Sigil

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: La Hacienda -> Private Plane
Skills: N/A

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La Familia all turned out to bid farewell to three of their own. They might as well have, they were already present to bury another. The tone of the gathering was somber but hopeful that morning. Many farewells were given as well as more gifts; of course those gifts were mainly the same bread, fruit, and the like from the viewing the night before, turned to good use now that the festivities were completed. It was tradition that the remaining be split among the family. They just wanted to make sure that Caesar, Maria, and Thalia took their fair share and more with them.

Sunglasses hid red-rimmed eyes from both Caesar and his niece. There was grieving, yet also the fact that the funeral proper took place just before dawn, ending just as the sun crested the horizon of a Mexican sky. It was the least festive of the events that had occurred, made notable only by the flair and surroundings of the crypt. Such thoughts could be reflected upon in time, perhaps in transit; for now it would suffice to think to the future. The immediate future where La Familia sends some of their best to hopefully right the wrongs done to it - or at the very least reestablishes order among the chaos that became of their Justice, CA holdings.

The car ride to the airport seemed to take a lot longer this time around. There was much that could have gone horribly wrong, as befits the nature of their lives in general. But none too soon, the private plane that whisked Caesar and two guests into Monterrey was now taking them from the city, albeit the guests had changed. Caesar had a thought about those two, Cecily and Natasha. He hoped that they were alright and out of trouble. Particularly Cecily, who seemed to be caught up in this for no reason. That and more could be pondered in the time between takeoff and landing; the flight promised to be just as long as the first one. Reddened eyes could relax for a while, or so was the thought as wheels left runway and the group left Mexico behind.

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, MSS Motor Pool
Skills: N/A

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Keystone didn't bother heading home that night. Oh, he had planned to. Wanted to, certainly, but the lure of convenience and no small amount of concern nagged at him. He had gotten his people set up, of course; hotel rooms nearby for most, the remaining put into the "On Call" beds near the Hub's lounge area. Keystone availed himself of a shower from the gym's facilities and made his way down to the motor pool, partially to check on the staff down that way but mostly to see the state of his new ride. It was glorious.

The security modifications aside, which were formidable enough on their own, the charming '84 Custom Ramcharger was outfitted with a full, up-to-date electronics and communications suite, security network interface, and various luxury commodities that made it a tiny, extremely secure home on wheels/mobile office/bitchin' ride. The people running security directly would get a piece of his mind, most assuredly, but the motor pool folks? They might be getting a raise for the amazing job they did, and mostly on a rush.

In the end, Keystone decided that getting a jump on things early in the morning was a good idea, and so he sent a concierge for a set of fresh clothing from the Hub consisting of the same garb worn by the high profile security agents - not quite formal and not quite tactical, but it came with a lovely blazer - and decided to make use of the security and luxury of his new ride, right there in the garage. The next morning saw him rise and roll out of his urban armored vehicle, stretch, scratch himself a bit, and begin strapping his secure armor back on underneath his outer clothing. It was going to be a bitch of a day. He could feel it. And as fits his personal philosophy on the issue, if the day was going to suck, it might as well suck on a full belly. Step One of the day: Find breakfast.

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

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Reginald, Vera, and George

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Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks, Officer's Club

Skills: N/A

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The look on George's face, rather, the half of his face that was capable of demonstrating emotion, said much. It imparted bits of worldly advice like "prepare for the worst" and "do not react yet". Advice of that nature was sound as well as obvious; as much so as carrying an umbrella on a rainy afternoon. Unfortunately, the effort required to maintain calm in the face of personal tragedy was significantly more difficult than hoisting an umbrella against the elements. As George sat in front of him, Reginald swallowed a building lump in his throat and took the man's unspoken advice.

"A fire, you say?" he started carefully. Controlled concern was etched his voice as he continued, "Do continue, if you would."

This was not something that George wanted to go into, for many many reasons, but he had to. He wasn't one to speak much either so this made it more than doubly difficult to explain. He kept it as short as he could, as unaffected by intonation as he could, but it was still difficult. Having to explain to both Vera and Reginald that Peter was gone, that he was dead. He tried to leave as many details out as he could, not wanting to make matters worse. The fire at the statistics office. That what was blamed. Peters leg left him unable to be as quick in his movements as he once was. Georges single eye made things more difficult for him to see, some things people could never see coming. This was one of those times. To lose Peter, again, was one of them.

Vera sat there stunned, unable to say anything. Just listening. She didn't know if she was in shock or disbelief. Perhaps both. Peter had just stepped back into their lives, coming back from the dead yet it seemed that death was only taking a holiday in this case and he was gone again. She sat there, her hand resting on the arm of a chair, just staring blankly at a half empty tea cup, the stillness of the remaining tea matched only what was going on on the surface of herself. Inside she was a storm of emotions she wasn't sure how to deal with. Stiff upper lips of the aristocrats was hard to maintain right then, especially as tears started to drip from her eyes.

