Sigil

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

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Keystone

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Location: Deymin's Tower (2F and descending)
Interacting With: TZ, with hopeful finality

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Let's be honest, today was not exactly a banner day for Keystone. Let us remove from consideration the enemies that had fallen before the onslaught of his mighty, ham-sized fists, adorned in as they were with some of the finest worked metal of the Dwarves descended of the old Delzoun Clan. Let us also remove the opportunities he had (or was thrust into yet again) to remove more undead abominations from the face of the world. Now the bit about the bear... okay, that was noteworthy. Something to go in his memoirs the moment that he had a bit of quiet time. There may be a technique in it somewhere; Keystone had heard about fighting monks with the ability to throw great weight beyond what their strength should allow, and in a combat setting. Perhaps there was something to it that he was just beginning to tap into.

But he couldn't think about that now. At the immediate, Keystone had unwittingly dropped off the Troglodyte Zombie in the middle of the frigging stairwell, basically cutting off the egress of the rest of his group and trapping them in a sliding and tumbling deathtrap of worked, decrepit stone. Not a banner day.

There was the barest stroke of luck (kind of) as the beastie bounced from the stairwell wall, down to the floor, turned end-over-end and flopped with the diametric opposite of grace upon Keystone's back. The impact stressed the injury to his ribs from earlier and threatened to drive the air from his lungs. Good news: The undead bastich was no longer in the way of the retreating group. Bad news: Keystone was being used as a beast of burden for a snapping, snarling monster. Hopefully, that issue could be resolved in the next possible second.

Keystone had his chance as he stepped down to the second floor. He couldn't quite shake the thing off with his first, unwieldly attempt, but soon enough everything came together. Keystone planted a solid boot down upon questionable stone and reached both of his hands behind him. Strong, stone-like fingers found purchase on leathery, reptilian skin and would not compromise their grasp. The broad Pugilist pulled the creature up and over his head, giving it a split second of regard. Far be it for him to waste good momentum in a fight, Keystone carried the motion forward, hurling the troglodyte zombie away from himself. It tumbled and rolled through the air, hissing what he could only imagine were decidedly not words of encouragement before disappearing through a bare hole in the exterior wall.

If any gods were smiling upon their little adventure, the thing would be destroyed by the fall. Being as Keystone wasn't particularly fond of any of the gods of which he was aware, he prepared himself to have to finish the monster off when he got out downstairs. But for now: Run.

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Foy's Parlor)
Skills: Art, Perception

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Foy did genuinely enjoy hearing himself speak. It was a foregone conclusion that he would; after all, he did have a rather high opinion of himself. And it was a good while since he had a frank and earnest discussion about his family's ancestral occupation. It was an interesting triviality, learning the trade, for a man who had come up in the social and financial circles that he did. But somewhere deep within the foppish nature of his bloodline, there was honest work ethic and the desire to see an ancient craft maintained. Heaven forbid that circumstances reduce his people to (perish the thought) the working class, that the would have means of supporting themselves. Luckily, in that regard, Foy had other gifts to pass down that had very little to do with hair, nor the behavior of gentlemen.

So long as Jacqueline wished to pursue civilized conversation, he was all for it. Particularly as it allowed him to discuss matters of which he was highly, highly qualified. It did give him the barest hint of caution; a woman of her talents might just be buttering him up to be devoured later. His clothes, watch, and mannerisms did mark him as a man of means, even if his present circumstances of contract and lodging did not.

The dapper Farradayan gentleman smiled politely at Jacqueline's words and opened his mouth to respond, only to have the situation around them cut off his train of thought. The Preacher had collapsed just outside of his wonderful new parlor, his "Foy-er", if you will, and lay on the ground in a very alarming state. Foy's head swiveled around to his curious guest as she proactively defended her innocence. "Most assuredly madame, you did not do this! Worry not; if questioned on the matter, I shall provide proximal alibi even if I am unqualified to attest as a witness of character." He cleared his throat quietly and continued, "But greater matters are at the fore! You understand, of course."

