Sigil

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert & James

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Location: Ville au Camp (Outside of the Kitchen House) * Ville au Camp (Outside of the Kitchen House) -> By the Oak
Skills: N/A

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The smile dropped from Gilbert's face. It was just a second before it returned, but damage done - in that second, Gil looked rather insulted. In the second that followed, his shoulders relaxed and he forced himself to reassert his casual posture, like he usually had. He then removed his hat and addressed James. "Mr. Grady?" Now he was being formal. It made James a little uncomfortable after the last bit of time with Gil being creative and, well, strange. The sudden blast of insistence made him think that something was up, and at the same time glad that it wasn't aimed at him. He was curious about the nature of the conversation they were about to have, and at the same time he had been looking forward to the simplicity of something that passed for a regular conversation. "Mr. Grady, would you please bring the cart around to the Oak? It looks like everyone is meeting there now. Once everyone has something, do ask Miss Lucas where she wants it afterwards? I will join you in a few minutes."

"Mmm hmm." responded James, unsure as to whether or not he appreciated the tone of the request. However, he did take over the cart, careful not to slosh things too much. There was a fitting cover over the punch bowl, but it would do no one any good if the sodas (or did they call them phosphates now?) got all fizzed up. He barely heard the start of the conversation, finally deciding that he wanted nothing to do with it. Well, he was going to ask about it out of sheer, morbid curiosity, but right in that moment he was just fine waiting for the cliff notes.

After James had moved away a few paces, Gilbert turned to Sophia. "You are new here, Sophia. So please listen and bear with me." He then cast a glance over in Nancy's direction, "But you already know, Inanna. I do not use my abilities lightly. None of us are supposed to. I am not here to pull a metaphorical nor a literal rabbit out of a hat to amuse others. And I do not want my personal tools - most of which I made myself - used to prank anyone, let alone children." He set his fedora back on his head and nudged it to a mildly rakish angle. His lighter mood seemed to return, even. "You can find corn syrup and red food dye in the Kitchen House. Or ketchup. Take your pick. In the dark, I'd imagine a pie server or something similar might pass muster." He tilted his hat back to a more even set upon his head, then advised Sophia directly, "Come to me when you need something, Sophia. Not when you want something. We do it this way for good reasons."

Meanwhile, James was busy making his way over to the Oak, or nearabouts. The ground was fading from packed gravel to mostly even grass and fallen leaves. There were Paradoxes and local children present, each listening to stories or making commentary. The style of clothing (or God forbid, those costumes) was mostly unfamiliar to him. Strange, even. But the laughter of kids was something he had not experienced in a while. Being around kids that were free to actually have fun without worrying about making too much noise, lest they drew the attention of rotting, shambling, former people who were blindly intent upon eating them all. "Aight, y'all!" he called, the moment that there was an appreciable break in the stories, "Got us some of that good punch an' sodas over here! Little somethin' to wash all that Halloween candy down, hear? Y'all grownups get in on some of this, too! This here's the good stuff." He popped the cover from the top of the punch bowl and picked up the ladle. The faint scent of candied ambrosia wafted across the clearing. "One at a time, plenty for all. An' when we got them thirsties knocked out, ol' James got his own piece of story for all y'all, alright?"

"The punch is a non-alcoholic version of a beverage I call a 'Gingerbread-Man', Sophia." he said without a glimmer of his previous annoyance in his voice. "Some time soon, I will have to make you the real thing. It is an experience."

Gilbert opened his mouth to speak again when he suddenly stopped, throwing his attention back up the road leading to the Kitchen House. "I see that she has returned. Interesting." He motioned to a raven haired woman of extremely pale complexion who was approaching the gathering, and walked toward her with his arms open wide as to give a huge embrace between people very familiar with one another. "You... How was London, dearest? Foggy, eventful, tragic? You know that I can tell, but I love hearing the way you speak about your adventures so much more."

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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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The chicken and dumplings found in the MRE were exactly as he remembered them. They even pulled the odd memory from years past, taking a quick break from establishing a fortification or installing a water system for a friendly settlement to sit down in the shade and rip open some quick but nourishing C class rations. Just like now, he didn't bother to use the heating element, preferring to pocket it instead. He knew of a few interesting things to do with a stable chemical heating element in pressed situation. Some of them were outright devious in their simple ingenuity; soldiers, especially military engineers, were a resourceful bunch.

