Sigil

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

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Keystone

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Location: Deymin's Tower (1F)
Interacting With: His Flagging Sense Of Balance. Again. And Thomas. Especially Thomas.

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Keystone could see the outside. He could feel cool air on his face. The sight of fresh death aside, this was damned near a blessed moment. Or it would have been, except for the fact that for some ungodly reason, it seemed like every ounce of bad booze he had ever consumed in his life decided to pay him a visit unannounced. All he knew was that a hammerblow of dizziness and nausea reamed him from the stomach upward. He glanced to the side for an instant, hoping to throw a belch wide so as to spare himself the indignity of running through his own gastric vapors. Unfortunately, this is all it took for one massive boot to get caught upon another massive boot, both attached to the man.

He pitched forward, sailing a few feet into the remains of the centrally located table, or more appropriately, what was left of it. His bulky form continued the work of the ongoing battle and the collapse of the ruined tower. Ruined seemed to be the word of the day. The trip ruined his attempt to escape just then. His fall ruined what was left of the table. And the dead centipede that was on the table's remains, well, it ruined plenty.

The massive bug, dead or dead enough at any rate, was a little too close for Keystone's comfort. While the big man did not know much about Giant Centipede Anatomy, he did receive a lesson in the digestive system thereof. No classes were necessary for this lesson, nor lecture, no stifled discussions about histories and theories, nor even the invasive procedures of dissection or vivisection. Nay, the lesson (like many of those in Keystone's inglorious background) came from the annals of brutal, painful experience.

The dead(ish) beast's innards relaxed and, jostled about by the commotion, vented a noxious and horrifying wind from what passed for bowels in the arthropodic form and issuing forth with a slipping, clicking, chitinous sound. It was the reek of old blood and spoiled meat, the rancid and alien stench of abyssal dietary habits mixed with corruptive rot. The smell of raw chicken left to decay in the sun, mixed with a funk spawned of the vigorous and sweaty mutual gratification of two homeless manure salesmen gyrating against each other in a sockfull of stale piss on a humid day. Pickled ass. Prehistoric cheese. A battle royale of turds fighting over a skunk carcass for breeding rights. To say that it was merely unholy was a mockery of decent, self-respecting worshipers of legitimately recognized dark forces worldwide; and in that moment Keystone was glad he killed the son-of-a-bitch that summoned it. He only wished he had the time to defile the corpse with farming implements.

The experience keyed off something primal within Keystone. It was a revulsion so immediate and powerful as to lurch him to his feet without the aid of himself or others; as surely and wildly as water pushed through a hose far faster than he thought possible. His brain allowed himself to process the inevitable action which was to occur next, previewing the result of the sudden tightening, lifting feeling rising from his own entrails after getting a nose full of aerated insect expulsions. Oddly, the split second before his own horror hit free air, Keystone got the interesting mental image of Femnal, the tavern owner.

Well if he was going to hurl, then damnit, he was going to hurl with purpose. Thomas, that insufferable user of magic, that insulting little buffoon that stood as a slave to his own power, the foolish, pantsless boy who might have gotten them killed by the enclave of Orcs a few days earlier and otherwise contributed little (in his eyes) to their as yet not fully determined success, who had just now slipped past him yet againin their daring tower escape... Oh yes. Keystone might die, but he'd go with a smile in his heart. And obscene gestures on both hands.

Keystone raised both of his arms in front of him as best he could, considering the fact that his stomach was turning itself inside out, and extended the first two fingers of each hand skyward with his knuckles facing forward. He enhanced the rolling wave of juggernaut vomit by utilizing his lungs' remaining oxygen in a single, sustained roar, a protesting battlecry that paired nicely with his reddened face and crossed, bloodshot eyes. The neutrally colored chunky semi-liquid contents of his stomach arched from his mouth in a manner most projectile, sailing haphazardly forward in an example of a hellworthy fluid fractal, changing and scintillating in the varying light of the collapsing tower while still retaining its identity of chewed up, partially digested eggs, steak, bread and gravy and local cheese, all undulating within a small fjord of gut-soured ale.

It splattered against Thomas forcefully, whipping his hair into a gooey blowback and cascading down his shoulders in hot, fermenting rivulets of disgustingness. The sound was a burbling, screaming slap repeating a thousandfold, as wet stew flung forcefully onto an irregularly mortared stone rampart. The fevered, gurgling cascade of used food continued bellowing out from Keystone until, his sense of revulsion satisfied, the broad Puglist's survival instinct kicked back in.

Gotta run.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Arnco Mills Safehouse (E10)
Skills: Leadership

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The night pressed onward, as night tended to do. The occasional shuffle of one of the Dead passing through the area piqued the survival oriented parts of Ash's psyche, like the reflex of an underused muscle. Living in the relative safety of his well-appointed house in Newnan hadn't made him soft, not by any means. Quite the contrary, being in a place like that where survival of self and community was still paramount, but there were numerous opportunities to train, improve, and reflect might have just made him stronger for it. The loss of it all was still a raw wound and likely would be for a long time yet, just as losing his family's place in Virginia was a thing he still mourned, albeit less with the passing of time and the experiences since.

