Sigil

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Headland: E. Main Street, E7, Car (Passenger side back seat)
Skills: N/A

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Godfather? The concept intrigued Ash ever so slightly more than the searing pain of having a foreign object chemically propelled into the fleshy part of his shoulder. Part of him was immediately joyous at the thought of it. Naturally, given the state of the world around them it was very possible that the baby might be deprived of his parents, making the naming of a Godfather necessary. You never knew when the great Soul Collector would nod in your direction. On the other hand, part of him echoed with dread from past, recent years. There were times that Ash was certain that he was a death magnet, doomed to survive while all those he cared about perished. Now he had another life to help look after and care about. He surely didn't mind the responsibility. Hell, it was inspiring. A family coming back together was inspiring.

And to hell with the rest. That kind of indecision and worry was pointless. Ash was a different person now. Ever the Captain, but no longer would he be circumstance's bitch. Yeah, bad things happened. Just sometimes, you had to be the architect of those bad things to protect the ones you loved. Ash accepted Tatiana's help getting into the station wagon. It was tricky at first, getting in while maintaining hard pressure on his wound, but he settled into the seat readily enough.

He hadn't seen a baby in a long time. Much like Jack, Ashton stared at little James with wonder and warmth. "Hi James. I'm your Godfather, Ash. And as long as I'm still breathing, you're going to be just fine." Unlike Jack, he could pull away and resume the business at hand. He didn't blame the man. This was the culmination of a one year search, and that was his firstborn son. Let him have his moment. But the "take the lead" bit from earlier would have to be suspended. If anything, Tatiana seemed on top of things. "Well let's hurry. We are not blessed with an overabundance of time." Between his wounding, the coming weather, and their need for both supplies and revenge, they really didn't have a lot of time. And ordinarily, revenge was not something Ash went for. It was stupid. Unsound. Took risks that weren't necessary. But just this one time, it fell in very nicely with the task at hand.

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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Whoa momma, did that pill work. It kicked in like SWAT busting down the door to a crack house. Thalia could feel the intense, gnawing pain that apparently accompanied limb removal (as she was previously inexperienced with the practice on a personal level), but the pain seemed to be elsewhere, apart from herself in the way that one might feel a sympathy twinge for a crotch kick. It was admittedly one hell of a sympathy twinge. But the level of narcotic assistance was greatly appreciated.

"Ba, ba, ba, ba, baaaa... The joy of Chola..." Wait, was that out loud? She was more into Coke products than Pepsi, anyway. Or used to be, back when an there was an option. Now, she'd take what she could get, of it was still nice and fizzy. But that wasn't the thought she was trying to have right then. What was it? Damn, that pill was strong.

She could see why people wanted the stuff so badly. And why her family was so anti-drug. This called for one of the massive exceptions to that rule, losing part of an arm. Thalia wished that she didn't need it.

At any rate, now that the pain in her arm was subsiding somewhat, it allowed her to realise that she was really, really hungry. Now, she meant to politely ask for a can of whatever was handy, for the purposes of splitting it, and that can of SpaghettiOs with Beatrice. It was only fair. The "O Wars" were not going to be called on account of injury. But what came out of her mouth sounded more like, "Heyah, girl! ...lemme get a crack at dem O's, sweetie... left-handed can opener... yummyummyummy." Shit, that was definitely out loud.

The moment that Thalia heard Alexander say he had found water, ahe realized that she was massively thirsty. "Hey, over here!" she slurred, raising the stump of her right forearm as if to catch something. She looked at the bandaged end of her prematurely terminating limb as if confused for a second, then let her head plunk back on the table. Thalia started giggling, quietly but maniacally to herself, like it was somehow a private joke.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: C8
Skills: Club/Blunt Weapons

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"Yeah, I got it." remarked Hank, as if moderately annoyed at the whole Fighting For Your Life Against Walking Corpses thing. True enough, it was enough to give anyone moderate annoyance, let alone a man like Hank who seemed to make it a key point of his post-apocalypse career. Now, to whom he was saying it was open for debate. The most likely two persons were Wayne and his new pal, Sportacus, seeing as the former made a request for a low initial swing to reduce the chances of Friendly Fire via shovel, and the latter communicated his point of tactic for probably the same reason.

That left one just for him. It began to turn to one side, toward another one of the men speaking aloud, but Hank wasn't having it. He whistled aloud, regaining its attention. "Anyone ever tell you, you look like a barrel of assholes? Whole goddamn barrel. Yeah, really." He swung his shovel, the edge of the tool smashing heavily into the dead person's knee. It cracked in the slowish manner of timber breaking, and fell to the ground. Hank finished it off with a utilitarian thrust downward, as if digging soil. After the thing's head cleft neatly in twain and was still, Hank looked up and with the same annoyed voice, inquired, "Alright. What's next?" and to the shambling Assholes which remained upright, "Oh yeah. Fine." There was more to do before they were through for the day. Lots.

