Sigil

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

@Lady Amalthea

Okay, with your permission, I will be editing to put in Newhope as Bridgette's starting point, and her new occupation will be listed as "Armorer / Combat Specialist". Unless you know of a better way to describe the tightly coiled spring of vulgarity and sharp things that is Bridgette. I am open to other suggestions.

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Prometheus (Foy's Parlor -> Jahosafat's Quarters)
Skills: Perception

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The coffee was indeed stellar, as was to be expected from his personal stock. There was just the tiniest difference of opinion between himself and Jahosafat about the nature of the perfect cup of coffee. Both agreed that it was best black. Diluting something as good and wholesome and pure as a cup of decent coffee with base impurities like sweetener and dairy products, let alone the concentrated, artificial flavorings that the plebeians ran toward all across the 'Verse. The nature of the disagreement lay in the points of origin of their preferred bean. Not to say that Foy did not respect and admire the selection of his childhood friend, just that his own favorite was another varietal.

It was a good time for coffee. There was an emergency on, obviously, of which he had done his part. Sadly, said part involved the application of manual labor in the form of moving the object of said emergency from Point A (place of collapse) to Point B (Medical). Lowering himself to candy-striper duty was necessary, though just a hair distasteful. After such selfless work, Foy felt wholeheartedly that he deserved a quiet moment in more or less pleasant surroundings with a demitasse. Or three.

Then of course, a thought struck him out of the clear and blue sky: He had just borne witness to the private selection of fine and gentlemanly hats that belonged to Dr. Moreau. At least the ones that he took along with him while traveling. It was nonetheless a breathtaking collection. He positively had to see more. Foy finished off his cup and sprung to his feet, his impressive madisons clapping upon the floor but the once, after which he started along the route that would take him back to Jahosafat's quarters.

There was the briefest of moments wherein he met the pilot, Harper, walking fore from the Lounge. They locked eyes for just a second, prompting Foy to give a greeting of sorts. "Pleasant morrow again, Lieutenant." He made a showing of giving a bow, then immediately returned to his structured pace.

He did not count on Harper actually responding to him. "I will be on the Bridge making preparations to leave soon, Mr. Coiffeur. You might want to get your doilies nailed down before takeoff." Harper did not slow his pace any more than Foy. Apparently, they both had things they would rather be doing than crossing swords right at that instant.

In Foys case, it was entering Jahosafat's room and perusing his fine headwear. It shouldn't take but a moment or so; he was very well acquainted with the wonder and niftiness of the various types of hats that a gentleman of standing might wear. It was curiosity that drew him. Naturally, he would have to confess his trespass to his friend and allow him the same liberty with his own collection of hats. Right now though, it was merely the bliss of looking over the private selection of a fellow connoisseur.

"My word, but this man has an overabundance of stetsons..." he would say, along with other glib witticisms such as, "Ah, this fine piece must be his second best 'around town' hat," and "Dear me, whatever is this? He must have been perilously intoxicated upon purchase." Though there was the occasional, "Now this is a labor of true artistic rendering, if ever I've seen one. A penultimate example of true haberdasher's craftsmanship; verily a Hatter must have squandered a portion of his very soul upon this exquisite and vivacious status-bearing nod to St. Clement, Patron Saint of Hatmakers! Indeed sir, good show!"

Needless to say, he spent more than a moment to view. It was a bit of a passion for the man, obviously, one that struck a particular chord with the man. He had given the possibility of expanding his family's business into a true, multi-planet haberdashery, complete with dapper and bespoke suits, hats, possibly cologne selections. It was the next logical step. And this man's hats reminded him of this. Perhaps his down time should be spent drawing up administrative plans to that exact effect. Yes... an excellent use of his virtual exile, indeed.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Private Plane, somewhere above Northern Mexico
Skills: N/A

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The expectation was that little Liam would remain in La Hacienda surrounded by family until such time as his father could join them. He didn't say anything when Maria loaded his things into the plane. Nor did he say anything when she carried him aboard the plane. He should have, period. Like he said to Maria back in Monterrey, "...what we do is dangerous." Bringing a child, a baby even, into this world of political and criminal upheaval known as Justice, CA sounded reckless. But he did want Keystone to see his only(?) son. The big man may have been born a bastard and turned out okay, kinda, but he'd be solidly damned if he was going to let his grandson continue without knowing his father. Even a musclebound Cockney brawler turned professional like Johnathon Illiam Keystone. But before the time came for the tear forming, euphoric reveal, Caesar needed a moment with the man. He insisted upon it.

"Hell yes, the father is going to be there, Maria." growled Caesar. He wasn't a huge fan of her tone, not in the least. She may have birthed a fine, powerful, and beautiful Gonzalez lady, but she was no longer his wife and he had no obligation to acquiesce to her passive aggression. Two things were glaringly apparent, however: 1) They were in a pressurized metal tube a few thousand feet off the ground and climbing, making escaping the harping of his ex-wife quite impossible, and 2) He happened to agree with her on this point. MSS had to make a strong showing. His Angelita, Liam, and yes, even Maria had to be protected at all costs. Most certainly, the father had to meet his son as well.