The years since the Outbreak had given Ash a somewhat improved sense of time. Necessity was funny like that. He could tell, give or take, the passage of an hour. He still wanted to get a watch for occasions like this, no doubt. One of those wind-up kinds, old fashioned, with a minimal of moving parts. Antiquated tech, even back Before, so the chances of coming across one that functioned was slim these days. Then again, even if he found one, how would he set it? It's not like he could pass by the electronic billboard at the bank and get the time from there, nor could he turn on a cell phone and get the time from it, either.

Still, Ash was perfectly capable of telling when his turn at watch was up. It was about time to get, or try to get, a little sleep. Tomorrow was going to be the start of a harrowing chapter in everyone's life. Supplies would run out. People would be lost. Hunger, pain, panic. Despair. Right now, they had safety. They had some food, water, ammunition. They were in good health. It was a better start than most had. That being true for the present, it was equally true that it would get worse. Sighing, Ash rose from the box he had been sitting upon, took a last look trough a crack between boards in the window, and turned to wake Riley for her turn at watch.

Ash knelt at the couch that the young lady had chosen as her resting spot for the evening. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook gently, trying to rouse her without stirring anyone who was lucky enough to be getting some sleep at that moment. "Riley?" he whispered, "Come on superstar, it's your turn at watch." Following this, he returned to the recliner he had appropriated for himself earlier and settled in, trying like hell to relax enough to slip away from reality. He clicked on the safety of his weapon and set it on his stomach, one hand still resting upon it. Eventually, his eyes did close.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Eden, Doors across from Fitness
Skills: Survival

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The bullets tore through Thalia's flesh, ripping open two lines in her side. She grunted out a cry of pain before biting it short. Even though she could feel the damp vitality of her blood running down her body, Thalia could tell that her injuries could have been so much worse than they actually were. She had ripped skin that burned from the friction caused by two pieces of exothermically flung metal. Not even deep enough for a through & through, certainly not a matter for a wound spreader and forceps later on. One thing did irk the bejeezus out of her, moreso than the injury.

"That... was my favorite jacket, asshole!"

Still, she berated herself on the choice of tactic she had used that led to her and Beatrice's fresh set of hurts. It was a tactic she had used before to decent effect, holding her guns at the ready and waiting for the unwary to poke their heads out and into an obvious trap, just to ventilate said persons' cranium. Apparently, the people of Eden had seen this used before and instinctively knew how to counter it. Fuckers. And naturally, that was the cue for Alexander's gun to explode. Just peachy. Why in the hell would he pack an exploding gun, anyway? It frustrated Thalia to no end. Unfortunately, she didn't have the time to get into the subtleties and philosophies not letting one's weapon detonate in one's hands, seeing as there were still people trying to kill them. She didn't really blame them so much. She was trying to kill all of them first, after all. To hell with it. They deserved it.

Thalia's mind slipped back to Thana's words about a second before she got shot. "Hells yeah we're finishing this shit, Navy." she said through clenched teeth. Alexander wasn't in much of a position to react to Thana's request, but she could. Thalia's Glock slid into her holster on the small of her back. She sidestepped behind the old soldier, snatching Gavin's pack from him as he uttered a pain-inspired flurry of racial epithets and expressions of extreme disappointment at his present set of circumstances. She slid around the corner, behind Thana this time, holding the pack out for her.

The thought suddenly hit her about the same time as she slid to a stop - this was one of her favorite shirts, too. "Make'em pay."

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar & Keystone

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Location: Justice Airport, Private Hangar
Skills: Advanced Fisticuffs
Skills: Stamina

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Of course Keystone was going to show up to greet them. It would have been painfully impolite otherwise. There was also a little matter of delivering the report of the fiasco from the night before. Going through the black-and-white file on something so horrendously mishandled would be too close to shifting blame elsewhere, so far as Keystone was concerned, and he would have preferred to handle the situation in a much more personal manner.

Another good reason was that he was supposed to meet two very important people to him, professionally anyway. One was the person chosen to take over the Director's position from him; an experienced, analytical, business oriented individual who was a more than fair hand with something sharp, among others means of personal defense. Plus the person who was to take over the Tech team; an independently financed technological marvel with several patents to name, plus the budding combat skills of an occidental ninja. These people were part of Caesar's core team from the Head Office and his old homeland of Nuevo Leon. People with whom he had gone through the worst and most harrowing of ordeals. The slate grey wall that formed a bulwark against those that would seek to do harm to he and his. A team with which Keystone would be proud to say he worked, if only for the one assignment. The reality of the situation ...was just a little different.