He marched solidly to the door to his little parlor, executed a nigh-flawless military left-face, and depressed the general announcement button on the terminal to the ship's public address system. "Dr. Moreau and Dr. Pender, there is a Medical Emergency on the upper deck near the shuttle. That is to say, if the medical staff would be as gracious, our esteemed Shepherd has abruptly collapsed in the most uncomfortable looking, wide-eyed position imaginable mere feet from my door. I repeat: Medical Emergency, upper deck, near the shuttle. Thank you."

There was concern for the well being of the Preacher, though not the expertise to do anything except get directly in the way. As such, Foy made no attempt to practice medicinal skills he did not possess, opting instead to step back inside of his new parlor and attend to his guest. "There we are now, properly qualified assistance forthcoming. Sadly, I fear this has fractured our dialogue. Perhaps manners dictate we should hold a conversational hiatus until such time as our associate, The Shepherd, has tending?" Foy's eyebrows raised quizzically, even as he took a small sip of coffee from a delicate, porcelain cup.

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William Harper

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

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If it was not an expression already, then it damned well should have been: "...it's too early for Farraday..." he mumbled half unintelligibly, scratching the side of his head. The doctor was correct, though. Harper had overlooked basic manners and failed to acknowledge the others in the room. "mmm... I'm sorry. Good morning, Doctor." he quickly corrected, and turned to Mei to express similar sentiment. "Zǎoshang hǎo, Miss... Qiáo, was it? I am sorry, some details escape me from last night. If I did not properly introduce myself yesterday, my name is William Harper. Pilot." A bit stiff, perhaps, but after his evening that was to be expected.

Harper returned his gaze to Jahosafat and gave a polite smile. "I appreciate the offer. Thank you, Doctor." Just as he was pouring himself a mug of the steaming, black ambrosia, he heard Foy's voice ring out over the PA. "Atticus?" he said aloud. He hadn't gotten to know the Preacher all that well, but he seemed like an okay guy. Hopefully, this wasn't a huge issue. Though Harper did look to Jahosafat expectantly.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Museum - Vera's Office -> Qasr El Nil Barracks - Courtyard
Skills: N/A

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Qasr El Nil Barracks

_{Egyptian Museum located at the top right, diagonally across the street from the Barracks.}

It was with some relief that Reginald found the packages and items clearly marked for their extended outing precisely where they were left, just scant minutes ago. He had half expected some hooded figure to leap from the shadows and abscond with more of the artifacts that Vera and Nora were poring over, but not before dramatically twirling a handlebar moustache and issuing a full belly laugh. Perhaps there would have been a puff of oddly colored smoke accompanying the daring escape of said villain, along with a few bars of organ music. Considering the unpleasant happenings and the strange dreams that had been following him, or rather all of them, it wouldn't have been all that shocking to the Lord Major.

But no, it was a simple matter of a few armed men lifting a number of boxes and bags, while a few more armed men stood nearby being, well, armed. All the while, a generally vocal Corporal kept himself uncharacteristically subdued. Maybe he remembered his manners and was using his "inside voice", or was being respectful of the Museum overall. One would as soon scream the alphabet song in a public library or hurl a brick through a church window as disturb the perceived sanctity of the Cairo Museum. One would hope, anyway.

Reginald directed traffic as best he could, given the fact that there wasn't a while lot in that regard to direct. A simple "No no, lad. That's just a paperweight." or "The box with the chalk lettering, yes." sufficed plenty for the purposes of selection and hauling. Past that, a steadfast, "Mind the doorframe, there's a good fellow." was the last bit of sage advice necessary to have them underway. The sound of solid boots setting upon the floor in unison heralded the departure of the Lord Major, the distinguished Corporal, and a squad of uniformed Englishmen. Back out of the Museum, through the front doors, and out across the flat, sand-blown lot between the main gate of the Barracks and the Museum's entrance. Reginald stopped before the Curator very briefly, bowed and extended his hand for a shake, intoning, "The offer still stands, my good sir. Do be careful this evening."

