Sigil

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Headland: E. Main Street, A4, Car (Passenger side back seat)
Skills: N/A

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It could be said that Ash wasn't fully satisfied with the plan. Then again, it could also be said that he was shot and, while not entirely useless, he was not remotely at his best game. Hence, his satisfaction would have to take a backseat to Tatiana's ploy for revenge. Again, the thought crossed his mind that revenge was generally a double edged sword, the darker half of what people considered honor, and overall a waste of resources that could best be used to keep them alive. An unnecessary risk. But seeing as how her bloodlust had a possible ending that netted them shelter and supplies, that made it almost goddamned pragmatic.

Ash made regarded the pistols that Tati handed over earlier. The woman wasn't just a Prima Ballerina anymore. He chose to hang onto the one closest to milspec - not his near beloved Detonics modular personal sidearm system, but near enough that he was highly familiar with its use. If it was in sound condition and fired straight, he should hand no problem using it one-handed. One handed weapons would be the order of the day, until he had time to convalesce a while. He jammed the extra mag into his back pocket and readied for the weapon's rapid use, if necessary. The additional pistol was set aside for Jack, who was in better shape for a firefight anyway were it to come to it.

This moment seemed a good one for keeping quiet as the impromptu strike team prepared to clear an inhabited area. Nothing he hadn't done himself, in the not-too-distant past, and he knew that there were some instances that, in order to be a proper leader, one had to step back and let the team do what they knew how to do. He refrained from speech almost entirely until Tati's Raiders had begun to move on their target. Then he looked over to his friend, left behind with him. "Jesus, Jack... A diaper? I don't know either. I got a degree in Military Engineering, which pretty much means Civil and Combat Engineering mixed with a whole lot of improvised work. I've put up bridges in jungles, built fortifications in deserts, set up whole goddamn irrigation systems and potable water transport relays, wells, walls, fully stripped government issue vehicles and stuck them back together and a hell of a lot more, some of it while taking enemy fire. But neither the wise people in the United States Army Corps of Engineers, nor the knowledgeable men and women at the Virginia Military Institute prepared me for that kind of pressure. Diapers, man. That's heavy."

He joked, but a crying child out in the middle of this was no laughing matter. This was actually very important. "Okay okay, we can handle this. We can do this. I don't want to bleed all over your boy, so here's my idea: If she's packing disposables, there should be directions on the packaging. I'll keep an eye out and talk you through it, you grit your teeth and focus on little James. If you've got a better idea, I am fully open to suggestions."

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quincy (in house, C9 -> B6 -> Back to C9)
Skills: N/A

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Thalia blew that damned comma of hair back off of her face with a sputter. She really preferred her hair short. Shorter than t was right then, anyway. The problem with an Apocalypse was, among other things, that she couldn't just hit a hairdresser and get her pixie bob cut restyled and trimmed up to her specifications. It was an easy one to pull off, though the people she'd let near her with a pair of scissors anymore could be counted on her one remaining hand. But anyway, Beatrice was being nice. Ish. For her, anyway. Manny was being condescending. Grateful as Thalia was for saving her life (in the most painful way imaginable), the crack about the sucker narrowed her eyes and earned him a look that, for anyone who knew her family from Before, looked startlingly like her uncle, Casear, albeit in a younger, feminine package. "Dama Muerte nos sonríe a todos."₁ she spoke simply, her voice dropping a bit in pitch. "¿Puedes devolverle la sonrisa?"₂ Then that damned lock of hair drooped in front of her eye again, causing her to blow it back up inexpertly and begin to laugh at herself.

Her eyes went back over to Beatrice. Her expression became somber once again, but she nodded her head in agreement. The stump that ended her right arm was raised up, about on level with her chin so that it could be clearly seen by the stern woman. Her voice serious, she responded, "That's a thumbs-up. It's just really hard to tell now." Thalia kept nodding as she spoke, but now it was punctuated by an eerie grin. Naturally, the moment that Beatrice stepped away from the table, the headstrong young mestiza hopped back down from the table and entered the kitchen, her steps suddenly more sure.

The direct path led her to a pull-out drawer near the rangetop that oddly had precisely the items she needed, one of which being a functional can opener. You'd have thought she just pulled off a great jewel heist, noting the way she suddenly wore a look of genuine accomplishment. She slipped back out of the kitchen, to the table that served as her operating table/resting spot, and jammed the can between her thighs while her feet swung off of the side. Using a can opener was no small task for a recently handicapped woman, but somehow, inexplicably, Thalia was able to maneuver the device in such a way as to cleanly remove the top from the precious can of O's.

It was everything she remembered that it was and occasionally even dreamed about.

A few glorious bites in, Thalia began to realize that there was still a shirt difficulty that had to be remedied. That, and her skin was paler than she remembered. Her Latina background and European facial features often had her confused for a woman of Greek or Sicilian descent, but the way she looked now she could very near pass for a Scot, like her mother. Had she lost that much blood? And was that the reason the drugs were kicking her ass recently? The thought slammed into her, despite the flagging medication making things interesting, that she needed to keep still and warm. "Yeah. Yeah, you win. Staying put." she said to no one in particular.