As they began to disembark from the plane, the broad man's face showed utter confusion. Caesar, a woman in her mid-to-late twenties in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, and a middle aged (but still vital and attractive) Latina cradling a baby that had not quite left the plane yet. What was more, the two people he saw leave with Caesar were notably absent. Yes, there was confusion. Keystone reached into his jacket, noting the presence of the iZombie complete set to date, hoping to gift it to Cecily. Another time, then. These were guests of his Boss, El Jefe, The Man In Charge, Caesar Hannibal Gonzalez. He was going to act every bit the professional. Keystone found a respectful spot to stand, not quite in the way of their egress, near a small baggage claim station.

Caesar made sure to be out in front. He needed to be out in front, and so he put some pep in his step just so that he could, in fact, be out in front. He was so out in front by the time the others began to emerge from the plane, he was on the ground, damn near at a jog. Oddly mistaking the older man's fleetness of foot as delight to see him, Keystone did not even see it coming.

The last couple of steps between Caesar and Keystone were covered at a sprint, an act of suddenness that belied the apparent age of the venerable Mexican. Without word or pause, Caesar leapt bodily into the air, bringing one arm wide for balance even as his right foot found purchase on the railing of the baggage claim. He pushed off from this perch, reaching a new height while simultaneously curling his weathered, scarred hand into a tight rock formation of a fist. The combined inertia of his movement, the gravity assist, and the skill of the punch all came into jarring clarity as knuckles met temple with a sound not dissimilar to a hurled brick making solid, flat connection to a Thanksgiving turkey.

Keystone stumbled backwards against the assault but did not topple, though he did seriously consider the idea. Caesar landed hard. He had to put one hand to the ground to steady himself, though he did recover quickly. The grizzled, grief-stricken Mexican did not press his attack any farther. It was quite possible that he knew he could not at this point; Caesar knew what the abilities and limitations of both himself and the younger, stronger Keystone. Even in his youth, he might not have been able to beat the Brit in a fair contest. This point had to be made, however. Keystone should have told him about Alicia.

Trying to shake off the near-blackout inflicted upon him, Keystone rubbed the side of his throbbing skull and inquired with much in the way of sarcasm and gritted teeth, "You 'ave a good flight then, Boss? Peanut service tip-top? Get one o' them warm towels an' such, yeah?"

Caesar felt that some sort of explanation was in order. To wit, he stared into the eyes of the much larger man and uttered a single word in a mildly accusatory tone: "Alicia." The glint of moisture in his eyes was apparent. There was more to this than just a casual involvement. Keystone waited cautiously for that metaphorical "other shoe" to hit the floor.

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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

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The secret truths which were to be found within the felt and stitching of Foy's very fine hat were not as forthcoming as he would have liked on that morning. There was very little to say just then, likewise there was very little to do. This was a waiting game, pure and simple. Which was to say that, given his options, the indomitable spirit of the Gentleman Barber was better suited to a comfortable, slightly more neutral location. He had sated his curiosity as to the extent and quality of Jahosafat's collection of hats quite well, replaced everything in proper order (as a gentleman might), and it was time to move on.

Foy stood and straightened his black, silk tie, making sure that the platinum pin was secure and centered. Just because he wasn't going out that hour, there was no reason to look sloppy. He twirled his bowler hat around in his hands but once, exited the room of his childhood friend, and quietly closed the door behind him. The short walk from the door back to his Parlor gave him a few seconds to think while not being distracted by things of greatness like hats and wrapped candies, bespoke apparel, and masterful engraving upon the intricate, interlocking pieces of a worthy firearm. Sadly, he did not like what came to his brain unbidden when such things let them. "That confounded Shepherd..." he murmured to himself. He was hoping that the man would be alright. Atticus seemed to be quite the jovial fellow. His social standing might even be forgivable, considering his presumed standing with what society agreed was a rather likely hereafter, coupled with a Vow of Poverty. "My word," he said aloud, pausing his steps for a moment, "What a positively scandalous proposition: Intentionally vowing to be poor. Why, it flies in the face of appropriate business sense, indeed!"

Foy even suppressed a laugh. Curious that he would find it funny. Curiouser that he would have his mind focused upon Atticus at that point in time, as well. It occurred to him that he actually liked the odd fellow. He was in dire need of a wardrobe upgrade, had some odd thoughts about the class system, but he genuinely seemed a likeable man. Well, better to shake those thoughts away for the time being. Medical personnel were seeing to him and his fate would be determined without any input from him, in the long and short of things.

Instead of investing more worry into the situation, Foy took it upon himself to return to his quarters and give his personal arsenal a once-over. Inspect for spotting and sights. Inventory ammunition. He had acquired a couple of new items with which he wished to familiarize himself. One was not a weapon; it was Captain Quinn's personal earpiece transmitter. The other was most assuredly a weapon, and a classic one at that. A Mosin-Nagant 91/30 rifle, long range and capable of filling both infantry and (even better suited to) sniper roles. It was an older model, naturally; one does not become a classic by being new. Nevertheless it has a reputation for being monstrously accurate at very long ranges. Foy only wished he had the time to stop by a gunsmith or vendor to pick up some very standard accessories before their departure. Well, something else to look forward to, he supposed.