🦄 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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So this little boat ride was turning out to be quite the exercise in humility for the prideful Vladimir. This "sea sickness" that he had heard about so many times was now appreciated on a more personal, and certainly more visceral level. The last bit was more accurate than ordinarily might be assumed, as his viscera was very adamant about divesting itself of all of its recently obtained contents, and as violently as possible. His instability on long boat rides was a very recent development, apparently. Though mostly land-bound troupe, the Circus did, and have protocol for, travel by boat. Why it afflicted him now was an item of wonder. But not too much - wondering tended to make him nauseous in these circumstances, he was just finding out.

Such learned humility was a powerful motivating feature. It was a thing which would stick with him for almost five minutes after he left the ship, quite possibly a record. But for the meantime, he held onto the rest of his lunch even as he mourned the passing of at least half of it. Setting his head in his hands, Vladimir let out a soft groan. "Curse you, Fishes & Chips! Vhy do you betray stomach of The Great Bazhooli?" The powerful and accurate Russian son of a Baron and proclaimed heir of a lineage of Circus royalty was holding himself together, but he knew that his fight against the combined powers of the open ocean and questionable dockside-stall fish was far from over.

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{“Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might.” -Ephesians 6:10}

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Location: Carlisle (F8)
Skills: Audist, Athletics, Latin

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Blood. It almost always came down to blood. Hers, that of her enemies; the blood they consumed to survive or the constant references to the Blood of Christ. What was Mary in all of this? A soldier? A tool? Rhetoric would describe her as something more flowery and noble than she really was, whereas the people of this land looked upon her as a second-class citizen or an interloper of some kind. Papists were not always welcome in England. Strip all of that away, and you had Sister Mary as one might see her now: Defiantly serene, bleeding freely, and surrounded by Ryne with one of the few people in God's Creation the could trust.

Righteous fury burned within the eyes of the Apostolic Knight, though her face betrayed no sign of anything but cold surety. It was a habit acquired by others like herself, only adding to the reputation of the Venatores. Mary knew that the enemy was closing upon them, and tactically, if she did not take this one down immediately they would have no place left to go. This one was strong. Fast. Experienced. And her benefit of range seemed to be of no help against it. Instead of strength, Mary chose instead to work through confusion.

She held her cruciform Swiss Halberd with her uninjured hand, taking a low grip on the weapon. Her left was still trailing drops of blood, now running down from the crucifix at the end of her rosary; this she allowed to hang beside her as balance. She began her maneuver by placing her feet as one might for a very ladylike curtsy, resting the haft of her polearm back over her shoulders. It looked casual. Suicidal, like she was surrendering. Then she moved. Red hair spiraled about as she stepped backwards into a spin, utilizing the centrifugal force to reinforce the one-armed swing of her halberd. Even though the stepped backward, the choice of grip and swing very deceptively lengthened her killing range. The whipping motion, unheard of among conventional practitioners of polearm combat, definitely took the Ryne by surprise. Metal blessed in the names of the Holy streaked invisibly fast through the air, parting the creature's face with a single, diagonal line of red. It took a single, trembling step before the top half of its head slid along the angle and was deposited upon the street below. Then it collapsed. "Five." And it was about time.

Mary turned to the rest of the approaching Ryne. The glare in her eyes was palpable. Her left hand, red with her own vitality, rose into direct sight as she made the sign of the Cross upon her face with her own blood. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." The chain rosary still hung from her wrist, glinting with crimson and steel, swaying back and forth. Mary pointed to the Ryne advancing across from her position, invoking the Trinity at the Soulless thing and enticing it with authoritarian offer: "Let us pray."

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Music Room -> Joyous Corridor
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
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Swamp looked from the man in brassy devil mask to the man in the beaked Venetian mask, then back again. Beneath his own facial covering of what appeared to be worked bone, the Doctor breathed a heavy, irritated sigh. He raised one hand to his face as if to pinch the bridge of his nose to avert a coming headache, momentarily forgetting that he was still, for the most part, incognito. He let out a single laugh at his own foolishness and shook his head slightly, mood returning to something near its default from earlier. Dr. Swamp rested the tip of his cane beside him on the floor with a muted tap, leaning only lightly upon it for the moment. He cleared his throat and addressed the two other man in the room with clear, solid syllables: "Gentlemen? That was disappointing. Excuse me."