The newfound paleness of her features served to highlight her scars with more contrast, a thing that Thalia noted with some interest. The older ones caught her attention first; the ones that she acquired back when functional electricity and grocery stores were commonplace. Slash marks across her side that she knew curved up part of her lower back. She could still feel the blade digging in, be it years later, the memory of it strong. Setting her spoon back into the can, Thalia's hand drifted up her torso to come to rest at a scar below her collarbone. It was from a bullet - deceptively small for the trouble it caused her. Such was life back then for her, and it was still less dangerous than life recently. Or more convenient, at least. The other scars were brighter, more recent. The flesh wounds she took attacking Eden. Minor accidents and misadventures along the way. She was a marked woman, like everyone else around her. Years of fighting for your life left marks that lasted forever, and there was no escaping that fact. Still, she felt a little self-conscious. The pale, one-handed Angel of Death drew the blanket that still lay upon the table around her, careful not to spill her can of precious, precious SpaghettiOs.

Translations

1 = (Our Lady of) Death smiles at us all.
2 = Can you smile back?

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: C7 -> C6
Skills: N/A

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Hank took a knee and scanned the area around him. No sounds so far of more Shambling Assholes, which was good. No pressing smell of decay caught in the wind and low to the ground, though that was a more difficult thing to tell in a swamp than in a piece of farmland, say. Likewise, no movement that he could immediately tell as not being part of nature around him. It didn't mean that there wasn't an issue lurking around the corner, but he did feel somewhat more safe to proceed.

He nodded grimly at the news that Robert was indeed gone. He had just met the man, but as annoying as he was, the guy was still a living, breathing man. Every one counted these days. Okay check that, almost every one counted. Something about a total lack of oversight coupled with a brutal survival scenario brought out the worst in some people. If you got enough of those in a group, the sentiment got a lot worse, in Hank's experience. When Erica responded in the negative to Wayne's concerns about being outspokenly religious, Hank just had to pipe up. "Got that right, sister. God is a kid with a magnifying glass and we're all just ants to sizzle and pop for His amusement. Anyway, name's Hank if I didn't say anything before. Lead the way."

The others seemed to want to get chummy, which was not on Hank's agenda. They just met. Killing Assholes together wasn't the bonding experience that most people might find it. To Hank, it was something you did to keep yourself alive. He wasn't going to immediately trust someone just because they were pulling air into their lungs or trying to feed themselves, which was just about the same thing in his book, these days. Living versus Dead. But also, Living versus Living. He'd just like to remain a neutral third party for the moment. The girl knew about a fishing camp? Great. They weren't trying to kill each other and that was enough for him. He didn't rule out the possibility that it might change at any minute. The grizzled and cynical former Sheriff hefted his shovel, made sure his shirt was tucked behind his pistol for ease of reach, and started back on the path. "Hey there, Sportacus? You might want to roll your friend off the road. Or not. I'm not planning on going back that way. Ever."

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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

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The initial grab for one of Gilbert's students was met with a guttural instinct to hurtle himself over the railing and dislodge the newcomer from Andromeda. From his vantage, he could tell two things - the grip was not forceful, and something less obvious was occurring. Were it a painful or otherwise negative, Andromeda looked to be able to remove herself, were she willing. But in truth, The Hat was not absolutely certain what was happening, except that it was not immediately harmful. If anything, it looked like a variant of a Paradox ability; one with which he was very familiar and in fact possessed by a Paradox residing in Ville au Camp at the present.

Gilbert's eyes narrowed a bit at the young man's seeming indifference to what he had just done. Though he offered little in the way of explanation, the act itself said much to the seasoned immortal. He already knew that these people were not the standard, cut-and-dry carnival types. Not all of them, in any case. The psychic pull that he felt from within their ranks was proof enough of that. Some minor demonstration was inevitable. What Gilbert did not like about it was the disruptive nature of it to better establish the rules in what was beginning to seem like a chess match. That was for Emendators.

He remembered thinking about the numbers involved. Were they not invited by then Emendators' informal leader, Evelina, Gilbert likely would not have been as welcoming. Tactically, this scenario was not favorable were it to come to opposition. But that was just the way that his mind functioned, even as his face radiated friendship and involvement. Perhaps this was why he chose to give the boy a friendly nod while others reacted in more open ways. Especially Faith.

"Miss Masters?" he began, a touch of professorial authority in his voice, "What is happening is breakfast. Pecan and chocolate chip pancakes. I would appreciate it if you would help me." He understood her concern. It was a natural reaction, if a bit immature by his standards. Then again, his standards of maturity were impossibly high, considering things. Nonetheless, he gave her a knowing nod and waved her toward him. Some conversations should be kept between Emendators and Paradoxes, and preferably over a mixing bowl.

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James Grady

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

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This wasn't exactly what James had been hoping to see, as he neared the Kicthen House. The guy from the Carnival was there, who was getting looked over by Gilbert, viewed wistfully by Andromeda, and yelled at by Faith. Or was she yelling at Gilbert? It was hard to say without a little background on the situation. How he envied the Emendator's trick of being able to zero in on events within human history. It might have been useful here. But no, he was thankful for the gifts that he acquired since being dead. Not as flashy nor useful as some, although the ebon wereboar was fairly certain that fate put his gifts as they were for a reason. Andthey were pretty cool, actually. Hogwild. It had a ring to it. Maybe hyphenated, or two separate words entirely. Well, he'd get back to his new superhero name after a while. For now, he came for breakfast and to talk to the people in charge.