Before he had finished his meal proper, Ash remembered that he wanted to take stock of what supplies they had. He squeezed the remainder of the room temperature entree from its plastic pouch and into his mouth, then tucked the empty container back into the MRE's outer bag. He took a long look at the pile of bags and supplies in the middle of the room. It was a good haul for a group out in the world, certainly, though it was a pittance considering what they had to work with just a day ago.

One bag was separate from the others. At first, he didn't recognize the bag. They didn't pull it from the house, the Hordebuster, nor was it his personal ruck. Then it hit him: That was Thana's personal bag. If he was going to assess what they had to work with, he may as well start there. Ash wasn't going through her belongings because he thought that she was dead, at least that's what he forced himself to put out of his mind, it was an honest assessment of what they had at their disposal. For whatever situation might pop up, he needed to know if she had an extra gun in there, or a firestarter, or some manner of odd widget that seemed useless now but would reveal itself to be insanely necessary at just the right moment. It wasn't a breach of her privacy. At least he hoped it would not be viewed that way when he saw her again. If.

The dog tags around his neck seemed to grow cold. He had both his and Thana's now, and had just became very conscious of that fact. If only his father could see him now, pining over a Navy girl. It likely would have led to a mildly uncomfortable discussion around the dinner table. Or it would have, things being different. But that was a different world altogether, now. Ash put it out of his mind and opened the pack. He looked inside and took a deep breath to steady himself.

It wasn't anything too unexpected, really. A half dozen MREs and a decent knife stood out first. The knife was a Gerber, he could tell that right off. So far as military knives went, he was a KA-BAR man himself, but Gerber put out a fine stabbing utensil, no doubt. But then two things got him: One was a mostly full can of Folgers Coffee. The other was a neatly folded Navy Class A Uniform, known better among those in the know as Dress Blues. Her old formal uniform. He didn't take it out to get a better look, preferring to just sit there, staring at it for a few seconds before hanging his head. Everything went back in the pack. He set it carefully on the floor, remaining seated. Ash needed a moment before checking anything else.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Eden, Lower Lobby
Skills: Stealth, Survival, Pistol

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Thalia shook her head. This was probably the wrong decision. If nothing else, she didn't want to worry about who was at her back. The only person that she even knew at the beginning of this day was laying on the ground, covered in her own blood and never to open her eyes again. The rest of these assholes and reprobates she had met a matter of short hours ago. Well, a couple of them seemed okay, and she was getting a grudging amount of respect for the old man, Alexander, despite the impression he had left her with at first. She trusted the guy to do what needed to be done, provided the poor bastard revealed intentions other than what he was weeping about just before. Still, an amount of surety would have come with a bullet.

She likewise shook her head at Thana's sudden dip back into acting the Officer. Hell, maybe it was for the best. Thalia had her own plans as to what she wanted to do tactically within these walls, foremost being locating the armory (if there was one) and/or taking out as many with stealth as possible. Admittedly, that last bit seemed to have been put off by things beyond their immediate control. And for her, locating an Armory was more about preventing others from accessing it than getting hold of the goodies for herself, anyway. She was a blade and pistol girl mostly. In circumstances such as these, at any rate.

Well, Thana had given an order. Or their present small-unit strategy. Whatever. It seemed like a decent enough plan, too - The three women took the vanguard while Mugs handles the new guy (rescue?) and keeps an eye on him. Thana hurried to take the lead, and Thalia set her jaw with stoic determination and looked to Alexander, offering, "Sorry you're on bitch detail." before rushing to join the even more determined woman who had already gotten ahead of her.

She stayed a step or two back from the lady she had fallen into the habit of calling "Navy", still holding two pistols at relaxed guard at 45 degree angles from her center line. "Got your flanks." she said quietly. The last thing they needed was some asshat leaping out from a side room and making life interesting. She'd rather put a knife to these people, in all honesty. Being a realist and a survivalist, Thalia understood that her preferences were not always the right path to staying alive.

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

To keep things fluid, if anyone needs to bunny Harper and Foy for the purposes of getting Atticus down to Medical, go right ahead.

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Prometheus (Foy's Parlor) -> Upper Deck: Outside Foyer
Skills: Perception

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While not an overly selfish man, Foy looked at the situation logically. He was simply not equipped to deal with the fate of a man who was on the cusp of death, not unless he was the guy who put him there. Even then, there would be significantly more blood exposed to open air were he involved, be it spread about by the application of random sharp implements or, and statistically more likely, a hail of well-placed gunfire. He was awfully fond of his Callahan in that regard; it really rounded out his options in a firefight and had an intimidating silhouette. But that was neither here nor there. In this instant, Foy was powerless to do anything for anyone aside from stand there and sip, sip, sip his coffee, nonchalantly leaning in the doorway to the Foy-er.