Still, his "walking around" stash was formidable, as could be seen clearly from outside of his quarters. He had left the door open again, much like in Jahosafat's room while he was still in it. There was no need for secrecy among these people, at least about this. If they all fulfilled their roles properly and in concert with each other to best get their jobs done, they would all learn what the others could do. This was merely a reflection of part of his skill set. Laid out for inspection in his personal quarters was his gunbelt containing a pair of custom Colt Pythons, in short order a fully assembled Callahan Fullbore Auto-Lock with its varied, demolition worthy ammunition, and of course the recently acquired 91/30 Sniper Rifle. He would have preferred more options given his circumstances, but this was a start.

Foy's next bit of time was spent inspecting and maintaining his weapons, hopefully to complete prior to takeoff. Every so often, one might notice him twirling the tips of his elegant and very masculine moustache, a triumph of facial accessories across the 'Verse.

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William Harper

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Location: Prometheus (Bridge)
Skills: Computers

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Harper sat staring at the vid screen for a few seconds after the signal cut, using the time to take in what had just happened. Anisa was a frightening woman when she wanted to be, in a stern, authoritative way. The woman she had just finished speaking with was equally frightening in his mind, but in a manner that implied violent instability. He hoped that he was wrong about this. The short talk he was privy to kicked off a few internal warning signs, like a flaring of the survival instinct he had picked up during his residence at that God forsaken penal colony in the Halo field. The feeling was mellowed somewhat by the fact that she seemed to have a completely separate personality for someone off camera, indicating to him a core of decency beneath what was overtly presented, or a weakness to exploit if things got really bad.

Concerning the last words that Anisa spoke, specifically concerning the possibility of being the new girl's bitch, Harper set a quizzical expression and shrugged, saying, "She is a lot prettier than the last person who attempted it, at least." His tone suggested bitter recollection. It had been a long time since he was considered a target by aggressive ne'er-do-wells locked away in a big steel can. Harper had learned his lessons quickly and painfully, however. Before his unintended release, people learned to leave him the hell alone. Mostly.

But that woman looked really, really strong.

Harper straightened in his seat, putting on the air of a dutiful Lieutenant. "I am sending Miss Vinters the ship and docking information she requested, Captain. If you'd prefer, I will stay on the bridge for a while longer to receive any additional communication she might have. We are otherwise primed for departure at your order, Ma'am."

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Bridgette Vinters

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Location: Crappy Lodging (Near Lady Luck)
Skills:

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The second that the signal was dropped, Bridgette rolled onto her side with sputtering laughter. Whoever that guy was sitting with Anisa, he probably needed to lighten the hell up. And so long as she was thinking about it, good on Cap'n Crowe for finding someone to cross her eyes and test out her vocal cords every now and again. No reason she couldn't share, Bridgette figured, but most people just weren't like that out in the wider 'Verse. Their loss.

Her terminal signaled her once again. This time, it was a basic data file labelled "Courtesy of the Captain", giving basic information about a ship docked not too far from her location. Bridgette expected to see very familiar info, but was surprised to note that this was very much not the Vengeance. Had something happened? Anisa loved that ship, she thought. It was her home. And a half-decent mechanic could keep a Firefly in the Black indefinitely, given some time to work. Bridgette had a little experience with mechanics herself. It wasn't her main forte, but she could probably keep something as reliable as a Firefly limping until it could be seen by more experienced people. This ship though? It wasn't even a Firefly vessel at all. "J'vla helvete, she got a gorram Dragonfly? What the ass is a Dragonfly? ...whatever. In the long run, it didn't matter. Anisa was an experienced Captain who wasn't going to voluntarily get junk. She had a position lined up for her that paid, and apparently senior staff kind of paid if she was taking Atticus's share, plus some personal space for Cyril. She was taking it.

"Hey, Cyril?" she called over to her brother, who was in the middle of... ok, so he was spinning around on his ass singing that song again. She didn't want to deal with this. "Pack up, Cyril!" she said cheerfully. "I got us a gig on a ship! Regular meals, better living spaces, oh and get this Cyril: Your own bunk. It's not going to be very big, but it's only you in there if you want to be alone, alright? Well, unless the Captain says different, but I know her. It'll be okay. We just have to work for her." Bridgette nodded her head, giving Cyril a soft smile. She definitely wasn't like this with anybody else. Hurry up and get ready to move, we have to be there in one hour. Come on."

In truth, it was going to take less than an hour to get to this new ship, "Prometheus". But she did want to make sure she got everything together and grabbed something to eat along the way. Cyril might be fine with Fluffernutter this early in the morning, but Bridgette was not. And if they were going to meet some new people, as implied by the presence of that unknown man with Anisa, she wanted to put on a proper first impression. The vast majority of her belongings were still packed away in a very large utility trunk propped up on wheels. A couple of tools lay about which were easily stashed, her terminal, as well as a few articles of clothing. The remainder of her stuff - her working and functional gear - she intended to have on her person.