Just to make sure, he left another message for Keystone. He still didn't tell him the big news, but he told him to make damned sure he met them at the airport.

Meanwhile, Thalia was making herself busy raiding the snack bar. There was nary a bag of salted nuts nor lowfat pretzels that were safe around the young woman, and besides that, there was a metric shitton of bread, fruit, and sealed foodstuffs in there with them. She might be okay for another hour or so. Caesar wondered where in the hell she put it all, and had no idea how she was able to maintain her figure, seeing her dining habits. Truly, she was blessed in some way.

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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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Another message from Caesar. He liked his little communication tools, that was for damned sure. But that wasn't the only set of orders he was given for the day. Oh no, you see as the Director of MSS for Justice, CA, Keystone was subject to the whims and needs of the contract holder, who in this case wanted the place cleared and the facility inspected. Not a bad idea, given what had happened. But she was not his only master. Nor was Caesar. Apparently, he had yet another one coming up that he had to meet, who, if reputation proved to be correct, was as much of an influence upon Alicia as her father was. Oh, but it got even better: Another mystery guest was going to be joining their party, and he had no idea where this one was going to stand in the grand social hierarchy, either above him, below, or outside of his food chain altogether.

While shaking his head about this whole fuzzy ordeal, a member of the security staff came up to him. This was not Motor Pool, despite the fact that he had yet to leave it to go in search of his breakfast like he had intended to a couple of minutes ago. It was a frigging errand boy with credentials and a sidearm, who approached with a plain package and a set of keys. He offered them over then stood straight and still, awaiting orders. "Waitin' for a bloody tip, are ya? Shove off." Obviously, he hadn't gotten his morning tea and was grumbling like it. "Not even clocked fongin' in yet an' some bloody wankstain's already jigglin' my go-nadicles bout..." Then he suddenly remembered that he was expecting a package. A couple of them, point of fact. Ripping open this first one, he was pleased to see a boxed set of the complete to date "iZombie" collection. He knew a certain coroner that might be happy to see it.

The keys meant that something came onto the property. He hadn't much knowledge on the subject, needing to rely upon the taste and eyes of others. But he knew what it meant indeed as he stepped outside of the Motor Pool to catch a glimpse at what lay beyond...

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks (His Quarters -> VIP Commons)
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.}

No odd dreams of ancient gods or armies of the dead, no creatures from myth spanning back to the uncertain origins of humanity to plague him as he slept. No, Reginald had enough of his own difficulties the previous night without having to add the splash of horrifying mysticism that had been everpresent into the mix. Alcohol or not, the Lord Major had swayed between dreamless sleep in the night or staring at his ceiling, wondering why so much was happening to and around him. Why had this drama waited until now, his declining years, to visit unannounced rather than when he was younger, stronger, capable of dealing with the problems in a more vigorous manner.

Reginald came back into the land of the waking in the same manner as he finally got to sleep: Gradually, and with a bumpy ride. He slowly pulled himself from his bed and cleaned up, dressed appropriately, then set about the ordinary tasks a man of his age and standing goes through to meet the day. After all, he did have an example to set for the rest of the people under his command, regardless of whatever personal difficulties beset him.

He took his breakfast in the common room of VIP quartering, the same place that he had the day prior. It was the spot where his guests, or "The Fellowship", had bunked, for those of them that had accepted his offer of the safety of the Barracks. The food was a bit less garish than it was the previous day as well; still lavish for someone inclined toward soldiers' fare, but not the epic, five-star affair that visiting dignitaries might have expected. Still, it was enough to get his fill of jam and scones, fruit, and a helping of decent sausage. "His fill", as it was, sated easily as the man had little appetite and ate mostly because he knew it would be a trying day that day. He would need his strength. The first such expected trial occurred as the military courier appeared with a message from the Anglo-American Hospital. The mundane tasks that must be performed after a death always wearied him.

"It seems that I must be off directly following breakfast, you see." he said aloud. He wasn't talking to anyone in particular that time, but his next words were addressed to the soldier who delivered the message to him. "Make sure that a car and driver are waiting within a quarter hour. I've some business that requires my immediate attention, prior to our other engagements." He waved the man away and poured another cup of strong, black tea. Hopefully, this day would be better than the last.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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

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"Mmm..." began Vladimir, his eyes bright with the rush of possibility flooding his brain. He looked to Constantin, shaking his finger in a manner that screamed he was a step or two away from a bonafide "AHA moment". He then loosed his intentions into the air around him, without really giving explanation. "Talink boy, Constantin Firevalker. Talink boy. Ve must avay!" Such was the nature of Master Vladimir Dmitrievich Alexandrov, first heir of Baron Alexandrov and the reigning Great Bazhooli. His brain firing a mile a minute, fast enough not to notice when his feet swiftly carry him off before his mouth explained his actions. All anyone farther away from Constantin could see was a look overtake him before he rushed away in the direction of the stables, asking the occasional question to passersby or guards.

