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 constant state of nausea put Vladimir in a state of relative un-grace. Perhaps it would not be appropriate to say disgrace, being as that word has ulterior context, but to be fair, the general state of grace that the man possessed was lessened considerably by the rising flood of vomit that continually tried to make itself known in the same manner as a breaching narwhal. It was very fortunate then that the man who sat, head in hands, upon the bunk in a tidy cabin on an oceangoing vessel, was in possession of much more grace than the common, workaday man. Enough to add his own splash of panache to something as (once again) un-graceful as losing his most recent couple of meals across the sturdy wooden planks of the ship.

But that last thought did remind him: "Da, da... Constantin? Vatch step on your vay out. Footing is... ah, slippery." Vlad was thinking of the very recent incident wherein he puked across the deck just in front of their cabin's door. "Vill stay here, I am thinking. Get some rest vhile I can. Please letting me know if anything happens, da? Spasibo." With that, Vladimir rolled fully onto the bunk provided him by the master of the vessel and snapped his fingers. Ordinarily an action he would do when sleight-of-handing a sharp object into his grasp, this time it was done in minor celebration of the fact that, despite feeling worn out over the past couple of hours' gastric exertions, he no longer felt the immediate and pressing need to upchuck. Whether that held or not remained to be seen. For the moment, The Great Bazhooli decided that rest was the proper course of action.

🦄 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: N/A
Skills: N/A

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The Email was shocking, to say the least. Access granted by all parties involved thanks to the use of administrative password and upper level coding. This pointed to a betrayal. Otherwise, this was a hack job, but a previous one where certain information was lifted and the guilty parties waited until much later, until a key event occurred, to utilize it. What that key event might entail was beyond Caesar at that moment, though it wasn't as if there weren't several from which he could choose. Naturally, the horror of much of this could be explained much more simply: Though he had always trusted the people he brought in, it could exactly be betrayal. Even if it was brought about by means of solid blackmail or the like, it was still an act of betrayal. Someone very well might have violated his loyalty, which was already difficult as hell to come by but as firm as granite once acquired.

"Talk to me, John." Caesar's voice was calm and soft, while still retaining its gravelly, growling quality. And he had used a first name with his junior associate. This was new.

"Yeah, Boss?" Keystone sat forward. He recognized that something was different here.

"If someone turns on you. Sells you out, snitches, whatever... what should you do?"

"Depends, I suppose. Somethin's got to get done, and bloody-damn quick, at that. One bloke flips on ya, only time b'fore another does same."

"I know. But if this person has been good to you? Loyal? Forced to do it? What if it wasn't their idea. Something has to be done still. More than ever, I think. But not as far as it could go. Do you understand what I mean?" There was something he didn't want to say out loud.

"Riiiight." agreed Keystone cautiously, drawing out the syllable. Did the old man suspect something about him, or was this an old man with a real dilemma that needed a friendly ear? "You couldn't have nothin' to do with them for a long ways, I'd say. But if you got a party banjaxed by some fuckery or another, it'd be an act of mercy to give'em a way out. Stash them and theirs far away, taken care of, 'til all this sorts out, y'think?"

"You would do that? Really?" There was a rasp of disbelief in Caesar's tone. He leaned forward to give the giant Cockney a good eyeballing while waiting for a response.

"Nah. I'd beat 'em bloody and let the 'ospital sort out their particulars." he admitted. Continuing, "They live, I'd still flip a bloody coin. But begging your pardon, Boss? I ain't you. I never done what you did. You're a bloody fongin' legend, if you don't mind my sayin' so. I'm a bloke what hits people."

"What about you, Keystone? I know who your people are. We've been tracking your progress for a long time now, scouting you for our company. Other companies have too, or they should have been. I know what you did in China, too. All of it." Maybe that last part was an exaggeration, but he did know much. "You could have gone into legitimate prize fighting. MMA has become huge lately. And you were an amazing boxer before. You never tried. The money would have been better, faster. Why?"

"I, ah... hell you babblin' 'bout, old man?" He was flustered. This was not how he expected the conversation to go.

"It's because the money isn't the biggest thing for you, is it? It never was. That is why we hired you. Champion quality fighter, knocking in skulls on two continents just to learn more from the masters. That is dedication. That is a man who isn't bought. You accepted our offer because you wanted to learn more, didn't you?"

"Yeah... where're you getting off at with this?"

"My house is out of order, Keystone. You're as much Familia as you are Outsider, now. When the time comes, I need you to help me put my house back in order. Can you do that? For me, for M'hija? For your son?"