"Hey hey... Anybody gonna answer fo' that bigassed patch of dead grass, huh?" he remarked, looking around at the faces present. He could tell that something was definitely going on as he walked up, and so attempted some levity to change the mood. Ask the questions pertinent to the situation when not in mixed company. "Well, we just get someone to seed that later. Probably me... but anyways! Mornin', Miss Andy. Miss Faith. And mornin', Miss Sophia! You all lookin' fine this day. Maybe one of y'all can fill me in on what was just goin' down. First, I'm hungry. We can give it a talk over bacon." He turned to Gilbert, calling out, "Yo Gil, my man, we gots that good Bacon, right? ...wait, that seems kinda unsettlin'..." Considering that he now changed bodily into a rugged, porcine form, it might just. But not enough to keep that man from his BACON.

Absently, James fondled the Santa Muerte pendant around his neck. That wound was still fresh, but he was going to push beyond it right now, until he had better answers. "Naw, fuck all that. Brang on th' SWINE." Giving his last utterance consideration, that might make an excellent battle cry for him. "Brang on th' SWINE", indeed.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Gaming Room
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
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This evening was indeed an evening to weigh options. The first such option had to wait for a moment as Chanteuse Amaranthine let ordered, talented notes fly from her instrument. The skill involved with the performance was beyond skill, and the emotion that the artist concentrated into it was phenomenal. Dr. Swamp could not help but move his hands with the music. No grand, sweeping gestures, as if he were conducting an imaginary symphony, but smallish, relatively tame movements that indicated a high degree of personal enjoyment coupled with a passing familiarity with the actual piece of music. As it came to a close, Swamp murmured a quiet, "Hmm." It was wistful and just a touch sorrowful at the music's end.

The option presented now was tougher than it appeared at first glance. The initial instinct upon arrival to this place, to inspect and deduce as much as he could concerning the situation that weighed him down so, had taken a savage beating by the news that the lot of them were unwelcome visitors. The instinct was further shadowed, albeit much more positively so, by the presence and talent of the Chanteuse. Given as this was likely the only opportunity that he would have to keep her attention and have a private showing of her abilities as a performer, before pressing business or intrusion from fellow music lovers spoil the moment, Dr. Swamp allowed for another indulgence.

"I would say that I am now in your debt. Anything I might scribble onto a pad or set to canvas is a poor equal. If the spirit is with you, I would listen to more of your art with gratitude. Afterward, I would hope you might join me in pursuing the mystery of our presence here."

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck Dining Area)
Skills: N/A

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As the meal progressed Reginald took some comfort in the fact that Lauren had not called him out for his proclivities toward naming the various place settings and bits of flatware. It was his own attempt at grandfatherly instruction, coupled with an occasionally unattractive sense of haughtiness that was fairly common among those of his social strata. Nonetheless, he almost could not help himself as he rattled off the occasional off bit of trivia or point of etiquette, such as, "No no, that item is generally broken open first," or "Yes, that dab of reduction on the plate is supposed to be the accompanying sauce. I know, it is French, you see, Makes no sense to me either, but there we are."

There was another point of etiquette that the younger lady had addressed that Reginald felt the need to address, as well. "Madame, you will have to forgive me my formalities, I am afraid. It it simply the manner in which I was brought up, and I am quite a man sedentary in my ways. If you would prefer it, I will call you Lauren in times we are among ourselves, but to address you as anything but Mrs. Ridgeway in mixed company has certain implications. I do not wish to bring insult nor dishonor to yourself. Perhaps I am a bit old-fashioned, but the people in charge of this land are as well, for the most part."

As dessert came, a welcome bit of sweetness as opposed to the palate cleansers stacked between layers of savory that they had been brought over the course of their meal, Reginald addressed the service staff: "Hmm, yes. That does look lovely. I shall have that one... and that one." And then his dining companion."Right then! To answer your question, madame, I have been with the Royal Army since I was barely a man. There were two options for someone in my position, you see: Become a local Lord and make one's self beholden to the fickleness of society, politic, etc., or increase the honor of one's family by accepting a commission in the Royal Military. I am biased, mind you." He took a small bite from his colorful, sugary (almost) last course, and after a pleasant expression, continued, "I've always had a profound mechanical inclination and thirst for adventure. It helped significantly as myself and a handful of like minded nutters helped to build the Royal Army Flying Corps, you see. Of course back then, it was all dirigibles and modified weather balloons..." He obviously had more to say, but his attention was waylaid by the approach of another waiter.

"My good sir, if you would please? We have a friend who is feeling poorly and could not join us this fine evening. Would it be possible to have something wrapped up picnic style to take back to him? I believe that the honored gentleman has dining restrictions pertaining to the Indian Subcontinent." Depending upon the level of understanding, Reginald stood ready to repeat his query in the native Arabic.

"Well then, Mrs. Ridgeway, a bit of coffee and that should conclude our meal properly. There are many occasions that I prefer a good roast and some spirits, but every so often the allure of fine dining suits me. Perhaps I find satisfaction in being waited upon. Eh, who's to say, indeed."