He could see the exertion building on Jahosafat's face, the perspiration building. Foy would spare his friend the indignity of such sweat-inducing pursuits, seeing as they were not related to the understandable activities of training, wenching, or engaging in a gentlemanly "row" (preferably involving knuckle-out fisticuffs). But this was his chosen occupation, and Foy would attest that Jahosafat was indeed quite talented at his profession. It would seem right that he invest his energies and the very water of his life into practicing the medicinal arts, just as Foy might be seen sporting a sheen of moisture across his brow on the occasions that he had to take up arms and/or leave a lasting impression whereever his contract holders requested that an impression last.

All at once, the dapper practitioner of all things Barber-y straightened from his position of leaning repose with a sudden look of realization. A minor "Aha!" moment, if you will. He deftly skirted around the people involved with the medical emergency directly, coming to stop within direct line of sight with their pilot, Harper. The wheels of Foy's mind turned and grated, but only for a second. There was a life in the balance, of course. "I say, you have the look of a very relaxed but horribly vestigial human being just this minute. However would you like to do something beneficial, that does not involve your scrutinizing the repetitive motions of Captain Crowe atop our dear Brother Atticus?"

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William Harper

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Location: Prometheus (Corridor to the fore of the Lounge, near Foy's Parlor) -> Upper Deck: Outside Foyer
Skills: N/A

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Harper looked into Foy's eyes, his own narrowing in response to the man's not-quite-accusatory statement. He was an educated man, and as such was fully capable of following the ins and outs of Foy's constant verbal ...Foyness. It was like he was digging for information without actually asking questions. In this particular instance, it looked like he actually needed something. Harper didn't say a word, merely responding by nodding his head slowly and assuming a more active stance. His hands came together in front of him and cocked his head to one side, imitating the appearance of impatience.

"Splendid, Lieutenant Harper!" retorted Foy, turning around and striding in the direction of the ship's fore. He continued to speak as he walked, confidant that the pilot was following him. "You seem the stalwart and physically apt fellow, despite your former seeming emaciation, my good man." He was of course referring to the day that he appeared on the docks at Persephone, fresh on a new assignment with his orders in hand. Harper was admittedly a little wiry that day, and in fact still was, though the past couple of weeks were beneficial to him in that regard.

Still without speech, Harper fell into step behind Foy, one part of him curious as to what he had in mind and another part simply pleased that he was doing something useful. He hoped, anyway. If this Farradayan was leading him away to help reorganize his collection of fine, silk ties, then Harper may have to readdress his feelings about the Captain's stance on airlock based capital punishment. But as it was, Foy was leading them fore a bit farther, and now at quickening pace.

A matter of seconds later, the pair of them arrived at the door to Jahosafat's quarters. The casual nature of the morning, up until the pressing cardiac event, led to the eventuality of an unlatched door, allowing the two of them access to the private room of the Farradayan doctor. To Harper, it felt like a breach of privacy. Curiosity got the better of him, however, and he filed into the room behind Foy. The bespoke suited dandy had already moved to a rather large, flat-topped chest toward the back of the room and popped the fitted lid from it completely, revealing a selection of fine, well cared for hats. Just lovely, immaculate, and brushed hats of leather, suede, felt, even. It really was an amazing collection of quality headwear. The sight of it made a single wire of growing, stinging heat blossom in Harper's mind. For a moment, it looked like he really did want him to help with some bit of redundant uppercrust knickknacks.

The idea of bashing him in the back of his finely coiffed head with his spanner and then stuffing his still twitching corpse into the steamer chest full of hats was becoming more and more plausible with each passing nanosecond. Then he might then return to the ongoing emergency and swear up and down that he had no idea what happened to the arrogant bastard. Then Foy said something unexpected: "I say, don't act the surly stone obelisk, Harper; lend the metaphorical and literal hand - or some two, I should say, and let us appropriate this trunk lid as an impromptu body board so that we may transport our comrade-in-arms to the Medical Bay proper. Shall we?"