Despite the seeming chaos of the Circus breaking camp, it was quite organized enough for people to give directions, or at least point in the general direction of the Outsider and his assigned overseers. So it was no surprise when Vladimir found himself standing face to face with Thalken, giving a generally positive, optimistic expression. "Mr. Talink! I am trusting you are doing vell? Treated nice, vith respect, da?" He nodded his head expectantly, as if telegraphing the appropriate response to his question. Answer or no, he continued, "Am having problem vith little custom of London people. Friend Igorevich says you are not knowing, but I am thinking maybe you are knowing. From here, da?" He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly to the side and placing his hands behind his back in a way that implied scholarly thought. "If could answer, vhy vould man and woman, engaged in public eye; vhy vould they run to Land of Scots and not marry at hometown? Vhat is reason?"

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{"Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit." -Isaiah 17:9}

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Location: Nottingham
Skills: N/A

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In the room, Mary regarded Virginia's and Veta's inquiry from just earlier. They needed rest; honest, solid rest, but their questions were highly valid. The problem was, she could not accurately give an answer. "In honesty, I cannot say. The last time I was near this area, I was very young. Perhaps we might consult a carriage house or coach operator before we depart. They are likely to have accurate maps and know the best routes."

So far as rest was concerned, Mary could sleep on the back of a horse if necessary, so long as the animal knew the way to go. It was a matter of necessity sometimes; as part of her training she was apprenticed to a few different priests and knights. Travel under less-than-ideal circumstances while struggling to meet a timetable meant that one found little ways to get in food and sleep that often tested one's fortitude. So when Mary selected a fairly comfortable lounging chair in which to take her rest for the hour or so they would be in Nottingham, she knew she would be good to move at a moment's notice. She did not know of the Training techniques utilized by the Russians nor the New World, and so thought it best to err on the side of caution. "Take the bed, as it please you. We have a long way to go yet."

🦄 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: Hard/Soft Martial Arts

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A broad, warm grin spread across Gilbert's face. He made a sweeping gesture with his hands as he bowed at the waist, letting his long, dark hair fall from behind his shoulders. He kept his piercing green, almond shaped eyes on the pale lady, more than lightly pleased at her presence yet curious (to the point of being wary) as to the reason for it. If it was merely a cursory visit to catch up with an couple of her long-term (and that's long-term) friends and associates, then so be it. He could use the company and the unique perspective that she had to offer. But first, she had a request. Be it that she made the request while in conversation with his protege for the evening, Mr. James Grady, it was apparent that the actual words were meant for him:

Gilbert knows what I enjoy, don't you darling?

"Yes, Madame." he responded with a playful tone, "Yes, I do. One moment, if you would please." Indeed all it would take was a single moment, evidenced by the fact that Gilbert found himself jogging from his position back into the Kitchen House. Within a cabinet located over the icebox, he pulled a tall tumbler glass and a cardstock box that, by the way he handled it, contained weighty but precious cargo indeed. He opened the top door of the appliance and struck a solid block of ice with his bare fist, a concentrated blow that imparted a seemingly unnatural amount of very specific pressure into the mass of frozen water. At first, nothing happened, but very soon, cracks began to form from the point of impact, spiderwebbing out in an almost symmetrical pattern. He reached in and pulled the largest few of these shards out, clinking them into the tumbler so as to irregularly fill the glass with jagged triangles of ice, lightly wafting frozen vapors into the atmosphere.

Swift feet carried Gilbert, glass, ice, and bottle back out to where everyone was gathering, most of the adults vying for the attention of their newest guest. Gil uncorked the bottle and poured a generous libation, describing it offhand as, "Extreme flavors of peat and earth, rich and sensuous sensations of moss and other elements of dark cherry and roses, though not so much as to distract from the decay which births this amazing whisky. If you would do me the honor of accepting my glass, it is as you have requested; dry, cold, and enough to curdle the blood if you are not used to it." He held it out to her, presenting it as one might a trophy or piece of fine jewelry.

"Understand, this does not count as that drink I requested later on." He punctuated his sentence with a wink.

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James Grady

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

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James realized that he was staring. He had tried to stop a couple of times now, but once the pre-apocalypse memory of his social and personal preferences got hold of him, he knew that a cold shower would be necessary in order to get something akin to fitful rest that evening. Yeah, he was being stupid. A typical guy, anyway, which was sometimes synonymous with stupid. Particularly as it came to women. He was usually pretty good about that, though. Gentlemanly in his own way, be it in a rustic manner slanted by the culture of his birth. For the most part, he was a really decent guy.

It wasn't until the other Paradoxes began to help themselves to the wonder and spiffiness of the refreshments cart, even going so fa as to speak to him, that he fully snapped out of it. "Aw damn, Miss Alex... I'm sorry. Done got myself all distracted and whatnot." He began loading up the displaced Russian lady with various odds and ends. "Now, I'm sho' glad you takin' a interest in our cartload of sweeties, here." He turned to face Alexandra, face offering a touch of humility, "But I can't be takin' most the credit on that punch, now. All that's from Mr. Hat's kitchen, right? He sure do make a damn fine bowl of punch, don't he? Ooh, try one o' these." he said, changing the subject abruptly. "They gots the coconut." He gave Alexandra a big smile and nodded vigorously. Apparently, there was still a bit of a kid in him, though it rarely showed anymore.