Within the space of three minutes, the cadre of British regulars found themselves back inside of the Qasr El Nil Barracks. Reginald stayed in the courtyard as the remainder of the men saw to the artifacts. He had a lot on his mind, not the least of which being the safety of his dear nephew, Peter. He took in a lungful of Cairo's nighttime air and held it for a moment, allowing the start of strain to accumulate in his chest before blowing it back out. He wished he could do something about all of this. But no, the old war hero was relegated to his tasks without the ability to do more for his own kin. It was a touch worrisome.

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

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Keystone

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Location: Deymin's Tower (3F) -> (2F)
Interacting With: TZ

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Apparently, when you crush a Necromancer under the weight of a bear, it causes a sudden and irrevocable collapse of whatever building you're in. Good safety tip. Now, Keystone could ponder the accuracy of that last thought at a later point. Weigh the facts, as it were, but now was not the time. As it was presently, the whole damned tower was about to collapse upon them. Keystone could take a LOT of physical punishment. Lots. As best as he could figure though, a tower falling on his head was probably more than he could handle, at least at his current level of body conditioning. Running was by far the best option. Plus, it seemed that a couple of his number had the same idea. Time to go.

Though not the master sprinter, Keystone would not be denied the chance to save his own skin when it was obviously the best recourse. He could not help anyone if he was dead, and his great strength would not be of any help to the others. Fleetness of foot would, and it was a gift he could not just give to others. With this in mind, Keystone, Pugilist and Disciple of Shou Arts, Bodyguard, Pit Fighter, and Thrower of Bears put one foot in front of the other in rapid succession, blowing past Nor on the stairs (somehow shaking off that troublesome Troglodyte Zombie in the process), and winding up on the second floor landing before he was fully aware of his surroundings.

"Aw, bloody 'ell!"

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: La Hacienda
Skills: N/A

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The music becoming quieter did lower the overall energy of the viewing. It was to be expected, really, as this might be the point in time when a normal party would be winding down. Start to wind down, anyway. But this was a special occasion, if an occasion that was somber and colored with grief. Caesar and Thalia were both decorated with skull facepaint, matching the vast majority of the others present. It was intended (at least in part) to unify everyone as equals in the presence of Death. For a visual, it seemed to do so admirably. A large jug of spirits was passed around, finding its way to Thalia. Despite her differing skin tone and more urban appearance, she was able to tilt it back like a born and bred local, after which she passed it along to her uncle.

Caesar nodded his approval and performed a similar action, drinking deeply of the homemade spirits before himself passing it to the person next to him. It was an odd sort of ritual. They all were, to anyone unfamiliar with the family. It was a seamless blending of the Old Religion with the New with bits of superstitions thrown into the mix. Not so much because they believed in the superstitions, but because they had become harmless and nostalgic tradition, symbolizing actions from centuries ago that were no longer feasible to practice in full form due to legalities, barbarism, or simply good taste.

The thought hit Caesar that he had not seen his brother in a while, and Maria even longer than that. The two of them should feature prominently in the hubbub of the evening, though he could understand why they might want to be left alone. Things seemed to be in order here. Perhaps it was time to locate the lady who would be running part of his business for the foreseeable future and the father of the young lady he was allowing to return to California with him. He was certain that they had something to discuss.

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, (just outside) Elizabeth's Office
Skills: Leadership, Security Procedures

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Just like that, Keystone was dismissed as if he were delivering Thai food to a board meeting. He was not happy with this turn of events, not at all. But he was technically The Help, and they were the important people with whom he rarely associated anyway. He maintained the appearance of a dutiful security agent, which technically he was supposed to be at that moment anyway. Luckily for him, there was still the lady he had left inside of Ms. Queensguard's office for protection before he left to usher in Mrs. Pye from the main gate. Keystone spoke into his comm, which to the best of his knowledge had not been compromised just yet. "Vinters, keep tabs and brief me later on, yeah? I ain't invited in, looks about."

As it was, Keystone could very well have gone back into the party room, greeted old friends from across the pond and done a bit of Cockney'ing about, but there were more pressing issues at play right then. Starters being the fact that he'd gotten no more word from the rest of his team, including Alicia's people from Seattle. He was wary as hell about the whole situation, and very close to chucking it all and calling it a night, all the while daydreaming about setting the whole place ablaze and dancing naked among the ruins like a drunken pagan. But that would be a horrible dereliction of his duties. Instead, he used his comm once more to try and get some sort of hold on their original situation. "Huang, Whitmore, Ibanez. Report. All of ya, now. Where're we at? Start with Ibanez."