The tap of his cane sounded alongside his footfalls as he made his way out of the western door and into the Joyous Corridor. He swung the door closed behind him, realizing full well that it would not actually prevent anyone from following. It did afford the slightest inclination of privacy, even if it was merely the appearance of it. He cleared his throat again, hoping to acquire the Chanteuse's attention. "Please accept my..." he enunciated the next word a hair more slowly, as if not fully familiar with the use of it, "...apologies..." Nailed it. "...for my part in this. And please do not feel that you owe me anything, Chanteuse. Your music is yours. If you prefer to be alone or in differing company, I will take my leave without ill intention. Otherwise, I might suggest that we explore what places we are allowed in the time available." Absently, the good doctor adjusted the artistically crafted metallic flower on his lapel. Nervous habit, perhaps, or a strenuous desire to keep things on his person ordered; only he could say.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Main Deck -> Second Deck and ascending)
Skills: N/A

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And there, in one fell swoop, Reginald divested himself of the Corporal and was able to take tea. Granted, this was only a temporary situation, tea and solitude both, as the push to get people settled into their rooms was upon them. The standard bribe for a speedy transition of this nature came in a manner most ingenious: Supper. It made sense. Get your affairs squared away and have first access to your dining floor. Reginald couldn't help but want to tip his cap to whomever set it up; it was a splendid way to herd the populous without having to order people about. Far be it for him to make waves in this regard. He just wanted to put a little distance between himself and his "new valet".

The Lord Major had to give the younger man his ounce of credit. He saw an opportunity and seized it. Corporal Reddish showed an extraordinary amount of initiative and gumption to attempt a maneuver such as this. Moreover, the man stayed within the boundaries of military protocol the entire way through. No orders gone against, no duty left undone. He even had paperwork backing his play. So much as the man had the occasion to grate upon his last nerve, Reginald was highly impressed. Now, so long as he could get through the next three days without pitching The Corporal into the Nile, things might actually work out to his benefit.

The tea, a good half a cup left, was hastily thrown down his gullet and he began to make his way to the stairs. The press of bodies was not something with which he was wholly comfortable, being a man who preferred his space. Reginald had to remember that he was out in a world wider than the confines of his command area. He could not expect to be the first in line, nor could he order about the people on the vessel, unless the Shipmaster gave him special dispensation. Such a thing was very much not expected. So, upon skirting around and away from the rest of his Fellowship, he fell in line with the rest of the passengers. Getting past the first checkpoint was easy, he obviously looked like Elite Deck material, bedecked and resplendent as he was in his Officers' Uniform and carrying the bearing of a Lord of Sussex. All the same, he was a stickler for protocol, at least until the staff came to know who he was well enough to let such trivialities slide, if indeed they were the type to do so. Reginald paused just for a moment to show his paperwork with a kind and knowing scrap of conversation. "Yes, here we are, old chap. Hmm... Good then. Ticket!" he exclaimed with bubbly demeanor, presenting the paper with restrained gusto. "I've other bits of important looking cardstock, be it required. But there we have it: Room assignment and the necessary others, all right and proper. Now young man, you have a glorious evening. If you would excuse me?"

The Lord Major stepped into the somewhat more open space of the second deck and immediately began moving toward the stairs for the Elite Deck. He had his personal belongings for which he had to account and supper, for which he needed to wash. He was a gentleman of propriety, after all.

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Haring Reddish

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

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There was a half second of agreeable surprise as Josephine deigned to speak with the Corporal. As she did so, he made certain to perform the various tiny acts of mannered behavior that the representatives of the British Empire were famous for performing, such as pushing back in Josephine's chair after she rose and, in a gesture of mild subordination, staying a partial step behind her as she made her way to the stairs. His words were metered and polite, despite the fact that his first words in response to her were in disagreement. "Ah, begging madame's pardon, but I fully recall you from the Barracks, ma'am. I mean to say, I am fairly certain I believe that I have seen you at some point in time prior to your most welcome time at the Qasr El Nil Barracks, if you take my meaning, ma'am; I simply do not know from where. Oh, and of course I would be positively delighted to accept your offer and join you for dinner this evening."