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

@Lady Amalthea

Sorry for just now getting back to you on this. I hadn't made up my mind at first about using her as an alternate or right away, but with Atticus down the group might need a crazy, highly opinionated person of colorful intent acting as muscle. Plus, after leaving Newhope there might not be an opportunity to bring in anyone for a while. So I suppose I'll begin writing for her on the next pass.

Two things before I transfer over:

1) I would need to put Newhope as her starting point, and

2) her occupation has her listed as a "Goodwill Ambassador". I put that there as a joke/placeholder and just forgot to edit it back out. Bridgette is likely the opposite of that. As is or should I edit? If I edit, I am open to suggestions as to a proper job title. Crazy Bitch is more of a state of mind than an actual profession.

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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 watched as the others began to fruft off to sleep. It must have been blissful. Or a relief, however temporary. The change in breathing for some meant that their rest wasn't exactly as restful as they would like. That was to be expected, too. If Ash himself got out of this with just a nightmare or two, he might consider himself a damn lucky man.

It was an extremely unsubtle reminder of how fragile anything was these days. Their whole town, everything they had worked for over years, gone in an afternoon. So much death. So much loss. It was enough to make anyone crack. Along a similar thought, Ash realized that he hadn't heard from that little voice from his subconscious for a while. It could be because that part of his personality was foremost in his brain at that moment, living as he was with tactical survival for he and hus people in mind. Maybe he was just giving himself permission to cut himself a break.

All these things, all these concerns, plus a host of many others swirled around in the back of Ash's mind. Focus on the job at hand - inventory had been taken, priorities assigned (or mostly so) for their survival, think to the plan tomorrow. And for now, keep to self-assigned watch. This is what he could to to help as many of his people as were left.

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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Others started to filter into the room. Backup, if you will, provided that the septuagenarian cage-dweller was on the up and up. Thalia was beginning to trust Alexander, enough at least that in this particular scenario her guns didn't flash around. The tall, twitchy old guy was definitely not on the cool list. In fact, she would have been a lot less anxious about the whole situation if he had a series of 9mm ventilation holes and was left in a gasping heap, winding down to a gurgling, undramatic halt like a broken toy. His saving grace at this point, silver lining, if you will, was that he had claimed to be a doctor. Well, he'd better hope that he was a damned good trauma surgeon, because that's what was needed. Otherwise, there wasn't a soul that was coming out of this building happy. She'd damned will see to that.

The thought stopped her for a microsecond. In the space of a couple of minutes, she had gone back to a dark place. She used to live in that place as a means of survival. Hell, it was possible that if people like this had found her instead of the Valkyries, and then later Lola, she'd have fully perverted the ethic of her Familia and turned into something like ...these people that she was mercilessly killing. She was supposed to be better then that. Her father's people tried to instill something better in her. Just as blatantly violent, granted, but better.

Take the guy bleeding out in front of her. Thalia was down on a knee right in front of him. Gavin - that was his name. He stepped in front of her and took the fully automatic lead spray without even thinking about it. She couldn't tell if the poor bastard was alive or dead, and every instinct that she had was screaming at her to shake it off and complete the mission. But no one else was even checking to see if he was alive, let alone moveable. "...mierdita..." she swore, slowly setting down one of her pistols to tentatively place her fingers on the man's neck. She was no doctor but she did know where to cut for maximum splatter effect, a lesson courtesy of the elders of her family. She held her index and middle fingertips where a living man would show the involuntary movement of blood vessels. Sadly, there was none. The firearm had done its work well, even piercing the guy's throat. She shouldn't have bothered going for a heartbeat. Wounds like that, she might have seen air trying to get in and back out. There was nothing. The big Texan's story ended there. "He's gone. We need to move. Navy?"

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Prometheus (Medical -> Foy's Parlor)
Skills: Perception

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Though the words were meant for Harper, Foy gave a slight bow at Anisa's words and quietly slipped out of the Med Bay. There was a highly convenient set of spiral stairs leading back to the upper deck, which pleased the extremely well-groomed man to no end. Without the burden of the makeshift stretcher, he could ascend quickly and return to the relative civility (at least from a Farradayan perspective) of his Foy-er. With nothing to really do in regards to either of his given occupations, either as tradesman or as an Independent Contractor, he was essentially left to his own devices. Such was the way of Foy: a gallivanting piece of remarkably well dressed scenery, ready to lend comment or grooming advice to whatever situation he felt required it at the moment, seemingly without care nor obligation to weigh upon him - unless the extremely short-term but inevitable necessity occurred that his skills were required. Such events cemented the oft questioned reasoning behind his presence.

