost wished he could have seen the look on his face - either of their faces - the minuscule instant that the Necromancer realized what was happening. Oh, if he ever met a genie, that's exactly what he would ask for. "Worth it." he exclaimed through clenched teeth. A relatively minor pain issued from his arm, prompting him to raise it and take a look at the source. The Troglodyte Zombie was somehow still attached.

"You still 'ere?"

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert & James

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Location: Ville au Camp (Main Building, Dining Room)
Skills: N/A

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Gilbert was actually a little taken aback by the choices of the new Paradoxes. His very nature (in recent centuries) was relatively charming and laid back; if not something that inspires comfort in others, his nigh everpresent smile might at least disarm wary psyches. It was probably why he was generally one of the first Emendators that newcomers met. That and, if any went off the deep end, he was a big, strong guy with a lot of experience handling raving lunatics in overbearing situations. Not that other Emendators did not, granted, even the less combat inclined among them had more than enough experience to handle themselves. It was just his role.

Still, none of the Paradoxes felt comfortable around him? Even to the point that they selected Emendators that they hadn't spoken with in any meaningful way rather than associate with him around the public. He must be losing his touch. Or maybe he came on too aloof, too ... "I AM GILGAMESH, HIGH AND HOLY DEMIGOD OF SUMERIA, DESTROYER OF WORLDS! BOW BEFORE ME, YE PLEBES AND VERMIN OF HUMANITY!" Or not. Hopefully not, anyway. It wouldn't have been his best moment, were that the case.

Even as no one had selected him, it still wasn't a huge point. Maybe he would use the opportunity to take it easy this night, just do what he did as quickly as possible and spend the rest of the evening in repose. It was a pretty solid plan. Gilbert has accepted this as the totality of his evening, and in fact had come to look forward to the idea in the seconds that followed, until the dark complected gentleman with the cowboy hat hanging on the chair behind him opened his mouth and screwed it up for him.

"Now, that ain't quite balanced, n'is it?" he began, looking to Gilbert. Perhaps he could tell that the tall immortal had a similar, easygoing attitude like himself. Or it could have been that, with the other Paradoxes going against the suggestion of the Dice Lady and choosing Emendators that they had little contact with for the purposes of (he assumed) getting to know them better, he was going to do the same. "If'n it's alright with y'all, I'll be hangin' with Mr. Hat, here."

That was it. The reason must be that James, a long time lover of head coverings (even to the point of wearing both a bandana and stetson simultaneously on a regular basis) gravitated toward Gilbert in that moment was because he had appreciation for his "hat game". James could only imagine all of the wonderous bits of knowledge that the Emendator could impart regarding head gear, both fine and utilitarian. Gilbert & James. It sounded like a magic act or a folk music duo. Gilbert nodded at the once formidable blackneck, cracking a polite smile and acquiescing to the idea that he would indeed have a hanger-on that evening; just the one. From what he knew about James, and he knew a lot, they'd probably get along okay.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Arnco Mills Safehouse (E10)
Skills: Leadership, Engineering

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The main room was clear, thankfully. For all appearances, nothing of the living nor dead variety had found its way in. Still, the next to zero level of light made things a little interesting. Ash wasn't going to feel quite right until he could get a little (and he did mean a little) light into the equation somewhere. But first, he needed to get his people inside the relative safety of walls and doors. Handing out tasks that brought them inside was an excellent first step in doing just that. Naturally, he already knew where everything was. He had set a lot of this up himself, or by proxy by delegating it to a Run group that was going to be in the area anyway. So long as the safehouses stood and weren't ransacked by other survivors, their supplies should be okay.

Like any good safehouse in a world infested by walking corpses, the old Newnan crew set this one up with boarded windows, thick cloth over the exterior windows, and even kept a few pieces of furniture on standby, covered with sheets. It was not a good permanent encampment by far, but it would suffice to keep the weather and the Dead off of a group that needed respite. But without some illumination... Well, one thing at a time.

After Riley and Tiffany made their initial sweep of the main room and moved on to the other rooms on the ground floor, Ash tucked away his pistol and quickly retrieved the bags and from the porch outside. Considering the nature of their situation, he made it a point to keep his bow and case of arrows on top of the rest, just in case. This was him at the more gruff and businesslike end of his demeanor. One step at a time: Secure an area quickly, establish a central area of supply, set up the means to defend it. The training he received as a forward engineering officer came in damned handy since this apocalypse started, and remained so now especially.

While the others saw to their own tasks, Ash made sure to do his part. He quickly located a recliner and pulled it from the wall, revealing a section of exposed insulation. He peeled back the pink fibrous sheets, layered between silvery, nonreflective material to reveal a fairly large grey-green box, covered with analog buttons and a single digital readout. He carefully pulled it from its hidey hole and set it upon the seat of the recliner he had just moved. Feeling around, the good Captain almost breathed a sigh of relief as he found a dial toward the top of its faceplate and turned it all the way to the right with an audible clicking sound. A single red-orange light illuminated the area just in front of the recliner, but just barely, giving Ash's features a warming silhouette.