There was a note of relief when Harper realized that Foy was actually attempting to work in the best interests of the Shepherd. Not only that, but he had a fairly good idea as well. "All right. You get that end." A truce of sorts between the two men, perhaps. For the meantime, the two men brought the wide, reinforced lid from Jahosafat's quarters back to the scene of the ongoing emergency and laid it down to one side of Atticus and the continuing attention of Jahosafat, Anisa, and now Dorothy. "Let us know when we can move him." Harper said flatly.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: 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.}

Reginald's thoughts on life in general, as well as the many, growing worries of the day aside, there was a stillness in the air that he had not felt in quite a while. It was the tingling, growing feeling of anxious energy that he generally only felt before a coming battle. This wasn't too far off, if one thought about it. A mission, if you will. Even if exploratory in nature, it was something that got him out into the open world to accomplish a task with lettered professionals and talented lay people. It did not involve sitting about the Barracks rotting of boredom and booze nor signing the same papers on regular intervals. It was a taste of living again.

And just so long as he was preparing for another little adventure, he had failed to notice the temporary pavilion of muslin colored canvas set up near supply. There were a bevy of boxes and crates, each stamped with the seal of the Crown and labeled for basic content with thick block letters stacked neatly underneath. Sadly, there was more than a fair amount of the same type of tinned rations that he was subjected to back during the Great War, but a fair amount of rice, potatoes, and the like that were ordinarily reserved for garrison rations but would hold up well to travel. The makings for road bread were present, as well as tinned meat, bacon, coffee, and of course, he would have access to his own private selection of fine teas. Quartermastered dry goods were there as well, rope, utility clothing of appropriate sizes, packs, tools (oh yes, lots of those) etc, and while they all would have to make certain little sacrifices that one must make when away from large areas of civilization proper, they should be decently taken care of for their journey.

Reginald ran his hand along the boxes and crates, eventually giving a long sigh. He did wish that his dear nephew was there to share the moment with him, but that would have to wait until his return. Perhaps there would be a huge bundle of good news when Peter showed back up, one which could be dropped on him in a huge explosion of optimism. Yes, perhaps. But something kept him from being quite so hopeful. Maybe it was something he and/or George mentioned that he hadn't really paused to figure out, that also did not make sense at the time. All he could do was wait.

🦄 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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It appeared that Caesar would not be meeting and speaking with Miss Maria Santiago (formerly Mrs. Maria Gonzalez) that evening. He had asked around, spoken with the ubiquitous and damn near omnipresent abuelitas that seemed to form the leading rumormill about the complex whenever family got together, and gathered as much information as was necessary to know that she would not be joining them for the remainder of the evening. That, and his tiny grandson was well taken care of, complete with being put down for the evening. In truth, it probably would have been better if he had gone down a lot earlier. Special occasions call for exceptions to standing rules sometimes, even if that occasion was the funeral of a cherished, central member of the family.

The concept of the viewing was such that the deceased would be laid out for view for hours, with prayer, feasting, and the celebration of their life happening around them. All at a respectful distance, of course. Actual burial would take place at the crack of dawn in the family crypt. Caesar and their Angelita would have to be ready to hit the airport the moment that she was properly interred and given honors befitting her. But first...

Caesar and Thalia turned from Alicia's remains, both using the back of their hands to remove an errant spot or two of homemade booze from their face without damaging the designs of the ash upon their faces. Both looked amazingly surprised at the serious, sober eyes of Benicio staring at them. For a long time, no words were spoken. Even as the rest of the courtyard seemed to melt away, they just stood, locked in a conversation comprised entirely of regarding glances and the tiniest of facial movements.

"I cannot stop you." he finally said aloud. "I do not like this at all, but I cannot stop you." He turned around and left the two of them, unwilling to continue the discussion.

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, (just outside) Elizabeth's Office -> Stepping onto 4th Floor
Skills: Leadership, Security Procedures

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Keystone let his hands drop to his sides. Not only did his immediate team refuse to check in, but a completely new voice decided to inform him that there was an exciting new opportunity for someone with a mop and a strong stomach up on the fourth floor. Ah, nothing got his blood pumping like a good, old-fashioned double homicide on top of a murder-by-poison that occurred right under his nose, alongside a team that refused to answer direct questions about routine security procedure, when refusing to call the police after being explicitly ordered to do so, not to mention a complete inability to manage a scene or secure a room (again as ordered) like they were taught to accomplish in their basic training. This evening had been a clusterfuck of nigh epic proportions, and he honestly felt like the exact same series of events would have transpired if he had locked himself in a bathroom stall with a box of jelly doughnuts and pulled up BBC America on his company issued satphone. The really, really fun part was that it wasn't over yet.

It was an interesting feeling, being completely out of control of a situation that he would otherwise have handled as part of a basic routine back home. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Rather hopeless, really, being the slave of a situation that kept devolving into something worse with each passing second that filled him with the desire to burn the whole place to the ground and piss on the ashes until they were cold slush, ready to be swept away by the next good rain.