But seeing as no one needed to be shuffled off from their mortal coil, nor even an example made of them in this potentially dark hour, it was best for the Farradayan gentleman to return to his lair to await the moment he might be called upon to ply his trade in earnest. Either of them. That, and he still had the most lovely pot of carefully selected and roasted coffee waiting on him. Such were the pursuits of a gentleman, be he one of industry or leisure.

Upon reaching his the Foy-er, he was a little disappointed to note that the young lady with whom he was passing a fairly mundane but equally entertaining morning was no longer there. "Certainly," he said aloud in a derisive tone, "The luxury of the coffee alone sufficiently warrants the continuation of one's presence, setting aside the magnetism of the conversationalist." He was in fact referring to himself in his little monologue, a thing which he found awfully clever and expressed as much by giving a half smile with one corner of his mouth. Gingerly, he topped off his previously abandoned, pre-emergency cup and took a sip. "Perfection."

In truth, Foy was more than a little concerned with what had just transpired. The Shepherd seemed a lively sort, even okay by his reckoning. At the very least he was not boring, when he wasn't quoting scripture. And he did not want to see his good friend Jahosafat's efforts go in vain. But there was nothing for him to do, no way he could assist. His resolution, then, for the next hour was to enjoy his coffee and afterward make the short walk to the Lounge to engage with the rest of the crew. In the immediate, Foy was going to sit quietly in his parlor and sip.

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William Harper

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Location: Prometheus (Medical -> Lounge)
Skills: N/A

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To his credit, Harper did not snap to attention and salute Anisa on the spot. The situation seemed a lot less formal than that at the time. He did cast a glance over at the two medical professionals working on Atticus, letting it linger for a second before focusing back on his Captain. "Right away, Ma'am." he responded, giving her a momentary questioning look before remembering himself, nodding, and exiting Medical. He was part of a crew again, thankfully not Alliance, and he had his own duties to perform for his Captain, whatever the situation may be otherwise.

Harper saw the same spiral staircase that his moustached associate did, and in fact could hear the last of Foy's footfalls at the top of them by the time he reached the bottom. He didn't recall Anisa giving him an order to carry out, though if they were hitting the Black after a bit, he doubted that anyone was going for a trim just then. Of course, much in the same way that the Barber figured there was more to Harper than being a former Alliance pilot, Harper was damned sure that Foy didn't just cut hair and come from money; nor was there any denial on the matter. Foy even made little innuendos about it constantly.

It was of little matter anyway. Harper was ready to leave this rock and get back out into the 'Verse. He had zero problems with preparing Prometheus for a ready takeoff, however he did agree with Anisa's suggestion to grab some breakfast first. So, Lounge it was. By the time he had ascended the staircase and made his way back to the scene of the incident with Atticus, Foy was nowhere to be seen. Judging that he ducked into either his room or his barbershop, a slightly more relaxed Harper made his way down the hall and into the Lounge, which was surprisingly almost unoccupied. Almost.

Mei, the previous stowaway, had gotten the same idea and was sitting down to breakfast. Cautiously at first, Harper traversed the length of the Lounge and into the Galley portion of the room, recovering his coffee. It was quite tepid by now, but he didn't really care. He did take the time to locate and fast-reheat a couple of the sandwiches Atticus prepared the day before, set them on a plate, and grab his cup.

Naturally, an opportunity for one-on-one time like this could not be passed up, and the young lady didn't look like she was going to murder him on the spot, so he politely intoned, "Miss Qiao, was it? Might I join you briefly?"

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

It might require minor tweaking, but... Just in case the crew needs additional hands now that the Preacher is having issues, I am submitting my favorite pseudo-anachronism for acceptance.

Ladies and Gentleman, I present Miss Bridgette Anne Vinters, updated for the 'Verse. My apologies for the length of the CS, I got a little detailed.

Bridgette

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Bridgette Vinters

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Character Summary

Name: Bridgette Anne Vinters
Aliases: Bree, Bridge, Blue Valkyrie, Shieldmaiden of Borr
Age: 30
Birthday: May 5
Ethnicity: Caucasian, mainly Nordic descent
Birth Planet: Aesir
Allegiance: Independent
Starting Location: Newhope
Gender: Female
Occupation: Rom Skjaldmær (literally: Space Shieldmaiden), Armorer / Combat Specialist

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_{"Wait, is she smiling at us? Okay... um, RUN.}

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Appearance

Height: 6'1"
Weight: 170
Build: Wiry, with long limbs and chiseled, powerful musculature.
Eyes: Seawater Blue
Hair: Blonde, long. Occasionally set in braids.
Skin Tone: Pale, cool skin with clear completion.
Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: Several burn scars from years of metalwork, multiple ear piercings. Some healed lacerations from melee and ballistic injuries.
Personal Style:

Bridgette's style is a curious mix of Old World and modern utility. She prefers neutral colored cargo pants and dark tank tops while working or grabbing a drink after hours. Alternately, she is equally comfortable in fitting tops made from natural materials and long, dark skirts. The feel of much of her clothing is laborer or rural, tough and well looked after, but with interesting splashes of color. Bridgette has a thing for rainbow colored kneehigh socks and Nordic styled leggings, often with snowflake patterns. Heavy black boots are an almost constant accessory, usually at least calf-high. Leather, preferably.