As they reached the stairs, Corporal Reddish gave pause and let himself act as a blocker against the movement of people trying to ascend to the next deck, giving Josephine an opportunity to step ahead without being jostled by the crowd. He made a small motion with one hand, suggesting that she use the opportunity to mount the first step. "You see, Miss Clark (might I call you Miss Clark?), I dare not have said anything earlier as I am an enlisted fellow and as such, my time is not my own. On Duty, you see. The only reason I possess the wherewithal to do so now is because The Lord Major has been kind enough to suspend my responsibilities to him as his valet on the interim. Or putting it differently, Off Duty, ma'am. As such, I am allowed to have a freer tongue with you." As they came to the official checking tickets, he handed his over and accepted it back without so much as looking away from his object of conversation. "Also as such, I used that newfound freedom of glibness to mention my admiration for your beauty and taste in style, ma'am. Bravo! Simply bravo." He even got in a celebratory clap or three for emphasis. "Why, if you'll permit me further liberties, ma'am, I must say that it would be an honor to take evening repast with a lady who looks like she just stepped off of the silver scre..."

Something in his face said that he had finally figured out where he had seen Josephine before.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Keystone & Caesar

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Location: Past the Rockies, Flight MSS-1
Skills: Security Procedures
Skills: Seek The Guilty (Investigation/Surveillance)

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The fact of the matter was that people were dead, and the two men traveling high over Nebraska were likely going to be railroaded by corrupt assholes employed by the Justice Police Department. Caesar knew what that was like; he was once a Commandant of the Mexican Federal Police, now retired. Anyone who had heard of them knew about their overwhelming problem with corruption. It was just as bad as Justice PD, maybe moreso. The only way to fix it was to dismantle the entire organization, one brick at a time. It was a painful period in his country's history. There was a lot of blood spilled. It was in this time that Caesar built his reputation for honor and brutality. It occurred to the older man that maybe that was exactly what needed to happen with the problem in Justice - a reckoning of fire and blood, burning out the infected and leaving the good, decent cops to pick up the pieces. It would hurt, but if effective it would give them a chance to heal. The problem was, that only worked for the Federales because they did this to themselves. Outside intervention from Caesar's people would turn Justice into an open warzone. Maybe he was better with that than this intrigue bullshit.

Lord only knew that the intrigue bullshit hadn't done very much for him so far. Most especially as it came to attempting a preliminary to an investigation on the area. It was like there wasn't any direct information stored digitally anywhere. Nothing of online newspaper archives, nor public police reports; no ratings for restaurants. No local businesses. Nothing in the way of City Hall nor Chamber of Commerce updates. It was like the whole town was stuck decades behind the rest of the world, else someone had intentionally scrubbed the internet of anything to do with Grimm, IN. The only things he did find that could remotely be considered a lead was when he came across something about the prominent family in town, name of Grimaldi. An old family by all accounts, with one member living in Chicago, running a bookstore. After securing a vehicle, they had a source of local history to track down.

Not only that, Grimm was the hometown of someone that Keystone shared an apartment building with: Riley Ridgeway. Superstar girl that had gone a-slumming in Justice, CA, for reasons unknown to Caesar or Keystone. It was also the hometown of Marc Tinder, one half of the duo that killed Alicia (and was supposedly still alive). Scrambling a hasty message together, Caesar inquired of his Tech team:

"Track down the phone number of Riley Ridgeway of Boston Heights, Justice CA."

Keystone's own efforts were stymied at all corners of inquiry. Setting up shop while not physically on site came to a swift and undramatic standstill due to a serious lack of available information. It was like the entire town only existed in the secondhand stories of others, devoid of direct, hard data. Several stories of murder and mystery leaked out every now and again, as well as hushed tales of multiple locations around town, but nothing provided decent pictures of locations nor the info he required to choose a decent base of operations. It probably didn't help that the town was so small that available spots were highly limited and likely well known to everyone still living in Grimm. They were going to stick out like sore thumbs.

"Eh, Boss? Ain't a bloody thing to be found on this. Can't set eyes on it 'til we're on the ground." He understood and shared Caesar's frustration. It looked like their best option was to get rooms at a local Ramada Inn and branch out from there, as unsavory and overt as that might seem. Unfortunately, actually getting there seemed like a faraway concept right at that moment. Keystone ordered a glass of scotch from the stewardess and contemplated his options carefully, deciding that a lack of knowledge was an uncomfortable thing.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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Location: Ville au Camp (Gate)
Skills: N/A

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It had been quite some time since Gilbert had someone else's voice reverberate in the back of his head. It was unexpected, granted, though the magic trick of telepathy was not the startling thing for him that it might have been a few thousand years ago. Time and experience had shown Gilbert many, many things; within the whole of creation and its multitude of timelines, he had been exposed to more things undreamt of in the general philosophies of humanity, many of which existed right under their noses, hiding in plain sight. It did suffice to invoke a quick eyebrow raise as Gilbert acknowledged the fact that someone was speaking directly into his mind. His charming smile remained exactly where it was throughout the entirety of the message, however.