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Haring Reddish

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

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Despite a standoffish beginning to dinner conversation, Corporal Reddish was pleased to note that others were attempting to engage him in pleasant conversation. While he did not wish to overshadow the lady who had invited him along to the equivalent of "The Big Table" at a holiday gathering, he was obligated by the guidelines of proper etiquette to give attention where it was due for the purpose of answering direct questions or acknowledging that others was responded to his own. As he spoke, his mannerisms grew slightly sharper in purpose, less satirical in nature, as if he were putting a guard up - or taking one down.

The first such response was to the very new newcomer, Gene. The sister to the American veteran, if he remembered properly from the exchange earlier. "Oh indeed, Miss. My manners need work. Corporal Haring Demetrius Reddish, at your service, of course. I am the personal Valet to the Lord Major Reginald I. Keystone, meaning I see to his personal affairs as necessary and facilitate as his driver and bodyguard, or extend service for others as he directs. At his order, I have handled much of the practical logistics that have brought us here. It is a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

With Mosi, he was a bit less verbose. "Priscilla Harker." he said aloud, as if reminding himself. "So you are a student, then. How nice. I suppose an unlikely twist of fate brought you into this company, like everyone else, hmmm?" Though said in a light hearted manner, it had occurred to Reddish that every time one of their number died or otherwise left their Fellowship, someone stumbled into it, as if some unseen force was testing them, while simultaneously ensuring that they had a minimum number of participants. Unless it was a foolish observation brought about by one of the weirder, more paranoid parts of his psyche. There were a few of those lurking inside of his brain lately.

"Well then, Ladies and Gentlemen, I do hope we come to get along swimmingly. Just swimmingly." This sentiment passed along as he was finishing his own supper of, again, what he suspected was really braised goat. He turned to Josephine, bringing his mind back to her comment earlier about Egypt's cuisine. "I will be honest, Miss Clark, or at least as honest as decency allows. The local flavors didn't set well with me at first. Positively did not. But in time I have come to greatly appreciate the region's foodstuffs, and even the Muslim styles of cooking present here. I forget what they call it... Eh, no matter."

The finishing of a plate brought thoughts of dessert, and the spiffiness it might provide. "Oh! There is this local delicacy that I hope they have on board for afters. It's a seasoned carrot pie that they make in Cairo that is simply a delight. I forget the name of it in Arabic, but in English it's called (wait for it) 'Seasoned Carrot Pie'. Neat, eh?" He shrugged, making light of his little joke. "Miss Clark, I do hope it is not too presumptuous, but would you care to join me for a digestif and a walk about the boat following supper? The Nile is breathtaking under moonlight." His inquiry was open and casual, displaying a level of calm confidence that seemed uncharacteristic of the ordinarily boisterous man.

"And it might give me a chance to sneak a picture with you." he admitted. "It would mean a lot to me." Reddish, apparently not a man who was "Off Duty" a whole lot, seemed intent upon making the most of it while he could.

🦄 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 prospect of rest was apparently short-lived and dreamless. No sooner had Vladimir's eyes closed, it seemed, than they opened one again with what felt like a mild dose of the sickness that commonly visits heavy drinkers in the morning hours. Between the headache and vague feeling of disorientation, it was necessary for the primarily land-bound Russian to roll to the side and place both feet firmly upon the ground. Unfortunately, the support of solid earth underneath him was not to be had while upon a ship at sea. Still, Vladimir was not vomiting, nor did he feel that he was in danger of it imminently.

All the same, Vlad needed to get his bearings. Clear his head. Why, he hadn't even had the benefit of the gift of Tretiy Glaz in what seemed like a long while, in comparison to others of his people with that particular gift. Perhaps it was indicative of something. An imbalance perhaps, or something blocking him from glimpsing that which his forebearers would wish to show. Perhaps even the mere gift of that extra sight might be enough to cripple him in some way or cause him to rethink a course of action that, for whatever reason, the fates decreed must be so. It was puzzling. He raised his head to ask Constantin about just that, in an academic sense purely, when he realized that he was alone in the cabin. Funny, he was rarely ever alone.

The oft dramatic Russian slowly pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself against the pitch and sway of the ship. Once he found his rhythm, he ventured as far as to pull two of his many knives from off his person, one for each hand, and give them a little twirl. It was a thing that he did to center himself. Child's play, really, a basic exercise to acquaint one's reflexes with the weight and balance of the blades, which he often used for the purpose of focusing his intentions. Around each finger and back, ever spinning until they went from an overhanded grip to an underhanded one, and then back into their sheaths again. Vladimir blew out a breath and shook some residual soreness from his arms, straightened his clothes as best he could, and strode purposefully from the cabin in search of his traveling companions.

The sight that greeted him on the main deck was a little surprising, though not altogether unexpected. The mad German fellow was passed out, arms tangled upon the railing and legs akimbo. Vlad didn't blame him, he was in a position not utterly dissimilar earlier. It did strike him as humorous, however. Far be it for him to toss small, hard objects at a man unable to defend himself nor appreciate the sport of it; Vladimir decided that simply leaving him alone to sleep was the best course of action in the meantime. On the other hand, the crew seemed to be out of sorts about something.

Swiftly locating Constantin, Vlad spoke to him with some seriousness, "Константин, что случилось? Почему экипаж нервничает?"₁

Translations

1 = "Constantin, what has happened? Why does the crew look nervous?"