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert & James

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Location: Ville au Camp (Kitchen House)
Skills: Cooking

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The operation was backlit by oil-filled hurricane lamps, casting eerie, flickering shadows of the two figures within the room. A central countertop was utilized as an field of operation, strewn with jars of powders and liquids of differing viscosity and color, indicating a fairly amateurish and disorganized bent to operation proper. From underneath a makeshift surgeon's mask fashioned from a burgundy linen serviette, Gilbert issued his orders with confidence that belied the sheen of perspiration across his furrowed brow.

"Hand me the yellow powder. Stat. No, the other one."

James stood on the other side of the counter, the bandana that was usually around his head likewise being utilized as a mask. He lifted a sugar jar full of a pale gold colored, granulated substance which elicited a confirming nod from Gilbert. The uncertain blackneck halfheartedly raised his other hand to his bandana, tugging on it lightly. "Uh, Mr. Hat sir? Why the ass we doin' this? Is the mask really necess..."

"Shhh..." interrupted Gilbert, pressing his finger to his lips over the napkin-mask. "Keep it on. And try not to breathe too hard. One errant sneeze and this stuff can go everywhere. Now, pass me the brown one next. Yeeeess..." Whatever was being concocted in this room, it smelled strongly of butterscotch and cinnamon, with just a hint of vanilla.

"You mind tellin' me what the endgame is, here? Ain't we supposed to be handlin' refreshments?" Of course, James was going to go along with whatever his mentor for the evening had in mind, but this whole scenario struck him as the machinations of a man who was a little crazy, a little bored, or both. "It just seems like a awful lot of setup for... what're we...?"

"Punch." Gilbert let the word hang in the air. It earned him a quizzical look from James, not in part due to the fact that one of the elder beings of in humanity's history, and a brick shithouse strong one at that just eyeballed him and used a word indicating either a classic party beverage or an act of manual assault, a thing which the Emendator was undoubtedly capable of inflicting. James hoped it was the former rather than the latter. "Now, hand me that blackstrap molasses and the carbonating activator. Quickly!"

James was very familiar with the molasses. Carbonating activator, not so much. In the dim light, he couldn't quite figure out which of the many fluids and solids, granules and syrups resulted in making an otherwise flat liquid bubbly. Though, if he had his preferences, he'd rather just have a Coke and be done with it. His hesitation was apparently not to be tolerated that evening, not when something he was assured was 'refreshment' was at stake. "Ah, Yo' Hatness? Which one o' these's...?"

"Quickly, Mr. Grady! Punch is at stake! We must slake the thirst of these young and impressionable local children, and this must be assembled at precisely the right intervals of time." He pointed at a small jar containing disk shaped tablets. "Those, James. Toss in three." The resulting whoosh of chemically promoted air was held down, at least in part, by the sheen of denatured molasses across the top of what could only be described as a thick, glass punchbowl. "Now, if this was made properly, it should taste like fizzy, liquid gingerbread. It is so much better when you make it with spirits, naturally, but it is supposed to be for kids. Grab that cart, we'll run this and the other stuff back to the meeting place. But carefully."

Briefly, if but for a second, James wondered what it would have been like if he'd opted out of being a Paradox.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Arnco Mills Safehouse (E10)
Skills: Leadership

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"Zebulon, heard you." responded Ash, his voice still tight and authoritarian. Zebulon was the plan. It was a good plan, all things considered, but a couple of things were nagging at him. First, they had set up caches of supplies in a number of places. Once they pushed out of the area, it would be a lot harder to retrieve them later. Second, Eden was still lurking out there. Assuming that it wasn't a huge suicide mission, and Thana was leading her team to a crushing victory, then they had a ton of supplies in a few different locations that would be left unguarded. Or less guarded, anyway. Enough to make it worth the trip. Ash could make sure his people had food and bullets for a long time yet. Long enough to get someplace with a long growing season and start sowing seeds.

