Sigil

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

---

---

Gilbert & James

Location: Ville au Camp 1943
Skills: Soft Martial Arts
Skills: Animal Empathy

---

James lay among the clover of the ground, staring up at the clouds far above. They were enchanting, wispy things, clouds. The new Paradox had not taken a good look at passing clouds since he was a child, and as such, he was pleasantly surprised to note that they in fact appeared in exact doubles, yet slowly the twins would come together even as the little details around him came into greater clarity then they were a mere moment ago. The unfortunate man blinked away forming tears and, upon suddenly remembering that he was going to require oxygen later on that day, painfully sucked in a lungful of sweet, precious air.

"How many times does that make, James? Fifteen?" asked Gilbert, offering the newer Paradox a hand up.

"Seventeen." he grunted, finally able to breathe with something akin to normality. "That is, 'less you wanna spot me a couple, huh?"

Waving away James's obvious attempt to make his win/loss record slightly less embarrassing, he instead channeled the conversation to something more along the lines of education or training. "Take a minute. Catch your breath. Now, think: How did I beat you? What happened?"

"What happened was, you a seven thousand year old epic badass and I forgot everything I knew 'bout beatin' folks down a few months ago."

Gilbert didn't phrase his question in a form that was sarcasm-proof, apparently, and had drawn a Paradox that spoke it fluently. "Are you saying that, were you to have the knowledge of your previous lives, you would win?"

Such an assumption was ludicrous at best, and James was wise enough to know it. "Aw, hells to the naw!" he returned, eyes widening at the prospect. It was not a matter of pride for James. He didn't feel that he had to prove anything. "You 'member that part where I mention thousands of years an' 'Epic Badass'? Hmm? No sir - all I'm sayin' is, even if I know me some hard hittin' Bruce Leroy shit, I still ain't gonna stand toe-to-toe with someone like you. Not if'n I got options."

A slight breeze ruffled the longish hair that peeked from beneath Gilbert's hat. He nodded slowly, seeming to understand what his new Paradox was getting at. He walked over to a nearby table and retrieved James's cowboy hat for him, handing it over with raised eyebrow. "Tactics. Surprise attack. Inferior force defeating a superior one using intelligence and terrain advantage. I can respect that. Know where, when, and how to attack in such a way as to win without strenuous engagement."

"Yeah! That's goddamn exactly what I'm talkin' 'bout! I can't 'member much from my Hog Huntin' days, but a phrase has stuck with me: 'You don't go runnin' after the hog. You make it come runnin' to you." James seemed very proud of himself just then. Of course, he was also fairly certain that this was all a hypothetical conversation anyway.

Not so, according to the Emendator. "I accept."

"Wait, huh?" replied a confused and increasingly worried James.

"I accept. I will give you the remainder of the day and some of tomorrow morning to set up the grounds. And then, I will come after you." clarified Gilbert.

"Wait, huh?" James said again, not really asking a question so much as trying to figure out how all this went horribly awry so quickly. "I didn't mean to -"

James was cut off by the forceful yet highly optimistic vocalizations of The Hat. "No, this is a great idea! James, you have demonstrated a level of ambition and creativity that I rarely see in Paradoxes so young." He was laying it on extremely thick. "I must admit, given the state in which you joined us I did not think you would surprise me in this way. Bravo, sir! Bravo!"

The reluctant wereboar seemed to shrink a foot or two, his eyes widening and face contorting in such a way as to make one think he was about to vomit. In truth, it was within the realm of possibility. "Um, Mr. Hat, sir? I don't think..."

"Absolutely!" Gilbert interrupted, undaunted by the obvious discomfort he was putting James through. "There must be rules! First, nothing directly lethal. You use deadly force, and I use deadly force. Agreed? Second, there must be a clear, decisive win here. I need you to lay a hand on me. Clear, open-palm connection. Just do it once, signifying that you have penetrated my defenses. Whether it actually hurts me is of lesser importance. Finally, I will come after you. If I get you before you get me, something ...unpleasant... will happen. Very." He let the mood hang in the air for a moment. "Good. The other Emendators and Paradoxes are out training, so the grounds are ours. I shall stay in my room until tomorrow. You make the most of your time."

Finally able to get an intelligent thought out, James blurted out, "An' what if I win? What do I get if I win?"

It was a fair question. "You've had your eye on one of my knives for a while, right? The Bowie/Seax hybrid? How about that?"

Smiling, James recovered some more of his wits, giving the counteroffer of, "How 'bout that spiffy, black blade sword y'all got little bit ago? That's some hardcore shit right there, yessir!"

Gilbert was not amused in the slightest. "A knife, James. Don't turn this into a joke. Any of the blades I have personally summoned or created here on premises. Including the hybrid we discussed. Understood?"

James dipped his head a little, realizing that he was close to pissing off an immortal. The consequences could be dire. "Yeah. Understood, Mr. Hat, sir." He rubbed his hands together, simultaneously trying to avoid tomorrow somehow and yet plotting strategy as if anxiously awaiting his opportunity to cross swords with Gilgamesh, the Eternal Warrior.

"Then, excepting our nightly festivities, I shall see you tomorrow. Best of luck." The expression left on the face of the usually optimistic Mr. Grady left nothing to interpretation. He was certain he was going to get his ass kicked.

---

The sun rose upon a laboring James, taking to his plans as best he could considering the fact that his plans, such as they were, seemed to lack what the New Agers of his time period referred to as "organic flowthrough". From the Main House to the Kitchen House, and a couple points beyond, the ebon-skinned Wereboar sought to ready the field of battle with that which he would require to claim victory over a man who was, quite possibly, the most dangerous combatant in the history of civilized humankind.

He had a plan, you see. A plan so secretive and daring, yet so amazingly, utterly simple that it was bound to work. It had to. It was ingenious in its seeming stupidity that Gilbert would never see it coming. All he had to do was touch the palm of his hand to the imposing Emendator, and he won. James had this. It was in the bag.