But just so long as another example of human indecency had popped up on his watch, (meaning it could potentially be blamed on him directly, seeing as he was the Acting Director) he might as well give it a look. However, seeing as he couldn't even get his own people to give him a simple heads-up, he sure as hell couldn't trust them to secure the new bits of carnage all by their lonesome, and so trudged over to the nearest direct way up.

Fourth floor: Ladies' Wear, Home Decor, and Dead People! Two-for-One special! Mind your step as you exit the elevator...

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert & James

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Location: Ville au Camp (Kitchen House)
Skills: N/A

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The oversized bowl of punch proved to be a little difficult to manage at first. James was no weakling, and Gilbert... well, he was a man who had no shortage of people asking him to help them move. But as the saying went, "It's not that it's heavy, it's just an odd shape". That and being filled to near the brim with sloshing, sweet-smelling liquid certainly made things interesting. They succeeded, as Gil knew they would. This wasn't his first rodeo. Nor his second. Nor his hundredth. It just took some doing to get it over, slowly, and place it upon a rolling service cart. Not for the first time, Gilbert was thankful for the switchback-style ramp along the side of the building, as if constructed exactly for this very purpose.

James maintained a bit of nervous energy with the actual application of the punch bowl upon the cart. For him, this was his first rodeo. The occasional assuring nod that came from The Hat was appreciated, as was the fact that the guy was frigging huge and could likely manage this whole, sugary affair completely by himself. It made him wonder why he was even asked to come along, aside from better acquainting himself with the goings on of Ville au Camp. It seemed that they all had some acclimation to get over. All except for Alicia, and that George guy. Between those two and Peter, they seemed to represent the only three people that used to be alive around there. The building seemed to be made to house more. Lots more. That immediately struck a chord with him. What happened to the others? There had to be others, right? Maybe that should be his question for the evening. One of them, anyway.

With the bowl loaded up, Gilbert grabbed a number of cold sodas from the icebox and arranged them in a washtub half filled with chipped ice, then slid it onto the lower shelf of the cart. He affixed a fitted cover to the massive punch bowl, grabbed a lipped ladle, and motioned to James, "If you would be as swell, please grab that sleeve of waxpaper cups? Oh and a couple of tumblers, please. Thank you." James was curious as to why this guy was being so remarkably odd, flipping from overly nice to downright commanding that varied by minute. It must be an Emendator thing. "Yessir, on it." he mumbled, picking up the items on the counter behind them and stashing them appropriately.

The next minute or two found Gilbert stashing a few more things on the cart, then wheeling it out of the Kitchen House proper and down the ramp. He could not help but notice that a number of people were coming to or moving from the building he had just exited, and thought it curious. As he and James maneuvered the cart full of drinks and goodies into the lot outside, he thought to sate his curiosity about everyone's presence by easing into conversation in a glib, yet permissive manner. He addressed most everyone within easy earshot by querying, "Remind me, someone: Where did Evelina need the goodie-cart? And how else may I and my good friend James Mandingo Grady help you tonight?"

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Российский императорский цирк

(Russian Imperial Circus)

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The sound of crude ceramic shattering upon wood drew the immediate attention from the guards in the form of heads snapping around. When they realized what had happened with the fermented mug of mild intoxicant, the both of them shook their heads with disappointment. "Это пустая трата хорошего пива."₁ said one, sighing.

"В самом деле. Он только болит. Неблагодарный." mentioned the other, his tone suggesting agreement. He continued in broken English, "Should have drink beer. Abdomen feel better. Head smaller. Not shit upon self as much. But is good. You need go somewhere? Talk somevone? Ve follow for now. Yes. Is for good."

The Baron left his son, Vladimir, after hopefully letting him know that his old man understood his position. Yes, he needed to see to Elizaveta as both a parent and as a servant of the future Czarina. Yes, they needed to get ready to travel. But no, it was monumentally stupid to get things going without a clear direction. One could tell the people of the Circus that London is tapped, they needed to go to Veta and had to travel to Edinburgh or Paris or Brighton. He would impart to his son that a clear plan needed to be established before committing his people to action, if it was possible in the least. This was the application of true leadership, not strength of personality. Vlad had skated on just that for the entirety of his life; raw charisma. That and earning the title of The Great Bazhooli, not to mention the respect that went with it. But he was not a strategic leader. It was exactly this that Dmitri (The Baron) had been trying to instill in his son ever since he became The Great Bazhooli. For the first time in a great, long while, the reigning Great Bazhooli was in line to inherit the Barony. Dmitri had to hold his son to a higher standard.

