Sigil

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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Location: Bristol Ship
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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The mental shrug performed by The Great Bazhooli was thankfully left without external mirror. Ludwig knew much about the world around him. Very much. It made Vladimir wonder whether he had insight to some mythic storehouse of knowledge through his Germanic Training that others were simply unable to access. He spent the next few seconds theorizing that it might by that very access that made him ...like he was. Too much knowledge, too fast for a mind to keep up with and not sound like a madman. It made sense. For all he knew though, others of his skill set were more socially acclimated and he was the exception. Unlike Ludwig, Vlad did not have this seemingly all-encompassing knowledge at his fingertips. His guess was as good any anyone's, who did not have previous experience with these people.

Vladimir did note that, at least concerning his own people, his knowledge seemed purely academic. The description of the hierarchy, while technically correct, lacked much of the insular feel of life and lines of respect given in the Circus. And of course, he was talking about Vladimir's father. Perhaps no disrespect was intended. Ultimately, it didn't matter. Vlad was the very epitome of the Russian Circus, as was the Baron, the Ringmaster, and the fine and noble performers and laborers therefrom. No mindless soldiers following orders, they were as close to family as one might be, that were not blood. Books often had trouble describing cultural nuances such as that. Nevertheless, The Great Bazhooli did have to tip his hat to the extent of the man's education in the ways of others; he obviously knew as much as, if not more, than any other outsider could about the Circus.

But again, all academic. Time and association would give him greater understanding. Maybe even he would learn something about the culture of the German fellow's people. The only ones he knew were Ludwig and Adam, and the little boy barely even knew what he was. Vladimir finished off his fried potatoes and battered fish, the ubiquitous dish that he had heard was so common among English folk, and took a look around. Sailors tended sails and secured the deck as the three of them stood among it all, taking in the experience. He looked to Constantin, feeling that he had not shown proper gratitude for his assistance as of yet. While not in open water just yet, they had made it to a boat. He could not have done it by himself this quickly, nor provisioned them all without help.

"Spasibo, Constantin. Thanking you for coming vith us, and thanking you for the helps, da? Have given gratitudes to Ludvig. Vant you to know too, appreciations. Vhen landing, ve move as vone. See to Grand Duchess, take up qvest. Save lady. Fight, vin, live! Great Bazhooli and Constantin Firevalker, exploding onto countries of Britain Island - and beyond! Righting wrongs, fighting Soulless, spreading vord of Circus, and her mighty varrior-performers! HA! Stories vill be told of exploit; strange Russians from beyond sea and over steppe, into mountain and ancestral home! To die for such undertaking is honor, to live and return again is glory. Now, all ve can do is vait." Vladimir removed his hat from his noble head and bowed to his countryman, then began to saunter to the cabin reserved for the three of them. As he moved, he concluded, "For now, ve rest. Resting and practice!"

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{“Blessed be the Lord, my strength, who teaches my hands to war and my fingers to fight.” -Psalm 144:1}

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Location: Carlisle (F7)
Skills: Audist, Athletics

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Yes, Carlisle was under attack. Not the doings of a single, desperate Ryne, but what looked to be a coordinated attack of several of these abominations. What was more, they appeared to have arrived in advance of Mary and Virginia. The possibility crossed Mary's mind that Virginia's idea might very well be accurate, and this was a setup. If this was indeed a trap, the fiery-haired Apostolic was intended to punch through it and break the spring which would have ensnared them within its teeth. Though her face remained cold and serene, Mary's eyes burned with righteousness and fury.

"Destroy that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish." Whether or not something good meant to flourish in Carlisle was not her immediate concern. The first half of the quote was, which she intended to take very seriously. The quick taps of her riding boots upon the city streets was the last warning that the Ryne had before Mary was upon it, lunging the pike end of her Swiss halberd toward the throat of the creature. Murder was a cardinal sin in the eyes of the Lord, though it could only be committed upon the number of those possessing souls. This thing was not among that number. Unfortunately, it did possess reflexes as it did in life, allowing for a defined evasion and robbing Mary of a quick kill.

The Ryne slipped behind the business end of the halberd, coming at Mary with bared teeth. It was a last moment movement that Mary countered, fluidly sidestepping and bringing up the shaft of her weapon to deflect the coming blow. Though denied its own kill, Soulless hands caught the halberd's haft and pressed forward, driving Mary toward the wall of the building behind her. It was strong. But so was Mary. Underneath the loose clothing and religious vestments that commonly made up Sister Mary's wardrobe, she was a brutally conditioned woman, capable of bringing forth grace and physicality which was mortally surprising to those who would cause harm.

Using the inertia of her movement to her advantage, Mary kicked a foot behind her, landing firmly onto the wall. Simultaneously, she brought her entire upper body into the single task of thrusting her weapon up and forward, horizontally. The resulting impact smashed into the jaw of the very shocked Ryne, shattering its mandible and laying it out flat upon the cobblestones below. Mary planted a boot upon the chest of her fallen adversary and, with utilitarian precision, swiped the halberd across in a single arc, removing the top half of its head from the eyes and up.

Mary swung her blessed weapon above her head in a single, powerful loop; the purpose being to remove the Ryne's blood from the blade in a direction away from Virginia. Her eyes moved to pick another target even as her voice, determined and cold, clearly answered her friend's declaration from just earlier:

"Two."