A gravely serious look came over Keystone. If Caesar was asking what he thought he was asking, this was massive. "I'm your man, Boss. You know that. Long as certain lines ain't crossed, I'm at your call."

"Si. Okay." It was good enough.

Caesar drafted an Email for Maria, restating the message first sent to him by the Justice P.D. concerning the names of the people responsible for Alicia's death, also reiterating that the Federal Agent, Marc, was reported as possibly still being alive. He further explained that he was not sure how the trip to Indiana was going to help with that in the least, but that he was still willing to give it a look, just in case. Further, until the incident with stolen vehicles was handled to his satisfaction, he was changing the codes and passkeys and making any high Administrative level decisions dependent upon the approval of two business officers of Department Director title or higher. Standard procedure for a compromised system. That should leave four people, including himself and Keystone, capable of approving these decisions in the Justice branch.

Further, he sent a message along to his ex-wife, stating in less obvious wording that if she was in a bind and needed extraction, blink twice. Or the sentiment thereof.

The Email to his new Tech team was mostly just the orders explained to Maria, but in more of an imperative tone. As in: "Do this". Further, he wanted an update on the thefts ASAP.

Meanwhile, Keystone got a touch of good news from a simple online search. In contrast to the very serious talk from before, he perked up a bit with, "Right! Got me that address on the bookstore you was askin' into... And a bloody biography on the lady what owns it." One name in the blurb about the lady stuck out: David Lawson. It sounded familiar somehow, though he could not place from where. "Ey, Boss? You know a David Lawson? Military bloke? Can't place the spot I know that name."

"Yeah, I do. He's dead. Recently. Lived in Boston Heights." These coincidences kept piling up. Here he just wished that he could grind this Tinder guy into paste and go about his life, too. Things were getting more complicated all the time.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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Location: Ville au Camp (Main House -> Kitchen House)
Skills: N/A

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The whole thing was too close in timing. Gilbert had his doubts. Not about Alicia's condition; much like the Carny Folk he was able to recognize an Ascension when it was described to him. How they knew was a matter he wished to discuss, and greatly. Despite the generally pleasant visage he presented to the world around him, Gilbert gripped the stock of his rifle tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. It then occurred to him that he was still armed. Well, he had the option of jogging back to the Mill and putting things away, or going to the Gate and putting address to his concerns about their knowledge of affairs he thought were limited to Emendators and Paradoxes. True, the voice in his head promised answers this evening, but if the safety of Ville au Camp or any of its residents was in question, he was obligated to act upon his concerns.

Exiting the Main House found him staring across the grounds. Through the trunks of slender trees and the parts of clear space that allowed view to the main road, he glimpsed the convoy of trucks belonging to the Carnival making their way down to the clearing across from the Kitchen House. That would put him even farther away from the Mill. So be it. There wasn't a law that said he couldn't carry firearms into his own Kitchen House, and if there was, there wasn't a soul that was going to try to stop him and even fewer that might succeed. So he was going to pack two lever-action rifles while venturing toward the Kitchen House. No problem. From inside, he could keep an eye on what the Carnival was up to and take care of some business for himself. Apparently, Emendators were not above peering through windows to spy on people.

Gilbert rounded the lot around the Kitchen House and moved to ascend the ramp. There was a decent amount of urgent work that required his attention right then, especially considering the time was advancing nearer to mid-morning. From the porch, Gilbert could see a total of three Paradoxes: Faith, Andromeda, and Sophia. It seemed that his pressing business might have to include them, too. Best to get them involved sooner rather than later. He called to them, "Ladies, if I may have your attention?" He gave a warm, inviting smile and held his arms out as if gathering the attention of a much larger group of people. The rifle in his hand, matching the one sheathed on his back, belied the inviting look on Gilbert's face. Nevertheless, he continued. "The Carnival will take a good while to set up. I believe we would just get in their way right now. In the meantime, I would like to invite you inside - we can keep an eye on them from there and stay out of their way. But more importantly..." Gilbert nodded back into the building, "I am making pecan pancakes. Maybe sausages. Come along." Gilbert stepped inside of the Kitchen House and set himself to finding a suitable frilly apron.