Reginald carried the same businesslike demeanor, but the volume of his voice had decreased dramatically. His own eyes softened, but he refused at that moment to allow himself the luxury of physical emotion. Or much of it, anyway. "I see." was all he could manage at that point in time. He cleared his throat, trying to continue but noting that his voice was losing a bit of its stability. "Was it, ah... Did he suffer? Was it a clean passing?" he asked hopefully. It was probably a moot point; he was just as dead regardless of circumstance, but both men were soldiers. Soldiers deserved a clean death. He hoped that Providence allowed his dear nephew at least that one gift.

Vera's eyes twinkled in the light of the room, the tears watering her eyes seemed to dance slightly as she looked towards George for an answer. Whether he suffered or not she didn't want to know. Even if he did, she didn't want to know. She wanted to hear he didn't suffer no matter what happened. She wanted to hear he passed peacefully even if he didn't. She wanted to hear he felt no pain even if he did. George looked at Reginald and shook his head slightly.

"No sir, mmm he didn't suffer. It was a clean death," George said, the gravel in his voice more than usually evident. Could it have been emotion? The smoke he inhaled? Or more? One couldn't tell but it was there. Vera lowered her head and the tears fell to her clasped hands resting in her lap. A slight whimper coming from her as she choked down the emotions. George rose and pulled out a handkerchief, placing it in her hand.

The Lord Major seemed very much the old man right then. His posture slouched and he signed heavily, his eyes staring down at the table in front of him. "Good. That is good, at least. Thank you, Mr. Benaszewski." He had lost his dear nephew again, and just when he had gotten the man back. His death was one of the factors that made Reginald the way he was; his return lightening the old man's soul. That light had been snuffed, and he could already feel urgings of the recent past coming to the fore.

Wordlessly, the Corporal rose and left the table, returning with the Lord Major's bottle from earlier and a handful of stacked tumbler glasses. While it was the Corporal's intention to prevent Reginald from drinking himself into a stupor that evening, it seemed that a drink was fitting. He set the glasses down on the table and poured a dram for each of them. "For the Lord Captain, sir?" he inquired.

"Lord Captain Peter Keystone." responded Reginald, a little more strength in his voice. He reached for a glass and raised it from the table.

Reaching out George took two glasses, setting one in front of Vera who was visibly trembling. George raised his own glass and nodded. "Mmm, to Peter, may he rest in the peace life refused to grant him..." he said quietly.

Vera coughed and nodded as she wiped away the moisture from her upper lip. "Yes... to Peter," was all she managed to say before nearly knocking over her glass as she reached for it. George reached out with his free hand and steadied her enough so she could drink before drinking his own.

The Lord Major waited with his glass raised high, until the others started to imbibe before he started on his own glass. It was a tiny touch of etiquette in a situation where etiquette might be called upon favorably. The Corporal, wishing to show proper respect to a member of the Lord Major's family and an officer in the Royal Armed Forces, immediately snapped to attention and threw a proper British salute, sounding into the otherwise quiet air of the Officers' Club an alternate version of the bellow normally reserved for his highly revered Commanding Officer:

"Lord CAPTAIN!!!"

The drink in the Corporal's hand disappeared into his face the instant that his salute snapped to his side. Highly unexpected as the man's actions were, it did serve to startle Reginald a bit, earning the Corporal a glare from the older man. It lasted for a mere second before his gaze softened; when it came down to it, it really was how he showed respect. Shaking it off, the Lord Major turned his attention over to George, inquiring, "Which hospital or mortuary service has possession of my boy's remains, sir? He deserves full military honors, of course. And he really should be interred with his family."

Resting his hand on Vera's shoulder to try to comfort her, George set his glass down. "I requested, mmmm his body be brought here sir. They said it would be taken to the Anglo-American hospital until it could be claimed by family or country sir. Mmm, they said they would be in contact once it was ready. Mmm, I told them to contact you," George said quietly. Vera sobbed slightly and George's eye went to her. "Sir, mmm, perhaps I should escort Lady Munn to her room?"

"Indeed." agreed Reginald, albeit quietly. He rose from his seat ponderously and stood for a moment before shaking George's hand, and shuffling over to Lady Munn. "I am so very sorry, Vera. So very sorry." Back to George, he intoned, "You have my gratitude, Mr. Benaszewski. Please, do take your leave. Let us know if you require anything at all." He poured himself another drink and settled back into his chair, a thoughtful look etched across his face.

"Thank you sir, mmm." George shook the mans hand firmly but respectfully. Turning he wrapped an arm around Vera's shoulder and helped her to her feet. She leaned against him, sobbing quietly as she could manage, trying to push it down but she couldn't. Only able to give a nod towards her uncle. "Let's get you to bed," George said softly towards Vera as he lead her out of the room.

The room became devoid of people yet again, except for Reginald and the overly enthusiastic Corporal. The two of them sat in silence for a long while, occasionally sipping on their drinks. The Corporal broke the silence with,

"Permission to speak, sir?" Reginald just nodded. The Corporal continued, "Big day tomorrow, right sir?"

"Indeed." responded the Lord Major dryly.

"Your plans remain unchanged, then?"

"They do, Corporal. I cannot put off plans that have already been set into motion, you see, particularly as they require my assistance to continue. I am as bound to this as I am anything. My personal grief notwithstanding."

