Sigil

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Gaming Room
Skills: Intelligence, Dexterity
Hit Points: 4
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The first few notes of the Chanteuse struck him as an unexpected wind might, raising his eyes from the paper upon which it was focused. He sat attentive to the music, positive that the only reason he was not mesmerized by the performance completely was the nagging certainty of his overall situation - their overall situation - of pressing, mortal danger. There was a reason that he was in this place of opulence and wealth, and as fate decreed it, it was not for the reason he intended. Perhaps he could recover the situation in time, but before he could begin this in earnest, the overwhelming allure of the music had taken him.

Dr. Swamp could feel his head nodding ever so slightly at the notes as they clung to his senses. Regaining a degree of himself, Swamp allowed his hand to move in response to the emotion and precision of Amaranthine's gift. His hand swept across his paper, trailing a single dark line with each pass, a contrast to the light material upon which it was placed. First long, flowing lines, followed by a series of brief marks that served to illustrate detail. Monochromatic, yes, but done with anatomical precision and trapping an image of the feeling of the moment's emotional content. Dr. Swamp gave the room and its present inhabitants a quick look, moistened his lips with thoughtful pause, and then began to smudge areas of his drawing in a meticulous manner to provide depth and shading where it was needed.

He was finishing up right about the time that the Chanteuse had completed her display of musical prowess. His own work was no awe-inspiring masterpiece of epic work, though it was undoubtedly a well-crafted picture; done with a keen eye for detail and hands capable of reproducing that which was witnessed, but more than that felt in the room for those few minutes. A definitive work that called out the Doctor as an accomplished and well above average artist. Instead of drawing attention to his own work first, he sought to congratulate his fellow artist for a performance well done. "Without peer, madame. Truly without peer." The Doctor clapped his hands in the air in front of himself with slow, heavy cadence. "It is a spot of genuine light in what is otherwise a dark event; you have my service and gratitude, Chanteuse." He turned his drawing around and slid it in the direction of Amaranthine, a token movement to invite the young woman to observe it for herself. "I am afraid the muse did not strike me with the uncommon clarity it did upon our first meeting, but I hope this will suffice."

🦄 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 -> His Stateroom)
Skills: N/A

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The Lord Major raised an eyebrow at the young Mrs. Ridgeway. He understood that certain Americans operated on a level of sociability that was often rapid in comparison to the rules of courtship from his time, but it was considered heavily improper (even by the day's standards) for a man of his age to stop into the private cabin of a woman Lauren's age in the broader hours of the evening. He must have been a mistake in translation from English to English somewhere along the line in their conversation. Reginald had honestly thought that his dining companion had meant to gift him an amount of her family's spirits in passing rather than to make a private event of it.

Now, it was up to him to try to back out as gracefully as the situation would allow. As he readied himself to speak, Reginald caught sight of George entering the dining area. "I, ah... Oh, Mr. Benaszewski!" He cleared his throat and continued, an idea already forming. "Yes, indeed it is a good evening, Mr. Benaszewski, and a fine pleasure to see you upon it. I assume the rest of our party has likewise dined already, yes?" Reginald gave a furtive glance toward Lauren, then back to George, "If I might impose upon you, my good man? I've just remembered a matter that requires handling. Would you escort Mrs. Ridgeway back to her quarters while I see to my affairs?"

Reginald touched the shoulder of a passing steward, quietly speaking to him in the native language and local dialect of the region. The man nodded, apparently voicing an affirmation to the Lord Major, which prompted a smile from the old soldier. Immediately following, he looked to Lauren and George and translated in summary, "The young man with whom I was just speaking is delighted to deliver Mr. Zalil's food to his quarters with our regards, should you wish it, Mrs. Ridgeway. Now, my apologies, madame, but I must be off. Perhaps I shall see you taking advantage of the nightlife later on. Do please excuse me." He gave a curt bow and set off for his room. A few paces away, he paused for just a moment and turned back to George, "Ah perhaps, we might sit and talk over the fill of a pipe, or a good cigar if that more suits you, Mr. Benaszewski? Just us military men, if we've all the time for it. Well, until later." before resuming his paces.