The box itself looked very much like antiquated technology, something leftover from the late 80s or early 90s, but Ash knew better. The relay box was designed to be as analog as possible while still retaining the ability to interface with communication tech and link devices of several different varieties, all while keeping the piece of electronics easy to operate and repair, if need be. Its versatile features aside, Ash was just happy that it worked. He would not have been able to handle working in a repair job that evening. Nodding, Ash cleared his throat and looked upon the device with a sense of small accomplishment. It was something. Feeling around in the hollow that had contained the relay, Ash produced a set of walkies, a battery pack, and three bundles of wires. They were on the right track.

With nothing amiss being reported from his group, Ash risked using his voice a little. "I need some light over here."

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Eden, Grand Gallery outside of Reception on the left wall, behind a pillar
Skills: Stealth, Survival, Pistol

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A partially confused, partially impressed look came over Thalia after she heard the report of a large bore pistol repeating several times before ceasing, followed by the gurgling screams of the locals and sounds of three bodies slumping hard to the floor. She risked a peek to get her bearings and received an eyeful of fresh Edenite corpses where the three she spotted earlier used to be. Thalia's head whipped back around to Alexander, then to the pile of dead guys, and again to Alexander. "I asked for covah, Mugsy." A rare smile cracked her features. "But this works okay."

It appeared that they had gotten to the part of their adventure where quiet and blades were becoming of less use to their operation, which sadly meant that her own usefulness was flagging. Having a specific zone of competence, even to the point of specialization, made someone marketable. Or it used to, back before dead people started to roam the countryside. Anymore, a lack of broad competence could get you killed. This was a lesson that she had damn near paid for with her life some three or four years ago. Were it not for the survivors in Fairburn, she would have. Lesson learned. She missed her friends in that faux medieval town, and was heartbroken to hear of the death of two people important to her. Deaths for which these people were indirectly responsible. "Sons of bitches..." she growled, thinking back to James's description of how Bridgette died. At least Astrid showed her axepoint mercy, before succumbing herself. That thought was enough to break her out of her momentary mental rut.

Even before the Apocalypse, she worked for her uncle's security company. This meant a few things for her earlier education, not the least of which being that she was rated in, and had tons of practice with, small arms. Pistols mostly, in her case. She was firing handguns before she began developing an interest in boys, and while she was not a soldier in the classical sense, Thalia was pretty damned good. There was a room to clear.

Thalia jutted her head into the doorway of what appeared to be a reception room for the barest hint of a second. She overtly caught sight of two men ducked behind what appeared to be a receiving desk, using it for soft cover. Or hard cover. Hell, she didn't know, maybe it was mahogany. Either way, she couldn't reliably put a 9mm bullet through it and aerate the men behind, so another option was necessary. She kind of wished she had some grenades. Would have made it simpler.

The Edenites were waiting for someone to walk through the door, and gave response with the report of small arms. That was highly counterproductive to her killing them. Highly. And as much as she despised wasting bullets, suppressive fire was needed in this instance. Thalia stuck her new Beretta just inside of the doorway and fired off two rounds blindly at the desk. Whether they hit or not was anybody's guess, but it was enough to make the hostile gunfire cease and, she hoped, the men retreat behind their (possible) mahogany cover. Pressing the advantage, the rogue Gonzalez stepped fully into the room, pausing fire for a half second to see if any whack-a-moles popped up. Calculated risk. They could re-open fire and make her life painfully short. But she knew where they were, they did not know that she was in the room with them. She approached at a solid walk.

Sure enough, one scalp of dark hair began to rise from behind the desk, practically begging for Thalia to insert a bullet at high velocity. She obliged. The guy's partner declined a similar offer with his reluctance to make himself available for immediate execution (demonstrating powerfully bad manners in the process), prompting Thalia to leap upon the desk bodily and put two more of her precious bullets to use.

"Clear." she spoke aloud, mimicking Thana from earlier.

If this was a reception room, then there had to be offices and storage nearby. Maybe the armory was around this place. It was as good a place as any to start.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

...I miss Bridgette... :(

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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Location: Russian Imperial Circus (Regent's Park), Just Outside Main Tent -> Vladimir's Vardo
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English, Sleight of Hand

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It must have been a rather comical sight, watching the reigning Master of the Bazhooli Sem'ya traipse across the rows of tents and clearings, leading a young almost-Earl by the hand and his other laden with the Circus's equivalent of Russian street food. He knew exactly where to go; even if every tent was taken down and reassembled backwards, Vladimir would know. Every stitch and stake of this temporary city was committed to his memory, indelibly part of him as much as his generally flamboyant attitude or proclivity for all things sharp and pointy. He could find his way around if he was drunk, blindfolded, and juggling knives. Once, he even had to. It was an interesting Easter all around that year, as many within the Circus might relate. Drifting about his own his home with full hands, as quickly as he dared considering dual needs of speed and discretion, was child's play in comparison.