The two regarded each other silently for a while. It was late, and time waited for no man who was still alive. In the quiet, one could hear the calls of the insects along the river. It was indeed late. Some might say too late. Their path was already set. They had no choice but to travel down it.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Российский императорский цирк

(Russian Imperial Circus)

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The guards watching over Thalken gave questioning glances among themselves, in the end shrugging it off. The phrase, "Bite Me", did not fully register as something they understood, except as a tragic piece of English slang. One of them went as far as to make a biting motion with his teeth upon his arm, then jerked his thumb back in Thalken's direction. It was met with a bewildered, slightly comical look and otherwise not given any mind. If this odd Londoner really wanted someone to set teeth to him, then he would have to wait until the reddish tinged lamps of female provocateurs (which may or may not have been part of the Russian Imperial Circus) were lit, well after sundown, with proper discretion. Regardless of the man's preferences in this way, the two guards returned the glare of their charge with seemingly ignorant smiles and nods, then stepped up to follow Thalken at a respectful pace, one each at his rear flanks. As he so went, so did his armed, goofy chaperones.

Meanwhile, The Baron was busy hastily assembling his people to him, issuing the order to begin packing up in earnest. They needed to be ready to leave within the hour, and were instructed to not spare the horses, as it were. Those not familiar with the manner in which these people plied their trade, particularly the methods employed in breaking camp and preparing to move in amazingly short order, this was as much of a show as a full-blown circus performance. Acts of strength and dexterity were abound; the more mundane talents of Circus Folk blending seamlessly with the Rusyn Trained skills, leaving one to wonder where one stopped and the other started. Animals of differing corners of the Russian Empire were moving to assist their human companions, all acting as if under the direction of a combined intelligence. Ropes unfurled, tents dropped and were instantly folded to be packed away. The line of supply wagons lumbered to life, forming a line in the order of importance and convenience their cargoes would have to the Circus in transit.

Perhaps the most impressive sight of the entire, choreographed movement was the realization that, per capita, the Circus had more Trained people than probably any place in the world. Everyone seemed to be expressing a Trained Skill or two, but barring that, the intense physical and mental conditioning that each one had honed to a hard and sharp edge over years and years of practice, merely to perform their prospective acts, made them formidable indeed. And the level of familial respect given across the board was such that one did not need to express Trained abilities to be counted as equals. They were Circus, with their own ideas of family and hierarchy that often ran contrary to the expectations of outsiders. Noble and gypsy alike, working as one. And soon, they would move in unison to protect a single of their number.

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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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As usual, Vladimir was fond of his stirring speeches and flowery verbiage. But he was also fond getting a straight answer when asking a straight question, even if said straight answer was given amid an explanation as colorful as his own habit for the craft of speech. But this Ludwig guy was leaping bodily upon his last nerve. Hopefully soon, he would come to understand the nature of this man's thought process. It would also help a great deal if they both had a firmer, more intuitive grasp on the English language. That might come with time. The present held a different series of challenges. Not the least of which was a very friendly ferret and a batshit German fellow turning into a fey and bounding off into The Regent's Park as rider and steed, screaming something about getting packed. The practicality of being quite small aside, Vlad really wished that Ludwig would hurry. The Circus would be ready to depart soon, and they needed him. He thought.

The crazy man aside, Vladimir did listen intently to what Constantin had to say. His face turned from one of concentration to one of mounting possibility, and finally to one of joyous hope. He settled an arm around Constantin and gave him a powerful sideways hug, exclaiming, "This. THIS! This is vhat I am liking! HA!" Like many in the Circus, Vlad was a proficient hunter, part of that involved stalking prey, and he was very familiar with the scent and tracks of tigers, thanks to his years around them. "Da, my iron-footed friend! Is not like tigers run everyday in foggy island. Ve can track... if not track from start, ve can tell if road is right road. Ve know they travel north to Land of Scot. Ve know British girl gets husband." Vlad adopted a sort of thinker's position, with two fingers on his right hand pressed to the side of his head as he paced back and forth with only mildly exaggerated motions, a feat in and of itself for the man. His left hand absently worked a knife in fluid circles and figure eights, a thing which he obstinately claimed many times helped him think.

"Vhy?" he inquired into the air, his feet coming to a halt. "Vhy must they travel, and long vay, to get married? They have not churches in London? Big, shiny vones? Scary Catholic Girl has church. Big church. Castle in middle of London-town. Vhy not here?" This must have been some kind of foreign (to them) politic or cultural oddity that Vlad just couldn't grasp. "Ve need talk to Englishman about this. Any vill do..."

In that moment, dawn broke in Vladimir's brain. "Ov course." he whispered. They happened to have one of those in the Tent City under guard. As the tents and wagons were assembled in front of him, readying to depart at a moment's notice (His son Konstantin was supervising the breakdown of The Great Bazhooli's setup), Vladimir set upon his next task: Find the Londoner.