"You know, Joe, it has been a long while since I have been to a carnival. And we were just discussing what to do about being shorthanded today. I am inclined to say yes. We might discuss the particulars with their headman this evening."

Gilbert noticed the sudden appearance of a couple of the Paradoxes. It made sense that they be drawn to the one piece of abrupt difference in the otherwise steady time loop. He would be puzzled otherwise. Sophia addressed them first, so it made sense to start with her. "No of course not, Sophia. They have enough manpower to tend to their own labors. Besides, you have the week off, remember? Relax. Reflect. Enjoy yourself."

And to Faith, "Why Faith, this is a carnival. Curious, is it not?" He nodded is head in the direction of the assembled caravan of trucks, intoning, "I am certainly in the mood for a little diversion. I think our evening guests may appreciate, also."

It was times like this that Gilbert knew, despite his ages upon ages of consciousness, that he did not know everything. Oh he knew much. More amassed history than any single source upon the earth, but that didn't count as everything by a long and fair shot. Moreover, one of the things which puzzled him was the nature of this Emendator-esque force that lay within the confines of the carnival. Even that voice - unknown yet oddly familiar, all at the same time. It rekindled a sense of wonder about the world around him. He was rather fond of it, and every interesting thing humanity had to offer. This... this was just another facet of it. Apparently, yet even another facet of humanity was presenting itself in the form of James, hauling ass up the secondary thoroughfare to join them.

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James Grady

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

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Okay, so he wasn't in the Mill. That was a bit of a letdown. The thought had crossed his mind briefly to jump into one of the sets of armor and outfit himself as some kind of time hopping walking anachronism, his plumed Roman helmet contrasting against the brace of magnum revolvers and conquistador breastplate. It would be the thing to do now that he was left all to his lonesome inside of The Hat's workshop; or as he had called it just moments ago, "The Hatcave". The image was short lived, however, as he remembered that he had a job to do before rushing back out of the front door. Next time, definitely.

For just a second or two, James's thought process on what to do hit a scramble. He stood impotently outside of the doors to The Mill, aware of only a need for urgency but unable to make any sense of it for himself. He wasn't the type to wring his hands and pace furiously with worry, incapable of helping himself. He just needed a point in the right direction and he could start on most difficulties himself, thank you very much. That was it! Right direction. His eyes drifted into focus, noting something just up the pathway a ways. It was both of the Emendators he was looking for, plus about half of the Paradoxes, and a frigging convoy of strange Caucasians in trucks. That'd do.

With purpose, James poured on the effort, hauling himself up the road to speak with the tall, tawny-skinned Emendator known as The Hat. As he approached, Gilbert noticed his approach and waved him over. James wasn't sure what he should be saying in mixed company, so, the second his breathing began to slow, he stood close to The Hat, his back to the people in the trucks, and said with a quiet voice, "Alicia... She gone, man. Girl done poofed away in a flash of light, comin' from her eyes an' mouth, Mr. Hat, sir. We was up in her room. I need help, man. I don't know what to do."

Gil's smile faded. He sighed, and gave James a knowing look. Barely at a whisper, he responded, "I might know what this is. But I want to check anyway. Show me." Looking up at the others nearby, his smile returned and he said, "You know my thoughts on this. Please excuse me, I need to check on something. Andromeda?" he addressed his would-be traveling companion, "Next cycle, circumstances permitting. You may join us at the house or stay here, at your choice."

With that, James started to jog back to the Main House. Gilbert tipped his hat to the people present, and moved to join the newer Paradox. The ramifications of what might have just happened weighed on his thoughts.

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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) -> E7
Skills: N/A

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"For the love of GOD AMELIA STOP HELPING ME." It wasn't the first time that Ash had taken an injury in the field before. Take away the fact that they all were technically "in the field" at all times. It might be closer to say that this was, without doubt, the first time that the he was afraid that he would survive the firefight only to be killed by the medical attention. Getting shot seemed like the easy part.

"Amelia. Thank you, Amelia. No, really. Don't worry about it. Just please stop beating the crap out of me." Ash pulled himself to his feet and accepted the pack containing the brunt of his belongings. It was definitely not his day. He had lost much recently, but he still had his mission. And now, part of that mission had been fulfilled. Jack got his family back. Damn if that wasn't worth taking a bullet for. Now the problem was getting it back out. He nodded hopefully, then looked to Amelia once again. "Hey, I don't want to go climbing if I don't have to. Could you please get me the gear shift knob off of ol' girl here?" he patted the side of the Hordebuster, a twinge of sadness heard in his voice. It was like he lost a friend.