But that wasn't the plan. He told Thana in very simple words that he was going to hit safehouses, then Zebulon, then Mexico Beach. They would end up meeting in one of those places, hell or high water, if they were alive. He meant to honor that promise and give Thana back her dog tags, then take her someplace quiet and make it a lot more noisy.

"No word from the third safehouse yet?" It was a shame. But it held a glimmer of possibility. If anyone were traveling on foot, or detained somehow, waiting until morning would give them time to check into one of the three established safehouses. And since they would have to get around Newnan (or the hole that remained of it) to get to Zebulon, it wouldn't be out of their way at all to check by Moreland on their way out. "We'll swing by there on the way out tomorrow and pick up any supplies or people we can. You guys be careful. We haven't used the fallback point in a long time. Over."

Ash looked around the room. Haggard as he was, he still wanted to move out, get as many as people he could and help with the assault on Eden, or even go raiding their supply outposts. Niesha was already asleep. The rest looked beaten down by the reality of their situation. They were already settling in. Morning. Push hard in the morning. They all needed rest now. Still, his mind was on Thana and Beatrice, even Gavin of all people. The others he didn't know, but they were risking their lives so that his people had a chance. It meant a lot.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Eden, top of stairs
Skills: Stealth, Pistol, Sharp Weapons

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Thalia heard the shots. But it more than that, she heard the singing stop. Abruptly, painfully, the logical part of her brain knew what that most likely meant, but she wasn't going to allow herself to believe it until she set her own eyes to it. Not even Gavin's pleading supplication to whomever was listening registered fully with her.

Lola was her best friend in the world. She was larger than life. She was invincible. It didn't matter that everything she did flew in the face of actual survival tactics, she always overcame whatever problems were thrown at her. These thoughts stayed with Thalia as she ascended the stairs, weapons at the ready. This was still killing ground, after all, made evident by continuing gunfire and the Texan's insistence that they had more hostiles upstairs.

She saw Gavin first, bleeding but still kicking, and stepped around him with her 9mm raised. She didn't waste time with words, preferring to greet the person responsible for Gavin's blood seeing open air with two shots; one striking his gut and the other drilling into the top of his head when he doubled over. She mentally took stock of the rounds left in her weapon. Yeah, she was good for now. She was even becoming fond of the Beretta she claimed from Thana's friend's belongings.

That's when Thalia saw her. Lola'a lifeless body sprawled on the floor, covered in her own blood. Her pulse pounded in her ears aa a wave of apologetic sorrow washed over her. Lola was here because she was Thalia's friend, period. She might have been just as happy going with their original plan that took them into Texas and then Mexico, riding the highways and living off of the land. Lola made her own choices. Thalia couldn't help feeling partly responsible anyway. Slowly, carefully, she took one knee beside her fallen friend and replaced the machete in her hand with the knife at Lola's belt. She pressed the tip to the sweet spot on the back of her head near where the spine joins the skull, and with a deft motion ensured that her rest would remain undisturbed. Thalia allowed herself a second of grief; just enough that single lines of tears marred the ashen death design on her face. Somehow, it made her look more intimidating, more driven, now that she was painted with honest emotion.

Movement caught the corner of her eye. Before she knew what was happening, her gun was already raised and firing off two shots, catching a nasty piece of someone coming out of the room to the east. Maybe he was dead, maybe he wasn't, but the son-of-a-bitch wasn't moving and there was a slowly growing red puddle around him. Thalia snatched up her machete and rose from the floor. There would most certainly be others.

Crying time was over for now. This was a new floor full of horrors and people who needed to be put down like the rabid dogs they were. Lola was gone, Gavin was hurt but not dead, and between Thalia and the big Texan, they had to hold the area until the others could filter up. Taking on a tone and expression that was strikingly, startlingly like her Tio Caesar, Thalia called down the stairs, "We need to move. Now."