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Grand Vestibule (E9) -> Breakfast Room
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

Keen, artist's eyes scanned the crowd of people for reactions to the Lord's imposing declaration. It was much as he expected. In his own way, Dr. Swamp knew people inside and out. Some would always remain a mystery. But some mysteries were made to be puzzled out. A good example of this would be why they had all been summoned to this potentially hostile place. As soon as the Lord of the Manor closed the doors behind him, the Doctor took assisted steps in the wake of Chanteuse Amaranthine. His cane made soft tapping sounds across the floor as he made his way, like she did, into the room through the door to the west.

After viewing the excellent repast set out within the room, Swamp realized that he had a polite interest in putting something into his stomach. Initial reaction made him take a step toward the tables, but prudence slowed him. Specifically, the prudence shown by Amaranthine. He nodded soberly and mimicked her actions, selecting a piece of fruit for himself and giving it a thorough look before taking a small bite for himself. Curiously, the incident with the railed steam vehicle was on his mind.

As he waited to see if any unknown factors presented themselves from within the fruit, Dr. Swamp took in his surroundings. Light to moderate refreshment set out as if for expected company, windows that faced the exterior and an inner courtyard, and a grand fireplace crackling against the chill season. Sparing a glance to the young lady in the room with him, he spoke quietly, "You are right to be concerned, Miss." The Doctor shook is head, trying to clear some of his negativity away, "That is a violin case, correct? I'm fond of music, myself. When my work allows, I mean to say. Might you favor us with a song later?" He caught himself before continuing, "I don't mean to impose."

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Docks - The Ferry (Main Deck)
Skills: N/A

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Reginald raised an eyebrow at the young Miss Benaszewski. It was followed by a smile and the shake of his head, both delivered in an amused, casual manner. He had expected a personality like her brother's, being as they were birthed and raised in the exact same set of circumstances. Twins, at that. But he did not immediately take into consideration that their escort, George, had been to war. He had seen some of the worst that humanity could inflict upon one another, and it more than likely changed aspects of him. Perhaps then, Gene would have been a general approximation of Mr. Benaszewski, at least in attitude, before the Great War. All the same, his good-natured head shake was joined by wistful words. "I say, George old boy, we are in the company of a most curious group of ladies, possessing the sight and sound of confidence I've not seen from the fairer sex outside of the front line nurses back in the War." He chortled a little bit at his own recollections before continuing, "How refreshing."

Following George up the gangplank and onto the main deck, he found that he very well could have found Lady Munn and her immediate company from a much farther distance merely by listening for a few key words about Ancient Egypt, delivered in a flowing, dulcet accent of High Britannia. All the same, the gentlemanly arts of propriety must be looked after. Manners were the cornerstone of nobility, in his estimation. Or at least they should be. As they came upon the table wherein sat the very women he was describing earlier, he rested one hand upon the hilt of his stately Officers' sabre as to maneuver the scabbard away from the press of bodies behind him, and addressed the table. "Ladies, it does an old man's heart good to see the lot of us finally embarking upon our journey, and as one. As it happens, I've some time to kill, so to speak, until my belongings are delivered to my stateroom and I receive a final update from my Corporal. Might I join you?"

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Haring Reddish

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Location: Docks - The Ferry (Cargo, Below Decks)
Skills: N/A

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Meanwhile, below decks, the final few pallets with the Royal Army and Royal Air Corps seal inscribed upon them had made their way onto the boat. The Corporal was handling the last bit of business, signing appropriate papers with the stevedores and animal handlers to ensure the proper care and provisioning for their animals. He paid special attention to two such creatures; both Arabian horses bred for the purpose of swiftly carrying a trained rider through the scorching desert. One was obviously his, by the way he fussed over it, while the other bore the saddle and tack of a ranking British Officer, ergo more than likely the Lord Major's.

The Corporal made fully sure that personal baggage was set upon a short, wheeled cart by the door, each piece with a paper tag attached with loose twine. The tag had all of the pertinent information of its owner, name, room number, etc., and they were stacked neatly, with Reginald's having easiest access. Silently, his eyes darted over the goods at his party's disposal: Marching gear, camp supplies, foodstuffs of various, mostly nonperishable sources (including some cans of peaches he was eager to get into later on), a few cases of "luxury goods", which likely meant fancy eats and lots of booze, though he had slipped a few personal items in that the women might appreciate; supplies for hygiene and a small vertical tent-like structure commonly used as a camp shower, provided water supplies could be maintained. There was tobacco and mess kits, comfortable nighttime clothing, and the various sundries that separated this trip from a fully military expedition. So much as he respected the Lord Major, he was ever the old soldier.

Maybe they would have to hire on more camels or procure a truck. He could drive a truck, no problem. So long as they could find something to navigate the rocks and dunes of the upper Sahara, life was peachy. Unfortunately, while his mind was playing through the ins and outs of civilian marching logistics, it seemed to scarcely register with him that the remainder of the British soldiery had left Cargo by means of the loading ramp and the doors were being slowly moved shut, with him still inside. The barest look of alarm crossed his face and he ran, long-limbed and spasticly, toward the closing aperture. So close was he to escape, so near to breaking back out into the dying light of the day, when he tripped over his own boots and flopped bonelessly onto the floor.