Gilbert awoke later than he generally did. It was a special day, of course, but so long as everybody was off doing other things he would use the opportunity to sleep in. It was rare that he be treated to a lack of spoilers in the day's events, and so long as he consciously tried not to process the recent history of the location, he might be able to maintain surprise at whatever James was going to throw his way. Well, first things first: To the Kitchen House to make himself a decent kettle of tea, wait for it to cool every so slightly, and then consume the entire kettle himself. Secondly: Go hunt James. Ironically, if he had a truffle hog it would have been so much easier.

Stepping out of the front door, Gil strode confidently from the deck of the main building and into the fuller light of the day. He almost didn't catch what happened next.

James had perched himself precariously upon the floor above, hanging onto the guard rail, he was tentatively reaching out his hand, attempting to use his newfound gift of Animal Empathy to communicate with the squirrels of Ville au Camp, telling them to provide a distraction. Or maybe just one of them. He could command the rest like a diminutive general. Unfortunately, he didn't get but the faintest of instinctive feedback before losing even that entirely. His opportunity was literally beginning to walk away, so James gave into his desperation and, hoping that his risk was calculable as acceptable, jumped.

It was a wild, swinging leap from the balcony, his arms flailing and teeth bared, the fledgling Paradox screaming a wild battlecry of "CRACKA!!!" as he rode gravity's solid embrace downward.

The decidedly not pale of complexion Emendator, could see this coming a mile off. At the last possible instant, he turned and swiftly snatched James from the air. The act stopped his downward inertia, but Gilbert still took the occasion to turn him end over end and slam him into the ground, driving the air from his lungs. As James struggled to breathe, Gilbert admonished his actions. "That was a poor attempt, James. You could have previously injured yourself. It was badky planned and I expected much better of you. I am going to have my morning tea. When I am done, I expect something much better from you. Do you understand?"

From the ground, James gave a hearty thumbs up. Okay, better. He was working toward something. Just open palm grab the man, and he won. The squirrels weren't any help at all, then again he was so very new to this ability, maybe it was best not to make an attempt during what amounted to test time. It was for the best. But anything that could help him against the likes of Gil? Maybe the risk was worth it.

When Gilbert disappeared into the Kitchen House, James sprung up and got to work. He had already prepared the building blocks for his next gambit, now was simply a matter of setting it up and playing a waiting game. Deciding to take the risk, he attempted to enlist the aid of his squirrel commandos again. In hindsight, it might not have been the best idea ever.

The Hat emerged from the Kitchen House to what appeared to be abandoned grounds. James was nowhere in sight. The air itself seemed stilled somehow. Yet oddly, in the middle of the clearing between the building and the Oak, there sat a stool, upon which was a plate of waffles. Hot, buttery, syrupy waffles that looked like they were cooked by a grade schooler with a shaky hand. "James?" called Gil, "This is pathetic. This is really beneath the both of us, James. I has hoped you were better than this. If such an obvio..."

The Emendator's critique of the awfully staged trap was silenced by a curious noise coming from the side of the Kitchen House. It was the sound of a man going through immense stress and strain, possibly losing some sort of internal struggle. Curious, even worried about what that might mean, Gilbert cautiously stepped around the building.

James was there. He was holding his head in his hands and was crouched down, mumbling frenzied but otherwise unintelligible ramblings. Nearby, a couple of squirrels dashed about, doing that which squirrels might in the morning. Another seemed curious in the goings on of the humans of the former plantation. James kept looking to the small animals as speaking as if insane. "Naw, you don't! I done said naw you don't! Nuh uh. Stop it! You ain't tellin' me what's up, I'm tellin' you, that's why! God damn you, General Fuzzy! Get out my head! Get out my head! No! Stop shootin' them squirrelly freak beams in my brain"

Curiosity from Gilbert turned to worry. He had heard of James's budding Empathy ability, but this was not the proper application of it. It would not be the first time that a Paradox was unable to control their abilities, often putting themselves and others in serious peril. Cautiously, he approached. To hell with the test, James might actually be in danger here, and he did not wish to be responsible for a recently ressurected werehog with the brain of a squirrel.

James barely seemed to notice his approach, slobbering and snarling and making little in the way of sense. The mental overload of a villain named General Fuzzy was of paramount, if garbled discussion. Gilbert stepped closer to James, unsure of what do do next but at this time fully willing to stomp a tree rodent to death if it meant saving James.

The instant Gilbert's eyes went to the squirrels, James went into action. It seemed like slow motion to him, watching his hand travel in a fluid arc, and the last nanosecond of understanding from The Hat as somehow, impossibly, every piece of James's hand made connection with Gilbert's face with a loud snapping sound.

Amazement washed over James, followed by elation. He couldn't help himself. "GOTCHA BITCH!" He cried out, before realizing the implications of his actions. "...oh my gentle Jesus..." he whispered, just before running like hell to lock himself inside of his room.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

---

---

Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

---

---

Location: Northwest of London (By means of Northwest Inner Wall) -> Road to Bristol
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), Brivaldi, English

---

Briefly, Vladimir had a moment of introspection. Listening to the odd German fellow and his peculiar method of speech that sounded more than halfway like a series of riddles, he gave a sort of parallel to his own way of articulating the English language among the local, native speakers. In Russian, he was considered quite the eloquent wordsmith, as it came to events of speech. But in English? Vlad had to rely on his talent of dramatic presence and passionate, fiery temperament to get his point across or illustrate a scene. Being that his actual wordage occasionally required some polish, there were some many who looked at him rather oddly, much as he had the occasion to look oddly upon Ludwig. Was that what other people thought about him? That he was a difficult to understand, possibly mad individual?