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Haring Reddish

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Location: The Ferry (Second Deck Dining Area)
Skills: Arabic

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A broad, content smile passed over the face of the Corporal as he moved to link is arm with Josephine's. "Indeed we shall, by your leave, madame! I would be grateful to take the night air as it wafts about the Elite Deck; it is more fitting to a lady of your outgoing standard anyhow, I'd wager." he responded, reaching into his khaki drill coat to procure his own ticket. "Just as much as I should be honored, Miss Clarke, simply honored to be taken under your wing of access, I find that my own ticket allows access, being as I am in the service of... of..." Reddish removed his hand from inside of his coat and began to poking it into pockets elsewhere on his person, "Of the, ah, the Lord Major, um..." He began to look very vexed for just a moment. Even alarmed. Having exhausted the pockets of his issued uniform frock, he took a step away from Josephine and started slapping every pocket on his person in a steadily more frantic manner.

"Dear soggy St. Swithun, and all the Bishops of bloody Winchester! Some son-of-a-headboard knocking strumpet's gone away with my... half a moment." The corporal unbuckled his utility belt and thunked it heavily upon the table. With it went a trio of belt pouches, one of his bayonets, and his pistol within closed holster. He hastily unbuttoned his coat and flung it upon the back of the chair nearest him. What he saw underneath prompted him to point a finger toward the sky with a triumphant, "HA!" The good and dutiful Corporal had apparently missed his interior pocket when he initially put the ticket away, allowing it to slip down and catch in the waistband of his pants.

Before he could give a sigh of relief, a steward seemed to materialize right next to him, carrying a sightly green-tinted bottle with a label covered in German script. Reddish's head whipped around, genuinely surprised at the sudden appearance of the man. He was barely able to get out a stammer in what was supposed to be Arabic, "Shuk... shukra jaz," before recognizing that he was failing miserably and ending his suffering with a succinct, "Ah, bloody danke."

He quickly buckled his utility belt back on and poured two glasses of the wine before noticing that he had totally forgotten to replace his jacket. Instead of viewing this as another minor setback or scatterbrained act, the Corporal decided to use it as opportunity. He pushed the sleeves of his grey-blue undershirt up to his elbows, as if it was what he intended, inadvertently displaying a series old scars that crisscrossed his forearms. His voice snapped back to its earlier, much more smooth and cultured nature as he held out to Josephine a full wine glass with one hand and his jacket with the other. "The Nile winds carry a chill with them at night, Miss Clarke. I wouldn't have you uncomfortable when I could fix it." He raised an eyebrow, a warm smile appearing, "Do sample the vintage as you come to it. It is remarkably sweet."

With a nod in the direction of the stairs leading to the Elite Deck, Reddish enthusiastically responded to Josephine's first question, "And I do indeed wish to visit the deck above. Let's go quickly, before something else happens."

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Keystone & Caesar

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Location: Chicago Streets, inside of an SUV
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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Caesar found the comment that Claire slipped to Keystone about learning the Spanish language mildly humorous. He didn't so much crack a smile as change his expression and give a quiet, "Hmm." She wasn't wrong, though. Learning the language would be useful to him, though his thoughts weren't with business in that moment more than they were about family. Keystone was the father of a bouncing baby Mexican now. Technically with three nationalities; Mexican, American, and British. But the vast majority of his family and damn near all of his support network were Spanish speakers. The business end of it was valid as well, almost as much.

Keystone found the observation slightly annoying. He was probably going into it with some preconceived notions anyway, but the big guy had the occasion to be stubborn every now and again. "London Offices. Not a lot of blokes speak it where they pulled me from, an' that pullin' was bloody recent." He settled into the vehicle as Claire began her own personal foray into Mario Kart: Chicago, all the while he tried not to reach for the grip handle above the window. Yes, the woman's driving concerned him. If the situation called for a speedy exit or tailing, then sure. If this was how she drove in a non-emergency situation, he'd hate to see what she did in one.

Meanwhile, Caesar didn't seem to care. From the look of him, he could probably nap through it. Being a passenger in any of Alicia's cars had sort of numbed him to it all; as long as brakes weren't slammed and tires didn't screech too loudly, all was well with the world. "We didn't get the news about the shop. What book is worth millions?" He wouldn't mind learning a little more about the person he was going to meet, nor the type of business that she ran. A little something about their curio was an excellent start.