As he was able to pick himself back up, the doorway remaining was already too slender for even him to fit through. Instead, with his last few seconds he addressed the soldiers and airmen outside, all clamoring for him to get a move on. "Oh damn, damn, and blast it all, how could I have been so clumsy? Listen! I'm in this for the long haul now! Use schedule "B" for the enlisted men until I return, yes? Yes! We'll have it sorted by landfall!"

"Just remember, whatever you do, under no circumstances whatsoever, upon pain of eminent and horrifying demise, for the love of God Almighty and every saint at His disposal, do not..." CLICK. Doors came together and sealed audibly, ensuring that his last instruction would go unfinished. The Corporal's demeanor changed suddenly. He seemed to relax somewhat, and nodded at one of the porters to the side of the interior doors. Suppressing a series of laughs in a way that seemed a little painful, he produced his wallet and slipped three bills into the porter's waiting hand. "Pleasure doing business, sir. My affairs handled? Thank you so much." His voice contained an element of controlled calm it didn't seem to earlier.

Just a hint of swagger showed in his walk as he grabbed his rucksack and slung it over his shoulder. His voice returned to its earlier, more jovial militant tones as he said, "If you'll be kind enough to excuse me, I've got to go find the Lord Major. You've got the bags, yes? Oh thank you, sir!" Exiting Cargo and on his way up from below decks, the Corporal let out his trademark exclamation, a thing which seemed to express his purposes succinctly.

"Lord MAJOR!!!"

From above decks, Reginald could have sworn he heard something familiar. Familiar, and unsettling. He shook off the feeling. It just couldn't be.

...right?

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

Haring Reddish

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Haring Reddish

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Character Summary

Name: Corporal Haring Demetrius Reddish
Aliases: "Corporal!", Red Haring, Lieutenant Reddish
Age: 30
Birthday: June 11, 1894
Ethnicity: Sir, Angle, Sir! Angle, and/or Saxon, is my meaning, Sir! With naught but a smidgen of Teuton, on mother's side, Sir!
Birth Place: Unincorporated Nottinghamshire, England
Residence: Qasr El Nil Barracks - C10/D10 - simple room adjacent to Officers' Quarters
How Long In Cairo: One Year
Gender: Male
Major/Minor: No college - Army training, secondary with Military Intelligence
Occupation: Officer, British Army, Dept of Military Intelligence
Languages: English*, German*

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Appearance

Height: 6'2"
Weight: 170
Build: Slender, Wiry
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown
Skin Tone: Pale, weathered
Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: Three bullet scars, upper torso, several knife scars on forearms.
Personal Style:

The Corporal is generally to be found wearing the military uniform appropriate to his situation and assignment. In the case of his residence in Cairo, he is attired in standard desert/tropical uniform, consisting of khaki drill clothing that otherwise resembles the attire assigned to him in the Great War. When not on base, in a hostile zone, or marching, he is seen wearing a pith helmet, as per standard. The uniform is not altered nor abbreviated unless he is off duty, in which case he is usually in boots, undershirt, cargo pants, and suspenders, which may or may not be over his shoulders.

His civilian attire is only worn in full leisure or when "incognito", and consists of dark slacks, oxford shoes, light button-down shirts, twill vest and flat cap. His preferred coat is a wool greatcoat, but there are few opportunities to wear it in Egypt.

The Corporal still has his old Infantry and service dress uniforms, but they are generally packed away.

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Psychology

Dutiful * Loud * Enthusiastic * Eccentric * Honorable * Headstrong

Sexuality: Heavily Confused. Hetero, but sometimes questions are raised.
Relationship Status: Single
Personality:

The Corporal is an oft loud, boisterous individual who takes concepts like Loyalty and Service very seriously. He is hardworking and highly willing to follow the orders of his military superiors, just as much as he is willing to whip into shape and order about the soldiers under his authority. If given a task to perform, The Corporal will ensure its speedy completion with as much proper Britishness as is humanly possible, and no sparing the details.

He is also quite adept at keeping his mouth shut when it is required. With his actual work, it is highly required from time to time, and for long (often terminal) duration. He is further willing to get his hands dirty in the name of carrying out orders, though he is not a bloodthirsty maniac. Mostly. In the world, there is a Right Way of doing things, and Wrong Way, certainly, and a Military Way. Such lives the awfully particular man known best in Cairo as "The Corporal".