Now standing under his own power, Ash pulled the strap to his pack over his uninjured shoulder and recovered his rifle. He didn't want to leave the 'Buster, but he had to. It was as good as dead. Ash's responsibility was to the living. Especially the very recently living, like the child a number of meters in front of him. He started the walk from the lifeless rig that was once his second home, moving toward those he cared about. And Genevieve. Just before he cleared the Hordebuster, Ash reached up and placed his hand lovingly upon the machine's hood. He winced in pain from the effort, but it was something he felt he had to. Taking a second, he pressed his forehead to the rain cooled metal and whispered a heartfelt, "Thank you. Thank you so much." He would leave part of himself there, but only part. They had to go.

As he neared the station wagon where his people were, Ash looked to Tatiana. "God damn, it is good to see you. Both of you. I'd hug the stuffing out of you, but I'm a little bit shot right now." He genuinely was elated to see them. From the look of things, though, the group had made a decision without him. They weren't getting ready to clear and search buildings like he had planned. This looked more urgent, and not just "weather advisory" urgent. Before taking it personally or getting loud, he decided to put some trust in his people. "You guys look like you have a plan. Read me in. Jack, you take the lead for now, and if it's not too much trouble, I need a pair of steady hands to pry this slug out of me." He motioned to the huge, seeping, crimson stain on him. "Stitch or two'd be nice, also." He was ready to make tracks, and fast. But he did need some attending to before he could give any appreciable help to the situation.

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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The talk about a lack of painkillers gave Thalia a jolt. This was going to be one hell of a bad day without something to take the edge off of her impromptu surgery. But she wasn't completely taken in with the medical advice of the guy who lopped her arm away. "Gonna have to say no... on that booze." She actually couldn't believe the words were leaving her mouth. "Not while the stitches are fresh. Not unless I get really desperate." It was one way in which she disagreed with most of her family. Thinner blood could be problematic, and while it looked like Manny did pretty damn good work, she did not need any excess seepage from her very drastic wound.

The sudden gift from Alexander did not go unnoticed, either. Thalia gave the newly set bottle of pills on the table a nigh cheerful look, or as cheerful as one could be who just woke up from redneck surgery and only had one hand. That last part was going to be a problem, but in that second she didn't care. "Aw, holy shit theah, Mugsy. People'ah gonna think you'ah sweet on me, yeah?" she said with a measure of happy gratitude, her Boston accent kicking in through the haze of pain that was slowly creeping over. Gingerly, she picked up the bottle of pills like it was sacred, until her face dropped and she spoke the single syllable, "Shit." Reflexively, she held up the stump that used to be attached to her hand and half of her forearm to assist int he opening of the bottle, only to realize that she'd have to work around the child proof cap with her non-dominant hand and her teeth, probably. She exhaled loudly and got to it. She managed to open the thing by pressing it hard against her thigh and turning, first the wrong way, resulting in a chorus of damnits, but then in the right direction to elicit a favorable outcome. She carefully extracted two pills; one which she swallowed immediately, and one which the tucked into a pocket. Capping the bottle was thankfully much easier.

In her own way, Beatrice was being supportive. Some people would actually try to say supportive things. Or act in a manner that showed concern. Or at least, not sarcasm. But the application of nothing that might be considered support was actually helpful. It gave Thalia a sense of security, like status quo was continuing. Now, if Beatrice had done any of those warm and friendly things, Thalia might be suddenly afraid that there was bad news she had to brace for, or that her prognosis wasn't as good as they seemed to suggest. She didn't respond beyond a chuckle and a sustained stare in Bea's direction at first, but finally relented and returned with, "Es el código "lamer la tapa" para algo? Porque podría darme una ducha primero, si es."₁

As soon as the words hit the air, Thalia noticed that it was a little warm in that house. It could be worse, but through the pain and the excitement, she barely noticed that her shirt was sticking to her. She could use a cooling breeze, too, but sealing off the windows was something she understood from a tactical position. Uncomfortable was better than dead, and she was not at her best. On the brighter end, some of Alexander's words came back to her, something about Thana finding other cans of food in the house. Go Navy..." she mumbled. On the one hand, Thalia did, and extremely overtly, call DIBS on those Os. On the other hand, she really didn't want to call a stalemate or anything more than a temporary cease-fire in the all encompassing "O Wars" that had helped keep her in decent spirits over the past year. "Alright, Killeh Bea. But you and me's splitting the can. That's that."

Translations

1 = Is "licking the lid" code for something? Because I could go for a shower first, if it is.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: C9 -> C8
Skills: Survival

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Hank continued undeterred on his epic quest to help his friend not die in an attempt to throw himself between everyone else and danger. It might even be considered heroic, if the situation were different. If they didn't need every bullet. On the good chance that Hank didn't want to see his friend die. If he kept on like this, he was going to. Rolling the dice enough times was going to eventually result in an unfavorable set of numbers. But Wayne was Wayne. And Hank... wasn't ready to abandon him.