First, she pulled a pair of work boots on over kneehigh, rainbow colored socks, tying down the fat, pink laces with hurried double knots. She had passed out in her brown cargo pants and black tank top the night before, so that made things easier. From the trunk, she acquired and donned a set of secure armor, vaguely resembling Alliance gear but lighter, more form fitting, and grey-black in color. After clipping on the extremity pieces, she slipped the collapsible helmet onto her belt clip and began buckling on her gunbelt. This gunbelt was built with shotguns in mind; two of them in fact. Short barreled over/under hand cannons and enough shells to make things interesting in most any social affair. Most folks might pack a revolver, but not so Bridgette. Half the time, she didn't even want to have to aim. She slipped a nasty looking seax into the back of her belt, one that she crafted herself. And there pretty much ended any connection she had with the modern 'Verse in equipment.

A roundshield, three feet or so across leaned against the wall along side a broad, seven-foot long hewing spear. The shield itself was an up to date protective device made with materials of the day; ballistic and impact trauma accounted for in great detail. Bridgette paused for a moment, deciding first to garb herself with a great mantle, long enough to be considered a cloak, made of thick, white bear fur. She took up the spear, gave it a heft, and watched expectantly as the shaft seamlessly shortened by three feet. It clipped onto a firmpoint on the back of her shield, which she then slung across her back with a reinforced leather strap. Bridgette felt her ears and neck to make sure her torc, earrings, and ear cuffs were straight and centered. Then, as a final touch of intimidation, smeared a bit of red facepaint across her chiseled yet unmistakably feminine features.

"Let's get out of here, Cyril. I want to get some breakfast before we meet up with the ship." She smiled at her little brother. He might not deserve what he has to endure in his life now, but she wanted to make sure he didn't have to endure much more. Everybody else was either friend or fodder as far as she was concerned. Bridgette grabbed the extended handle of her utility case and strode to the door.

She indeed looked quite the mercenary.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks (VIP Commons -> Motor Pool -> Front Gate)
Skills: N/A

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Qasr El Nil Barracks

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

The subtle nod from himself to Vera did not go unnoticed. This was most assuredly not the proper conversation to have in front of a lady who had just lost someone, even if he had suffered the same loss. Reginald's own way of throwing himself into work to deal with grief was not everyone's; he would be well placed to remember that. With a quiet, humble murmur, he intoned, "Apologies, yes... So very sorry." Continuing, he addressed George. "Yes please, do join me if you would, Mr. Benaszewski. I should expect to require assistamce of both a moral and physical nature."

Reginald stood from the table, leaving it to be cleared by the service staff, and made his way out into the cresting sun of Egypt alongside George. He gave the man an affirming look, one of gratitude and respect. This man knew Peter as a soldier, and was still here to assist in his final preparations. The Lord Major appreciated it highly.

Their destination in the interim was the motor pool, where true to orders the vehicle from the previous day was all petroled up and waiting on them, a driver behind the wheel with eyes forward, driving cap and all. As soon as the Lord Major was spotted, the Rolls Royce's engine growled to life and an wnlisted man saw to the opening of the doors to accommodate its intended passengers.

Once everyone and everything was appropriately loaded in, the iconic vehicle slowly pulled away from its designated pick-up poont and crept toward the Main Gate, amid a number of personnel snapping to attention and initiating salutes as it passed by. Once at the gates, Reginald and George were greeted by the sights of Lauren and Mahendra requesting access to the Barracks.

"Miss Ridgeway has billeting here under the VIP wing, you see..." he said to the guards from his spot in the car, motioning for them to enter. "...and Mr. Zalil, though a touch unexpected, works for the Lady Munn at the Museum. Give him guest access, but definitely allow him admittance to Lady Munn. I believe Miss Ridgeway should be headed in that very direction now, yes?" A bit terse perhaps, but he meant well."Carry on."

The Lord Major then motioned forward, followed by the vehicle lumbering out and onto the streets of Cairo. They had the unpleasant but necessary task of tending to their fallen loved one.

🦄 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)
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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"...finding Viktor, finding Father... finding Viktor... da, finding Father..." Granted, he didn't necessarily have to speak aloud in English, but his own grasp on the language wasn't as precise as he would have liked it. Using it almost constantly helped work out the rough parts, as it were, but it was most effective in the presence of native speakers. Even if they didn't correct grammar directly, the odd expression, even amongst the more polite in general society, was helpful in giving his grasp upon the language of the land more polish. Admittedly, he would still insist upon using a rougher pronunciation during a performance. It was simply good showmanship.