Habits: Shouting, Requesting Permission
Hobbies: Crossdressing, Card Collecting
Fears:

• Failing the Lord Major
• Camel Spiders
• Waking up in a trench

Likes:

• Aeroplane Cards
• Women's Attire
• Tea
• Whisky
• A Job Well Done
• Flowers
• A Good Knife (Indispensable, really)

Dislikes:

• Disorder
• Laziness
• Anyone speaking against the Lord Major
• Undeserved Entitlement
• Cold Coffee
• Trouser Lice

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Cards On The Table

General World Skills:

• Driving
• Riding (Horse)
• Investigation/Espionage
• Communications
• Codes/Cyphers
• Athletics
• Stealth
• Arabic*
• French*

Combat Skills:

• Brawling (Trench Close Combat training)
• Knife
• Sword
• Pistol
• Rifle

What Is On Your Person:

• Clothing - Khaki Drill Campaign Uniform (to include frock, cargo shorts/pants, suspenders, boxer style undergarments, boots, putties, socks, belt, Victorian shirt and pith helmet)
• Wallet - moderate amount of both Egyptian and English pounds/shillings, identification, alternate identification, Cairo Bank Notes, business cards, and Letter of Assignment as Keystone's personal Valet)
• Webley Mk VI Revolver
• Speedloader (3)
• Holster
• Trench Knife (Robins Dudley Push Dagger)
• Concealable Sheath
• Credentials
• SMLE MkIII Sword Bayonet
• Pocketwatch, common

Residence:

• Lee-Enfield Mk III Battle Rifle (with bayonet and all the fixin’s)
• Various Munitions
• Rucksack
• Brodie Helmet
• "Class A" Dress Uniform
• 1908 Webbing with full "Marching Order" supply
• Stack of individually wrapped Aeroplane Cards
• Spare uniforms (desert fatigues, infantry uniform)
• Entrenching Tool
• Casual clothing (slacks, oxfords, buttondown shirts, vest and flat cap)
• Arabian Bay Stallion (technically not his persay, but at his disposal for duties while on present assignment) with military tack

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History

What Brings You To Cairo:

Lieutenant Haring D. Reddish was assigned to a position at the Qasr El Nil Barracks to the personal staff of the Lord Major by the Department of Military Intelligence. The rank of Corporal is a cover, ironically giving him greater access to points of communication and excuses to "run errands" without arousing suspicion. His assignment is ongoing and straightforward: Observe and assess Lord Major Keystone to determine his fitness to continue service. If he is ever found to be unstable or incompetent, he will be given an offer: Accept retirement at the sum rank of every promotion he intentionally refused, or bring further dishonor upon his family. Unknown to the DoMI, Lieutenant Reddish has his own agenda.

Life Before You Moved To Cairo:

Reddish was born in rural Nottinghamshire, to a mixed Austrian and English family of horse breeders. A common family by all accounts, but one with a history of participation in the Royal Military. At least one per generation. He grew up around stories of the various wars; both the grime and the glory involved. Perhaps this inherent patriotism is why he volunteered into the Army when WWI kicked off.

He had heard many stories about Lord Keystone. For instance, he saved the life of Reddish's father during the Boer War; a very expensive gambit wherein he ordered his men to pack caissons with explosives and send them hurtling over a ridge to discourage a vastly superior force from overrunning their position. He happened to be in the area at the time. In another instance, Reginald led a unit of surveillance dirigibles on a nighttime mission, without orders, over hostile territory to provide cover for an artillery unit that was pinned down for days by a dug-in enemy force. He used the dirigibles as a series of silent, floating sniper platforms, allowing the soldiers to escape. One of them was Reddish's uncle.

The young man, now Private Haring Reddish (though he went by "Harry") was placed with an Infantry unit and sent to the trenches. He was a decent enough soldier, but was caught in the same dirt-walled situation as everybody else; trapped within shouting distance of a few dozen to a couple hundred German soldiers, afraid of what would kill him first - the cold, disease, an enemy bullet, starvation, or the crippling, boring monotony of it all. Maybe an enemy mortar would get him. All he could do was wait and see. One night, after having exhausted their supplies and having not eaten in four days, he and his fellow soldiers could smell meat searing, carried by the wind from the German trench. Something clicked within him.

Raw desperation fueling him, Private Reddish broke the trench stalemate by sneaking out at night with three of his fellows, faces blackened with burnt cork. They wielded bayonets, clubs and knives, and managed to cross No Man's Land undetected. Upon entering the German trench, they conducted a series of brutal and messy knifepoint kills, Private Reddish being the most enthusiastic of the group. They got every last one of them, Harry taking out their Captain with a particularly nasty push dagger. Eighteen distinctly separate potentially lethal wounds. He then got on their radio and, in flawless German, posed as the officer and told their HQ that they had overrun the British trench and please resupply their new position. The ruse lasted long enough to get his unit fed and a decent night's sleep. Or as well as a man can sleep in a dugout. Private Reddish crawled out of the trench with his face and hands covered with blood. Between that, his name, and that there was a man in his unit named Harold, he acquired the nickname "Red Haring" to distinguish and achieved serious notoriety as a Trench Raider.

If you do something well, people want you to do it again. And again. And again. Private Reddish gained rank and responsibility. Lance Corporal, later full Corporal as ranks became available, but he was kept quite literally in the trenches, raiding the enemy as he could under cover of darkness. While on the German side, he took to liberating papers and communications from enemy HQ, stealing supplies, providing the occasional on-the-ground tidbit to help the overall war effort. It got the attention of Military Intelligence, who recruited him with Officer's commission. He just had one last raid to finish.