Jewelry is a fairly simplistic affair. She wears a silver, wolf head torc around her neck and four gold earrings, two in each ear. Her main identifying accessories, however, are her shield and mantle. The mantle is long, hooded, and fashioned of thick, fluffy white bear fur. It clasps around her neck or can be attached to her armor at the shoulders.

Concerning Bridgette's armor, it is taken from a now defunct private security company that was contracted to deal with issues in the Himinbjorg system, of which she was a locally sourced peripheral employee. The influence of Alliance gear is obvious, though it is noticeably different. She wears it much of the time she is out and about, and is perfectly comfortable doing so. Her shield is commonly worn across her back by an adjustable strap.

While not overly girly or effeminate, Bridgette is a lady, as she will violently remind others. She does prefer to keep up her hygiene and appearance, including makeup, and is in fact rather fond of anything that enhances her eyes. She is no Picasso, granted, and it winds up being rather bold or simplistic at times, but the effort is noticeable.

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Psychology

Loyal * Angry * Cheerful * Blunt * Magnetic * Vulgar

Sexuality: Bisexual
Relationship Status: Single
Personality:

If it is possible to be cheerful and angry simultaneously, Bridgette has found a way. She is generally an open, honest person, if unstably vulgar. And that’s if she feels comfortable around you. If not, she’s a little standoffish, bordering on violent (so don’t push it). Somehow, her more negative qualities coupled with her strong, independent personality give her a drawing quality. She is fairly charismatic, but involuntarily so. Most comfortable in a forge or workshop, preferably outdoors, she takes delight in the creation of useful things with ingots and wire, reclaiming scrap steel for artistic and practical endeavors.

Socially, she seems a bit stunted. She wants to be funny and outgoing, but experience has taught her never to get particularly close with anyone or rooted in any one spot. Secretly, she hopes for the opposite of this - a home and friends, maybe one day a family. Her occupation limits opportunities in this regard, and let’s face it: Bridgette isn’t the petite, sophisticated type.

Regardless of her faults and despite her history, Bridgette is in total adoration of The 'Verse in general. It's just a lot of the people in it that piss her off. Bridgette grabs life by the lips with both hands and yanks as hard as she can. She isn't shy, she doesn't hesitate; it is almost impossible to shame her.

Habits:

• Tapping nails
• Popping knuckles/joints
• Swearing

Hobbies:

• Making wire jewelry (torcs and such)
• Metalwork (melee weapon and armor smithing, as well as more common things like welding and repairs)
• Training - Strength and combat exercises mostly
• Sledding (sometimes on her shield)

Fears:

• Alliance returning to tie up loose ends
• Dying badly
• Her family being used against her

Likes:

• Sugar/Sweets
• Loud, Heavy Music
• Drinking
• A Decent Cut of Steak
• Horseback Riding
• Fresh Fruit
• Video Games
• Working With Her Hands
• A Good Fight
• Exercising/Training
• Snow

Dislikes:

• Pushy people (she likes to be the only one)
• Herbal “Tea”, decaf "coffee", etc. (because what’s the point without caffeine?)
• Reavers
• Impatient People
• Shoddy Craftsmanship
• People touching her horse without permission
• The term "Toy Soldier"

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Cards On The Table

General Skills:

• Animals
• Art - Metalcraft
• Athletics
• Discipline
• Gun Combat
• Heavy Weapons
• Mechanic
• Melee
• Tactics
• Weapon Engineering

Specialty Skills:

• Melee (Martial Art)
• Melee (Blade)
• Melee (Blunt)
• Animals (Riding)
• Athletics (Strength)

What Is On Your Person:

• Clothing (Black tank top and mottled, dark brown cargo pants, black work boots with hot pink laces and rainbow colored kneehigh socks. Over everything is a great hooded mantle of fluffy white fur, and tied around her head is a pink paisley bandana.)
• Jewelry (silver wolf's head torc, two runic ear cuffs, four gold 10 gauge seamless earrings)
• Armband containing six self-injecting syringes of pure, cardiac stable adrenaline
• Spear (lengthens from four to seven feet, generally kept on back of shield)
• Security Armor (light ergonomic tactical armor drawing inspiration from Alliance military and riot gear, rank and identifying markings removed - includes shin/knee guards and forearm/hard knuckle protection, and light helmet with transparent face shield. Helmet clips to armor when not in use and contains removable short range comm.)
• Viking Roundshield (36 inches, lightweight ballistic material with titanium fittings, tactical grip and carrying strap, plus a firmpoint to secure a secondary weapon)
• Seax (Short Sword)
• Sawed Off O/U Shotgun (loaded)
• Sawed Off O/U Shotgun (loaded)
• Gunbelt with hip holsters (24 shells)

Quarters:

• Large Utility Trunk (with wheels, extendable handle, and adjustable straps)
• Modest Wardrobe, including a formal set.
• Spools of Titanium Wire (crafting a hauberk, WIP, about 3/4 done)
• Hammock
• Tools. Lots of tools appropriate to her callings.
• Large Leather Roll Case containing various melee weapons, including a Chopper with leather sheath, Brace of Goosewing Axes (pulled from a Reaver, belonged to a friend), personal cutters, her favorite Broadaxe, various spearheads and end caps.
• "Girly Bag" (pink Neko Kitty backpack containing a stash of cosmetics, birth control measures, feminine hygiene products, a hard case containing six self-injecting syringes of pure, cardiac stable adrenaline, a couple bottles of industrial grade painkillers, and a battery operated entertainment/deep tissue massaging device named "Eduardo")
• Bandoleer of shotgun shells (holds 50)
• Portable Hydrogen Forge (disassembles into carrying case) with backup canisters
• Cortex Terminal (mostly for personal entertainment and data storage)

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_{Skjaldmær on the hunt.}

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History

The Reason You Chose The Side You Did:

Bridgette's allegiance is to herself and her people, be they from Aesir, the greater Himinbjorg system, or her fellow maniacs on Borr. While neither her home planet nor her system have declared war, they have declared independence from the Alliance despite the inability to withstand their full military attention. As for Bridgette herself, she believes that it is only a matter of time until the Alliance pays precisely that attention. Her estimation is that they will require a much more established military and allies to fully break away, and until then it is all wishful thinking. If that means Browncoats, so be it. Until something changes, Bridgette is just fine with her new life out in the Black.

History:

The colorful lady known as Bridgette was born in a larger settlement on the border planet Aesir in the Himinbjorg system. Her mother died shortly after Bridgette was took her first breaths (complications of childbirth), leaving her to be raised by a father who, in hindsight, probably wanted a son. Nevertheless, there was love there, if a bit gruff and inexperienced. He was a professional boxer, regionally successful but never quite getting his big break. Still, it provided a life for his family that was marginally better than logging or working in the cannery. He insisted that his daughter learn from him at an early age, and when she got a little older, enrolled her in a proper gym. She excelled. Bridgette got a lot of practice outside of the ring as well, making her preferred style less "Marquess of Queensberry" and more "Because Fuck'em, That's Why".

When she was old enough to make decisions concerning her own education, Bridgette began studying metalwork and apprenticing under various blacksmiths, machinists, and mechanics for short term contracts. This kind of labor appealed to her greatly, creating and working with her hands. It was the life she wanted to lead; simple, honest, creative. Then the Unification War happened.

Bridgette's family was neutral to the whole idea, bordering on siding with the Independents. They had always been under Alliance control, though being in a more distant border system their grip wasn't as strong there. There were problems with Reaver attacks in the system, and threats of the escalating conflict between the Alliance and Independents spilling into their corner of the Black, neither of which could be ignored. Corporate executives and former military officers stepped up to take control of these issues, cutting ties with their employers to form the Fenrir Group (or just Fenrir), a private security company. The fact that it was accomplished with a substantial infusion of Alliance funding was kept very quiet from everyone not on the Board of Directors.

Fenrir set up HQ on Borr, one of Aesir's terraformed moons. By odd coincidence, Reaver attacks became more common there, prompting settlers to demand protection from the security company. In response, The Fenrir Group began hiring locals, added them into their existing staff and formed them into a private army. Fenrir provided the best of training and education possible, not to mention a seriously liveable salary. It was an amazing opportunity for the local population, getting paid decently to protect the people of their own system against Reaver incursions, piracy, and maintain the peace. Bridgette herself joined for these reasons, hoping for a single term of service and benefits from it. Instead, she found the possibility of a career. After basic training and subsequent specialization, she took a job with the Fenrir Group's armory, maintaining their melee and small arms cache. It played right into her strengths, and for a time she was happy.

And here's where it got darker. Fast. Reaver attacks became ludicrously common, prompting the primarily Scandinavian influenced company to establish a corps of specialised soldiers, codenamed "Berserkers". These Berserkers were chosen because of their background, certain tendencies, and psychological profile. Additionally, the group was selected mainly from personnel drawn from Aesir, or the Himinbjorg system in general. Bridgette was among those selected. Berserkers were put through a rigorous program involving gravity enhanced strength training, use of melee weapons, shields, and other seemingly archaic methods of combat including the ancient tactics of the Vikings, Spartans, and Romans, blended with modern practices. The goal was to create a group of front line combatants that were as fierce as the Reavers in combat, but loyal, organized, and recognizable as human. Their initial stated function was to meet Reavers in ground warfare, though they were proven to be excellent, multipurpose shock troops and were highly proficient at holding a position against attack. The Berserkers were grouped into a series of villages, given a support staff, and lived a semi-rural existence when they were not training, playing war games with one another, or on assignment.

The Alliance began to see results and surreptitiously involved themselves, taking a more active hand in the development of the program. Medical professionals administered various pharmaceuticals as part of their usual regimen, designed to augment their already aggressive tendencies and open them to suggestion. Their goal was to create something akin to highly trained, controllable Reavers. They began to see their own results, be they varied and often bloody. It did not work the way they had hoped.