True to his word, The Baron did make his way around the Tent City, letting people know that they might be leaving soon and to effect a soft breakdown of the Circus, meaning to pack away personals and acts for the time being, stow anything nonessential and remain quiet about it. If all went well, they could have the whole of their people ready to leave at an hour's notice. Maybe even less, if they utilized every bit of their Rusyn and Circus training properly.

Translations

1 = That is a waste of good beer.
2 = Indeed. He is only hurting himself. Ungrateful.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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

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This was not the time for his Circus to become divided in mind nor purpose. Everyone deserved their opinion, their feelings on the matter of Veta's unannounced departure, but none of them, not a one, had the right to openly criticize her decision to do so. Except for him. Vladimir had raised that girl as his own since she was very small, as had Izolde, and even Sister Sophia (though he had some misgivings about that). And while he agreed that this was a rash, foolish decision, there was no way in hell he was going to continue to suffer this conversation out loud and let disharmony flourish throughout the Tent City.

"Enough!" he roared, straightening up to his full height. He looked from Sister Sophia to Constantin, and spared no amount of accented eye glare for anyone else gathered around who considered the possibility of grumbling about the situation. Fine, he was supposed to be a leader. Now was a good time to make an effort toward it. "There vill be no more of talk. Talk, talk, talk... Solve nothing." He swept his tall hat from his noble head and adopted a more humble stance. But not a hell of a lot more. "Our little Veta is strong in vay of Tretiy Glaz. Strong in Chteniye Dushi. Stronger than Great Bazhooli, stronger than Baron!" He didn't know if that was actually true, but she was a young lady of immense talent. "If Veta goes, has reason. Duty! And I vill hear not another vord of 'punish'. Is Grand Duchess! As Grand Duchess, vord is law. Action is law!"

Vladimir swept his hands behind his back and began pacing, looking from performer to performer that had gathered to watch the drama unfold. "Veta is strong vith sword, for too... or did all ov us forget? And if Sister Sophia speak truths, she goes with others, powerful in Arts of their peoples. Now! Thank yous to Constantin, ve know she goes to Scotland. North! And... and..." His speech slowed down, finally processing the crazy that had come from Ludwig. Finishing his address to his people, "And vhen ve know more, vhere to go exactly, ve ready to move as vone!"

Vlad hurried back over to the German fellow, hopefully in understanding of what he had shown him. In a more quiet tone, he inquired of the mad Teuton, "This is for true? Jericho Vall has... Is big enough for Circus?" A smile spread across Vladimir's face, which quickly formed into a nigh cheshire grin. "Tell me more. Slower, for please."

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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: N/A

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A dumbfounded feeling struck Mary. She was very vaguely aware of the Russian skill that allowed them to heal others. She had learned a similar one from the Vatican. While theirs was a potent ability that was reserved mostly for physical trauma, Rome's skill was broader in nature, possibly more apt to be of use in this very situation. She had just never considered the possibility of using it on her horse, and that lack of insight bothered her. Why couldn't she? Especially now, seeing as she was on a mission of divine importance, one to which she was specifically tasked by edict and training. Such an act surely would not be vulgar use of the ability. "Veta, you will have to let me attempt to return this favor upon your Myshka before we depart. I insist, please."

Mary gave a soft smile, the start of her trademark serenity returning despite the fact that she desperately needed to run a comb through her hair and have a moment to freshen up. It was a minor irritation of the road, or travel in general for that matter. Horseback was faster than a carriage, almost always, but tended to show more upon one's exterior. Some things could be repaired once that got indoors. Others would just have to wait. For starters, a decent but modest meal and a little time to sit upon a surface that was not hardform leather wrapped around a moving animal. Mary held her hand out to Virginia and made her way into the Inn pointed out by the stableboy.

Locating a table in this place seemed a touch toward the difficult. Mary was able to catch more than a few London accents from among the crowd. That in and of itself wasn't too uncommon this far south, but what really caught her attention was the talk of an attack to the north of them in Manchester. It was too much of a coincidence not to be related to the troubles in London. Luckily, Mary was not dressed as she normally did, nor was she carrying her Swiss halberd. That was with her horse's tack. Perhaps the lone Papist in a room chock full of Anglicans could get an easier time of it than she usually did back in foggy London. She leaned from her seat, hoping to glean some information on the happenings; after all, Manchester was conceivably on their way to Gretna Green.