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Main House, Room 206 -> Room 209)
Skills: N/A

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Taken up. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. James wasn't sure if he bought it, but who was he to question the assessment of someone who had been alive (or aware of his life) since before recorded history? It just didn't sit right with him that Alicia went for over a year of additional training, only to let go of everything now. He didn't get it. Probably never would. Was this his own future, eventually? Sooner or later, would he have some change of mentality that would cause him to explode in a flash of light and leave a couple of his more personal items behind for others to mourn over? Or in this approximation of life, who would care enough to mourn in the first place? Alicia was the closest friend he had there. Who else might care if he lived or died? And WHY was he the one who lived again, when he was a damaged soul. Surely Alicia was so much more useful to the cause than himself.

James looked at the cameo in his hand. He had seen it on Alicia many times in life. He wasn't a firm believer in her faith or anything, but he clasped it around his own neck nonetheless. He picked back up the discarded picture that she had handed him earlier, just before the Ascension (or whatever it was supposed to be) and stuck it into the front pocket of his overalls. The former was something to keep with him. The latter was something to keep safe, tucked away in his room.

The heavy sigh that he let out seemed to creep into every part of the room in which he stood. James had seen this woman die once. It left an impression. This was different. He had already mourned her, Lord knew that he had. There was a brief period in this ...afterlife... or whatever it was, that he got to see her again. She took away some of his pain, if only part of what he felt for her.

"Aight there, Taco Belle," he said to an empty room, "If'n this is legit, and if you just takin' your leave for the next go around, that means I gots a damn good chance of seein' you again. Keep a eye out fo' me. Yo might not know it, but friends like us ain't gonna just leave it at this." James knelt and recovered her bottle of tequila, something she had promised they were going to share anyway. This was something he would sample for himself later while remembering his friend fondly.

James set his cowboy hat back upon his head and stepped out of the door. He would insist upon volunteering to help clear the room out when it was called for, but right then there was a sense of melancholic finality. He peered back into Alicia's room, tipped his hat, and spoke his last goodbyes. "Be seein' you, Miss Gonzalez. Promise." The door closed with a quiet clicking sound. It seemed to trigger a flash of silent tears from James. He loved that woman like a sister, and though he would never be family in the traditional sense, he was simply grateful to have been a part of her life. Two of them actually, however briefly.

With heavy footfalls, James turned away from the room and headed to his own on the same floor. He crossed over the porch and past Alexandra's room, stopping at his own just long enough to drop off the picture and bottle. There was still a week of "down time" and a mysterious carnival that had appeared. Closing the door to his room from the outside, James looked blankly toward the stairs leading down and out of the Main House.

"Now what?" he said aloud. It sounded equally sad and ominous.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Headland: E. Main Street, M7, Car (Passenger side back seat)
Skills: N/A

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Ash listened to the ramble of words that came from Jack. While he could not fully understand every word of what he was saying, like imagery in decent poetry, he caught the gist of the intent behind it. This was the culmination of everything Jack had hoped for over the past good, solid year. He had missed the birth of his child and the first few months of its life. While they were not things he could ever get back, the relief and gratitude had to be massive that he was with his family now.

The thought stopped him. Family. For the first time in a long time, he had made the distinction between family that was made through marriage and blood, and that which was forged over the past few years of struggling and horror and trust. There had to be some kind of separation now, however minuscule. Ash was a godfather now, but he would never know the connection that Jack had to this tiny human. Even if something horrible were to befall Tatiana and Jack both, Ash knew that he would care for this baby and raise him as best he could. Possibly even bond with him in a manner similar to the one Jack had come by naturally. Certainly fight and die for him if it was needed. He might never know what his friend felt right in this moment, though.

"Don't even worry about that, Jack." Ash kept pressing against his wound. It hurt like hell, but it didn't seem to be getting any worse right then. If Tatiana was correct, he'd be okay after a while. "You deserve some down time with your boy. I owe you an apology, actually." He had been hanging onto something for a while that needed to be said now, he figured. "Year ago, I told you that we would all meet up after one night. I got hopes up - not just yours. But you had the most to hope for, and I broke my promise every day that we didn't get to her. I'm sorry as hell, man. So sorry. It took long enough, Jack, and I'm glad it finally worked out. I just wish... ...it could have been sooner. I'll do whatever I can to help you and your family. I hope you know that."

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quincy (in house, C9 - C8)
Skills: Scavenging/Foraging, Survival

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"Nah, table's great there, Mugsy. Nice and... something." Thalia felt great. Not the kind of great that was birthed of a job well done, followed by a tall glass of mescal and those fried meat pies that they sold in roadside stands and/or the barbecued pork tamales that the Abuelitas used to make for her when she was a kid, back in Monterrey. Dama Muerte or Blood of Týr (either one would do), but she could go for some of those tamales right then. Instead what she had was an unopened can of SpaghettiOs and an open bottle of water. She glared at both of them, as if seeing them for the first time. A smile formed on her face. Well, it slid sleepily, through a drug-induced haze, anyway. But hey, she was feeling great!