The woman that he had just passed made a decent enough observation about slapping a person who was on a cocktail of meds. How she was aware that he was coming down off of a random assortment of pills was beyond him, but such figuring was beyond his capacity for giving a crap right then. Without breaking stride, Hank responded with a matter-of-factly, "Nope! Not the best thing. Sure as hell is fun, though!" He predicated his words with an exaggerated shrug, but kept on his path to help out his friend.

As he neared both Wayne and the smallish group of dead things shambling at him, Hank called ahead, "On your six there, Nutjob. If you haven't, oh, killed yourself by the time I get there, I'm getting my shovel involved in the Dead Asshole meet-n-greet. Hmm?"

🦄 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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Vladimir looked upon his Circus counterpart, Constantin, and noted his sudden trouble with the movement of the boat. Inwardly, he even giggled a little. Not that it showed past the briefest of smiles, followed by a dismissive wave of his hand that seemed to impart something to the effect of "it's okay", or "don't worry about it". These things happened, right? Perhaps if he had practiced his Training with the Rusyn skill of Fal'shbort, he wouldn't have been almost waylaid by the movement of a vessel upon the water. It was just motion, really. Up and down, up and down, steadily with the sea level. Back and forth, back and forth, tilting and listing regularly as the waves found the hull. Up and down, back and forth; up and down, back and for... ah, borscht...

As much as he claimed to be a worldly man, and indeed he was, The Great Bazhooli was not overly accustomed to ocean travel. Neither was his stomach. But after his own judgemental, inward thoughts, he wasn't about to give Constantin the satisfaction of seeing him horf his innards out to the light of day. Not after his haughty condescension. Oh no. He gave a minor, "For excusing, da?" before standing and taking a single step toward the door. It was at this moment that he realized he was in trouble. The casual walk turned into a dead serious sprint to the upper deck, even as his Fishes and Chips promised immediate evacuation.

Vlad was able to make it out of his cabin's door. It flung wide and banged into the wall, revealing a very green Great Bazhooli. A dervished search located a fire bucket very nearby, which he scooped up as if it were a baby that needed saving from a rampaging horse. He could feel the masticated and gloopy former lunch making its way out, and damn fast, and took the nanosecond before it exited to look back upon one of his own philosophies. "Now, let us do the same trick... ON FIRE!!!" No, not that one. Okay, maybe that one later, but for now, "Everything; everything vith panache!" Yes, that was the one.

Rather than try to force the rising vomit down, Vladimir instead let his voice carry across the deck and open waters. What began as a single, held note resembling opera quickly degenerated into a sustained, gurgling yell projected by a strained face with bloodshot eyes as The Great Bazhooli scream-puked into the bucket he held before him. He serenaded the ship's crew with the song of his people, garbled to ruin by the rancid waterfall of used food flooding from his facial orifices, but doggedly maintaining as much volume as he could muster. While not epic, it was most assuredly notable.

When he was finally done, The Great Bazhooli held his arms wide and took a bow, dumped the contents of the bucket over the railing, and returned to his cabin with the stride of a conquering general. Then a hand poked back out and drug the bucket into the room. Just in case.

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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 (F8)
Skills: Audist, Athletics

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Blood ran from Mary's arm. It could have been worse, but to be injured this early in the fight was definitely not advantageous. Nothing vital, but it did hurry the necessity to end this fight quickly and decisively, with herself and Virginia alive and surrounded by the inert bodies of the Ryne which closed in around them. Sadly, she was taking too many missteps. Poor judgement, maybe. Not overconfidence; Mary was a woman with a degree of humility that demonstrated itself more often than her sense of pride. But for the life of her, she did not know why this one Ryne was giving her so much trouble.

"Fuerit Abominatio!₁" she hissed coldly, lunging once more with her halberd. The spike did not penetrate the flesh of the unclean, as the Ryne before her was able to avoid the sharpened, sanctified steel once again. It batted the haft to one side and stepped inward, hoping to catch more of Mary with a swipe of its claws, only to be denied by the grace of the fiery haired Venator. Mary crouched low and spun outward, the endcap of her weapon serving as counterbalance even as drops of her living blood made an irregular, but almost complete circle around her position. Her feet moved to a solid stance as she regarded the creature, looking for her opening to destroy it.