But the words he was speaking in his slightly inexpert English were for the actual purposed indicated. He needed to locate both The Baron and their Ringmaster to inform them of the visions, and the interpretation of said vision by the local man. They had a destination in mind now, and with the possibility of a Soulless attack looming, they all needed to organize as if they were on the hunt. Hopefully, the good people of England wouldn't take too much offense at the present might of the Circus cutting a hasty swath northward through their country.

His train of thought was derailed momentarily as he heard the voice of Constantin from behind him. He stopped, allowing his fellow performer the opportunity to catch up to him and explain. "Another vision, and so soon Constantin Firevalker? Tretiy Glaz is strong vith you today. It is speaking not to me at all, but you... O's and K's, Flag vith green stag? No? Aha! Green flag vith stag! Yes! I am understanding it now! I ... da, am having nothing."

Vladimir looked back in the direction from where he had just come, hoping to see the Londoner, Thalken. "I am needing to find Father and Viktor. If vould please, brother Constantin, needing to find out vhat it means. Da?"

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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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The stories of the Colonial abilities and their journeys of the spirit seemed so much more eventful, exciting even, when Mary had read about them. Naturally, these stories were told from the point of view of the person taking the journey; only very rarely from that of the dutiful bodyguard standing watch over what was essentially a temporary corpse. Virginia seemed so relaxed. Without a consciousness to properly animate her form, it was as if she was fast and fitfully asleep. A person with a less strict code of ethic would likely have used the opportunity to pose her body in interesting and amusing ways. Perhaps with mouth agape, one hand over her sternum and the other reaching out, not unlike a horizontal opera singer. Or maybe, with enough time, one may acquire several lengths of rope and fashion a sort of "Crypt Marionette Show". The possibilities were limited only by one's imagination and depths of immorality.

But not so Mary. No, Dame Commander Hale held her own silent vigil, observing the guidelines of decency and unquestionable points of honor during this, her good friend's moment of physical uncertainty. She maintained the quiet and the serenity of the location until such time as Virginia required to return to her earthly vessel had passed. Thus was her duty, without reservation nor troubling thought to the contrary.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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

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Seeing two women become territorial, even borderline savage, over something as simple and cheery as a Twinkie gave him a sense of disappointment. Oh sure, he could understand the draw. They were a particularly amazing cultural contribution that humanity gave to itself; sweet, golden, and delicious, made up of stuff that persons of a less advanced culture would consider godly, or at the least a deeply moving religious experience. But would he kill someone over a Twinkie? Hard to say.

On the one hand, there was a woman raised among the Russian Circus from a time long past. She would be able to recognize the thing for what it was, a wonderful confectionary delight that she had yet to experience. And on the other hand, another woman had already experienced The Twinkie, only to have it yanked mercilessly away from her by the coming of an undead apocalypse. He could sympathize. Now that Alexandra was introduced to the magnificence thereof, and Faith re-acquainted, there was cause for a little emotion. But Gilbert didn't like where this was headed.

"Ladies, please remember yourselves. These goodies are primarily for the children, and we have to set an example." He squatted for a second or two, gathering an armload of the sugary treats. He began tossing them to any of the remaining youth in the area with a free hand, all the while continuing his little monologue. "There's no reason that we can't sample some of the sweets for ourselves. Let us be honest with each other, if we may: It's these little moments that make living worthwhile. The rainbows in otherwise gloomy days, the tiny thrills of personal victory, first kisses, sunlight cresting over the horizon of a new adventure; it's the chocolate chip cookies of the world that make it amazing. The broad sweeps of empires, even the lasting impressions of religious thought are just footnotes in history books for people to read about centuries from now, if at all, and debate their significance among one another." His voice was casual yet prominent, each syllable requesting both respect and attention but seemingly indifferent as to whether he received either. A smile, infectious and wistful, returned to his face as he held the last two packages out to Alexandra and Faith. "But something more pragmatic to consider? We have cases of these things. Couple of different kinds, too. And they reset with Ville au Camp." He punctuated his smile with a playful wink, and directed his attention back to the people around them. "This little ritual is one of those things. It's why I'm glad we chose this night for the loop."

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James Grady

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

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"Well then, Miss Sophia, I'm expectin' nobody'll gonna think the less of you if'n you dig in." James ripped open his own package, pausing a bit to fill a couple of waxed paper cups with the interesting, gingerbread flavored punch. He held a single creme-filled chub of puffy, machine-processed pastry up before his face, regarding it as if it were a thing of wonder and beauty before deftly biting off one rounded end. "Hmm, and now it's Jewish..." he joked, giving a quick chuckle before glancing around with a just a hair of self-consciousness.

He listened carefully to what Gilbert had to say on the matter of life's little pleasures. Fleeting thing, really. Tiny bits of happy floated around for a second before they shattered like so much glass or crystalline eggshell. Happy was fleeting, but misery tended to stick around for a while. The words of Belladonna reached his ears with some positivity, too. Not the part about and Headless Husband, nor the waking of the Dead. He agreed with Sophia's assessment about dead people walking with a wide-eyed, affirming, "Mmm hmm, girl. That's some bid'ness I can do without."