And hot. Really hot. Like, roasting pan hot. Someone had put a blanket over her at some point and she really didn't remember owning the shirt she was wearing. In her mind, the best option that she had was to divest herself of both of them, and on the quick. Thalia was careful to push herself up to a seated position using her left hand. Part of this was because she didn't want to push the limits of the painkiller she was on. Part of this was because she only had the one hand. Funny how these things worked out.

Her plan took a detour when she realized that she felt like she hadn't had anything to drink for a couple of days. The bottle was very inviting. She couldn't just say no. It would be insulting to the bottle. And Alexander for putting it there. A dry tongue attempted to moisten equally dry lips as she brought the water close. That first sip was nigh orgasmic. Who knew water was so awesome, right? Not too much though. She was impaired, not stupid. A few good sips and back on the table with that bottle. She had more important things to attend to. Like that can of O's that Beatrice left sitting there. If she didn't want to share, fine. More canned pasta goodness for her. Oh my yes, Thalia would have all of the O's to herself. Every last o...

Annoyed amusement lanced through her brain. "Oh, well played, you bitch. Well played." muttered Thalia. At least she didn't call her sweetie. (Though now that she knew it bothered her, Thalia would likely stay away from it. Mostly.) She snatched up the can for a closer inspection that she really didn't have to give. Beatrice had left her a perfectly good can of unopened SpaghettiOs, but without the means to get at the orange-and-tan goodies inside. She had lost her multi-tool some time ago. Bea was proving to be a masterful opponent in the ongoing "O Wars", this time giving her the can outright and thusly elevating her desire to get at Dem O's, yet keeping them just out of reach. She was good. Oh yes. But Thalia would find a way. Can opener! There was a kitchen right over there where one might be located. She had to check.

But first, this shirt was chafing her tender bits and making her a lot hotter than she should be. Or maybe it wasn't, but she had no desire to take that chance. Sliding down from the table, Thalia plunked the can back down and made a harrowing, one-handed attempt to remove her shirt, completely forgetting that she no longer had her sports bra courtesy of the cutting necessary for that circular saw amputation. Before she realized her mistake, the t-shirt was already off and hanging over her right shoulder. "That's better... Ok bitches, it's can openah time." She stepped boldly toward the kitchen.

This was apparently the cue for one of her legs to explode into pins and needles that she could not compensate for due to her present level of chemical assistance. One foot slid forward while the other leg crumpled beneath her, depositing her upon her ass halfway to the kitchen island. "And still feeling okay!" she mused to her self. An absent glaze in her eyes, Thalia looked at the spot where her hand and half of her forearm used to be. She had mentally invoked the name of Tyr earlier. A Viking god that she now had a specific similarity to, and he was still written of as an utter badass. Now all she needed were Dwarves to craft her an arm suitable for adventuring. And help off the floor.

Yes, off the floor first. Dwarves later. Definitely. And why didn't she have a shirt on again? Today was confusing.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: C8 -> C7
Skills: Survival, Club/Blunt Weapons

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Hank wanted this to be over as soon as possible. If Wayne absolutely had to jump into every group of dead people he possibly could for motivations that only he could fully understand, great. As long as everyone came through it okay, he minded less than if the alternative reared its ugly head. So far, no one was bitten or ripped to shreds. And his traveling companion's guns had jammed. This was an opportunity to wrap the fight up, or very nearly so, without putting the crazy man in any more direct danger.

The pack he had grabbed out of the back of the truck was full of various things he would need for an extended walk through Asshole infested country. In a pitched melee it just slowed him down. Hank was careful not to drop his shovel as he unslung the backpack and let it fall to the cracked blacktop below. He liked his shovel. Multi-functional, rustic, useful. And there was really something about working with his hands that he could appreciate on a base, masculine level. With his load considerably lighter, Hank let Wayne know his intentions, so he wouldn't get offered a machete to his face on the way past. "Hold fire there, Sarge. Coming through, inside flank."