Translations

1 = "Abomination" or "Unclean Thing"

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Music Room
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

The man in the long-nosed mask had just identified himself as Master Plum through use of simple poetry. He had done so in response the Lord of the Manor, as well. This earned a cautioned eyebrow arch in his direction. It reinforced Dr. Swamp's first impression that he was a performer, though the continued use of lyrical meter suggested an imbalance. Or a game of some kind he was playing at for purposes all his own. Swamp gave a polite but silent nod of his head to follow, acknowledging the man's presence before turning his attention elsewhere.

"It is a lovely instrument." he spoke quietly to Amaranthine. He was unaware of exactly how his voice must seem, coming from behind the osseous, avian-esque mask he had chosen for the event. "I do very much enjoy music, when I have the time for it." And indeed, threat of looming expiration aside, the really only had time anymore. How much of it remained to be seen. Dr. Swamp rested his hands on his cane in front of himself and marveled in the fact that he was actually waiting with some anticipation the notes which were to follow.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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

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Well, it stood to reason that as soon as Reginald got comfortable, people began a minor exodus of sorts. Well, it all stood to reason, after a small spot of tea it was naturally time to ready for an evening meal. While Reginald did feel a bit peckish, all this running about without the coursing pitch of gunfire just seemed unnatural. But the departure of a number of persons from the table aside, Reginald could tell that what he thought was a mere auditory hallucination from earlier was, in fact, a piece of striking reality. He was aboard the ship. Why was beyond him, really. Perhaps, like the rest of them, he felt some preternatural pull and just didn't tell anyone about it.

Reginald stood briefly as may of the others excused themselves, as manners of the day suggested. He was interested in seeing his stateroom himself, though tea came first. It would not be proper to just leave a cup half finished. Besides, he very likely had business with one of his subordinates in a moment or two that needed to be handled directly. With composed calm, the Lord Major sat, sipping his tea with deliberation, waiting for the scene which would unfold next. He could almost feel the Corporal's presence as he neared the table. When the sound of boots scuffled to a stop behind him and he heard a sharp intake of breath, heralding an abrupt, affirming yell of some kind, Reginald cut him off with a measured, "If you yell, Corporal, I shall toss you bodily into the Nile. Now, report."

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Haring Reddish

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

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Having been denied a signature calling of "Lord MAJOR!!!", one might believe the man to be crestfallen. It showed in his features for just a moment before he snapped back to his usual British stiff-upper-lippedness, and began to address Reginald with a surprisingly even and cultured voice. "Indeed, sir. Cargo is secured, animals are boarded, and your personals have been delivered to your room as per order. Here," he handed over two of the papers in his hand, which Reginald accepted and reviewed, "are your papers; boarding, individual manifest, and room assignment. You've the Elite Deck, sir. Likewise, I've take the liberty of securing lodging one deck below to see to your requirements while on board, sadly propriety suggests that I not take quarters of equal standing as yourself. Sir."

"And what the devil do you mean by that, Corporal?" This from a mildly confused Reginald.

"The Letter of Assignment, sir. You named me as your valet, and did not rescind after the initial job was completed with the boat. I intend to perform my duties to their fullest, sir, and thank you for the honor of it, sir. Sir? Permission to thank you appropriately?"

"Denied, Corporal. In fact, as you have invited yourself along on this little expedition, I shall find use for you. But not on this boat; not now. I am off-duty until further notice, and so are you, Corporal. Understood?"

"Oh, indeed sir!" exclaimed the Corporal, brimming with happy just to be accepted into the group, even if he had to resort to trickery to do so. "Off duty, off duty... hmm." He didn't seem the type to fully comprehend the concept. Did this mean he had to switch out of uniform? Probably... Well, it was good that he brought a few civilian items.

Maintaining his measured patience, Reginald made the best of the situation. Here was another person who would follow orders, knew his way around a rifle, was in respectable physical condition, and could likely assist George in his role as bodyguard for Vera if necessary. "At ease, Corporal. Off duty, remember? Take a seat, see to your room, whatever. Maybe take a meal here in a while."

Reddish seemed a little out of sorts at first. Manners outside of military protocol were rusty, but he could use the opportunity to flex his social skills a little bit. Right at that moment, however, now that he was given permission to relax somewhat, he found himself looking over toward an oddly familiar lady. He couldn't quite place from where. A lovely face framed by blonde hair and adorned in a mock nautical themed dress in a charming color of almost-navy blue. Before he got caught staring at Josephine, he introduced himself, "Apologies, ma'am. Corporal Haring Reddish, at your service. If I may, that is the most lovely dress you have chosen for yourself this evening, ma'am. Spectacular, if I may be allowed to say." He even looked a little nervous. "Ma'am, have we met? You seem very familiar somehow."