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Российский императорский цирк

(Russian Imperial Circus)

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The sun rose over a Circus in disarray. The lack of patronage was not the huge issue, though it was a little disappointing considering the fact that it was London during the Season. They should be making money, tons of it, hand over fist. Instead, they had to rely mainly on the sack of gold Crowns that The Great Bazhooli had negotiated for his performance at Astley's Amphitheatre to float their base expenses. They had existing savings, moreover they had things of value they could part with easily to keep them floating for a decent amount of time. The exchange rate on rubles in this part of the world might smack them as being somewhat unfavorable, but good, silver coin was worth its weight no matter where one traveled. It was a benefit to being Circus Folk.

No, the Circus woke in disarray because of the unexplained absence of one of their own, their Imperial charge, the one for whom much of their endeavors were geared toward. The Circus had raised her from an uncertain noble girl into a proud, strong woman; a future Czarina, leader of their nation. The Circus was powerful enough to be entrusted with her safety. In return for this honor, the Czars of Russia agreed to provide supplementary funding necessary to keep them running smoothly, doing their duties and taking care of various difficulties around the Empire. For lack of a better way of phrasing it, they had one job. On a more self-advancing note, making sure Elizaveta survived to ascend the throne would be rewarded with the Alexandrov patriarch's elevation from Baron to Count, a thing which would not only increase their land holdings immensely, but legitimize the Alexandrovs among other, higher nobility despite their Rusyn Gypsy bloodlines.

If Elizaveta got herself killed on some fool's errand while under their care and protection, there would be hell to pay. Part of that hell would come from the Bazhoolis themselves as they had come to truly love and trust their little Veta, now all grown up.

But even as he sun rose on a Circus in disarray, it still rose. There was still a Circus, still a Baron over it all, and still a Ringmaster and Great Bazhooli both to lead their people in this uncertain time. But life was not bright and hopeful everywhere in the Tent City, oh no. There is always a dark spot to make one appreciate the light all the more. This particular dark spot was over in the makeshift stables, where the Circus's uninvited guest was set to sleep off his reaction to the distillations of beets and potatoes. Some reactions were better than others, apparently.

Upon noting that the Londoner was awake, cleaned, and dressed, one of the guards called to a woman nearby. She responded in Russian with an impatient sounding voice, but seemed to comply nevertheless by bringing a bowl and a two large mugs on a platter over to the stable. The guard muttered something else to the woman, who responded by sharing a gesture that, in her culture, was likely very rude. After a good chuckle over the whole exchange, the guard turned back to Thalken and set the platter inside of the stabling while another held a pistol ready. When it was safely inside and still upright, both men retreated from the stall.

The bowl was wide and shallow, holding a half loaf of bread that was likely made the day before, as well as a couple of local pears and some shelled walnuts. One mug was mostly full with goat's milk and the other one with what was most likely beer of some kind. The first guard nodded, intoning with a heavy accent of his homeland, "Dog Hair, da?"

Elsewhere, The Baron Dmitri Alexandrov was livid. Word had reached him of Veta's absence, and he was highly unhappy about it. Highly.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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Location: Russian Imperial Circus (Regent's Park), Veta's Tent
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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The note was simple. Very straightforward, saying nothing but speaking volumes. "Do not follow", implying danger or at least complication were she to not leave quietly and alone. Except, she wasn't alone, if Sister Sophia was to be believed. The Grand Duchess left with a tiny entourage of more local persons; the timeless porcelain beauty of the Lady Crypt and Sister Mary, a lady of serene piety painted with flame. Surely with these two, his Veta would have a better chance than not of succeeding, or at least surviving whatever difficulties lay ahead of them.

Vladimir knew that Elizaveta could take care of herself. He knew that she was as proficient a warrior as any in the Circus, which was high praise indeed considering their history. She was already so strong, and had not yet reached the peak of her Rusyn skills. But to him, she was not the Grand Duchess, nor was she a soldier in service to her people. This was Veta, a little girl that he and his Izolde (God rest her soul) raised from a young age into womanhood, alongside their own children. As Vlad stared at the note, the worry of a father took him. Maybe this is what Veta was trying to avoid all along. Or maybe it was his next decision.