Holding his shovel like a soldier would a rifle with fixed bayonet, he jogged past his friend. There were two of them left in the immediate vicinity; one in front of the Roman guy, and one coming within landscapers' tool reach. As he neared the corpse staggering at them, the grizzled and surly man altered his hold on his digging implement, the blade of the tool now thrust fully out in front of him like a broad bladed lance. "Keep smiling, hagbitch." he taunted the dead person, its skin pulled back to show the rictus grin of death upon it. "Shovel Knight to the rescue." He instantly regretted saying those words out loud. A twang of emotional pain showed across his face which he immediately buried beneath enough rage to murder a baby seal outright. Hank planted the shovel in the dead thing's neck and shoved forward, letting the combined force of the blow and his forward momentum remove the head altogether. The body dropped, but the head still snarled impotently at him from its new home on the road. Another bash solved that little dilemma.

He stopped. "So, we done here yet? I'd like to find someplace before it gets dark."

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Gaming Room
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 4
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Swamp held his hand out in front of him as if they were a set of scales, and he was tangibly considering options available to him. The question from the Chanteuse seemed a little confusing at first, albeit one that was readily puzzled out. His eyes darted to the cards, where he had placed them back on the table. He shook his head. It was just a minor twitch of his neck that would barely register under normal circumstances, but with the avian-looking mask on the motion was somewhat exaggerated, due mostly to the changing position of the tip of the beak. In truth, it was probably a bit awkward.

Judging by the expression on her face and the fact that she was already opening her instrument's case, Dr. Swamp went with the assumption that his Gaming Room companion had already made her decision as to the route she wanted to take. "Only if you wish to play, yourself." he assured her. "Preferably without interruption from others." He glanced toward the door, then peered a little harder, hoping to find some kind of locking mechanism. A couple of tentative, cane-assisted steps nearer to it, and he had to admit to himself that he couldn't locate anything of the sort. "Hmm... Aha!" he exclaimed, grabbing the back of one of the chairs around the table near him and sliding it alongside, half using it to balance himself in place of his walking stick. As Dr. Swamp came to the door, he turned the chair about and used it as a brace underneath the knob of the closed door.

Fearing that the action might be intended as a prelude to something ungentlemanly, Dr. Swamp took the opportunity to walk farther away from the door than was Amaranthine and sat at the table on the other side of the room. The distance, he figured, coupled with his own less-than-stellar demonstration of personal mobility, would likely give the Chanteuse ample time to flee the room if she felt the need. He rested his stick on the table in front of him and said aloud, "That should give some measure of privacy. If it is your desire to play, please do. I would feel obliged."

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Joyous Corridor -> Gaming Room
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 4
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One of Swamp's eyebrows arched as the Chanteuse placed an arm upon his shoulder and quickly left to explore another, nearby room. The choice of words she used and the manner in which they were spoken, unless Dr. Swamp missed his guess, could have very well been an unspoken invitation to join her. If it was not, and he missed his guess, then denying her the space that she attempted to gain for herself just earlier would have an overall effect that was the opposite of his present motivation. Sometimes, to get closer to someone one must first give space. The only thing that prevented him from doing just that was the intentional physical contact that she made with him. Or perhaps it was his excuse. Whatever way it lay, Dr. Swamp entered the room behind Amaranthine and gave it a quick look around.

It was at this point that a bell sounded across the manor. Dr. Swamp heard it readily, turning his head in the direction that he thought was the noise's origin. It rang two more times, one of those times resulting in another movement of his mask to point toward the door. Did he hear it echo from another room, as well? And were it a phenomenon that carried across the whole of the building, then would it not indicate something that affected the household, or called to attention a specific task to be performed? The realization struck him almost immediately. "Of course, a doorbell. How grand."

The good doctor moved to inspect one of the decks of cards at the nearest table, which by coincidence happened to be the one nearest Amaranthine as well. "Do you play, madame? I am no great gambler myself, so far as the cards are concerned. But I do enjoy learning new things."

🦄 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 foul and noxious demon of motion sickness came rolling back into the eyes and midsection of the fabled circus performer known to mortal men as The Great Bazhooli. It was with a certain lack of dignity that he, from within his cabin, searched frantically for someplace to unload what remained of the British street food from his stomach. He attempted to open the small, circular window, unaware of the proper application of the latch. Perhaps it was something to give greater attention to at a later time, but today, now, right at this moment, he had more a more pressing issue at hand.

Finally, he came to realize that he could not keep the partially liquefied food down any longer. And by "finally", he came to this worldly and sage conclusion about six or so seconds after the most recent onset of esophageal expulsion threatened to take place. It was a sad state to see a man so venerated laid low by the same common affliction that affected everyone else. Soon he might even be accused of snoring and taking to the horse races, rather than snoring and participating in the horse races. With merited consideration, Vladimir took what option he had available to him: He threw open the door to the cabin and let fly his vomitous barrage upon the deck. It splattered unceremoniously in a line starting a foot or two from the cabin door and reached outward, mostly straight but allowing for some minor variation due to the pitch and yaw of the sailcraft.