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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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In truth, Mary could not answer Veta's question about travel time. She knew of basic routes across her countries only, and places she had personally been. Exact time spent on the road, or how the season might affect this, were quite beyond her. Perhaps sustaining their original route plan was the best idea, regardless. The goal was to catch up to them at Gretna Green after a hard ride, not to attend to side investigations. And even if they were present at Manchester, they still had to get to The Green to make the wedding happen. Mary was looking forward to their meeting, in the same way that a Knight looks forward to setting himself against a rising challenge.

The people fleeing Manchester seemed far more open with Virginia than with her, giving bits and pieces of information that might warrant attention. A woman with a blank face, two guests of the Lord Eagerton headed toward the coast. Mary puzzled over what it might mean, weighing the options before her as carefully as she could, considering a lack of other, clearer knowledge. Perhaps more could be learned later. In the meantime, Mary took to her food with grateful piety, making the sign of the Cross before her and reciting quietly, "Benedíc nos Dómine et haec Túa dóna quae de Túa largitáte súmus sumptúri. Per Chrístum Dóminum nóstrum. Ámen."

Mary ate a modest meal laid before her and, following the example of the Grand Duchess, retired herself to the room she had provided for them.

Translations

1 = Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord.
Amen.

🦄 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: His Flagging Sense Of Balance

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It wasn't an everyday occurrence for Keystone to get outran by a heavily armored Dwarf. The burly fighter wasn't known for being a spectacular sprinting man, but the longer legs that his height provided generally gave him the advantage over the vertically challenged races. Maybe it was because they were running through uneven stonework. He had grown up in a community that also housed Dwarves, at least a high percentage more than the average Human settlement. Keystone knew that the gruff, bearded race had a connection with the earth and stone, be it worked or natural. Maybe that very connection was in play here, that allowed Nor to blow past him like he was standing still. But he had always felt a connection of sorts, as well. Maybe not on par with Dwarfkind, but he did sometimes feel more comfortable in certain stony surroundings. His blood was that of a common man, likely insulating him from the draw and power of the element of Earth in ways that he could not overcome without magical or divine assistance. Or maybe some other factor was working its factoriness on the situation in ways that he, as merely a stalwart beater of wholesale ass, simply could not comprehend.

Be it his place to understand, the fact lay as it was that Nor was able to overtake and pass him down the winding, shivering stair, while he had to struggle to maintain balance in that moment. He had considered placing a hand against the wall to assist in this, but the now fragile nature of the ruined tower made him question the wisdom of such a decision. Falling was not the best option either, to his thinking. A man his size hitting unstable stonework was not the best way to spend his time, and in fact could be the last chunk of time he would spend, period. Keystone was ahead of everyone else, meaning that if he stumbled here, it would hold up everyone else and cost them precious seconds necessary to escape. So the only option left: Regain his balance and try to hoof it yet again.

Step One.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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

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An eyeroll without further comment from Nancy meant that Gilbert had probably crossed a line. He could generally count on her for some manner of pithy insight or verbal poke, but it was possible that referring to her using one of her original names was probably a line cross, considering that she was very likely treated as property at that time. Or worse. What was more telling, to him anyway, was that he was once part of that society, hell, ruled that entire civilization for a time, and a lot of that was before he awoke as an Emendator. He had been one of the very people with those exact views that seemed so fleeting and juvenile to him now.

It was a cumbersome tongue in comparison to the more modern ones, Sumerian, with words modifying the meanings others instead of the simpler issue of altering a word to suit a more specialized purpose. It was also the first one that both Gilbert and Nancy learned in the history or their existence. Gilbert was a bit of a linguist, as indeed they all had to be, given their massive and varied histories, but he had not spoken his original language in a very long time. So when he began to respond to her in Sumerian, there was the slightest pause until he reawakened the physical memory of it within him. Even so, he kept it short, sweet, and to the point, spoken with hat in hand:



It would have to suffice for the meantime. There were new Paradoxes about that they had to show a united front with, not to mention the locals were in full force, each dressed in their odd little costumes, wide-eyed and curious. Gilbert was fairly positive that the line overstep might be answered in some way later on. Hopefully his more laid back attitude and social philosophy would be enough to avoid any further retributive strikes and end the cycle before it began in earnest. Besides, so far as practical jokes were concerned, he was a rank and file amateur in comparison to the slightly younger Emendator. The closest thing to a prank he could muster on short notice was a nasty trick he picked up in Asia involving a deep hole and sharpened bamboo. Too far. Way too far.

His responses to Sophia were significantly more sedate and sociable, however, consisting of a casual wave-away of her own apology. "No need, Sophia. No need at all." His smile was really rather infectious. "Tomorrow. We start the good stuff then - and a lot more explanation about our rules."

Gilbert did have the courtesy to return the enthusiastic (one might even be persuaded to say "giddy") wave from Alexandra. The thought suddenly hit him that she was the one James was referring to back in the Kitchen House, about a girl who wasn't fond of wearing shoes, or some such comment that Gilbert just realized was sarcastic. He thought that... well, nevermind what he thought. Mystery solved, moving on. He might want to have a little talk after a bit, however.