Fully assuming the posture of The Great Bazhooli, his raspy, projected voice boomed across the Circus in a manner that demanded respect and immediate acquiescence. "Sem'ya! Pull stakes! Ready horses! Gather provision and sharpen knives!" Vladimir raised his arms high and wide, turning around to emphasize the fact that he required as much attention paid to his words as possible.

By his second turn, Vlad was surprised to see the fuming form of his father, the Baron Alexandrov, standing just out of his arm's reach. With cold but understanding voice, he spoke to his son. "You vill not go galavanting off vith Bazhooli Sem'ya on fruitless mission. Do you understand?"

"Father, I..."

"No! You vould run off blindly, taking family vith you. Find out vhat you can. Learn. See. Then come back to me. Ve move whole of Circus at vonce. You understand?"

A smile crept across Vladimir's face. The Circus moves as one. "Thank you, my Baron." and over to Ludwig, of all people, "Is only vone vay from city. Hard to miss those three, vith tiger. You vill help, da?" He was their new ally. Time to test that.

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{"In that day their strong cities will be like forsaken places in the forest; And the land will be a desolation." -Isaiah 17:9}

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Location: Nottingham
Skills: Horseback Riding

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Mary nodded her head at Elizaveta's words. This was not how she handled her affairs, but she was pledged to Veta's preferences in this endeavor. "Very well. Perhaps it is best." she relented, continuing to nod as if in thought. "I know not about tigers, Veta, but my horse will need more than an hour's rest if we are to keep this pace. And I would not mind something hot on my stomach, either." They were pressed for time, but it would help no one if Cassius went lame in the meantime.

Mary approached the stableboy and slid from her horse. She handed over a coin, asking with sweet demeanor, "Oh, do not be afraid. Would you please take good care of my Cassius? Good oats and water, brush him down please? And if you could, is there a decent place nearby for a meal? I am famished." She removed her saddlebags and slung them across her shoulder, awaiting a response.

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Foy's Parlor)
Skills: Art, Perception

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Not to be undone by conversation so early in the morning, Foy retorted to the newest of guests aboard Prometheus in shorter form (for him), "Why madame, when out pursuing endeavors clandestine within the enveloping arms of the diatant Black, a Farradayan aristocrat is oft found conversing with one's self. Many a time, it is the only way in which stimulating conversation may occur." The smile on his face made it uncertain whether he was saying this as a joke or with smug certainty.

"Although, let it never be spoken aloud that I do not possess the trappings of genteel civility. And to that end..." he continued speaking, even as he poured a wide, shallow, porcelain cup of aromatic and rich brown coffee. He set it upon a saucer with two smallish candies wrapped in silvered paper and held it out to Jacqueline, "Good Morning." The words were spoken as if a grand presentation, and not merely the offering of an a.m. pick-me-up. Though to his credit, this was the high quality stuff.

"Though, concerning your hair, madame, I should believe that you, being in the ah... profession that you are, you would prefer something versatile, but with body. Hmm, indeed. A style that you may change readily, that holds up well to repeated dyeing. Volume, of course, and perhaps some highlights. Maybe even a tinge more red... Have you any preferences to add?"

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William Harper

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Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Captain's Cabin)
Skills: N/A

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Harper couldn't quite tell if the silence he received in response to his awkward query was due to amusement on the Captain's part, or if another motivator was present. Nevertheless, the ramifications of the previous evening would have to be sorted out at a later time. He needed to get his personals together and make a discreet exit from Anisa's cabin before anyone noticed. It was not accurate to say that he was ashamed of what had transpired, but overt knowledge (to his estimation) at that time would lead to professional complications that he, quite frankly, had no desire to address. Some may accuse him of currying favor in the age-old and well respected method of sleeping his way to the top, while others might berate the Captain for taking advantage of a new crew member. Harper wasn't sure how it worked out on the Rim, but in the military these little complications led to division. He didn't need that and he was pretty sure that Anisa didn't need that either.

Yet there she stood, staring at him from the shower. Harper sighed and slipped on his coveralls and boots. He grabbed his things and stood by the door with minimal hesitation; this close to the bridge, there were fewer people that he might run into when he opened the door, in theory. The three officers' cabins were clustered up this way, so it was Anisa, himself, and Dorothy. The only one he had to worry about running into, again in theory, was Dorothy. So, it was time to act nonchalant. Ish.