As if expecting applause, Vladimir extended his arms to either side and bowed, closed the door back shut, and looked to Constantin. "Bozhe moi... Maybe, maybe ve share bucket somehow, da? Middle of floor? Roshambos, for maybe?"

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{“And I heard a voice from heaven saying, “Write this: Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.”” -Revelation 14:13}

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Location: Carlisle (F8)
Skills: Audist

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Prayer was not in within the will of the dice, nor was it the decision of God Almighty to allow for the proper time to effect words of supplication in combat. Quite the opposite, as it turned from a sudden victory over the forces of darkness and atrophy into a sudden reversal of fortune. The bright spot where luck met with skill, resulting in a clean and smooth continuation of this pitched battle to the favor of the living, was quenched in an instant. Mary knew this lesson better than most; it only takes an instant for things to go horribly wrong.

Mary's grip upon her halberd was not ideal, following the skilled but desperate maneuver she had just executed. Her address to the Ryne, the invocation of the Trinity, was perhaps premature, as was her immediate attempt to hurl her weapon into the body of the Soulless a number of meters away. By the time she had extended her arm to release the godly instrument of His wrath into its target, the Ryne had somehow crossed the total distance from where it once stood, to where Mary was. Strong hands batted the halberd away from Mary's grasp, and before it even hit the ground the thing was upon her, ripping and tearing at her flesh in a manner that meant only one thing: Dame Commander Hale's life had but a moment remaining.

She could not even cry out. The damage done to her throat did not permit it. There were only a few short, gurgling seconds remaining before Mary would meet her God and make an accounting of her decisions in life. Right at that second, the only regret that she had was that she was leaving her friend to handle this task by herself. The light began to leave her eyes and she slumped to the ground. This was the price of her profession. That was all.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck -> Personal Stateroom -> Elite Deck Dining Area)
Skills: N/A

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Reginald seemed in good spirits as he toddled along, up the stairs and past the guardian thereof, tipping his cap and the like. He was just enthused to be along on this adventure. It had been quite a long time since the old man had found decent excuse to leave the Barracks, let alone Cairo, in quite some time. And here was a ready-made Quest just begging to be taken; were it a dog begging as hard he would have already swatted it with a newspaper. The Lord Major loved Cairo, make no mistake. It was a second home for him, foreign though the city was, to his own native Brighton. He had just hoped for one more piece of action, hopefully his last in the most direct, terminal manner possible. The thought made him positively giddy.

The domestic sentry at the next staircase made a similar request to the first, which Reginald was happy to oblige yet again. Considering that he was a man of some age, dressed smartly in formal British Military uniform and with his rank insignia (and crest of nobility) clearly showing, it was barely necessary to show his paperwork. Barely, but necessary nonetheless. A smile, a nod, and gracious bow later, and Reginald was on his way again. He looked around for just a bit, getting his bearings - The Lord Major was a man of the Royal Army's Royal Flying Corps, suitable for ground sorties and probably more familiar with being in the air than anyone else on the planet, but the occasional foray into watercraft still occasionally left him mystified. Luckily, it was a mere moment of confusion before he had located his stateroom and began a very momentary settling in.

For Reginald, that meant splashing water on his face, changing into his khaki field uniform, and pouring himself a quick two fingers of whisky. He draped a grey burnoose about himself, affixed a tie around his collar, and made sure that his sword, pistol, and cap were all straight and orderly. He threw back his drink and, emboldened by its earthy notes and abrupt alcohol content, set himself to join the others.

Imagine his surprise when only one from his group had gathered to dine on the Elite Deck.

It was Lauren. Reginald located his assigned seat at the table and settled in. Before addressing his *one* dining companion, he glanced about to make absolutely sure that no one else familiar was walking in their general direction. Being as Reginald was not privy to the conversation that brought everyone else to the Second Deck, he was ever so slightly concerned that everyone rooming on the Elite Deck was going to be late for the amuse-gueule. "Good evening, Miss Ridgeway. I daresay the table is a touch sparse. Else the soiree has moved elsewhere and we have not received invitation. Nevertheless, if your American upbringing has not exposed you to haute dining, I would be happy to serve as guide should questions arise." He intended no insult by the phrasing, but it did have the assumption that Americans were not ordinarily exposed to such things. "Classic dining of this nature usually starts with a tidbit of some sort; a bite or two that shows the Chef's flair, paired with an accompanying wine. But how is your evening so far?"