Vlad tried not to stop and stare at the oddly musical Ludwig, who apparently chose right then to burst into lyrical stylings. He was unfamiliar with the song, in the same way that he was unfamiliar with many of the songs of this little island of Britannia. Maybe it was German, and just translated into English. Not that it would matter anyway; The Great Bazhooli was not overly familiar with songs of Teutonic origins, either. So out of place it seemed, even among the people of the Circus, that Vlad's attempt to not stop and stare was doomed to head shaking futility. It lasted but a few seconds before the experienced performer shrugged the spectacle off and resumed his jaunt to his living area.

The tent itself served mostly as the landmark by which he navigated. The actual goal was the wagon hitched nearby. It was a fine piece of the carpenter's art, done up in muted red, black, and colors of natural wood. While it did not have the grandeur nor interior space of his tent, it served extraordinarily well as protection and shelter from adverse conditions. He opened the main door toward the front and motioned toward it for the benefit of the others in his immediate vicinity. "Viscount James, Master Adam and Master Zimmer, I give invite for three ov you to accept hospitality ov Great Bazhooli! Vardo, eh, is vagon - home when on road. Is for having little stove, places for the sleeping, et ceteras, da?" His voice slipped into a harsh whisper, and he even managed to duck a little to provide emphasis, beckoning the two children and Ludwig into a huddle. Whether or not they actually responded was of little consequence to the oft dramatic man, who continued explaining his intent in the same voice that was overly loud for a man trying to keep a secret. "Most important: Doors bar from inside. Good for when having to load pistol, good for vhen sleeping if place not friendly. NOW! ...sorry. Now, three ov you use tent. Use vardo. Make each other safe. I vill attend to guest." It was a temporary solution, until their own space could be established. Vladimir knew that the boys were to be spending a lot more time with the Circus, and if what Veta arranged with the German held up, they would be seeing a lot more of him as well. The boys would need certain things; clothes, shoes, their own spot in the caravan. Vlad had and to spare, even if he occasionally liked his privacy. Temporary, he told himself, but necessary. They had to be kept safe.

The Great Bazhooli turned with a determined look welded to his face, snapping his fingers separately, only to fill his hands with sharpened steel. It was a tiny piece of stage magic put to the use for which it was intended: Drama. And practice. But then the rugged look evaporated, only to be replaced with one of mild foolishness, as if he had forgotten something. Vlad jogged back to the vardo and impaled a meat pie with one of his very shiny knives, then continued on his way back to the Main Tent to assist with the restoration of the Circus, purposefully gnawing down his purloined savory goodness.

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{"In God's name let us go on bravely." -Joan of Arc}

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Location: Navigating the streets of London
Skills: Horseback Riding

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The steady rhythm of shod hooves upon cobblestone was filtered out of Mary's notice. They still registered as sound, but the keen senses of the young Apostolic were focused upon anything that might be a threat. Perhaps it was a fruitless endeavor; nonetheless one that Mary kept to, allowing her horse to maintain a straight and level course. Unless they had to turn, Mary's eyes scanned her surroundings. It was a benefit to having a horse trained for service under a Knight.

Mary could feel herself slipping back into the mindset of her Training. To that end, it galled her that she had to leave without giving word to her liaison with the Vatican, the Bishop Mansfield. She had given her word, however, and was bound by it unless a greater virtue or oath surpassed it. Neither could be the case in that instance. Her mission was to protect the life and safety of an innocent, to travel a great distance to do so, and to sate her own suspicions about the Lord in question. It was a righteous cause, without doubt. That knowledge firmed her resolve. The message would be taken care of in due time. Not to mention that a good chunk of her training revolved around the quiet, surreptitious removal of threats and obstacles from the path of other crusaders. Or for the common good. She was a Venator. It was implied by her mandate of service. No matter what title was bestowed upon her, or what honor lain at her feet, she would always be as she was - the tip of God's sword upon His creation, the unrelenting Agent of Our Lord's Church, a shield for the defenseless and a weapon for Humanity, until God bid her to take her place in His holy presence; and no man upon the earth could ever speak differently.