What did give him a genuine bit of delight was the wholly unexpected return of the slender yet still hourglassed lady with the unlikely natural combination of alabaster skin and ebon hair, suggesting a truly exotic background. Then again, so did her manner of speech. Not extremely surprising to a man like him, seeing as his own ethnic group technically didn't even exist anymore. Well, with one other exception, anyway. Still, the eccentricities of the new woman only served to heighten his mood. Her presence in the timelines gave him a sense of hope: She was a woman who, purely because of who she was, affected humanity in ways unexpected and highly exciting. She had begun bloodlines of persons most notable, highly skilled, and thoroughly impassioned in ways that the powerful Emendator had not previously found in himself outside of battle. There was even a twinge of jealousy, if he were honest with himself. If nothing else, he did highly admire the woman. "I understand that you must have business, but please join me for a drink before you must depart again."

Gilbert slipped his hat back upon his head and stuck his hands into his pockets. He casually checked the time on an antique pocketwatch, and looked over to the gathering of children and Paradoxes near the Oak. It was always good to see the young and the living. So much potential. So much unrealized power and tragedy. The future of humanity rested in souls like those crowding around James and their laden cart of sugary delights. It was the reason why he took a hiatus from warring. Ironically, it was now the reason why he fought, and taught others to as well. Sometimes, he wondered what Gilgamesh would have thought about himself, now that he was Gilbert; what kind of a man he had become. He probably wouldn't have liked the man one bit, except for his prowess in combat. But thinking about it, Gilgamesh was referred to in story and later in literature as "The Ultimate Warrior". And the experience he had acquired since then assured him that Gilbert could mop the floor with the guy anyway, so to hell with what Gilgamesh thought. He was a better man now, anyway.

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (By the Oak)
Skills: N/A

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Meanwhile, James was in (pun intended) hog heaven. He didn't particularly like children before, but it really did his heart good to see these little boys and girls run toward him in a state of utter glee, not worrying about things like keeping quiet so as to not attract the Dead to their location. No worries about a storm wrecking their only means of growing food for the next season, either. Damn, but it felt good. "Aight y'all! Come one, come all, get you somma this. There we go..." James busied himself distributing the waxed paper cups and ladled out the aromatic punch, occasionally stopping to pop open a soda bottle or give out a napkin. They were good kids, it looked like. Then again, he was the guy passing out sweets at night before sending them back to their families, so maybe in this scenario he was really the bad guy and the young'uns were flocking to him, sensing his minor foray into evil. Or just the goodies. Probably just the goodies.

One thing that had escaped his notice until just then was the nature of the women who now existed in the place, Ville au Camp, with him. Though he was loath to admit it to anyone but himself, he did rather have a pressing appreciation for women who were stark in manner and appearance, particularly as it applied to the macabre. In short, it had been many a year since he had seen a lady that he might have referred to as "Goth", and he remembered that appreciation suddenly. His mind ticked through the women that fit that particular nom de guerre in his immediate vicinity, and suddenly gathered a greater liking for how he was spending his (almost) afterlife. For starters, there was the Emendator, Nancy. Just a hint of a stretch there, they hadn't really spoken much but he could sense something a little gothy. His Goth-dar, if you would, his Gothy Senses were tingling. But it didn't stop there. There was a charmingly pale lady (that he didn't think he had said a word to directly) that absolutely fit that description and attitude to a T, the pale and tragic Andromeda. He would have to introduce himself and risk an immediate shutdown later on. Such was life. Or death. Or whatever being a Paradox meant. But Paradoxes aside, he could not help but realize that the Dice Lady fit that description as well, if she was a touch more authoritative than he was ordinarily drawn to. And from what he understood, both she and Nancy were a little older than him as well. Like, a few thousand years older. Perspective was a bitch sometimes.

But no, these were kept internal for the time being. It was just... such an odd thing to think about right then. It seemed that only yesterday he was in the middle of some awful stuff, murdering and dying and whatnot, that now with this fresh start he would be thinking about what kind of women he liked before an apocalypse took out most of humanity. He was just going to content himself with serving drinks to everyone and remember that he was very recently dead. He should try to keep his existence as simple as possible for a while, until he got a better grip on things. Also, he promised the kids a story later, which he intended to keep.

Then his eyes fell upon another newcomer in a slinky black dress that looked like she was taken from a cover of a symphonic metal album, or a Self Help book for women who wanted to be able to stop a city bus with a sustained glare. She seemed to be getting a lot of attention, and he did not want to be that guy, so he merely did as any self-respecting Southerner would have done at that point in time.

"Hey hey there, Miss Lady! Y'all wantin' a Coke or somethin' else sweet to sip on?" He inquired as politely as his upbringing allowed him, raising a glass bottle full of the fizzy ambrosia into the air and waving an opener in the other. He had to quickly set it back down to handle one of the children's request for a refill on punch, but the offer was out there. It was probably best that he let his thoughts remain thoughts for the time being, anyway. He had to mentally arrange a tale in a little bit.