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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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It wasn't every day that a Ash got himself a spontaneous man-kiss from someone in his chain of command. Despite all of the hell and turmoil that everyone had gone through, despite even his personal descent into an emotional oubliette that he was still trying to claw his way back out of - Ash laughed. It was a little unnatural at first, and in truth he tried to stifle it back. This only resulted in a sharp sputtering sound and prompted him to just let it come. He even wiped away a tear.

Ash shook his head and dismissed the incident with a well-meaning, "As you were, Officer." He even chuckled a little more before returning to his makeshift seat by the window. There was a slice of hope left to them, as fleeting and as precious as it ever was. He stared out of the crack between the boards, looking at the outline of his Hordebuster against what starlight filtered through the clouds and trees. Though a touch unprofessional, Ash allowed his mind to wander into daydream, thinking back upon the history of the vehicle and his memories of it.

He was a lot younger, obviously. The truck was no longer new, nor was it a rust bucket. It was built a while back in Canada, of all places. Their paler cousins to the north stepping on the toes of the American companies, and damned effectively, too. The Freightliner company had put out an engineering masterpiece, series of them in fact, that was more fuel efficient, had better handling, more hauling power, better braking, and was designed to smoothly handle mountain roads and (in some circumstances) light offroad capacity. It was a solid, ware-hauling monster, with infinitely replaceable or machinable parts. Naturally, instead of keeping up with the industrial spirit of competition, the United States Government protected their investments by altering the laws concerning interstate trucking.

The bright blue truck that was to eventually become The Hordebuster, and many more in its series, were no longer allowed to be used as freight haulers on American interstates. Most that survived in the U.S. were refitted as utility vehicles. The truck in question became a severe duty dump truck. It had served its purpose for a few more years, hauling construction waste and fill dirt, graveling sites and the like, until it was eventually replaced by shiny new models. In truth, they didn't even do a better job. But seriously, what kind of dump truck had a sleeper cab? It made no sense. The truck sold on the extreme cheap to a struggling businessman from the hills of Virginia. Name of Holloway.

Ash remembered his dad telling him that their family business was struggling. They could make product, but they could not move anything themselves nor did they have the finances to hire a shipping company. Not after all of their money got sunk into the Distillery. There was no point in trying to go legit if it bankrupted the family. It was a gift from God, his father had said, that this piece of awe-inspiring Canadian machinery was made available to them, although it was highly unusual to deliver goods regionally in a dump truck, it did the job. Ash sometimes went on these runs with his dad, or with one of the distillery workers as time permitted.

His mind drifted further along, past school and his career with the Army. It was common knowledge that the truck saved a good number of people after the Outbreak in Virginia. What most people didn't know? It saved his family long before it, too.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Eden, Doors across from Fitness
Skills: Survival, Pistol

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More gunshots rang out. Of course more gunshots rang out. It's what they did. It was why they were here. The plan remained to kill every last fucktard in the building, and that's what Thalia intended to do. Unfortunately, these gunshots were from farther up the corridor from the position of the rest of her group. While maintaining the cautious direction of her pistols down the way she was moving, the determined Scots-Latina turned an eye back up the way she came. It was a precarious position to be in, virtually leaving her open on her flanks. Luckily, she was in a hallway of sorts. It would be pretty unusual for something to attack her from the side. The head turn did give her a direct view of the effect of the gunshots, which was not the best news ever: Beatrice took a bullet to her leg.

The responding gunfire from Alexander gave Thalia a sense of relief, if shaky. The group still had the raw intestinal fortitude to slap them back. It counted for something. But what was beginning to concern her was the manner in which the veteran commanded her to return to the rest of them. The first instinct was to tell him to "go to hell" and just keep doing what she was doing, but his voice had a wiry edge, it seemed to her, that might mean they were getting overrun and needed a couple extra guns applied to the situation. Like they needed her. Who knows, they actually might. "...Gawd damnit..." she sighed, running back to where she entered the area, hovering about Beatrice.

Thana was standing. She had to admit it, the bitch was tough. And she had to give it to Beatrice, she was handling all of this like a champ. Thalia wouldn't have been surprised if the bullet wound in the girl's leg started bleeding icewater.

Back up the corridor, she could see the potential ambush spots - the hallway to the right and all the way at the end. Just to see what might or might not poke a head out, she exclaimed with projected voice, "Oh no, my gun jammed and I'm open!" with her two perfectly serviceable weapons pointed in the direction of potential trouble. She just wanted to see if they were really stupid.

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

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Keystone

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Location: Deymin's Tower (1F and hoofing it)
Interacting With: Feet On The Floor

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Step One has been achieved as he righted himself. His feet gathered underneath him in the manner of a man who really, really wanted to not be there anymore, forming an alliance with his arms as they reached out to his sides to maintain his balance. The laat thing he needed was to delay his egress from the ruined tower. It was time to go.