"Yeah an' then, begging the Boss's pardon, I'd 'preciate if you could fill me in on that job of yours from a little back." Keystone did not want to tip his hand entirely about his fandom for a certain vocalist - a lady from his more downtrodden part of the city, but he really was interested in knowing more about it. "Word has it you usedta work for Miss Adele Bloody Adkins. What's all that about?" He glanced back to Caesar, who was busy staring at him with a tired expression that seemed to relate a feeling that the discussion could probably wait until business was concluded and they were on the road into Grimm. Keystone shifted his gaze back to their maniac driver, following up with, "Oh, at your own time, o'course. Curious on the personal, is all."

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

_{Actor Dramatization - Not an actual Great Bazhooli}

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

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So there was some sort of mystical chicanery afoot! Certainly, that must be the case. Whatever force of nature or act of magic that had moved the boat at such stunningly impossible speeds had not been as fluid of a transition as its originators had thought, for nothing short of witchcraft or bad borscht would have been able to lay the stomach of The Great Bazhooli low. In its own strange way, it was comforting. If he was correct, it was not the forces of the tides nor the accomplishment of any mortal creature that caused Vladimir to litter the deck with partially digested Fishes & Chips, nay, but the manipulation of supernatural forces. Such must be required to rattle a Bazhooli.

It was a nice sentiment, anyway. Into each generation Providence selected another Great Bazhooli, but the one chosen simply exhibited the best possible qualities of the concept of "The Great Bazhooli", given the choices available. Each was just as fallible as the last. Sadly, the concept of Pride was usually one of those failings. Such it was with Vladimir Dmitrievich Alexandrov. Another one of his failings (that day at least), as every man on board the ship was about to witness, was a singular sort of tunnel vision that prevented him from noticing a mast directly in his path. "Too far north? Sorcery! Act of Bitches! Vait, is not... Vitches! Da, act of Vitchcrafts. Is vhat I am meaning." he thought for a second, "But is helping us, yes? Is for some purpose. Huh? SOMETHING THERE? Let me see - !" The immediate turnaround to attempt to witness the dot of something in the distance was all that the mast needed to commit an act of assault on the legendary Circus performer. Vlad slammed into it face first, flattening his prominent but well-formed schnoz into the weathered, smooth wood.

Between the application of Fal'shbort and the once living tree that made up the mast, the inanimate object proved to be tougher, stronger, and more Russian than even the Greatest of Bazhoolis. Vladimir stumbled back before coming to rest very hard upon his buttocks in the middle of the deck, his nose streaming crimson and tweaked at an uncomfortable angle. "Мы налови́ли дохуя́ ры́бы! Мой кот ча́сто срёт под дива́ном! Переда́й, ёб твою́ мать, во́дку!"₁ he bellowed, though his voice was a tad off because of the nasal obliteration. In English, he said simply, "Costantin! You are right. Fuck boat."

Translations

1 = (Nasty, uncomfortable swear words and phrases that should not be uttered in polite company or around children.)

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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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This was a scene that likely never would have happened at any other time in human history. Two men waylaid by circumstance, sitting in a station wagon in a true-to-gospel apocalypse with a baby in need of a change. The ravenous undead could be chewing on them, random living people could attack them for what supplies they carried with them, and considering the weather right then a tornado could scoop up a downed tree and deposit it unceremoniously atop their heads. The past year had been spent in pure survival tactics and their safe, defensible vehicle had been damaged beyond the possibility of repair. One of the men had been shot and was slowly bleeding out, the window for speedy attention to said wound quickly growing shorter. Yet, their biggest concern in this group of moments was the application of a disposable diaper. Truly a harrowing ordeal.

Ash readied his recently acquired pistol and gave a quick scan to their surroundings. Then he addressed Jack's assertion about the ease of the task relative to that of his family's ancestral profession, distilling. "I don't know, Jack. If you mess up 'shining you could go blind. This looks a lot more dangerous." A joke, spoken in serious words nonetheless. "Alright, then..." he said, leaning over to read the crumpled packaging. "Wait, these tabs face forward, I think. Okay, and this bag is for the one coming off. You've got this."

Ash's attention was divided between the engineering feat before him and the landscape around them. The last thing they needed was anything catching them unawares, be it living, dead, or a sudden shift in the atmosphere. The first two could be rectified with the proper application of violence, but the latter had them at its mercy.