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Haring Reddish

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

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The initial shock of realizing to whom Corporal Reddish was speaking gave way to a sense of odd wonder. Truly it was an interesting world wherein someone of her background would find their way into a British Military barracks, let alone on board a Nile riverboat with himself. The feeling was compounded by the fact that she had just invited him to dinner. The expression on his face might have indicated that he was going to immediately pen a letter back home about the incident the moment he had the chance. However, being as he was a non-commissioned officer in the Royal Armed Forces and still representing this with distinction, he put on what might be considered a demeanor of social propriety.

"Oh, absolutely Miss Clark, it would be an honor to join your for supper. Why, were I not under respectful employ of the Lord MAJ <ahem> the Lord Major's necessities, I would consider it an honor just to attend to your service, if you take my meaning, ma'am!" He seemed to be repressing a fair amount of animation as he spoke. "Let alone take a meal alongside your magnificence. Please forgive me, ma'am - I gush. It's unflattering. Very sorry."

He offered his arm to Josephine, continuing, "Being truthful, I had strongly considered retiring to my room to change into something more Civilian-y, ma'am, but it would be a slight against gentlemen everywhere if I did not offer proper escort. Some ne'er-do-well might think twice about giving you grief if you're seen with an armed member of the Royal Army, I'd lay bets!" Haring seemed a little starry-eyed right then, but still bright and observant of the world around him as he accompanied Josephine to the dining area.

"Oh Miss Clark, purely curiosity, but did you get to keep that iconic antebellum dress from your American Civil War picture? I thought you looked so lovely in it."

🦄 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: N/A
Skills: N/A

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Caesar smiled upon completing the Email from Maria. She certainly had a way about her, all formal and proper, but capping off her point in a manner that spoke to her origins. "Fuck them, deal with this shit first." Yup, that was the plan. Despite the abruptness of Caesar's own Email back to the Justice P.D., he was mentally perusing his legal options in his head. It had to be passed by Legal, of course, but a few of the points Maria brought up echoed his own thoughts on the matter. Corrupt or not, they had to maintain the illusion of respectability to forces outside of their influence. The result might just be that the entire house of cards fall down. Ergo, certain legalities and/or rights had to be addressed. At least on the surface.

Meanwhile, the Tech Team had uncovered something interesting, albeit not exactly what Caesar was looking for: Another murder, this one a Grimm, IN native (and Riley's sister, how coincidental) named Chloe. "Keystone... Superstar's already on scene." he rasped rather absently, still reading the information sent to him. "Along with two cops. I met one a while ago... Roy Gregory?"

"Yah, I heard o' that one." remarked Keystone. He was apparently a friend of the Coroner, he remembered the name from a conversation over Italian food with Cecily. "Don't know a bloody thing about 'im, though." It was true enough. Hearing a name in passing did not transmit otherwise undisclosed information about the guy, except that she trusted him.

"Never heard of the other. Detective Priya Khurana?" Caesar looked over to his junior partner hopefully. Maybe he heard something. Instead of anything useful, Keystone just shrugged and gave a an exaggerated look of bewilderment. He didn't have a clue, either. "I have Riley's number in Justice. And her parent's number in Grimm. Nothing direct. I am going to get an address on that bookstore. What do you have?"

Keystone heard every word that Caesar had said, but he was too busy looking at his own screen with barely restrained anger to respond immediately. "Sod me bloody buckfuttin' sideways!" he roared, considering the ramifications of putting his device through a window. "We're a Security Bacondamned Company, yeah? Well, we suck the cover offa golfball at being bloody secure. Serious. We need to pull up stakes and leave Justice far fongin' arseways. I'm done with this indelicate bearshite."

"ENGLISH." growled Caesar, "Or Spanish. Pick one. What happened now?"

Keystone took in a deep breath and exhaled, trying to calm himself. "Right. Despite patrols, personnel, cameras, bloody secured facilities, locks, and the tightening of ALL THOSE THINGS after the MURDERS what took place under the same 'secure conditions', regardless of the additional manpower present, an' completely ignoring the additional protocols put into place; the arrival of the new tech team overseeing the facility and your niece who's s'posed to be some smartbitch bloody savant, not to mention your hardass ex-wife keeping things in proper order, also mentionin' the truck-punchin' London East Enders I brought in personal to keep things solid on the ground, YET ANOTHER FELONY was just perped against our location. Motor Pool has been ransacked. Several of our company cars stolen. Wasn't most of them rebuilt older model muscle vehicles, what Alicia worked up? They gotta be distinct for an All Points, yeah?"