Powerful legs flung h8m down the staircase, his steps wide and utilitarian. He quickly came upon young Thomas, still descending the stairs afywr having blown past him just a second or two ago. Well, turnabout being what it was, Keystone flattened along the wall as he darted past, reaching the ground floor. The sight of his fallen teammate and her now much more compact wolf gave him yhe slightest twinge of shock, though not enough to override his instinct to exit as quickly as possible.

Ground floor. The way out is in sight. Don't screw it up now.

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Prometheus (Jahosafat's Quarters)
Skills: Perception

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Whilst perusing the many hats of the highly regarded Mr. Jahosafat Moreau, Foy had to admit a touch of jealousy. He did have a lovely and varied collection. The dapper purveyor of all things barber-y did not wish to be viewed as some sort of Peeping Thomas, skulking about simply to rummage through another man's hats, and so left the door to his friend's quarters open. A number of minutes had passed, far longer than what was required to ordinarily resuscitate someone going through a temporary loss of circulatory control. Or not. For all Foy knew, it was over and done with, and Josie was having sherry with the man and Dorothy someplace quiet on the ship. Or conversely, for all Foy knew, the process by which one was brought back from cardiac issues took hours. The man was in the business of removing life, not preserving it.

Foy settled back upon the bunk nearby. His posture remained as straight and proper as always; he just didn't feel like being on his feet. "Ludicrosity." he spoke, albeit in quiet voice. "Utter and contemptible ludicrosity, in its total, unabridged form!" A sterner voice was used this time. This situation was strange to him. Foreign of concept, possibly. He didn't care when people were gunned down in front of him a week or two ago; people from both his ship and the opposition's. He even went as far as to make pithy remarks and snarky comebacks for those who were involved, all the while holding the equivalent of an automatic, man portable assault cannon (It was his very favorite gun). Foy was fully ready to engage the survivors in mortal combat, short range small arms leading the way. And he likely would have come out on top of that exchange, save for one person who might have out-drawn him.

He took off his own bowler hat and inspected it, for no other reason than to have his hands do something. Pursuant to his earlier thought, Foy enunciated, "It would have been necessary to cause a distraction, indeed, and eliminated their Captain on the primary..." followed by a meaningful, "The lady has the look of an experienced gunfighter. Indubitably, fortune smiles protagonistically upon those who shoot first. Oh, how a crate of mentally disturbed howler monkeys, properly set ablaze and released at precisely the appropriate time would have been an investment most worthwhile. Hmmm..." But it was funny how things worked out, seeing as how circumstances placed him under under her employ. He was not bitter about how it all came together in the end, not in the least. As he stared into the worked material and careful stitching of his hat, he simply mused at what a myriad of possibilities life had to offer.

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William Harper

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Location: Prometheus (Bridge)
Skills: Computers

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Baxk on the Bridge, Harper was going through the motions of a very standard system restart. With the exception of the electrical system amd a couple other minor items related to crew comfort, everything needed to be initialized. First, of course, was the engine. It thrummed to life, immediately beginning to charge the power cells elsewhere in the vessel, and immediately went to a more passive cycle. They needed to be ready for takeoff, not hit the Black immediately.

A shipwide system check came back great, all systems registering either at full power, within safe protocols, or both. He was almost ready to wrap things up and possibly catch an hour or so of shuteye before the scheduled departure time (unless the Captain had other duties in mind) when Anisa entered the Bridge. She did not look overly happy. And by that, he meant in the least.

The order given to Harper informed him that the Shepherd was dead. No going back now, no saving him. As her commanding voice faltered, even just a fraction as the word "death" came out, Harper's head involuntarily flicked to Anisa's direction. He disguised the motion, but probably not very convincingly, as a nod to confirm her order. "Aye aye, Captain." he responded quietly, and wondered exactly how he was going to find someone in all of the 'Verse with just a name. He had to assume this person wasn't registered with the Alliance core database nor census. Hmm...

Communications were online and fully up to date, allowing for a respectable broadcast range. He pulled up the ship's computer on a nearby screen and entered what information he had. There were a lot of people named Winters in the 'Verse. But from what he could tell, the only Bridgette Winters was a toddler living somewhere in or near Ariel. That... Absolutely couldn't be it.

A couple of minutes later found Harper stumbling across an amazing piece of luck. A chance misspelling (an extra vowel or another such random mistake) prompted the computer's anticipatory spell correction to kick in, offering suggestions and alternate versions of the name. Not only that, but public profiles and last registered locales. And as strange as it seemed to look at the most likely candidate out of the bunch, it had to be mentioned.

He hastily typed up a standard notification of death, a thing he had do do a few times back when he was an officer with the Alliance, tacked on the ship's communication info, and addressed Anisa. "Captain, um, I have a Bridgette Vinters pulled up. Last registered address was with a training settlement on Borr in the Himinbjorg system, before that Aesir. If this is your girl, all I have to do is hit send."