🦄 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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Twenty minutes before Chicago. Caesar hadn't been to Chicago in a while, but he remembered a little about the airport. Enough to navigate over to baggage claim and back out again, at any rate. Alicia was really the one who should have been on this assignment, the irony being that Caesar wouldn't have bothered coming to the Windy City except for the circumstances around her death. At least they would be on the ground soon and could get started, just as soon as they got their bearings. And got a suitable vehicle.

The message alert on the old man's phone was getting a workout today. Business, always business. That's what you got when you were a man toward the end of a career soaked in blood - that of your allies and loved ones as well as your enemies. Probably the closest thing to a friend he had anymore was the gigantic Cockney fellow in the plane with him, and he bareknuckle struck the man just that morning. Caesar shook his head and thumbed on his satellite phone, both curious and apprehensive about what fresh hell awaited him therein.

"Keystone." he said with a smile showing the barest sliver of ivory, "We have a local MSS liaison meeting us on the ground. I've sent you the employee file." Looking over the file for himself, he wasn't sure whether the big man would get along with her swimmingly or they would hate each other on sight.

"Yeah? Right then, on it..." muttered Keystone, pulling out his own device. The experienced East Ender was interested to find out that this was a young lady with a background not amazing dissimilar to his. MMA fighter, underground circuit, and in India no less. It made sense that they wouldn't have heard of one another during their travels, especially if she stayed on the subcontinent while he operated primarily in mainland China. He found it quite impressive. Then he got to her bio. "Claire Bloody MacManus, Irish family from Boston?" He said it as if something was wrong. "I'm knowin' that this's 'Murica an' all, but y'get some punch-jolly mick hearin' London Underclass colorin' my speech, problems might crop up. Get me?"

"Los Ingleses won, right? What's the problem?" Caesar asked, leaving Keystone to wonder whether or not he was being sarcastic.

"Them stuffed-shirt bronzecocks what did that, and generations back, are the same sort o' powered wig Aristocraps what liked puttin' the boot to my folk, too. Ain't a thing my people had to do with it, on the specific. ...well, not as I'm aware, anyhow." Keystone shrugged. He knew that there was a touch of shame associated with the circumstances of his birth. Or to put it bluntly: Keystone was a bastard. Literally a bastard. Technically so was his own son, but that was a different matter. Part of his unknown bloodline could possibly involve the horrors visited upon his Celtic neighbors. But it wasn't as if he'd done anything to the Irish, a notably proud and occasionally pugilistic people. He had heard stories about the Irish who were forced to move to the Americas, raising their families to despise and attack the British on pure principle.

As it turned out, Caesar was aware of this, too. "Some points: The war is over. You are in Los Estados Unidos. You both work for a Mexican. Be professional, or you won't have to worry about the pretty girl beating you up - I'll handle it myself." Switching topics, he continued, "Did you see the section on past employers?"

"Yeah, I got that. You think it's that Miss Adkins? I got questions..."

Caesar was sure that he did. With a satisfied smile, he settled back into his seat and growled out a casual, "Just get ready for landing. As soon as we get to our vehicle, gear up. Standard protocol."

"Yeah, Boss."

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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Location: Ville au Camp (Kitchen House)
Skills: History

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The frilly apron selection was hanging just inside of the door, near the coatrack and stand for galoshes. Charming if old-fashioned, and highly convenient for the cook on the go. He selected one that was obviously not meant for a man of his breadth, complete with a pocket in the front decorated with a lovely floral pattern. While he took a moment to tie the strings around his waist, Gilbert dipped into his memory intrinsic to humanity's history. It was one of the best, most useful things about being an Emendator, in his opinion. Truthful knowledge of the human condition from the beginning of civilization. This time, he used it to find out more about their guests.

It didn't take but a moment, as it usually did not, but when he brought his thoughts back to the present a confused look crossed his face. Gilbert turned and walked the couple of steps back outside, narrowed eyes taking in the scene in front of him. The young man who was with the carnies, Ben, was speaking to his Paradoxes. He stood, listening to the commentary all around while giving Ben a piercing, inquisitive look. It seemed that breakfast (or second breakfast, in Sophia's case) was a welcome concept by all of the Paradoxes, though response hadn't come from the young man present just yet.

Gilbert smiled in the manner that he usually did and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Addressing Andromeda, he proclaimed, "Then yours shall have chocolate chips." He nodded, and then looked back to Ben who had apparently decided to begin interacting with his people. Perhaps he meant well. But what The Hat gleaned from his look into history gave him more questions than answers; such unknown factors that he wanted to know more about before he was comfortable allowing them around the newer Paradoxes alone. Another factor was that the people of the carnival now outnumbered the total Emendators and Paradoxes combined present in Ville au Camp. This had not gone unnoticed by the eternal soldier. Some instincts never went away. "Benjamin? Ben... when was the last time you had a decent breakfast? Come along inside. Pancakes and pork sausage, and we will see if we cannot get some hot coffee brewing and a glass of cold milk. Or whatever strikes your mood this morning. We have, and to spare. And I feel that we should get acquainted. Do you not?"

Back again inside the Kitchen House. There was breakfast to prepare.