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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"O Positive." Thalia said around a spoonful of Dem O's. She nodded her head vigorously. The young woman seemed quite sure about it. She was toward the beginning of a decent career in her family's company; a private security firm that included, among other perks, a comprehensive health and hospitalization program. Thinking back to the older scars on her body as she had been tracing earlier, she had put it to good use, once upon a time. Getting shot was never a picnic, even back when medical facilities were commonplace, properly staffed, and properly supplied. She spent some time getting to know the extent of her med plan while she convalesced. One big point of that was an initial, thorough examination that included blood typing. It was confirmed before she went into surgery later on.

"It sounds like a name, doesn't it?" she said, slightly amused at herself. She continued in a horrible, possibly racist Irish accent, "Thalia O'Positive, goodtameetcha. And ya've no need tae strap me down, missy. I'll not be running about with any shenanigans, y'understand." She popped another spoonful of canned pasta into her mouth and resumed her normal voice, "Oh God, that was awful." Thalia looked up and accepted the bottle from Beatrice. She took swig and breathed out the word "Thanks." before giving a quizzical look. "Hey, I think we got the dosage wrong. Half a pill next time, yeah?" of course, she had another pill in her pocket. Not the time, though. This feeling was not one that she appreciated. Oh, the lack of pain was vastly appreciated, but everything else was most assuredly not. Having less of a grasp upon her impulses was not something she liked in the least. Or finding most everything funny. Nope, not her. Thalia was the embodiment of quiet, dexterity, and controlled brutality. Thalia on opiates was pathetic in comparison.

These thoughts were very likely forthcoming because she was on the departing half of her dosage. Still a lot of good drug left in her system, although the grip on her brain was less. Less enough, at any rate, to realize that she was not acting normally. Well, being aware was a good thing. It may allow her better latitude to gauge her reactions before her body set to reacting. As if she hadn't heard the conversation about Thana, she mentioned, "I hope Navy's alright..."

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: C6 -> D4
Skills: N/A

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Hank eyed the Roman for a few seconds. "When we have some quiet time, maybe I'll tell you why referring to me with those two words, specifically those two, is bad for your teeth. K? Ok, I'm going that way now." He jerked his head in the direction that the road led and quickened his pace somewhat. Hank disliked talking about his family, which of course was the tie-in with the Shovel Knight bit. It wasn't something he really meant to say out loud, and being truthful it was his own damn fault. Assigning little sarcastic names to people and then making a reference to himself in a similar way? He was kind of asking for it. All the same, there were few things that would put Hank in a foul mood like forcing him to think about the origin of that title for him.

The very recent addition to their tiny know of survivors, Erica, raised some concern about Wayne's sudden silence. Hank waved it away, literally and figuratively, with exaggerated movement and expression. "Noooo, no. He does it all the time. Just don't, you know, get your fingers or ears near anyplace he can bite them off." Hank nodded his head and applied one of the more obviously fake smiles that he had to offer. The older man was truly sardonic in both word and action, almost as a form of art.

Coming up behind Wayne, Hank offered him a couple of words. His sudden quiet could be a sign of a few things, but hopefully they could find that fishing camp here in a little while and get out of this damned swamp, which Hank was sure would lead to a boost in morale. "Hey there, big guy." he said cautiously. "We're almost out of here, huh? Kick back in a little while, get some rest someplace with walls. I'm going to look ahead a bit and see if I can't keep 'new girl' from having to roll her dead friend's corpse. Hang tight, huh buddy?" His voice was tired, a little gravelly, even. Hell, he was tired. He had been tired for years now, but all that was left for him was to keep going.

Hank shook is head and kept his pace up, pulling to take point in their scattered group. If he was correct, Erica had mentioned that she and another woman had left from the fishing camp, headed up this direction. Then the one died, and she had to keep moving alone so the Assholes wouldn't eat her. Meaning that the corpse was on the road just ahead. Well, the first order of business was to cover her face. The second was to remove any pack or containers on her person and neatly arrange personal belongings, weapons, etc. on the blacktop. New girl should really get first dibs. Perhaps not a hard and fast rule, though as it came to it, Hank was fairly well provisioned, considering the occasion. That canteen, though? It would come in handy.