"Gentle folk, did you say Manchester?" she began, looking concerned, "We travel north. Whatever happened?"

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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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There was a calm sort of reassurance in having a plan. Even if that plan was horrible. That was a life lesson that Ash had picked up from his years in the Army. It could be argued that he was simultaneously in and out of the military at this time, never having been relieved nor discharged from active duty, while at the same time pretty damned certain that there wasn't a United States, persay, let alone a United States Army. But that was an odd, passing thought. The central theme to the evening, aside from the utter loss that everyone was suffering, was that they had something akin to a plan going on. With that plan came a sense of movement; they were working together toward a common goal. And contrary to his first musing, the plan was not horrible. It was solid, thought out in advance, and so far bearing results. Just not as many results as he would have preferred. That part was disheartening.

But not everyone had their entire life ripped away from them. Ash nodded soberly when Guy asked him to hand the mic to Tiffany. "Copy that, Guy. Keep those people safe, will be in touch at sunrise. Standby for Legal." A silly nickname, he was aware, but with potential hostiles a few miles down the road (that he was aware of), not to mention the mystery caller on their frequency (if garbled), he wasn't fully comfortable using uncoded names or locations. Ash and Guy were already mentioned, and Tiff could go either way. Well, damage done. Maybe they'd be more careful the next day.

"Tiffany, you're up. Keep it brief." he said, setting the mic down and rising from his knee. "Anyone else, make a line." His voice was weary. Not tired, but truly weary. He was worried beyond sense, deep beneath his surface, though something inside of him wouldn't let it bubble up. Miles away, Thana and a cast of mildly disturbed players were launching an assault that he really wished he could be a part of. He walked to one of the boarded up windows by the door with slow, heavy footsteps, pausing briefly to give Jack's shoulder a squeeze. Ash understood a lot of what he was going through, though likely not as keenly as the man was feeling it right then. He exhaled heavily and pulled a random crate to the window, sat, and peered through a separation in the boards. The Hordebuster was still there, motionless in the evening air. His was the first watch.

Absently, Ash pierced his MRE with his knife, a painful looking thing that seemed more at home in a backwoods bar brawl than as an eating utensil, and pulled out the main entree. Chicken with dumplings. Why the hell not?

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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A slight growl escaped Thalia's lips. She was channeling her bloodline hard, a thing that she rarely found herself doing since her time in Fairburn with the Valkyries. In a very short time, the number of people she had personally killed had shot up dramatically. In an odd way, it was much more satisfying than spearing Zeds, like they had only been practice for the real event today. Thalia had thought that the very idea would have troubled her in some way, and maybe it would yet. But right then, it felt like she was slipping into a comfortable leather jacket. The kind of jacket that belonged to a mother or an aunt; someone with similar tastes and body type that had already broken the thing in, classic and completely badassed. This was a righteous cause and calling, moreover she was more dangerous now, more apt to do what must be done since the Apocalypse. Thalia honestly felt like a shadow of the souls of her fallen, a reflection perhaps, was passed onto her after their deaths. Alicia, Caesar, Astrid, Bridgette... and now Lola. She wasn't family, not like the others were. But her friendship saved Thalia's life. That was probably what family meant these days. She would remember and she would celebrate, be they in the Halls of Valhalla or the Land of Remembered Dead.

Before the remembering and celebrating, there would have to be more killing, motivated by quiet passion.

Thalia heard the gunshots from the next rooms over, heard Gavin's proclamation of "Clear", a thing that while cliched, she participated in herself downstairs. She also picked up the noise from elsewhere nearby, more gunshots and shouting. Meanwhile, the other members of her group, such as it was, were elsewhere in the same room junction she was or coming up the stairs. They were in danger of getting too spread out, which is exactly how people without the benefit of stealth training got themselves killed. The place where most of them were positively reeked of killing ground; a place where one did not want to be for the benefit of survival. To many points of entrance to cover, unfamiliar territory, and out in the open. She didn't like it. Thalia carefully slid her machete into her back sheath and drew her company issue Glock from its holster. Two guns at the ready, she quietly, stalked up behind Thana. As she neared, Thalia pointed one of her weapons back the way she came, the other at the stranger with the shotgun.

She must have been quite the sight: Spattered with blood from several close-up machete kills, face painted grey and black as the face of Death herself, the ash marred by twin lines of drying tears. Her expression was that of horrifying apathy backed by smouldering intensity, a flame waiting for its moment to rage. Edged calm permeated her voice as she spoke quietly, "Your call, Navy. We gaht things to do." From her tone, Thalia was good either way.