It did not go as planned. Harry took a bullet and was bleeding out, his men were barely able to hold onto their position. The entire countryside was being taken by the bulk of the German forces in the area. Death was eminent. From someplace behind their position, Corporal Haring Reddish heard the sounds of plane engines. The Lord Major arrived on the scene, leading his Skyknights (his unit had adopted Reginald's callsign as their classification) to part the approaching army until the ground troops could arrive. As he made his third pass, the Lord Major's plane took ground fire and was forced to make an emergency landing. Instead of counting himself out of the fight, he exited his plane and led the ground charge to retake the area with cries of "Tally ho!" and "Have at you, sir!" Reddish recalled that Reginald fought pretty good for a portly, grey haired old man. Briefly passing the injured Corporal, the Lord Major paused just long enough to hand him a loaded pistol, exclaiming, "We're not dead yet, old boy!" Reginald may not remember him specifically, but Reddish will never forget.

Reddish pulled through. Like his father and his uncle, the legend known as The Lord Major had saved his life. He accepted the position with Intelligence, and left the trenches behind. When the case to observe Lord Major Reginald I. Keystone came to his office, Haring jumped to volunteer for it. There were no other takers, so he was given the long-term assignment. Also, he felt an odd call to come to Cairo, like he belonged there. Like there was a greater meaning.

Life Since You Moved To Cairo:

Since moving to Cairo, Haring has thrown himself into his work. He has total respect and loyalty for Reginald, and has gotten to know him quite well. Yes, he is borderline suicidal. Yes, he is often unorthodox. Yes, he drinks heavily. But he also does an amazing job, given his circumstances. So Haring is a little goofy at times. And loud. And annoying. Maybe it's an act. Maybe it isn't. Regardless, he is now The Corporal, ever the right-hand man of the person for whom he has the most respect in the world. Now that he has secured the title of Reginald's personal Valet, he intends to do so. Even to the point of helping him have his last big adventure and fulfilling his dream of dying with glory.

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Extras

Character Quote:

"Yes, Lord MAJOR!!!"

Theme Song:

Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors

Anything Else:

Thoth - Keeper of wisdom and balance, scribe of the Gods, and the guy who really controlled things behind the scenes.

roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659

Starting day: October 3rd, 1924

_{*By submitting this CS in its completion I am stating I have read all the rules for this Rp and am agreeing to follow them to the fullest with respect and courtesy. I acknowledge that I can and will be removed from the RP without warning if I break a rule or cause problems with my fellow Rpers or the GM.}

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Keystone & Caesar

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Location: Over the Rockies, Flight MSS-1
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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The pair of men looked at the screen in front of them. First, it was a little odd that they had decided to catch an inflight movie, things being what they were, but hey, who doesn't want to see the all Latina remake of The Sound of Music while sharpening their knives and oiling the internal actions of their respective firearms. The part where La Familia Von Trapp were learning about singing scales was especially diverting, while they were getting together a basic plan for establishing a base of operations on site. Keystone himself had a few questions about the plot, being as Spanish was not one of his learned languages; though it seemed to him that the story was changed somewhat from what he remembered from his childhood in London. It seemed to him that, in the version that he saw, the children gave their Governess "the finger" an awful lot less. Also, the dance numbers seemed a lot more family friendly back in the day. It must have been the Director's Cut. Whatever.

Of course, it was also a little odd that someone decided to take that moment to interrupt their very strange rendition of the classic story of conflict and resolution set to music to give them yet another message. Keystone wasn't too tech savvy, but Caesar had a little experience with it, himself. He could safely say beyond a shadow of a doubt that he, in his official, professional opinion, had no fucking clue as to how it was happening. Not a one. Seriously, it was beyond him at the moment.

Caesar was holding an after-meal vat of Mescal to his lips, held still by his own sense of wonderment at his electronics getting hijacked while flying a few hundred miles an hour in a pressurized metal tube several thousand feet in the sky. Nothing to worry about there, right? Nope. The pilot's mention that they lost contact with everyone and everything on the ground was of no nevermind, either. It's not like something could go horribly, catastrophically wrong in this moment, splattering the whole of them into a twisted mass of crumpled metal, flaming petrol, and mismatched extremities on some poorly mapped mountainside. Perish the thought.

"Half a bloody moment..." muttered Keystone, putting 2 and √4 together, "This the nutsock what put them Adele lyrics on my monitor, yeah? What kind o' bronzecockery is all this, then?" There were occasions where the big man demonstrated the soul of a poet. This was not one of those times. Though both men, Caesar and Keystone, indeed wanted to know more about the situation. Caesar would have used slightly more socially digestible words. Instead, he took to note the phrase he did not recognize on the screen.

"Lunillud Aleae." He pronounced the words bluntly, trying to enunciate them but unclear how to inflect; was it pronounced as American English was? No, he doubted that very much. Just as much as he doubted that is was pronounced as Mexican Spanish. "That mean anything in your upscale British textbooks?" he inquired of Keystone with a hint of sarcasm.