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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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Ash couldn't seem to shake the thought of that damned Class A uniform from his brain. Or more appropriately, the lady who owned it. It was a funny thing, how a man could come to care for someone in a very short time. Perhaps that was why he was, at least internally, very anxious to go to Eden. Part of him was already kicking himself for not immediately finding an alternate route around the gaping hole in the earth and joining them. He had been training himself for just that purpose, and for quite some time - building his endurance, getting in a lot more time practicing bow and close quarter fighting, learning and refining the talent of stealth from others in Newnan. It was his guilty little secret, transforming a veteran Army Engineer into something closer to a Ranger. Not that he would have directly compared himself to Special Forces before, but he did always feel that there was a sort of synergy to the motto of the Army Ranger, "Rangers Lead The Way", and the creed of the Combat Engineer, "We Clear The Way".

Of course, what left a raw spot in his brain was that, after pushing himself for so long to level a decisive, surprise strike against Eden, circumstances beyond his control placed that mission into the hands of others, one of whom was Thana. But he was going to do precisely as he promised he would - as leader of the survivors of the Newnan Implosion (God, he hoped the history books wouldn't call it that), he was responsible for seeing to the needs of his people, at least as far as their regroup point. Past that, he had his own plans. There was hope that the others would join him, but he would understand if they did not. He had promised Thana that he would be in Zebulon, followed by Mexico Beach. He would have to take a showing of hands to see who among them wanted to raid Eden's caches of supplies, but...

But he was thinking of anything he could to keep his mind away from the present of his mission. He was in the safehouse in Arnco Mills. He volunteered for first watch, and in the meantime he was taking stock of their supplies while everyone else settled in. They were all dealing with their own demons right then. Ash was not special in that regard. With a resignation born of what their reality dictated, rather than what he wanted to do, the grim Captain strode to the center of the room to begin taking a full inventory of their supplies. Tomorrow, first thing, it was the Moreland safehouse followed by Zebulon. And if they were very, very lucky, they might all get there in one piece.

"Goddamn dress blues..."

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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It was damned spooky, really: Thalia was just thinking that "the last thing they needed was some asshat leaping out from a side room and making life interesting". It was the very reason that she had opted to close distance between herself and Thana, and switch out from her closer combat tools to a very cinematic option of guns akimbo. More bullets, less reaction time depending upon which side she would have to begin flinging them. Yet here that exact thing was happening, defying reason and suddenly making Thalia wonder if she had somehow developed magical psychic powers related to immediate precognition.

Thalia seemed to be moving in slow motion compared to this big, twitchy prick with the assault rifle. She wasn't sure what was going on precisely, but there was a lot of noise and Thana hit the ground hard. When Gavin stepped in front of a bullet or three that was meant for her and Beatrice, the twinge of uncertainty bled away and she knew what she had to do.

As Gavin began to slump over, Thalia swayed her body to use the big Texan as cover, going so far as to drop to one knee as he went down. One arm went out wide for balance, even as her new Beretta found the proper angle to deposit ammunition unceremoniously into the warm meat of a living asshat. The instant that she had a clear shot, be the man disarmed or not, Thalia took it. The 9mm in her right hand sounded twice, depositing bullets into the deranged looking man's hip and torso. Her eyes darted one way and the other, waiting and watching for more surprises to pop out at them. What she wouldn't have given for an EMT or a well equipped combat medic. Instead, her team had to settle for a slightly off Bostonian Scots-Mexican with a blade fetish, whatever Beatrice was, and an old guy with a woodaxe, none of which really were conducive to a speedy recovery in a firefight. "...one of you two cough or something..." she whispered aloud, still providing cover with her company issue Glock and identically framed, domestic Beretta.

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

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Farpoy

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Location: Prometheus, Outside Foy-er -> Med Bay

Skills: Athletics (Coordination), Athletics (Endurance)

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This was not the first time that William Harper and Foy Coiffeur stood on opposite ends of a heavyish load, moving something from Point A to Point B. Last time, it was a straight shot up the length of a larger vessel, from the cargo hold to the lounge area at the fore. Be it a longer walk, it was straight and even, in a wide corridor with plenty of wiggle room. This ship was admittedly smaller, more homey in nature, and it was not built exclusively for warfare. In this instance, it meant that moving about the ship occasionally required a less than direct path.

Take for example their present burden to move. Both men were from the I.A.V. Retribution initially, before the crews merged, meaning that they were recently acquainted with the good Shepherd. And while they were not exactly friends, there was an underlying set of motivating influences that prompted the two very different men to move with the utmost of dexterity and grace that they could muster. Harper's dexterity and grace really came to him mostly when he had his hands were occupied with tools or upon the console of a ship. But he could keep sustained activity up for a long, long time if necessary, and under adverse conditions. Foy, on the other hand, seemed to be agility personified. As the two men made the lift, elevating the ailing preacher from the floor by means of the pilfered lid, Foy took the lead. He turned to check the direction they intended to go, looked back to Harper, and leaned forward with the words, "At the trot then, Lieutenant? There's a vigorous fellow..."

Harper dutifully lifted his end of the large lid, shrugging off the interesting and vaguely insulting series of words that seemed to perpetually flow from the impressively manicured man, focusing directly on the work in front of him. On the one hand, he needed to get this guy to the infirmary as quickly as possible. On the other, Harper had no intention of letting the man fall off of the board. So as Foy stepped as lively as he could while still maintaining a clean press to his very expensive trousers (which was actually quite impressive), Harper resolved to steady the man's trip.