After the River Tam Incident, government officials funding the Berserker program started getting nervous and began slowly withdrawing support. When the Miranda recording went public, the Alliance pulled out of Fenrir entirely, taking their money with them. The Fenrir Group faltered for a while and inevitably shut down, leaving all indigenous personnel to see to their own affairs. Many decided to remain in their communities, living off of the land and trading with one another. Others repurposed the facilities left behind by Fenrir. A large section of Borr was essentially its own entity at that point, populated by very angry, specifically trained soldiers and their growing families. The Reaver attacks lessened to something more manageable. It was assumed that the Alliance had done something to lure them there.

It was around this time than most of the Himinbjorg system united under the banner of New Kalmar, officially declaring their independence from The Alliance. In practice, all that meant was a refusal to pay taxes, denial of Alliance vessels' refueling rights, and the loose establishment of a Merchant Marine fleet.

Bridgette was angry. Many others were angry, too. They were used, experimented upon, sent into battle to die just to test the Alliance's latest toy soldier. If they made a mistake, it was to recreate the Vikings of ancient Earth-That-Was and then piss them off. Maybe one day they will even the scales, but until then, Bridgette will not forget. Until a good opportunity presents itself, she has opted to use the skills given to her by Fenrir to make a living in the wider 'Verse.

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Extras

Character Quotes:

"Back up. You're stepping on my dick."

"There's fuckery afoot!"

"Frost your fucking tits, lady!"

"What the fucking fuck is fucking wrong with that fuck? FUCK!"

"Yeah, like you've never given a handie for a ride offworld."

"Oh, I'm going to make a new bitchskin rug out of you.

"If it was raining cunts outside, you'd still find some way to get slapped in the face with a dick."

"Hey asshole! I'm about to come over there and fuck-start your head!"

"I do not 'spew profanities'. I enunciate them clearly, like a fucking lady."

"I wouldn't fuck you if squirrels were gnawing my tits off and you had the last jar of peanut butter to lure them off me."

Theme Song:

Nightwish - End Of All Hope

Blue Valkyrie Now Has Reflective Shot

Alliance Record:

Does surviving count? It didn't seem like they wanted her to. No record, nothing official.

Anything Else:

Link to previous post: Malfunctioning Space Toilet

Favorite character: Jayne Cobb (such a cunning hat)

Faceclaim: Gaia Weiss

Fun Facts & Trivia

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Bridgette is an excellent bodyguard, personal escort, or general muscle. Her abilities as an armorer, metalsmith, and tactician round out her usefulness to a group. And while she isn't so good at making friends among polite society, Bridgette is great with animals, especially horses.

Bridgette is prone to the occasional nightmare. She has seen and done more than would make a less stable person crack, yet she remains mostly mentally intact. Mostly. She does have a mild form of what used to be called "PTSD", explaining some of her more volatile actions. It can flare into something more, given proper stimuli.

Traces of her psychological conditioning remain. In the heat of combat, she leans toward following the orders of anyone she considers a superior without hesitation, unless obviously extenuating circumstances are involved. Otherwise, she lives up to the name of her former occupation: Berserker. More than just being a "good soldier", she (and others like her) were once a calamity, a series of ravenous, living weapons used to defend an area or inflict harm at the point of a finger.

Though something of a melee specialist, Bridgette is familiar with the operation of guns. And grenade launchers. And flamethrowers. And mounted, heavy weapons. They're just harder to pack in a utility trunk.

Everything that Bridgette owns can be packed away in her trunk with minimal effort. She basically lives out of it. As long as she can string her hammock up someplace, she can bunk just about anywhere with overhead shelter.

The lady has a fondness for video games, many of which she maintains on her cortex terminal.

Bridgette still has family back on Aesir, notably a father who now runs a gymnasium in Malmo, a city built into the cliffs surrounding a fjord. She has a younger (half)sister and another, much younger sister that is rumored to actually be her daughter, though this is uncorroborated. If things keep going as they are, likely a Stepmother soon as well. (Dad was busy) Also, while not family in a traditional sense, she still has a number of brothers and sisters-in-arms that chose to settle on Borr, one of Aesir's moons, where she took her training with Fenrir. This second home is a fortified place the locals call "Castle Town", or just "The Castle".

Bridgette's favorite word, obviously, is "Fuck". Well, it might not be her favorite, but it is one which she uses with great frequency, proficiency, and diversity.

She is trying to learn Norwegian, a language spoken with some frequency in the Himinbjorg system. Right now she only knows a few basics, but has a really good grasp on swearing.

The unique nature and specialization of the Berserker program, coupled with the often volatile effects of Alliance interference and experimentation, have earned the survivors the unfortunate nickname of "Toy Soldiers" or the more condescending "Broken Toy Soldiers" amongst certain circles in the Alliance. It is not something Bridgette prefers to tolerate.

Against all logic or odds, Bridgette is a descendant of Rose Nylund. More to follow.

_{*By submitting this CS in its completion I am stating I have read all the rules for this Rp and am agreeing to follow them to the fullest with respect and courtesy.}