As quickly as the thought came, it retreated. To hell with other people. He was The Great Bazhooli! Master of the Impalement Arts. Chiefest among the Bazhooli Sem'ya. And even without his people, Vladimir was a man of pride, talent, and honor. Such a man may graciously brush off the scoffs of the ignorant. Very possibly, Ludwig felt a similar way about himself. And why shouldn't he?

The approach of Constantin was noticed, and favorably. With him present and on a proper Brivaldi horse, their time on the road should be abbreviated in comparison to that of normal riders. Ludwig's presence was not to affect them much, either. Being travel size while traveling brought with it obvious advantage. To respond to the unbalanced German concerning the seed (at least that's what he thought it was about), Vlad responded wit a hearty, "Da, da! Is seed. You eat, ferret eat, use shell for the shoes. Vhatever. So long as you guide down paths, get us vhere need to be! Come now! Ve avay!" The gallop of mighty hooves sounded in the spaces north of London.

---

---

Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{“It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each person’s work.” -1 Corinthians 3:13}

---

Location: Near the road between Nottingham & Manchester
Skills: Horseback Riding

---

---

The image of what lay before them was wondrous in its own right. Was this the effect of the red lightning upon green wood, or a retaliation of sorts; a natural reaction against the unnatural? Or perhaps this was the finger of Divinity, in one form or another. Hopefully, this was a happy event and not another piece of heart-wrenching horror set to claim herself or her friend. Mary had so few of those.

Flame from the trees assaulted their senses as if the storm had settled upon the ground before them. A play of brilliant white and thunderous booming, the result of fire against foliage. Mary was pleased that the superior training of her great charger horse held. Young Cassius was unhappy being this close to open fire, true, but he was standing firm against the blaze. Mary addressed the observation of the Lady Crypt with a touch of wonder in her voice. "I see the flame, Virginia. And I see where it is not, yet should be." She turned her head around to better see Virginia's expression, "You speak as if with familiarity. Have you seen, or read of this before?"

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Forest: Chair 2
Skills: Intellect
Hit Points: 4
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

Dr. Swamp flinched slightly as Cobalt slammed his chair. So greatly did the man desire this particular seat, that he would not-so-subtly threaten further injury to a man with whom he had just made acquaintance, all for the sake of settling his posterior thusly. Truly this must be a chair worthy of princes and principle landowners; a seat of High Priests, a refuge where only the noblest of asses might seek respite. Perhaps this man was wronged somehow by the use of the chair. Dr. Swamp gave some tiny consideration to this possibility, be it purely from an academic point of view. He had no intention of moving until such time as they were supposed to disembark at the Manor, period, and continued insistence on the matter merely provoked him to dig in his heels further.

Case in point, the lady who had insisted upon sitting a seat away from the rather angry fellow, who had now seconds ago insisted that "by all means you may remain seated", now loosed her venom upon the good Doctor. Beneath his mask, an eyebrow raised at being referred to as an idiot, of all things, with the assertion that her speech should have been phrased with greater clarity to account for the forementioned lack of intellect. Like the words of the man to his other side, the doctor felt it was a crude inarticulation designed to elicit a response. Well, far be it for him to disappoint.

Dr. Swamp began to chuckle to himself. For the sake of manners, he cleared his throat and stifled the outer showings of his mirth. "And yet the lady fails to see the breathtakingly simple solution to everyone's benefit. How quaint that an idiot like myself has managed." The chuckle returned again, this time halted by a wince as he shifted his leg slightly, accommodating a more comfortable position for his walking cane.

His peripheral vision caught upward movement, demanding a turn of the head to better ascertain the nature of this new development. One of the machine's chairs had inexplicably become airborne, and was fast taking Director Kindle with it. "...this assuredly worsens her prognosis..." he muttered, shaking his head. Nothing to be done about it now. Returning to his own immediate surroundings, he said aloud (and to no one in particular), "Though I so hope we have the same seating arrangement for supper this evening. Marvelous." From somewhere in the vicinity, the Doctor heard the sound of horse hooves nearing, but the prevailing noise around him prevented a hard and fast location. He braced himself for whatever fresh drama would befall him next.

The mercurial nature of social gatherings often annoyed Dr. Swamp. This day was a fine example.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

---

---

Caesar & Keystone

---

Location: Queensguard R&D Complex
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

---

---

Meanwhile, back in the offices, Keystone was left with his presently unconscious baby son. It was the first time he was left alone with any baby, let alone his. Hell, it was very near unbelievable that he had a child in the first place. Yet, there he was. He could see the boy's mother in him, mixed with certain other qualities that he could only assume came from him. Eyes, the shape of his jaw, proportionate size of his hands... this boy was going to be massive when he grew up.

The marvel of his son aside, Keystone was mildly surprised to learn that Miss Santiago was familiar with both Elizabeth Queensguard and the older lady's (Butler? Valet? Personal Assistant?) ...helper, Wadsworth. Not just familiar, but familiar enough to have exchanged travel plans. That perked a brow on the Cockney bruiser. Keystone could only hope that He would be read into the situation. Until then, he dare not move until he was absolutely sure that little Liam was fast asleep. Maybe even get a bottle together while the little guy was out cold.

Ballistic rated playpen. That was awesome. All the same, he did have some work to do, and the best way to do that was to get started. The first part of that entailed opening his company email and piecing together all of the stuff that Caesar had sent him into a more coherent, less puzzle-y picture.

But speaking of Caesar, he was rather busy himself in search of something. He looked up and down the office that was supposed to be his, a utilitarian affair that was undefeated, even Spartan in nature, owing to the fact that he was rarely there for 9 - 5 work. He had been lately, but with the passing of his daughter he hadn't felt the desire to give it any homey touches.