🦄 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: N/A

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The Esteemed Mr. Coiffeur decorated his face with a strange look at Jacqueline's question concerning his method of speech. It wasn't quite shocked, nor was it appalled. He wasn't angry nor taken aback, nor was his an expression of confusion, though all of these things might be supposed, each unlikely possibility mixed with an obvious helping of dry, derisive amusement.

It could be wondered why a man such as this would exhibit emotion that was callously inappropriate to the situation at present, but to delve into the psyche of The Foy at this juncture would prove to be a journey counterproductive to the ongoing narrative. At any rate, one would have to know the man personally to understand. He did not not care about what was occurring; quite the opposite. If for no other reason, some of his best work adorned the man's face and head, and he did not wish for Atticus to go out in the manner of his own personal "Yeoman's Tale" he had mentioned in brief back aboard the I.A.V. Retribution. Plus, the good Shepherd amused him. Foy was not a man who was in good with those preaching the shiny and hereafter. Despite this, Atticus seemed a decent enough fellow, by his standards. But without the ability to assist in his medical care, it served no purpose to anyone if he got his hair all a muss over it.

Foy looked from his childhood friend Jahosafat to his new acquaintance Jacqueline, back to Jahosafat, and then back to Jacqueline. One of them needed something desperately, and he had been given a challenge of verbiage (kinda) by the other. Both of these encounters needed to be addressed, and he intended to in the same manner that he preferred both his guns and his paramours: Simultaneously.

Clearing his throat, Foy stepped back to the comm terminal near the door to the Foy-er. "Regular sentence, indeed..." he sneered, depressing the "public address" button and, as the name suggested, addressed publicly. "Adrenaline needle, Defibrillator, and Ox Bag, Dr. Pender - Requisite materials for the medicinal attentions, which are rightly situated in Medical, if you would be as kind as to give it your professional attentions as you advance hither, madame.

But it didn't stop there. "The season of heroic attempts are upon us! Indubutibly, and henceforth, as we stride confidently to meet our grand destiny, and fulfill the contract of social necessities made as such by our undeniable, guttural camaraderie under the raw banner of Prometheus crewfolk! Indeed, again madame; Adrenaline needle, Defibrillator, Ox Bag, and spare not the horses!"

Smug confidence settled over Foy. He looked to Jacqueline, seemingly secure in the fact that he nailed the "regular sentence challenge", only to have that confidence melt away from his face much slower than it appeared. Shifting to mildly self-conscious doubt, Foy cleared his throat, muttered a quick "Excuse me." and stepped back to his cup of coffee.

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William Harper

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

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This was a hell of a situation to regard, even for those with a less suspicious, pesudo-paranoid bent than Harper. New people come on board and the Preacher has himself an unfortunate cardiac event, if Foy's second announcement was accurate. Then again, this new line of Farraday-babble was intense, if confusing to the extreme. However, he did recognize the words that were repeated - words like "defibrillator" and "adrenaline". He was no doctor, obviously, but he had been around the occasional medical emergency before. And of course, the odd medical drama or two that found itself on the various screens that made life entertaining and informative most everywhere on Core worlds. Definitely on his native Osiris, a rock he would likely never see again. Even if he did, he could never leave the ship for fear of being recognized. Recognition was, in a word, bad. Hazardous, even.

The thought occurred to him that he was new to the crew as well, by a matter of a very small amount of time. He wondered exactly what the Captain must think about all of this, being as she was pretty much surrounded by a whole new crew. Hell, for all he knew, he was suspect in whatever took hold of Atticus, though he did have one hell of an alibi over the course of the previous night and the present morning. But speaking of Anisa, he did just clearly hear her voice ring out from up the hallway. Whatever was happening between the two of them, be it personal, strictly casual, or something else entirely, Harper was bound as part of her crew, perhaps more than anyone else on their new boat.

Harper rose, following Mei from the room at a respectful distance. Crowding the medic was a stupid idea. Making himself and his generally cool head available for his Captain in a time of crisis, on the other hand, was a prudent idea. Harper stayed back, leaning against the wall in the hallway leading out of the Lounge. Harper's hand trailed to the spanner at his hip; it was partly out of instinct, given the tense situation, and partly just because he favored his large, painful wrench. He could see just enough of the scene to get a good idea as to what was going on, but more importantly, he caught sight of Anisa. The instant he found her gaze, he gave a slight but professional nod in her direction, signalling that he was indeed back on the clock.