In this case, the "trip" started off with a short hustle to the fore. The nearest stairs were in the other direction, but they were a much smaller, spiral set. There was a much more suitable set of stairs ahead of them, however, that led to Cargo. Cautioned haste propelled them toward and down the metal steps, after which a prompt backpedal had the unlikely pair hustling Atticus toward the aft. Had the Foyer and Medical been on the same floor, it would have been a fifteen foot journey. Instead, this seemingly simple operation took them up one part of the ship, back down the other, and finally to their intended destination.

As soon as Atticus was loaded quickly and carefully upon the exam table, Harper breathed a sigh of relief and got the hell out of the way. There were persons of higher and much more appropriate education pertaining to the situation that needed to get closer to the man. Harper was pleased to oblige. Foy likewise stepped out of the way, finding a pleasant spot away from the action by the door. He casually leaned upon it, drew a tiny unguent jar from his vest pocket, and oiled the tips of his very fine moustache with its contents. Harper took a step back, focusing on Anisa for a second or two before he spoke. "Captain?" he began with a soldier's businesslike tone, in contrast to his tone behind closed doors earlier that morning and even sharper contrast to his tone late the previous evening. "Do you need me here, or would you prefer I gave Medical their space?"

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks (Courtyard -> Officers' Club)
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 wasn't the first time that Reginald had taken his supper from a bottle, and it likely would not be the last. This was becoming a very, very negative evening for the Lord Major, one of the more disheartening of his decades of service to the Crown. Something had to have happened. He was almost sure of it now. This was not good. Reginald had already placed a phone call to the local constabulary on the matter mentioning a missing person and giving a general description of the man, the fellow he was with, and the fact that both were unaccounted for. It was more of a call-upon for professional courtesy than anything else, seeing as the law was quite clear on what constituted a missing person in Cairo. They didn't quite fit the bill on that one. Hopefully, he was just being an overprotective old man. Somehow though, he knew he wasn't.

Reginald had eventually found his way into the Officers' Club, empty though it was, and was pouring himself a tumbler of brown liquor from behind the bar. I had gone above the point on the glass that would have distinguished it as a nightcap, sloshing about as the liquid continued to roll from the bottle. He stopped before it became a matter of crude, plebeian coarseness, but it was still a formidable glass of booze. He sat there for the longest time, just sipping from this glass and coming to grips with the worst case scenario, all the while trying to convince himself that it was a silly notion.

He wasn't sure how long he had been slumped at his favorite booth in the back when a solid clinking sound was heard directly in front of him. It was a small ceramic plate, set down by a certain obnoxiously loud Corporal. The plate was laden down with a simple, cold meat sandwich with an olive pinned to the top by a frilly toothpick, a whole pickle, and a glass of warm milk on the side. Reginald looked to the Corporal, who merely nodded back at the Lord Major and pushed the plate in front of him. In return, Reginald lifted his glass as if to toast the man, but instead plunked it down heavily in front of the Corporal and gestured to the seat across from him.

The Corporal wordlessly accepted the glass and sat down, but refused to take a sip until Reginald began putting solid food on his stomach. After a few tense seconds, the Lord Major relented.

🦄 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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La Familia always had a way of communicating with one another in such a way that caused confusion or even anxiety in others around them. The small discussion between the elder Gonzalez brothers and the mixed-blood heiress apparent, silent though it was until the end, carried a huge amount of weight with those around them. The news was out, at least among La Familia. Caesar was going back to Justice. Moreover, he wasn't going alone. If the whole of them could mobilize and roll over the sons and daughters of bitches responsible for their presence in the Monterrey Hacienda, it would be an ideal situation. But they couldn't. Not even if they knew for a fact who deserved their anger. This had to be managed in the way most appropriate to Caesar's calling: Personally and with as much splatter as possible.

It seemed that the onlookers and viewers were starting to become fewer; many had left the walls of La Hacienda to return to their campers, trailers, and tents. Some absconded to various motor fortresses for the evening, and a select number were invited to remain within the walls of the complex. Many simply chose to rest wherever they sat. After some time, it came to be that Caesar, Thalia, and Benicio were standing a respectful distance from Alicia's mortal remains, the flicker of a hundred or so candles playing across their faces. Each looked at the other yet again, not saying a word. Benicio quietly moved to a table toward the side of the courtyard, and with solemn dignity, went against the letter of his priestly mandate by applying white and black pigments to his face in the form of a crude skull, just as his brother and daughter had. He came and stood back by his family.

No words. It was the closest to approval that he would allow himself.

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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: Security Procedures

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Keystone stepped from the elevator to the dreaded Fourth Floor. He had no idea what to expect other than a pair of dead people and signs of a violent, bloody end. It would very likely be enough, really. But the police had already been here, doing what police do and hopefully not mucking things about too horribly much. Then again, the reputation of this city's cops wasn't exactly sterling. Corruption was shamelessly rampant, just begging to be swatted across the nose with a rolled up newspaper like a large, obnoxious dog, seemingly fully unaware of the ponderous and deadly consequences of their little sins and indiscretions.