Finally, packed away in an unmarked box underneath other unmarked boxes, he located it. In truth, it was probably safer there than someplace in a wall safe, and the tape holding the box together was still intact, even down to the fold he put in it. Caesar carefully lifted the machine from its Bastille of cardboard, bubble wrap, and plastic sheeting, and gave it a long stare. Tears started to form that he quickly blinked away. He didn't have time to cry right then. Deliver the computer to Tech, let Angel get a crack at it, and react accordingly.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

---

---

Ash Holloway

---

Location: Headland: E. Main Street, D9 -> E8 (inside Hordebuster)
Skills: Leadership, Mechanic, Engineering, Advanced Driving

---

---

A brief note of satisfaction rung in Ash's mind. Jack agreed with his assessment about the points for scavenging; houses first, Fire Department to wrap up. Further, he agreed with Jack that they should all hit the Fire Department together. It was a government building that held medical supplies and trained personnel. There was a decent likelihood that the place was used to care for the infected, and so there could be additional difficulties. Ash would feel a lot better if they could scrape up something to eat for everyone and hit the place at full strength.

Even the rain was welcome. Certain things would be more difficult, but if they were careful, they could use the rain to hide their scent from the Dead, not to mention muffle sounds they might make while rifling through the houses for supplies. And the obvious could not be ignored; clean, fresh water. As fickle as the rains could be in the American South, these were all things that they needed to move on.

Then Jack spoke again, and derailed his train of thought. A Nun. How unusual.

There were occasions when very few things could surprise Ash. Today was one such occasion. If a random chunk of space debris were to descend, snarling and flaming upon the Earth like a seventy-eight foot tall Shirley MacClaine, then he make a facial expression approximating surprise. The occurrence of a woman wearing traditional apostolic habit and brandishing a sword was notable, without doubt, but it did little more than raise the eyebrow of the world weary survivor. "Sorry Jack, I was raised Methodist." He shrugged, putting the Hordebuster into gear. "Don't think she's here for me, either."

"...damnit..." he breathed. This could be a trap. He had things to do, and honestly did not want to be delayed by something like this, trap or no. Putting his own people at risk for another mouth to feed was not something he was especially keen on. But he couldn't just leave someone to die. "Alright. Let's go lend a hand." He began rolling the big truck down the road, considering his options. He could mow through the Dead no problem, but that would mean offing the Nun, too. "Riley & Amelia: when we get close I want you to hop out of the suicide door, there. Pick off the corpses between us and her. No bullets unless you have to. Jack: Need your strength here. Hold the door open back there and get ready to pull the three of them inside. I don't want to take any chances in this rain that we don't have to. I'll be here, covering with the Marlin lever-action in case any surprises hit."

As the Hordebuster came closer to the scene unfolding, Ash rolled down his window and slid open the metal grate covering it. "Quick but careful. Ready?"

---

---

Thalia Carmichael

---

Location: Quincy: E9 (Front Porch) -> Inside House D10
Skills: Survival, Shield, Scavenging

---

---

Sometimes she just didn't get Thana's tactics. The place looked abandoned, but being honest, every place looked abandoned these days. She would have rather scouted the place out first. Observe for a bit. The weather seemed to have disagreed with her assessment, though. Getting into shelter was going to be the foremost piece of importance for them if they wanted to stay safe. Thalia understood that the elements dictated a speedy, lightly uncertain entrance. Why Thana insisted upon taking point when Thalia had the best defensive tool at their disposal, and was the only one trained in higher uses of it, was fully beyond her. Did she feel responsible for everyone? Was she to ever walk lead and take the first bullet? Was the decision based on guilt? It was a heavy burden to carry something like that, if it was the case. Thalia would have to have a talk with her later.

Just before they breached the house, Thalia couldn't help but overhear a comment about that name brand canned pasta. Again. From Beatrice. Again. Whatever, they had more pressing issues right then. But it could not go unanswered. As Thalia braced to enter, she hid a big grin behind her shield and responded, "Oh, pagarás por los SpaghettiOs, puta."₁ But the moment that Thana entered the building, Thalia was all business.

She entered directly behind Thana, her shield leading the way. As soon as Thalia was given a direction, she made for it. To the right lay a short hallway. From the look of it, the hall was your standard "bed and bath" setup, hopefully without the "beyond" part to ruin their day. Before trying her luck with doors, step one was giving the hallway a good look, if only to allow herself a second to acclimate to the light conditions.

Translations

1 = Oh, you'll pay for those SpaghettiOs, you bitch.

---

---

Hank Wright

---

Location: Okefenokee: E14
Skills: Club/Blunt Objects, Brawling, People Reading

---

---

Hank sighed with his entire body. It was an involuntary motion brought about by total the understanding that, while technically in full control of his own actions, he felt obligated to get involved in things he would rather just leave the hell alone. "Naw, there's where you're wrong there, Sport." he rasped out, unshouldering his shovel and stepping toward his friend Wayne, "Looks like we do have to fight them." He shook his head, maneuvering over the uneven ground next to the road. "Yeah, you go ahead and pray. It's worked out so well for us so far. You know, maybe those bible-thumpers were right, and this whole Dead Asshole thing is God's punishment for taking prayer out of schools, ya think there, Sport?"

Palpable sarcasm aside, he did need to get to his traveling companion. It's not like he could just leave the guy to his own devices at a time like this. He could, technically, but one of two things might happen: 1)Wayne would die, either by getting gnawed to death by dead people or the subsequent fever that hit afterwards, or 2) He kills them all without so much as a skinned knee for himself, prompting an ugly conversation later about his not helping which makes Hank wish that one or both of them got gnawed to death by dead people. Either way there was no winning this situation. Might as well push through it.