"Dunno. Never cracked a one open." he responded, raising two fingers in the general direction of his employer. Of course, Caesar knew the extent to Keystone's education. It was basic, by the standards of the day. He was not a stupid man, but his higher education was bought and paid for with work and blood, in the streets of London and in places generally unknown where Mandarin was the tongue of learned men. "Who the arse is this, any'ow? Eh?" he spoke aloud, on the off chance that whomever was had ears inside of the plane - even after their communications was restored and the message ceased. A nod of agreement went between the two of them, that conversation should probably be kept light until they were more sure of their privacy.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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Location: Ville au Camp (The Mill)
Skills: N/A

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When you walk the same path over and over again, the distance you actually travel seemed different based upon your mood going into the walk. Gilbert was concerned. It seemed to make the trip longer. One foot in front of the other in a steady rhythm, tapping upon the walkway and then the grass, and lastly the shuffle of leaves around his workshop, partially obscured by trees. The Mill. The last time it was used to actually mill something was long, long ago by the standards of the common man. Gilbert had been using it to make and store all of the wonderful things that he contributed to their cause. It was less of an Emendator power as it was the benefit of literally millennia of craftsman's experience.

By the time Andromeda had arrived, Gilbert's choice of clothing had changed somewhat. Lots of black, jeans and vest both, in fitting denim and broken-in leather, respectively. His shirt was unapologetically kept untucked, and looked just as slept-in as every other shirt he owned. A formidable chain was bolted to a broad leather wallet in his back pocket, secured along the front of his stout belt by the other end. A black-on-black tartan lay draped across his shoulders, and his arms were otherwise bare. His fingers sported numerous rings, many of which bore the slightly tarnished glint of silver. Probably the most notable difference in the man's attire was a change in headwear - his lightly distressed fedora was set upon a small table in his work area, his head adorned with an open style, domed leather item, reminiscent of a homburg or flat-brimmed derby. It too looked a bit distressed, but also with places repaired with fine yet noticeable stitching.

"I do appreciate the 1980s. There is a distinct lack of fashion sense in major urban areas that allow one to wear whatever they want, in whatever combination that desire, and few would bat an eyelash or consider it more than a triviality. That kind of randomness allowed for certain... well, certain types of people to live more publicly." Gilbert looked to Andromeda, then over to the area where he kept his arsenal. He considered arming up for this jaunt, seeing as it was not the usual sort of training session. Or at all, really. Many factors were out of his control, and unlike most of his off-site learning experiences, they were not observing. Nor were they placed in a situation where their actions didn't matter. The two of them would be directly participating in the events unfolding upon a timeline.

"New York, 80s. Most weapons are illegal. Where we are going, the police don't enter unless they have to. All the same, we want to give our hosts a favorable impression. Good advice would be to tell you to act confidently, but respectfully. But after we arrive, I will be happy if you just don't stare for too long." He shook his head, realizing that he was explaining a course of action for a situation in which Andromeda had no reference. "I am sure you will do just fine. Unless there was something you wanted to pick up before we leave, please join me through the portal." With a tip of his hat, Gilbert made his way to the back of the Mill and opened the door, briefly admiring the telltale shimmering of Gio's handiwork.

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Alicia's Room -> Study)
Skills: N/A

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James barely had time to stare in awe at the picture he was given. Not family in the traditional sense, as much as his timeline housed a word full of orphans and sole survivors anyway, but he was immensely glad to see that the baby of Tatiana and Jack was born healthy and happy. And further, the little guy was named after him. That was amazing. He had just begun to feel a mixed emotion, pride and sorrow intertwining in a bittersweet mobius strip, when something that Alicia said caught his attention.

"Wait, Schrody?" This was the second or third time that James had heard that name mentioned among the Emendators and Paradoxes. It was what the people of his timeline called a fuzzy orange tomcat that came in with a Russian circus performer and stuck around after an accident claimed his life. It couldn't be the same thing. Mostly as a cat wasn't overly inclined toward speech, nor the possession of photographs. But he wasn't sure who else would be named Schrödinger, that would have access to a picture of Tati's kid. It made no sense. James was just about to ask who, and/or what Alicia meant by that, when something highly unexpected occurred.

James sat for a second or two, wide eyed and feigning patience. Maybe this was a new Paradox ability manifesting. Or something else, equally as logical an explanation for suddenly disappearing, leaving a death pendant and baby's rattle in your place. The jewelry he got; Alicia wore it all the time. The rattle was something new though. It was beyond his reckoning, like so many other things here. After thise short, expectant seconds, James's fake patience broke and he tore out of the room, hoping to find the nearest person who might know more than himself. His frantic movement brought him more or less back to the Study, though his voice carried much farther than that.

"Holy shit, I needs me an adult! Alicia done DAVID LO PAN'ED an now she gone! Somethin' 'bout muerte an' dentists and the bitch ain't here no more!"

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Headland: E. Main Street, E8 (outside of the Hordebuster)
Skills: N/A

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The deluge of rain seemed to make everything more difficult. Sometimes it was a good thing. It made the firefight as difficult for their adversaries as it did for his own people. Between the atmospheric discharge and his own sense of style exiting his grand (if now deceased) Hordebuster, that bullet that was likely meant for his heart found his shoulder instead. It wasn't ideal, as if anything in this world really was anymore. But he wasn't dead yet, and probably wouldn't be dead for a while yet with this as his only injury.