It was, after all, just a quick look within the bounds of legality. It would have to be. Otherwise, the scene might wind up contaminated by whatever spore traveled along with him. No, he just wanted to see if there was anything that remained that might point him in a specific direction before he returned to his team downstairs. Then he would give them just enough time to explain why he shouldn't just fire the lot of them on the spot and leave everything to the police, considering that their lack of proper action, etiquette, and professional decorum was likely a massive contributing factor to the utter skullfuck that became of this evening.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Российский императорский цирк

(Russian Imperial Circus)

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The Baron Alexandrov walked upon heavy steps, his hands resting upon a pair of masterfully worked Russian sabers at his belt. His long, silver hair hung freely, framing a face of smouldering, venerable authority as he issued commands in the Rusyn tongue, apparent only to those who had been brought up in the Circus. His people got to work in the same way they usually did: with music and singing and celebration. The songs served as much of an indicator as to what they needed to do, enough that a performer just arriving back from London proper could hear the music and instantly know where they needed to fall in line.

While the rest of the Circus fell into a flurry of activity, getting things together for a potentially quick exit, the two guards assigned to Thalken looked to each other in a knowing fashion as the man exited the stall and began shuffling toward the exit of the canvas and wood structure. One looked to the other, cleared his throat, and addressed the Londoner.

"Um, excuse? Doing something vith pant full ov shits? You can give to washers, but for please, knock chunks out before, da?"

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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, Sleight of Hand

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The look of utter satisfaction and hope started to fade from Vladimir's face as he began to wonder, and very near wonder out loud, exactly what this German fellow was jabbering about precisely. Maybe he wasn't understanding it the way it was being explained, in in fact there was an explanation underway. Nonetheless, he was bound and determined to maintain his positive outlook on this. Ludwig knew something. Even if Vlad could not understand, he knew something very, very useful. Plus, he was an ally now. There had to be at least a modicum of trust. Vlad hoped, anyway.

The images that Ludwig showed him were fantastic. Amazing, really. It had to be one of the skills passed down along his Trained skill set, though he would never have guessed it a possible thing. Objectively, there was a whole world outside of the Russian Empire that had no idea that his Circus had people capable of healing traumatic wounds and empathic communication with giant, white bears. There was much they all had to learn about each other, especially those Trained folk who were rejected time and time again by the Graveolase.

Vladimir spoke at a whisper, at least for as long as a man like himself was capable. "You are saying to me... Vall opens? Entire vall opens? Ve move entire of Circus at once! Ha!" Well, he tried. Vlad fixed his very tall hat firmly upon his head and gave his left had a quick flourish, producing a blade seemingly from nowhere which he then began to spin about in his fingers, up the row of four, pivot at the thumb, and back down again. This action continued as he mused over his options, absently. "Helps Great Bazhooli for thinking... Now, ve have vay out. Can close, da? Ve do not vant city overrun... but have vay out. Now. NOW! Needing to know vhere they go." He looked to Constantin, "Constantin! You have vision, da? Scotland is large place. Large place and far from here. Vas there anything in vision that might make options smaller?"

They were going to need to investigate this more. Especially this secondary way out of London, if they had time to get out that way.

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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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Mary gave a small smile as Elizaveta agreed to allow her to practice the Vatican's own version of Trained healing upon her great white tiger, Myshka. The young Apostolic seemed to be doing that a lot around these two; smiling as a normal woman of her age might. But she knew that none of the three were particularly normal. On that day and many others, it was a blessing. She concluded that it was indeed a grand, grand thing to have friends. Other women who understood her in a way that society could not. And the devil take a care about the differences between them. She believed it was put best in Colossians, stating, "In that renewal there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free; but Christ is all and in all." Mary imagined that the spirit of the scripture would extend to include Russian Orthodox and Crypts of indeterminate religious upbringing, and so resolved to act in accordance to those principles.

The conversation inside with the table near them caught Mary with some surprise. She had not expected a clue like that to land into their laps so suddenly. Perhaps a higher power was looking out for them, or at least led to the meeting of their two groups that information of a pertinent nature could be passed along. Her eyes passed a silent congratulations to Virginia, asking a question that had nothing to do with their present mission but the answers therefrom may bear fruitful news. And indeed, they were rewarded.

Cold. Fire. Town under siege. Mary leaned in closer to the other two women at her table and intoned, "A soul-chilling cold took Almack's Assembly Rooms as the attack was mounted. I could see nothing, but some manner of invisible force seemed to squeeze the life from Lord Buckingham as the chill intensified." Not to mention that it all went down the moment that Lord Rutherford stepped out of the room, protesting too much at Mary's assertion that there were Soulless hiding among the Soulled that evening. She looked gravely at her two companions, advising, "Manchester is along the way to Gretna. I might advise we take that route, perhaps have more opportunity to speak with persons fleeing south on the way. Perhaps someone dressed in scorched finery might know more about the events and the people at Heaton Hall." Mary gave a quick glance around the common room, if just to see if anyone fit the description she had just given.