"Third damn time this week..." muttered Hank as the fight commenced. "Third damn time!" he said louder. "Pull this shit again and you're doing it yourself. Hey, nice kick though." Hank hefted his shovel, taking a swing at the nearest mobile corpse to him. The uncertain footing of the Okefenokee caused his swing to go lower than he intended, catching his dead guy's arm and, while respectable of damage, did little to actually help his situation. While regaining his footing, the least he could do was similarly inconvenience his target, and so brought his backswing to bear on the creature's knees. It was still a danger, but at least Hank wasn't down in the mud. If this kept getting inconvenient he might have to waste bullets. And nobody wanted that.

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

---

---

William Harper

---

Location: Prometheus (Galley -> Bridge)
Skills: Pilot, Astrogation, Engineer, Computers

---

Maybe Anisa did see this coming. Harper had to face it, after the display at Lady Luck the previous evening, the interpersonal dynamic among the crew had definitely taken a turn toward the extremely temporary. He supposed it was how you lived out this way. There were always little, unwritten guidelines about things like this, no matter if you were prospecting for titanium out on the Rim or maneuvering within society in the Core. This was just how it was handled here. New rules to learn; when to follow them and when to bend them. The one young lady bent them too many times and too close together.

Harper was not surprised when Anisa began to issue orders, making otherwise sentimental moments like the parting of company and interment of a fallen comrade brief, businesslike affairs. His own were fairly expected; set course and be ready to take off in five. The course... was slightly disturbing, but people in this business took risks all the time. There were still settlements in that part of the Verse. Prosperous ones that might die off without clandestine help. Reaver incursions (a thing which made him inwardly shudder) made things difficult for everyone involved. That was not his worry at that moment. Getting the ship ready to hit the Black in five minutes was his worry. Everything else would sort itself out one way or another.

What was most definitely a surprise, however, was when Anisa nonchalantly named Bridgette as her Second. Harper stopped cold, looking to the Captain with an instant of absolute confusion. She may as well have said that the crew had picked up a sentient chainsaw and had given it a position of authority aboard Prometheus, and not be too far off from the truth. The very next thing which occurred was also surprising. Bridgette seemed just as shocked about the decision as Harper did.

"Wait, what?"
"Wait, what?"

The two of them spoke simultaneously, then glanced at each other. Bridgette began to say other, more provocative words to Anisa, but Harper's mind was mulling over what had just happened. Two weeks prior, the Captain had brought Dorothy aside and offered her the position. She had said something to the effect that if the Doctor didn't accept or, well, died horribly in the interim, the job would go to him. As he had just learned, Dorothy was no longer part of the crew, and while nothing had been promised he had assumed that the position would follow.

Thinking about it objectively though, it made sense. He was still very new. The night that he and Anisa shared aside, she didn't really know him all that well. On the other hand, she had previous dealings with Bridgette, and indeed sought her out when things looked difficult. The Viking lady must be more than just a cracker of skulls. Not to mention that the Second would be in a position of greater visibility. Harper was trying to avoid that for a while. After enough time had passed and he was a freer man, perhaps something could be arranged. But for now? It was the right call. She knew she could trust Bridgette, over everybody else on board, including himself.

"Sorry. Aye, Captain." Some habits were hard to break, especially his old Fleet training while piloting a ship. Even as Anisa strode toward the Bridge, Harper was off at a jog. He didn't need to secure anything, and preliminary diagnostics had already been performed. With the confident pose of a man who had performed his duties a thousand times over, Harper slid into the Pilot's chair and fired up the engines. The Cargo door he left open, so as to not trap those inside who were ordered off the vessel. It could be raised at the last possible moment if need be.

The second the onboard computers signaled their readiness, Harper pulled up Astrogation and began inputting information. The standard updated warnings made themselves known, easily (and by necessity) ignored. He already knew there were increased numbers of attacks in the area. Piracy, Reavers, overzealous locals; but their course was plotted. All he had to do was break atmo and point the ship in the right direction. More or less.

"Captain, course plotted. We're in favorable position with Blue Sun. Estimated travel time is about four days to reach the system at hard burn; almost one more to reach Babylon after that. If the Captain wishes to move quieter, I have another, less direct route available at your command. We have clear skies and can depart as soon as we're a little lighter." He was of course referring to the departing Dorothy and Daphne Pender, as well as the excitable young Engineer.

The engines hummed a little louder, seemingly eager to break the bonds of planetary gravity. Harper could feel them, working their magic across what would otherwise be a very expensive, very grounded clubhouse. This was where he was supposed to be. More than anyplace else, all of the joys and horrors of his life had brought him to this place with the training he now possessed; capable, determined, and surrounded by people as broken as himself, in their own ways. The thought made him laugh quietly to himself. At least, he thought it was quietly.

In fact, it was a little unsettling.

---

---

Bridgette Vinters

---

Location: Prometheus (Galley -> Bridge)
Skills: N/A

---

Such an occasion marked by the drawing of firearms and then holstering said firearms, cold and unspent, did give Bridgette the slightest amount of desire to pout. It was perhaps best not to; she didn't know these people and it was probably best to kick things off with a good impression. Scratch that - It was best not to give them both barrels, literally and figuratively, of Bridgette Anne Vinters this soon in the "getting to know you" process. One thing she learned over the years was that the best way to scare off a new working crew or potentially long-term relationship was to be herself. Some of that she couldn't help, owing to her history, but some of it she could.

Moving to take place near Anisa, be it for support or solidarity even she could not say, Bridgette was caught slightly unaware when her new Captain plopped expressed a lack of familiarity with the concept of a fluffernutter, answering with the quiet suggestion of, "Ask me over a drink later. You're buying." They had quite a bit to catch up on, anyway. And she had more Captaining to do right then anyway.

After everything she had seen, Bridgette could still be surprised by the actions and decisions that people made. Take for example the very next piece of Captaining that Anisa did, mamaginf her people and preparing for takeoff, which somehow ended with the words "Bridgette, you're my Second". It invoked a simultaneous and identical response from both herself and Harper.