He was down to a knee, in a field of bullets and carnage. The half-sarcasm he had spouted earlier was picked up by the Nun. Ash shot her a look that contained elements of anger and distrust. She shows up in a highly conspicuous manner, gives a response that sets off a warning bell in the back of his brain, and now a car containing captured people he cared about roars by. Ash did not like coincidences. Nor was he of a mood to tend to his own discomfort while others lives were at stake. Growling, trying not to writhe from the foreign object lodged in his shoulder, Ash half rolled, half pulled himself toward the side of the Hordebuster. It was a big truck, there was room. Glancing in the direction of Tatiana and Jack, Ash grunted through clenched teeth, "They need help now, not me!" He wasn't losing Tatiana and her baby now. Not to treat a shoulder injury, no matter how agonizing.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quincy (in house, C9)
Skills: N/A

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Darkness.

Nothing more. Not even a feeling of self. Just clean, serene peace associated with warm, neutral absence. Whether it was weeks or merely minutes, Thalia could not guess. But the fact that she had the barest presence of awareness to question anything at all was progress. She was still cut off from the majority of her perception, but through the haze of subconscious memory Thalia somehow knew that consciousness was her enemy. Whatever was waiting for her out in the world was a thing she did not want to deal with. Not right then. Probably not for a while. Eventually, want or not, this would have to be faced. Just not now. Just an hour more. Half hour. Whatever time meant in this place of vast nothingness.

Thoughts began to congeal, bringing flashes of color to the abyss. Random, irrational at first. But slowly, images started to form. Frightening things to begin; wisps of nightmare escaping from their locked cages, the expression of Thalia's constant fears held in check by discipline. Searching through the horror and doubt, she latched onto a single point of light. It was her father. Biological father, anyway. He was a priest, and often had the want to sing his little Angelita to sleep. Yes, sleep - a thing she needed to maintain for a while more. Quietly, she sat down in the minefield of her inner thoughts and remembered her father, singing one of his favorite songs to her in English with gentle voice:

Hider

The rest of the world saw Thalia's lips barely moving, occasionally catching part of a phrase. "...descending angel... ...alone we face the night... descending... stand by my side... descending angel..." Deep within the sanctuary of her mind, Thalia knew that she was no longer whole. On the outside, the realization was reflected with a single, barely noticeable teardrop.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: D12 -> D11
Skills: N/A

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Advancing upon the back of a high, crazy person was not the best way, overall, for Hank to hang onto the top half of his favorite head. Not with Wayne flinging about his machete carelessly in an attempt to keep his own, internal beat whilst attempting a foxtrot with an animated corpse. Not only was it fairly impolite, it was also fairly impossible for one of those two dance partners to perform a quick two-step changeover. At that moment, Hank wasn't 100% as to which one it was. Thankfully, the former Detective either saw the error of his ways or just got bored, and put the poor, dead Asshole out of its misery.

Hank closed some distance between himself and Wayne. It was aggravating sometimes, the way that Wayne would just go running off like that. Of course, Hank would follow. They were supposed to be a team. But he did ok while flying solo, or he had been so far. Perhaps one day he wouldn't bother trying to catch up. Then he shook his head. Nah, it was a stupid thought. They were a team. If his little proclivities meant that Hank had a jog a bit and talk him down, it was worth it to have someone who truly did not give a shit stand watch for cadavers while he took a quick dump in the woods. Bonus points if he held the wipes.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Docks - The Ferry (Boarding)
Skills: N/A

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It was a truly wondrous sight for the old man. Not the boat; it was fine enough of a vessel but he was really more accustomed to travel by air. Probably the person most accustomed to travel by air than anyone else on the planet. But he did love Cairo, and the river which ran through it. This was to be an entertaining and leisurely trip along the Nile. That was the plan, at least. The beginning steps of a new adventure; possibly the last one of his days. Indeed, the wondrous sight was his Fellowship of erstwhile strangers gathering together, persons of wildly differing background coming together and actually embarking upon their grand quest. It made him absolutely giddy.

Reginald took a moment to observe the loading of their supplies and animals upon the boat. Care and feeding cost extra, but Reginald was a man of some means. His credit was weighty and they were being bankrolled by very respectable sources. He was able to see his personal property for just a second or two as it was getting moved to the boat. Hopefully it should be in his stateroom within the quarter hour. He'd asked the Corporal (acting in his role as the Lord Major's valet) to attend to his belongings himself. Be it that the Corporal was an obnoxious, loud individual, he did his job quickly, completely, and to the letter. More, if he felt something was missed in the exchange.

The gangplank lay before him, truly the hustle and bustle of activity. Such were ships. Part of the bodily traffic was a pretty young lady who had stopped in front of the good Mr. Benaszewski, and treated him with apparent familiarity. The short discussion between the two of them (that Reginald tried very hard not to eavesdrop upon) behind them, he was pleased to note that George took the occasion to introduce them.

"Thank you, Mr. Benaszewski; you are ever the gentleman." he looked to Gene and bowed, doffing his cap to her in a gesture of grand British near-histrionics. "It is a defined pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Benaszewski. And quite the good fortune that you should meet up with him in this place at this hour! Madame, I would be remiss not to formally invite you to join our party, and unmistakably rude to even consider otherwise. Please, take an old man's invitation and platonic company as we board this waterborne Inn." he returned his cap to his head and extended an arm, even as he joined the press of movement onto the vessel.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Grand Vestibule (E9)
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

Dr. Swamp thought back to the carriage ride on the way in. It was a little uncomfortable, but not so much as stepping out of it once they reached the gates. Then the machine - wondrous, advanced, but lethal to one of them. Was it an intentional trap? Would these little accidents continue? His physical liabilities prevented him from reacting with the same gusto as others, and this house could be loaded with interesting surprises for the unwary. The thought was bolstered by the words of the man in the fresh, shiny suit. Reflexively, the Doctor moved his hand to Amaranthine's shoulder in an attempt to be supportive.