And upon all of this, Mary gave reverence to the Blessed Virgin in thanks that she was setting upon this quest with friends. Mary could not remember the last time that she had friends, let alone ones as capable as these. It made all the difference in the world.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Museum - Vera's Office
Skills: Codes/Ciphers

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The Lord Major gave a terse but polite nod in the directions of both Mahendra and Neema, acknowledging their offer of condolences despite a distinct lack of familiarity with either of the recently deceased. It was the proper thing to do, however, and he could not fault either of them for executing good form in the face of a personal crisis affecting a recent acquaintance. Much in the same way that Sergeant Walsh was really more of an acquaintance to Reginald, himself, being that he died after being sent away, following his direction, made the death feel much more personal. Aziza, on the other hand, was a dear friend of the Lord Major and had been for years.

The circumstances of their meeting were not quite cordial, granted, but after that initial open-palmed slap across his face things got a lot better between the two of them. Reginald would have dismissed the whole incident (in hindsight) as a minor misunderstanding, though she might have felt differently. Nonetheless, they got over it and became good friends. It all started with a slap... Reginald would always feel the stinging warmth of her hand on his cheek whenever he thought of her, until the end of his days.

For now, it appeared that the more bookish of the Fellowship were getting time in with what information that they could locate, and that wasn't taken during the robbery-turned-murder, and so Reginald awaited the arrival of the labor detail from the Barracks. Curiosity did tend to grab him, as it did many a man, prompting the less soldierly and more intellectual bits of his psyche to come to the forefront. Thanks to his training, Reginald had a firm grasp on recognizing and ordering patterns, even if he could not fully understand the language in which it was written. Long shot at best, but a fresh pair of eyes and perspective likely could not hurt the situation any.

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Galley/Lounge)
Skills: N/A

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In the traditional keeping of one properly raised in the social niceties of the grand moon of Farraday, the captain of industry and Barber Extraordinaire known to outsiders and mere mortals alike as Foy Coiffeur was sitting with perfectly maintained posture, deftly wielding a set of rather pedestrian chopsticks against the savory potency of the large yet pillowy Baozi, carefully cracking open the top of the mighty dumpling and dissecting the interior. He picked through this and that inside, sorting through the vegetables and appropriately sized chunks of barbecued pork almost as a surgeon might peruse the inner workings of a patient, though with a strikingly casual expression to his face.

He was taking advantage of the quiet moment to assess his present set of circumstances. Logically, this should be an occasion of moderate depression, stuck aboard a vessel for an indeterminate span of time with a collection of persons he would never have been in the same room with otherwise, given his social status and professional proclivities (the presence of his dear childhood friend Jahosafat aside, of course). But existing around this mismatched selection of people living their own quiet and respective desperations, their own struggles to overcome that which fate had slapped against them, if nothing else, was not boring.

True, things had hit a bit of a lull this past handful of minutes. Reflective time was necessary. Gave one the opportunity to get one's affairs in order and take stock of the goings on and implications thereof. So, as he quietly ate his meal, it occurred to him that these people would give him an opportunity to experience life on the Rim (and Border, he was rather fond of the Border planets) from a previously unseen perspective, surrounded by people who colored it with their own intensity. And that, to his highly cultured standards, was not boring. All the same, Foy gave a small smile every so often as he glanced in the direction of their new pilot.

Indeed, not boring.

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William Harper

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Galley/Lounge)
Skills: N/A

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With the only other person in the room bring uncharacteristically quiet, Harper almost felt like he was alone. Ordinarily that suited him just fine, and in fact did now to a point. Though he did feel just a little foolish with a spread out in front of him that be could never finish by himself on the most optimistic of days. He imagined that the Captain needed a bit of settling in time, though in truth he realized he wouldn't know what to imagine, seeing as he really didn't know these people at all. It was an interesting situation to be in.

So Harper kept to himself, idly sampling the local port fare of Newhope in the form of lightly seasoned nuts with fried basil and one ponderous looking baozi. After the first couple of bites, he began to realize that he was actually very hungry. Harper's first impulse was to take the food into a corner of the room and hunch over it protectively, horking it back as quickly as possible while keeping a hand near a makeshift stabbing utensil. Or at least consuming it as quickly and efficiently as possible before anybody noticed that he had a good, hot meal in front of him. He had to remind himself that he was not in those circumstances anymore, and forced himself to slow down some, stay in his seat, and actually enjoy his supper. Besides, if he finished up too early and called it an evening, he might miss the opportunity to be seen by the newer people. Socialization wasn't his forte, obviously. Establishing pecking order within a new group was pure survival instinct, however.

The Pilot formerly known as Lieutenant Harper (and presently, if Foy had his way) took a deep breath, wiped his hands on a disposable serviette, and took up his chopsticks. One piece at a time, one piece at a time. Hunger would abate soon enough. And if all he did was finish his meal quietly, with some semblance of the manners he was taught as a child, all the better. He could stand to get some rest in the relative safety of a private bunk in a ship outside of Alliance military control; he could also stand to get back in the habit of eating like a normal person. It was good for him.