"Wait, what?"
"Wait, what?"

She damn near dropped her shield. Harper went all quiet and introspective, seeming to find peace with what she assumed from his reaction was being passed over, but to the contrary of her more reserved colleague, Bridgette had concerns to voice.

"Woah, what the fucking gorram fuck do you mean 'You're my Second', Anisa? You know me, bitch, and you know what could fucking happen if I'm in charge, right?" She appeared to be speaking to a Captain who could care less about any misgivings she might have about the appointment, as she was very soon talking to Anisa's back. It seemed that a good chunk of the people in the Galley were headed for the Bridge just then, including her baby brother. Bridgette guessed that she was Anisa's Second whether she wanted the job or not, and so having nothing to lose in the matter, continued voicing her opinion. "You realize that when I start fucking some of your crew, it's going to look like favoritism, right? Right? ...gorfuckingramit... Alright, fine. Fucking fine, Crowe! But I'm getting an Officer's share of the take, and I am dead shit certain taking better quarters than a bottom level passenger's fucking cabin! Private washroom, bitch! I'm rinsing out my cunt sundries in peace and fucking quiet!"

Yeah, she didn't seem to care right at that second, in Bridgette's opinion. Or she was biding her time to get her plastered and shove her out of an airlock. She has heard Anisa make that threat before. Slinging her shield across her back, Bridgette figured she might as well act like a Second, so long as it couldn't be avoided. Turning to address anyone still in the Galley, she spoke with authority but a little less volume, "The Captain gave orders! Move those tits ladies, we're Black in five!"

Bridgette turned and paced quickly to follow up behind the group headed to the Bridge. She noted with a tiny smile that Cyril was sitting in the chair traditionally reserved for the Second, technically her chair now, and moved behind it. Placing both hands on the chair back to brace for the inevitable liftoff, she leaned in to whisper to her brother, "Buckle up, Cyril. The sky comes at you real fast. But don't worry - that Pilot knows what he's doing."

From the center chair, Harper caught that last bit of conversation and glanced over at the two very Nordic siblings. Bridgette gave him a smile; an actual, honest smile, and nodded in his direction. As if reaching some sort of understanding with one another, Harper responded with a reserved, "Ma'am." and returned to his console.

So, Bridgette was having a moment. Warm and fuzzy feelings. Emotions that had nothing to do with the pursuit of sex nor violence. She wasn't sure what to make of it, but she did feel the need to say something. "Anisa? Sorry about earlier. I'm okay now." The normally aggressive woman looked from Cyril to Anisa, Harper, and glanced back down the hallway to whatever the rest of the crew was up to. "Oh and... thanks girl. I'll try not to let you down."

Patting Cyril's shoulder, Bridgette waited for takeoff with almost as much excitement as her baby brother. Reaver territory. Clandestine, probably illegal mission. The chance to cross swords with a hated adversary. And the promise of a paying gig with an old friend. Hell yes, she was excited. This was the shit she lived for.

---

---

Foy Coiffeur

---

Location: Prometheus (Galley -> Cargo)
Skills: Perception, Athletics (Coordination), Administration

---

Well then, Foy was certainly the hot commodity, if he did say so himself. And as it turned out, he chose that moment to express the sentiment exactly. "Now ladies, ladies, please. I've quite enough of myself to spare, however (and I'm speaking primarily to you, Miss Qiáo), I've actions that need to be taken prior to any conversation that promises to be as elaborate as your insistence implies. So for the meantime..."

He was cut off by the suddenness of Anisa's orders. While they were not to him specifically, the mention of persons leaving the boat in three minutes gave Foy his first burst of inspiration. True, lasting inspiration based upon mutually beneficial opportunity. The iron was hot, and begged to be struck. Begged. Beyond everything else, all the tracking, fighting, shooting; the parties and dances, single-malt whisky and fine headwear, Foy was a Man of Business. When he finally lost a step, reached the point in time when retirement from his more vigorous physical pursuits (if he indeed lived that long), he would do so by planting both feet firmly in the business of his family. It was one that he had most assuredly expanded, and that was when he was but a mere part-timer. But this, as it sat presently? This parting of the ways held within it a way that everyone could come out profitably.

While in the stark middle of his machinations, he heard the word "Babylon" waft through the series of orders that his dear Captain was in process of distributing among the assembled crew. Babylon. One of Deadwood's moons. Outer Rim. Foy could sense eyes staring at him, and looked up to see his dear and childhood friend Jahosafat looking up at him. The ribald, cocky attitude of the Gentleman Barber drained away in an instant, replaced by the Mercenary that he was now and the Agent he used to be. This assignment just got serious, and in a big, big way. Foy's eyes seemed to drill a message into his friend, imparting "I understand." with greater clarity than voicing it aloud. The had to stick together now more than ever.

This same serious look transferred to Mei, and he spoke with uncommon directness, "You have your orders, Miss Qiáo, as do I. If you wish to speak afterward, I welcome the discussion." His head tilted slightly in the direction of Jacqueline, though his eyes remained riveted on Mei. His words were meant for the curious blonde lady, however. "And Miss Croix, if you so desire, I shall be forthcoming with the role I am to play aboard this vessel. We are a crew, going into a situation most uncertain. It would behoove us to know of each other's capabilities before an emergency rather than after. But for now, time presses me to alternate action."

Foy tipped his cap. "Please forgive my abruptness." The rhythmic tapping of bespoke oxfords upon the deck floor heralded the departure of Foy Coiffeur from the Galley.

His quarters; immaculately kept yet he had to leave while in the middle of servicing his collection of firearms. It was the only thing that he needed to secure before liftoff. He had not the time to stow his guns in the exact, meticulous order he wished to, having now less than three minutes before the Pender sisters and that nervous, bookish chap that took a liking to Daphne were off of the vessel. Iron was hot. Must be struck. In a flash, he had lain his Callahan into a trunk featuring other bits of ammunition and firearm accessories, and slipped his new Mosin 91/30 sniper system under a strap across the top of said trunk. There would be time for proper storage later on. Right now, he had to move.