"I'll have your coffee ready in the Galley in about fifteen minutes, Ma'am. We can continue our debriefing at a later time." Wait, was that sarcasm? That was sarcasm. Probably not the smartest idea Harper ever had. It just slipped out, like a dormant part of his personality that bled through the cracks of whatever persona he had to adopt to survive. But this lady knew the truth about him. Once upon a time, he was an able ship's officer. No reason he can't be one again. Harper cleared his throat to suppress a smile, and left the room with a respectful, "Captain."

Oh, he was in it now. The thought that he was most definitely bound to the fate of this ship and her Captain for the next two years was not lost on him in that moment. Whatever this new development meant or didn't mean, Harper had to look back on the total of yesterday and smile. He was living. Participating in humanity, ups and downs of all of it. Yesterday was a really good day.

Harper spent the next few minutes in his cabin readying for the day. Military training and a lack of personal resources kept his morning rituals short - fast, utilitarian shower followed by dressing in essentially the same type of clothing he was wearing the day before. Black and grey tac coveralls and a fitting shirt underneath. He buckled on his gunbelt which used to belong to the crew's previous mercenary, a woman he had only seen through glass and at a distance once before her death. He had her field knife, too, though it was more of a utility item than a first selection for melee. No, for that Harper had his massive wrench, a thing which he spun in his fingers once and slipped into the tool pocket of his coveralls opposite his pistol.

Confidence and caution reinvigorated, Harper sought to hit the ground running today. First order was coffee, for himself and for Anisa, as he had promised. He was pretty sure that there were still leftover bits of what Atticus prepared the day before, which would suffice for a passable breakfast. But first, coffee.

Striding down the length of the ship's upper deck, he sid note the scent of coffee wafting through the air; a common variety and a note of something a little more pricey, which from experience told him that it must be coming from Foy's corner of Prometheus. He'd rather avoid conversation with the man foest thing in the morning, and so took the route to the galley that did not have him passing the man's parlor. Once in the area of the ship that doubled as their lounge, kitchen, and dining area, Harper set about the task of reading a simple cup for himself, and a place setting for the Captain at the head of the most prominent table. It was the least he could do that morning.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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

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Qasr El Nil Barracks

_{Egyptian Museum located at the top right, diagonally across the street from the Barracks.}

The squad of England's Finest was upon the front doors to the Museum, in a rate of speed that was deceptively speedy. It must have had something to do with the jaunty, often comical, yet highly efficient manner in which the soldiery of the British Empire set one foot in front of the other one, all in unison, with only a minimal of prompting (read: verbal harassment) from the Corporal in charge of their detachment.

"Y'right! Right! Y'right! Right! Company (wait for it) HALT!"

The squad came to a uniform stop directly in front of the landing of the Museum's doors. With customary vigor, the detail oriented Corporal addressed Reginald in the only manner befitting a man of his rank and nobility. Loudly. "Security Detail present and awaiting orders, Lord MAJOR!" One might actually see the intensity on the man's face, evident by the reddish tinge to his cheeks and the vein becoming prominent on his forehead.

"Yes, yes. Of course, Corporal." Reginald cleared his throat and addressed the soldiers directly. "Gentleman, within and just to the exterior of Lady Munn's office, you shall find certain packages and items that are marked. I shall accompany to ensure that nothing is missed, nor is anything unnecessary to the assignment removed. They are to be stored in a safe room until such time as they are called for. Additionally, if a ranking employee of the Museum need examine anything, they are to be given full access, and under active guard. That would be this man here or Lady Munn, are we quite clear?"

Reginald looked to the Curator, nodding in a manner that suggested cooperation. Quietly, he intoned to the man, "I have no desire to retain the treasures of Egypt, my good man, nor restrict you from them. Per Vera's request, they shall be kept safe and well cared for. Now sir, if I may again attempt to interest you in the safety and hospitality of the Barracks, it is available to you." With that, the Lord Major turned and led the soldiers down the short walk to Vera's office, hopefully to claim the items in question without incident.