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James Grady

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

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James stood in the gallery, near the top of the steps for a couple of minutes. He was trying to figure out for himself exactly what he was feeling at that moment and he was coming up short. There were aspects of this whole dilemma that were painfully familiar. Enough at least to remind him of old wounds, if not actually reopen them. He remembered her death in his own timeline. This flash of light and sudden disappearance at least seemed like it was more merciful a passing than before.

He remembered Alicia's words from when he first became a Paradox. She had told him that she was not the Alicia of his timeline, not completely. She had the memories, technically she was still the same person, but this Alicia was of another history wherein there was no Undead Uprising. There was still a United States and the dead stayed dead. Whatever fairy tale universe that was, however, she was still murdered in it. James hoped that his friend found peace - one thing he could not have for himself.

Sighing, James put his hands in his pockets. He debated where he should go now and what he should do, now that he had free time. The mental debate wasn't which activity he should get into, personal training or working with his Paradox abilities, going fishing maybe, or just sitting on the porch and enjoying a glass of hot chocolate early in the morning; the debate was whether to do anything at all or crawl back into his bed and wait for the day to pass. James felt a slip of paper in his pocket, which he pulled out to inspect. It was his Emendator assessments. He unfolded it and read it again.

"Intelligent. Personable. Patient. Protective. Leadership qualities." Then his voice lowered, "Rage. Dangerous. Darkness in him." To be fair, it wasn't anything he hadn't said about himself. James was dead. These people had tested him, trained him, and still wanted him around. Hell, they even had a lot of good things to say about him, despite everything he was and everything he did. Being a Paradox meant something different from being perfect, and loss, apparently, was part of that.

All hell breaking loose. One week of down time. Fine. James wasn't going to crawl into bed and wait to die or get over it. He had new friends, or at least new allies now who needed him to be who he was, darkness and all. Loss and all. Okay, James was going to go get some breakfast and meet this new challenge head on. With a resolute look on his face, James descended the stairs and began walking toward the Kitchen House. Tequila later.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Headland: E. Main Street, E9, Car (Passenger side back seat)
Skills: N/A

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It was a single word that Tatiana had used: Raid.

You did what was needed to survive. Ash got that as well as anybody. It had to be especially tough on a woman with a newborn baby. How she was able to keep herself and that tiny life going these months was nothing short of miraculous. But questions came with that praise. He was pretty certain that, when Tatiana said "we", she didn't mean herself and little Jamie. And it wasn't "they", either. It seemed as if she was a part of this group that she took a massive risk to escape. But pointed more to Ash's thoughts, she had said that they raided a redneck hunting house. Not looted, not scavenged. Raided.

Ash passed no silent judgement on the woman. None. But he knew that there was a story involved with this turn of events; very likely one that Jack would not want to hear the entirety of. At least until these people were dead. So when she spoke up again to admonish the Captain for apologizing to her recently reunited husband, he went along with it and kept to the business at the immediate hand. "Yeah. I'm done with the maudlin crap anyway, Tati. I'm just glad you found us. Let's get this done." And not just because he had a bullet lodged in his shoulder, though it was a factor. This felt like something she needed to do, and could, now that they were with her.

The snatch of conversation between Jack and Tati was something that he had given the tiniest consideration toward commenting upon, which he thought twice about the second that he opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he directed his attention toward the back of the vehicle, where Amelia was locating and distributing firearms. "I'd be grateful if you'd pass me a loaded pistol and a spare mag. My favorite caliber is point-four-five, but I ain't picky right now." This was Tati's show and Ash was letting her call it. If she wanted him near her boy, fine. Inside of a vehicle with a injured shoulder was a bad situation if he needed to use his lever-action rifle.

Of course, a redneck hunting cabin could possibly mean that Ash could get his hands on a bow again. That meant quiet kills at range. That also meant food. Thinking about it, Ash could really go for a steak sometime soon. "Amelia? Could you give me a quick and dirty inventory back there? I'd give a shiny nickel for a good hunting bow for later." His voice was strained. It might have to be a lot later if he didn't get himself looked after fairly soon.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quincy (in house, C8)
Skills: N/A

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Being as she was a girl of uncomplicated tastes with a history of violence, sitting irregularly upon the floor while on an epic quest for a can opener, shirtless and hungry, she wasn't the happiest that she'd ever been. But that didn't stop the giggles from coming. There was a quiet part of her brain that realized that she was quite high. Perhaps that part existed because she was in the embryo stage of coming down from that high, but her body hadn't figured it out yet. Whatever the reason, that tiny holdout of hazy objectivity saw her, a once (and hopefully future) badass bitch, stymied in her efforts to merely open a can of SpaghettiOs by the raw audacity of circumstance. As if the gods above wished to teach her humility. Or that relying purely on herself was not how life was accomplished these days.

Case in point: A fairly like-minded woman stood over her as Thalia sat collecting herself, offering her the means to stand. The haze of her situation was apparent on her face as she looked up and blew a comma of dark hair from in front of her eyes. It was Beatrice, of course. As dark and outcast-y as herself, maybe even a little more, she had stuck around nonetheless. It meant a lot to her. They hadn't been as chummy as herself and Thana had, but bonding over a very necessary killing gave one another a sort of trust was hard to duplicate. Bea though? Thalia could see a different sort of friendship with her that just needed to develop properly. She blushed a little and debated saying something.