He paused a second, regarding his revolvers. Going where Anisa said they were going, he did not want to be without direct and visible means of severing a man's soul from his body. His custom Colt pistols he buckled on and secured around his legs. Maybe a minute left. Ninety seconds, tops. Foy snatched up a pen from among the odds and ends of his desk, grabbed one of his very fine, monogrammed silk ascots (it was a birthday gift, a lovely burgundy item of which he had a couple) and bolted, running for the Cargo doors.

From his quarters in a flash, past the door leading to the escape pods, around the bend, and to the first set of stairs leading down to Cargo. As he moved, he called out, "Dr. Pender? Dr. Pender?" a series of times, hoping intersect with the exit of their group from Prometheus. Foy spun around to face the staircase, hopping with one foot and one arm on either handrail and sliding down in a way prescribed by shipbound Alliance officers when they were really in a hurry. He landed firmly at the foot of the stairs, almost losing his footing but managing to turn the stumble into a forward moving shoulder roll, one hand maintaining his exquisite bowler hat atop his noble, perfectly coiffed head. He sprung from his feat of minor acrobatics and brushed off imaginary dust as he strode forward, standing inside the span of the main Cargo door, waiting for Dorothy, Daphne, and Fitz to approach.

As they finally did, Foy walked to meet them and did not block their egress, though he did give one hell of a rapid-fire business proposal. "Dr. Pender, Miss Pender, and ah... Fitzy, old boy! I shall be succinct. I come from money, Dorothy. A family among the business aristocracy of Farraday. This is what I propose to you:" Foy whipped out a business card; an old fashioned cardstock item which, like many of the things he possessed, struck people as being highly old-fashioned. He turned it over and began writing on it with hasty but fully legible, flowing script. "You have a respectable amount of liquid funds at your disposal at present. Take that money and charter a cruise, or series of cruises (First Class and through the Core, the three of you); make your way to Farraday in comfort. A vacation of sorts. When you get there, present this card and this -" he handed his card over to Dorothy, along with the large burgundy square of silk, "- to my family. Or Board of Directors. Have them contact me, if necessary."

"I intend that you secure a loan from my company for starting expenses, and a restoration of one of our smaller merchant vessels, if a model catches your attention. I intend to invest in you, madame, with the understanding that this is, above all else, a business venture. I mean for us to see financial returns from this, you and I, until that debt is paid off in full and with interest. Send me a wave to work out the particulars, but there it is. You will have allies in the Black."

"Be your own Captain, Dorothy. And do as Captains must: Find a crew, find a job, and keep flying."

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

@Lady Amalthea

Due to the change in policy regarding Plot Armor, I have only one character that meets the requirements at this time. So...

Formally requesting Plot Armor for Thalia Carmichael.

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

---

---

Reginald Keystone

---

Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks (Officers' Club -> Courtyard)
Skills: N/A

---

---

Reginald nodded to George as he spoke his piece and left. So he wouldn't accept compensation for services rendered, would he? It was a noble gesture, considering all that had gone on and indeed, all that would be going on. The disfigured soldier might not be of a frame of mind to accept solid salary for his efforts, but Reginald resolved to make his time worth it. Or at least break even.

Giving the younger man ample time to vacate the barracks (mostly so as to not make him feel that he was being rushed away), the Lord Major gave a slow but determined walk through the door to the Officers' Club. He took in a deep breath of Cairo air and, trying like hell to shake away the awfulness and death of the past several hours, began to make his way toward his tiny oasis near the river, the smallish section of trees surrounding a very cordial section of outdoor furnishings, the very same place where the Fellowship spent a good portion of their evening that first night. It was but two evenings prior, but it seemed like so much longer, what with the events recently. A great expedition planned, even prepared in record time, yet no movement upon it had been made. It was even held up - they should have already departed, or so went the plan.

Maybe it was for the best. With all of the death and mishap, perhaps running away on an adventure as soon as possible was not the best route to take. So upon the morning, then, for whatever good that would do. For now, as his Quartermastering had been accomplished and their ranks bolstered by George's presence, it was ample time for him to take a quiet moment for himself within view of the Nile and have something biscuitish. Perhaps even a bit more of that lovely date bread, if it was still in good keeping.

When Reginald was very nearly to his intended destination, he heard a voice, nay, a call of dutiful alarm that was quite possibly designed by fate or by Providence with the strict assignment of making his life difficult. It might be heard for miles if the wind blew just right, and most certainly through the confines of this barracks.

"Lord MAJOR!"

One might have actually, fully observed the older man's crest fall. He simply stood there, attempting to draw his outwardly showing confidence back up, and braced for whatever tepid water the Corporal was about to toss upon his spirits.

"Lord MAJOR, the Corporal reports a request from the Cairo Museum, sir! Request permission to rely the request, Lord Major, sir!"

Trying very, very hard not to facepalm or swat the lithe man with his hat, Reginald grit his teeth and grunted out, "Permission granted."

"The Corporal wishes to extend full gratitude for swift permissions to relay the request of the Museum, Lord Major Keystone, sir! Upon relaying the particulars of said-"

"God's bloody sake, Corporal!" Reginald had experienced quite enough for the day. "Unless you desire the unfortunate distinction of digging a field latrine and, upon its retirement, swimming the span of it from end to end as a Private, you shall make this message brief! Now! Report!"

Undaunted, the Corporal shortened his report significantly. "Sir, Lady Munn requests admittance and medical assistance for her assistant. Lad needs our doctors before he bleeds out, sir."