Caesar was highly unamused. "Yes. Like every precaution we took was pointless." His face was grave.

"EXACTLY. No bloody point in doin' a damn thing extra if it ain't doin' a sliver of 'elp, is it? Might as well let the staff go an' drop contract. I'm sick an' bloody tired of it all."

"I am, too. The second the right people are dead, we're done. At this point, we're losing money hand over fist, our reputation is in the toilet, and doing a disservice to our client. You're the Associate Director. Handle this latest mierda de toro above board, and get ready to cut our losses. Um, inform the cops, get a list... something."

"Yeah Boss. On that." Keystone prepped a short and decisive Email back to whomever was manning the system, in indeed anyone was at all, with instructions to file a police report and make sure that a full report got into his inbox ASAP. He wanted to know for himself which vehicles were missing.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert & James

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Location: Ville au Camp (Main House -> Room 206)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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Too much was happening too fast. Change, ironically, was the only constant in the life of an Emendator, and today was an example of a whole lot of it coming down upon them at once. Evelina, the Paradoxes, the Carney Folk showing up, and now Alicia. Gilbert had an idea as to what the situation was with the young woman, but he wanted to see the scene just to make sure, with his own eyes. Additionally, it might give him an opportunity to divest himself of some of this hardware before rejoining the people near the Carnival. Unless, of course, the situation is less stable than he figured.

James was also feeling the pressure, though the reasons for it were more personal. If something bad had happened to Alicia, then this would make it the second time that he had lost his friend - the same friend - right in front of him. This time was surprising. The first time, the one in his original timeline, was bloody. It was an awful way to go. She was torn and chewed to death by an army of animated corpses while he was powerless to even ease her passing by putting a bullet in her skull. Then again, if she had just manifested some new ability, that would be just fine.

The pair entered the eastern passage of the Plantation House, Gilbert followed by James, and immediately hit the stairs. The tromping sounds of two pair of boots drummed irregularly upon the wooden steps, becoming more hurried the closer they came to the top. There was the slightest pause as they came to the door, still slightly ajar from earlier. "I'll go in first, if you like." Gil didn't really wait around for an answer, quietly slipping inside the giving the place a look. This was remarkably fine with James. He recalled some book or another that warned against meddling in the affairs of wizards. Or in this instance, discretion was the better part of valor. Both seemed to fit in their own strange ways. For a moment as Gilbert did his thing in the room, James envisioned him bedecked in a pointed hat an crappy blue robes with wide star and moon patterns, suitable for third-rate Shakespearean butchery. Maybe it was his subconscious making a joke to diffuse a tense situation, or maybe James was just a little cracked.

"It is safe. You may come in." The sound of Gilbert's voice was surprising. Sorrowful, with a twinge of hope. James said nothing, but came inside the room. He saw Gilbert, still holding the rifle from earlier, but also Alicia's pendant of Santa Muerte. He looked at it for a while before holding it out to James.

"Alicia..." began Gilbert, unsure of how to explain this to so young of a Paradox, "...she has gone where I cannot follow. She has been taken up."

The look of confusion was apparent upon the face of the hogshifting blackneck. "You gonna have to try that one again, okay?" said James, choosing to use his words slowly and decisively.

"She has been taken up. Moved on. Found peace, in her own way. If I am correct, Alicia has moved on to true rest from the tedium of the living world. It happens with Paradoxes. She may have accepted something core about herself, or performed a service that put her at peace. Or she merely let go. I can see much of what happens in the world; the actions of humanity. But I cannot look into the mind and soul of another. Her reasons are her own. She is gone, James. Free."

Numbly, James took the pendant. Santa Muerte. The Mexican folk saint of Death. His head hung low. "They named the baby after me, Mr. Hat, sir. But you know, 'cause you know damn near ever'thang. Imma say it anyway. Last thing she done, give me a picture of the baby, tell me his name. They named him after me. Now she gone again. I dunno what to say."

"Do you need a minute?"

"Yeah, uh huh."

"We will talk later. I am returning to the Gate to see why these people were able to recognize an Ascension by secondhand description. James? This happened because she allowed it to. On some level, she needed this. It really is okay. We will miss her." Unless he was wrong, of course. The timing was very close to other unexpected events. For now, Gilbert kept his opinion to himself and quietly left the room. James remained, giving thought to his departed friend.