Then the dark and outcast-y woman asked if she needed a hand. A HAND. Thalia looked down at her own hands (check that - hand) and utterly failed to suppress the giggles once again with a sputter. She felt a little embarrassed about losing her composure around Beatrice and tried to cover her face, only to realize that she had half of the total number of appendages necessary for full coverage. This brought on a second or two of full laughter before she finally relented and gave Bea her good arm. Perhaps it was more endearing than it should have been thanks to the opiate, but Thalia felt truly grateful for the hand up.

The second that she was standing, Thalia wrapped Beatrice in a hug and held it for a moment, gathering her footing fully before attempting to move elsewhere. "Thank you." she whispered in Beatrice's ear. Thalia pushed her torso back just far enough to look her friend in the eyes and said in sleepy notes, "I just wanted a friggin' can openah, Bea. Then I'm on my ass and..." Thalia looked around and lowered her voice to a whisper once again, "...and I think someone took my shirt. No shit, yeah? I'm hungry Bea, and I'm in a stabbing mood now. Help me out? Us girls gotta stick togethah." Thalia held her gaze in a quiet, steadfast stare, even as her shirt was hanging off of her shoulder, obvious to everyone except for her.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: C7
Skills: N/A

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Hank gave his shovel a quick swing to dislodge the gore that was on it from staving in that last Asshole's skull. It was amazing how simultaneously liberating and heartbreaking it still was to him, putting down a walking corpse. There was still a big piece of humanity left in the man, no matter how much he tried to keep it down and no matter what the world had thrown at him. It was necessary and he had no qualms about it. Killing these things was not something he hesitated about. Sometimes though, he remembered that they used to be people. Used to be. They were dangerous now, and humans were an endangered species because of it.

He recovered his pack and began to slip it back over his shoulders, setting down his shovel to do so. The dead ones were actually dead this time, and the live ones... Well, there were difficulties. The Apostle Bobbo? Is he hurt, or...?" No, not hurt. Probably worse. Hank was no medic. Dying in a totally unexpected, twitchy, frothing mess was not an altogether horrible way to go anymore. He shook his head. If someone could help him out, great. Otherwise, let the man have his peace however he could get it. Hank had even contemplated suicide a number of times. Many were before the world started eating them, but a couple of times afterward. Admittedly, those post-apocalyptic musings were more of a hypothetical question of pragmatism. No, if Hank was going to die, it was either going to mean something or because of simple misadventure.

He wasn't heartless, but he was a cynic. If help couldn't be given to that guy he just met, he was going to concentrate on what he could help. Namely, their continued survival. Something the new girl said about a fishing camp. "Fishing Camp? Hold the phone there, Annie. A touristy fishing camp? That means - Hey, Wayne!" he looked over to his friend, "Good news! We're almost out of this goddamn swamp!" And it probably was good news, though somehow downplayed by the dying man laying in the road just down from him. Nonetheless, Hank's reasoning was sound. Hunting and Fishing Camps were commonly built just outside of state and national parks. They liked regulating things of that nature. It also meant that residences might be around it as well; locals living off of commerce brought to the Okefenokee. Which meant vehicles, maybe. Tools, medicine, supplies that could have been overlooked, if they were very, very lucky. But he'd be satisfied with a place to rest his tired bones away from mosquitoes and maybe a can of scrapple. Bonus points for ketchup.

It was a small hope. Hank was going to take what he could get, though.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Gaming Room
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
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Swamp got his own rush of apprehension as the Chanteuse removed the chair back from underneath the doorknob and cracked the door. Whether it was on principle of the music as she had said, or genuine concern about her well-being, it was apparent that the good Doctor had made a rather hasty assumption about the door, which displeased her. Giving an expression of humility was difficult enough through the mask, so he merely bowed his head enough to be readily noticeable and agreed with Amaranthine. "Indeed, madame. Please forgive, I was being selfish." He made no move to come closer to either the musician nor the door. Presumption might be the end of him one day.

Instead, he resolved to maintain his position and merely enjoy the musical styling of this woman's craft. It was a rare thing to find someone that he believed was as talented in their own field as he was in his own; but if his expression could be glimpsed as Amaranthine pulled her bow across her violin, it was bliss. His hands, normally agile with movement as he spoke, lay still in his lap, one atop the other, lest they pull any attention away from the tiny concert in front of him. Every so often, he glanced at the door to see if any curious party was trying to get a glimpse of the talented violinist, but otherwise Dr. Swamp allowed the dulcet tones of the talented performer to wash over him, unencumbered by the other events of the evening so far.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck Dining Area)
Skills: N/A

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"Ah, well that may be just the thing then, Miss Ridgeway." started Reginald. He suddenly stopped, took to thought one of the things that Lauren had just said about herself, and veered off of his train of thought for a moment. "Wedding, you say? Ah, I believe you had mentioned something to the like previously. I have been addressing you with the honorific of a maid, which is quite ungentlemanly. If you would please forgive me, Mrs. Ridgeway... Drat it all, now where was I?" Reginald mentally went over the last bit of their conversation before continuing, "Ah yes, insomuch as you left our group a little early to attend to Mr. Zalil, I tarried a little later at the table. Perhaps it was within this time that some other arrangement was suggested."