"Yes. Yes, indeed! Come along then, let us make haste! Go, go, Corporal!" The old man moved as quickly as his bones would allow him. He made his way toward the front gate, calling upon any with connection to the infirmary to make it ready to receive guests. When at the gates, Reginald could clearly be heard stating, "Yes, immediately! Let them in and give them access to the infirmary! The injured ones, of course! Am I suddenly surrounded by incompetents? We are here representing Crown and Kingdom, blast it all!"

"Oh I say," he continued, smelling the air and interrupting his own authoritative rant, "is someone broiling a haunch out of doors?"

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Forest: Past the Gates (Chair 2)
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

Finding a seat was simple enough. As it turned out, there was one right by the front, and within clear view of the machine pulling them all toward the Manor. The building itself beckoned in the distance, filling the whole of his attention and quite dislodging the transportation machine from his thoughts. Yes, he was there for highly specific reason. He meant to handle his business and return to his work elsewhere. Enough dallying.

Dr. Swamp was fortunate enough to have found a more or less comfortable seat within which he could rest his legs. He had leaned his stout, knob headed cane between his legs and was just beginning to settle in for the ride to Shadowell Manor proper, when he got inadvertently dragged into a conversation, of which he didn't recall making any indication he wished to contribute.

Point of fact, the baseline effrontery offered by the man in the devil mask narrowed the eyes of Dr. Swamp and made him question, almost question out loud, who in the imprecise yet actual hell he thought he was to ask him such a query. Did he not see the man relying upon a stick to assist in his forward mobility, and had just found repose in a perfectly untended chair? Had he not chosen to sit away from the object of his conversational attention, or barring that, had the lady not chosen to put a seat's worth of distance between the two of them? And who was he to insinuate himself closer to a lady who, by the words she had chosen for the man was looking for an excuse to have a buffer between them. It was not the case that the good Doctor wished to be a hero for any damsels needing rescue, but gave partial excuse for the level of inaction planned for the occasion.

Dr. Swamp rubbed his leg just above the knee with one hand, the other calmly upon the knob of his cane. He then leaned forward, mimicking the stance of the man who had just finished speaking to him and turned the beak of his osseous, avian mask toward him. Swamp cleared his throat, so as not to be misunderstood by the conversational nuances of the day, and spoke a single, elongated, stressed syllable, "NO."

Settling back in his seat, Dr. Swamp placed both of his hands atop his cane. He nodded to the lady in full mask and provocative dress to his other side, and looked toward the Manor again. They could not get there fast enough.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

---

---

Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

---

---

Location: North of London (By means of Northwest Inner Wall)
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), Brivaldi, English

---

The German's bag was held gingerly by The Great Bazhooli, a testament to the fact that his personal feelings concerning a man turning into a fairy and climbing into said bag (which were not amazingly to the positive as he had not grown accustomed to seeing it as of yet) were not about to influence his actions. As momentarily offputting as it was wondrous, Ludwig was right. He was not a Brivaldi rider. His ferret was not a Brivaldi horse. There was zero chance that he would be able to keep up with Constantin and himself. It was the best decision to make, as his father the Baron put it, with the resources at his disposal.

Vladimir carried the bag over to his mighty black horse, debating exactly what to do with the sack full of ferret and German. Tie to his saddle or tack? Cram into some corner of his personal baggage, however little he might be carrying? In end short and purposeful end, Vladimir took a minute to redistribute the contents of his saddlebags, moving a spare article of clothing or two into his hat and placing backup knives in more conspicuous places to make room for the live cargo. If either Fey Ludwig or Deiter (ferret, not brother, damnit now he's doing it) wanted to get a glimpse of the countryside, they would do so by lifting the flap on his saddlebag. And as it turned out, if the situation was not to his immediate liking, alteration of the setup would have to wait until the first break period they would have to take to walk their horses. Even Brivaldi bred and trained mounts could not run indefinitely.

Leaping atop noble Tolstoy(!), Vladimir reined the animal around, addressing his people for what he expected would be the last time for a while. "Having orders, having plans. Ve meet in Land of Scots, bringing glory to our peoples! No matter vhat, Circus helps Circus. Circus helps friends." He snapped his fingers, seemingly to the effect of materializing a broad knife in his hand. Using it as one might a saber, he gave a salute to everyone present and turned his horse back in the direction of the path Ludwig had pointed out earlier.

He finally paid notice to the presence of Constantin, intoning, "Very good. For thanking you to join us. Bristol, Sea, German, ferret, horses... is things of adventure! Ve go." Vladimir smiled broadly and resheathed his big knife. snapping a command in Rusyn, reinforced with specific pressure on the horse, he took off like an equestrian cannonball, hurtling toward England's western shore.

---

---

Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{“The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming.”}

---

Location: Road between Nottingham & Manchester
Skills: Horseback Riding

---

---

The storm was truly incredible. Dripping with unknown and unknowing malice, but most definitely incredible. Against it shone a beacon to the north, almost in the exact direction they meant to travel anyway. Was it a sign? Possibly. Yet it could also be a trap; when you see a thing that appears too convenient, it oft is, in fact, too convenient. Having to shout to be heard, even from the distance she was from Virginia, Mary answered her friend. "Mosi?" She did not understand.

It took Mary a second or two to remember; Mosi was the name of the woman who had fallen at Almack's, the dear, dear departed friend of Virginia's that Mary regarded a little coldly, owing to her professional, distanced disposition during the attack. Such was the way of her kind while hunting or combating Soulless, passionate intensity channeled through a keyhole, the door thereof a bulwark of piety and discipline. The realization of what Virginia said, and the context under which she said it, only served to confuse the young Apostolic.

"I shall follow it, Virginia." replied Mary. If it was a phenomenon that her friend was familiar with, then it might mean aid or succour of some kind. "But if it is not helpful to our mission, I must insist that we continue onward." With that, Mary reined her Cassius in pursuit of the new occurrence in the distance.