The first sentence that the Lord of the Manor stuck with him. They were not invited. That wasn't exactly true, persay. They were most definitely invited. There was a paper and everything. They just weren't invited by the man who made those decisions. It was semantics, really. A moot point considering the locked doors and armed guards. One thing was for certain: Whatever plans Dr. Swamp had in regards for this event were obliterated. For the first time in a very long time, Dr. Swamp's heart quickened its pace. He did not like the situation, not one bit. But it was interesting. Forcing himself not to move any more than he had to, he answered the very important looking man's question in a clear, respectful voice, "Crystal clear, My Lord." Someone had fooled them. All of them, and gotten them in the same place at the same time. He would like to meet this person. "Humbly my Lord, where do we go from here?"

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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Location: Bristol, Harbor
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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A smile crossed Vladimir's face. One that was marred by Fish and Chips for only a half-second before he remembered his manners. He had never heard of these people before, La Canela, and considered himself a more than reasonably well traveled man. Potential allies, perhaps? Another organization that The Graveolase had passed over, that they might enlist to their alliance? Even if they wanted to be left alone, making the Circus's existence known to them would be an excellent first step.

The sketch of the woman most certainly caught his attention. "Is pretty lady. Very pretty. Vould much like to meet this ocean Am to understand, this lady is leader of all LaCanela? Hmm..." He thought for a moment, raising his hands in front of himself as to use them to somehow assist in his explanation, "Grand Duchess is not leader of Circus. Is strange, I think, to people of outside. Hmm... Yes! For yes. Baron is running Circus. But Baron Alexandrov is Russian Aristocracy. Grand Duchess is big noble, daughter ov Emperor. Can tell anyvone who is Russian vhat to do. Circus is citizens of Empire, Baron is subject ov Emperor. And ov course, ve have taking, eh, how to say... Economic Subsidy from Imperial Treasury, for care of our Veta." Vlad shrugged, giving consideration to another possible interpretation of Ludwig's question, "Grand Duchess vould have represented Rusyn in Graveolase."

Vladimir ate another portion of yummy fried potatoes, and opted to clarify his statement. "Understand, ve love our Veta. Love. Grand Duchess is my light. The making of shiny in heart of Bazhooli Sem'ya. Is my Tatushka half. Ve help her, ve protect, ve take up her qvest not because having to, because vanting to." Nonchalantly, he concluded, "And she can order our deaths." His words were spoken around a growing, toothy smile. He turned to Constantin, "Good find. Am liking the fishes."

The group's belongings were stowed in the single, smallish cabin reserved by English silver for their use. It was not furnished for the extremes of hospitality, naturally. The craft was a merchant vessel, not a cruise ship. While it would afford much more in the way of comfort and luxury than a fishing vessel or a garbage scow, it was built to move light cargo from Point A to Point B with speed and reliability. A tight fit for three people, perhaps. Vladimir reserved the right to string up a hammock someplace below decks, should the desire for privacy appear. But just for now, as they were settled in enough to launch, Vladimir would be much more satisfied with the boat moving out to open water.

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{“Blessed be the Lord, my strength, who teaches my hands to war and my fingers to fight.” -Psalm 144:1}

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Location: Carlisle
Skills: Horseback Riding

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Dame Hale looked to Virginia and smiled. This is one of the reasons, she figured, that she liked the woman. Despite the obvious differences in personal taste, the way they celebrated their respective events, and naturally, the glaring religious differences that otherwise would have made their ever being friends possible. This. The differing perspective of an allied Crypt lady was a boon in many circumstances. Mary was taught strictly, perhaps even inflexibly, by her family as a child and then by the Vatican until her adulthood. She hunted, she killed, she praised God and all of his many splendors. She followed orders. She was a Knight, and lived by a Code. But even she knew that if one is told what not to do long enough, it stunted one's imagination. Whatever her Church thought about the Crypts, Mary was glad to have Virginia's influence.

"That is an excellent observation, Virginia. This could be a hastening to our intended demise that just happens to bring us closer to Gretna." The thought was pessimistic, but not outside the realm of logic. They had all witnessed previously unseen Soulless with likewise unseen powers, and very recently. The dynamic had changed for some reason. This could all be a trap. The screams ahead of them seemed to agree with Virginia's assessment. "Ryne..." The very word sent her mind back to her childhood, and the losses incurred. Mary slid from her horse and looped the reins over the nearest hitching point. If Cassius was not up to vigorous travel, he was not in ideal condition to fight, either. One of her chain rosaries, wrapped around her hand and wrist as usual, made a soft clicking sound as Mary readied her halberd. "And you will know my name is The LORD; when I lay my vengeance upon thee."

The look of cold serenity upon Mary's face was almost palpable, as reinforced by frigid, detached words in response to Virginia's query. "Yes. Let's." Eyes directed forward were followed by footfalls as she swiftly (but not stupidly) advanced on the scene.