The Lord Major shrugged, "Well, nothing to be done about it now." Dinner was just beginning to be served. "If you would forgive any condescension, madame, but for a refresher? That smallish plate is for bread only, that tiny fork most likely indicates an ocean-based dish coming in the near future, and the small bowl to the side is only ever used to clean one's fingertips - do not make the mistake of one of my Lieutenants from once upon a time and drink it." He smiled and shook is head at the memory, permitting himself a moment. "Ho, ho... he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, that one. Pleasant enough boy, though I daresay his father purchased his commission for him. Pity. I should say that even my Corporal deserved a merited commission before that one. Hmm. But I digress - otherwise, just start with the outer flatware on either side of your plate and work your way inward as the courses arrive. If the staff is properly trained, they shall remove what is necessary as service continues."

His words were meant kindly, despite his predisposition toward haughtiness with things of this nature. Reginald might have considered himself more like the common man than most of his family, and indeed seemed to get along better with these people, but certain things would happen to remind him of the circumstances of his birth: Second born son to an Earl, career Officer, and master of a few households with the accompanying education in the ways of nobility. He couldn't help it, sometimes. His next words seemed to echo his thoughts on the matter, "...Cairo is so much simpler..."

Snapping back to the present, Reginald looked to Lauren, suggesting, "If the good Mr. Zalil's medication is making him drowsy, it stands to reason that he might awaken ravenous. Perhaps we should request something to take to his room afterward, what say you?"

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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 subtleties of mannered people were not lost upon Corporal Reddish, though sometimes he didn't quite understand the point of it all. The rising and sitting and rising and sitting, though quite necessary when persons of the fairer sex entered or left the area, seemed just a hair troublesome to him. For that matter, it made perfect sense to him that the Anglican split from the Catholic Church was due in large part to get away from the incessant shift between sitting and standing and kneeling and sitting and standing and... Ok, not the point. Like a good soldier, his was not to wonder why, his was but to do and... stand. Again. But such was life among the better civilized than he.

In any rate, after ensuring that Josephine was comfortably seated and that he had his own chair in decent position, the Corporal sat down to a table that seemed just the slightest bit chilly. Not in temperature, as October along the Nile was something that a man of the British Isles had to grow accustomed to, but in his perception of how he was received. Nonetheless, he made the attempt to maintain as polite of civility as he could muster.

Reddish definitely felt the stares from the table upon him as he sat, prompting a quick, "Something on my face?" Okay, NOW he was making the attempt at polite civility.

Such civility extended to the subtleties of discussing peace and quiet from Vera, a thing which, were he honest with himself, was not his forte on a day-to-day basis. He picked up a forkful of what he assumed was lamb, based upon the fact that it was what he ordered earlier. He had a momentary doubt, having consumed goat on several instances, but quickly dismissed it. It tasted just fine whatever animal it was cut from. But what he wouldn't give for a decent curry... Anyway, he gave Vera a curt smile and a brief intonation of, "Of course, m'Lady. Sounds like just the thing, yes? Yes." He picked up a glass of bubbly, amber colored beer and gave a quick smell of its hoppy aromatics before addressing the observation made by George. "Oh, indeed sir. I often find that I am amazed by life's little inconsistencies, don't you? Why, here the Lord MAJ <ahem> Sorry, the Lord Major bestows a grand, grand honor upon me and makes me his Valet. Then suddenly, without so much as a by your bloody leave (and pardon, excuse my language, Miss Clark)...," He was covering his section of dining etiquette, and the use of unnecessary profane language, even something minor, would reflect badly upon himself and the lady inviting him along. "...he up and tells me that, unless he specifically requests my services, I am supposed to be "Off Duty". Can you believe that? I'll tell you, I'm not sure what to do with myself; Off Duty."

Reddish took a sip from his glass and set it back down, continuing, "Yet here I am, moving farther and farther away from my usual duties and among such notable persons, at that. Again, life's little inconsistencies, a sort of 'betcha didn't see that one coming' from the universe, as it were." His face possessed a fair amount of animation as he rattled off his story, occasionally punctuating sentences with his fork. "Take for instance, a Lady of standing from the house of Munn, a fellow veteran of the Great War and his sister who, as a matter of extraordinary coincidence, makes a last minute appearance, a genuine Hollywood starlet (again I am sorry to gush, I'm just so very impressed), and a..." The Corporal looked to Mosi who had recently joined them, "I'm sorry, but I haven't an earthy clue who you are past a name. Corporal Haring Reddish, at your service, ma'am."

"But as for the whereabouts of Lord Major Keystone or the American lady who seemed overly comfortable with bottles of distilled spirits, M'Lady, I should assume that they are taking a meal on the Elite Deck. Their tickets indicated access, and not being privy to the talk that brought us all here right now, ma'am, I imagine that they are enjoying various rich, imperialist tidbits dipped in chocolate and served with Cairo's fanciest bubbly wine. I should be a little jealous, speaking frankly, but being up there with the flowers and finery would have deprived me of present company," he gave a thankful smile in Josephine's direction, "and that of all of yourselves which is truly an experience. Besides that, as I may have mentioned... Off Duty."

Corporal Reddish popped a bite of roasted potato into his mouth and chewed with a triumphant glow about his face. Therewas something internally satisfying about a rant. Got the humors flowing in proper alignment, or something to that effect.