🦄 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 -> Carnival Setup)
Skills: N/A

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Of all the events that had occurred that morning thusfar, one thing was made clearly, painfully obvious: Gilbert was not making those goddamned pancakes yet. Oh, he wanted to. He had the stuff to make them. He assuredly had the talent required to make a properly balanced batter, tune the heat on the range precisely, and flip when exactly necessary. This was not his issue. What was his issue, aside from the string of people throwing their breakfast orders at him (after he had mentioned exactly what he was making), was that the newcomers of the Carnival kept the drama rolling in at a marked pace. Perhaps it was the fact that he had seen and experienced much in the millennia of his consciousness, but a man hanging for dear life from an almost complete piece of carnival machinery after the display at the Kitchen House gave Gilbert the immediate desire to facepalm.

No, this was serious. No doubt about it, and he took it as such. Gilbert was ever a friend of Humanity in all of its forms, even if he did have a dubious profession that involved slaughtering a bunch of them in glorious battle. Like, a whole, massive bunch. Lots. A giddy amount of skulls once made up his throne, splattered in the blood of his enemies. If social media had existed in that time period, it would have been his profile picture. But since coming to realization of who and what he was, he abdicated his throne and set to walking the world, experiencing and coming to love the Earth and the people upon it. Even this Carney yahoo suspended helplessly from a great iron wheel-o-screams.

But like most of the people still on the ground and the guy on Colossus, Gilbert was rather helpless to do anything, himself. In his present form, anyway. Briefly, he debated shifting form into something more lithe, slender but strong with wings. There were very real entities that existed, a number of which he had personally met and could draw inspiration from to assume such a form. Suddenly becoming Daemonic and swooping over a crowd sure as hell would spook them, he figured, especially when this was a perfect opportunity for the Paradoxes to work in concert.

Each one of them had abilities that would make them extraordinarily useful, especially in different combinations with each other - or with the Emendators. Such was this instance, if they had been practicing their abilities. Gilbert looked over to Faith, with whom he had just been conversing about breakfast (no goddamned pancakes yet...), and spoke with a sense of controlled urgency, "Come on. Someone might need to donate a little life force before this is over." A glance around to see who else was available gave him the knowledge that Bartholomew was in nearby in route. "Bart!" his voice boomed in the direction of the young man, "They might need you! Follow me!" He wasn't about to spill that the boy was a healer quite so loudly just yet. Mixed company.

He immediately crossed the short span to the temporary Carnival grounds at a run. With some relief, he noted that Alexandra was already entering the area. Coming up behind her, Gilbert asked, "Alexandra, do you think you could Travel up there and grab him? Possibly get him back down the same way?" He knew what abilities she possessed, but at that time not the extent to her fine control with them. Hence the question, and not a command.

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James Grady

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

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What started out as pleasant enough conversation, if a bit odd of subject matter (except for breakfast, which he was very much interested in regardless) quickly turned into a situation befitting a fire engine and really long ladder. Seeing as neither were in supply at the moment and The Hat probably couldn't pull one out of his, well... Hat, James hoped that someone had a different idea as to what they should do. It would be a travesty thing for someone to plummet to their death within a place where people were given new life and purpose. Even if he had no idea who these people were nor why they came to this place.

Then suddenly, everyone seemed to depart from the immediate area and zoom toward the scene of the potential catastrophe. James wasn't sure exactly what he could do to help, but he did wish to be nearby in case he could be of use. He experienced an expectant feeling as Gilbert began issuing a possible course of action involving the Paradoxes working together as a unit. Hells yes! Now this is what he signed up for! Using his abilities to help others, until he might one day even the scales in his own mind, against the mistakes of his life. Being all Paradox-y and whatnot.

As The Hat spoke hurriedly to a few of the Paradoxes, some more quietly than others, James waited anxiously. When it seemed that Gilbert had stopped speaking, he broke in with, "Yo there, Mr. Hat, sir! What you need from me?"

"Ah yes, James! Quickly now, you... go talk to some squirrels."

"What th' ass!?" James's hand was already raising in front of him, his middle finger extended as a tower of disdain and fuckery.

"Better idea! James, see if you can get people to stretch something below to catch, if this doesn't work. Tent canvas, something. Hold it flat and tight, off of the ground."

"Yessah!" he responded, just happy to be involved. James went off, swiftly asking any and everyone he could where a disassembled tent could be located among the Carnival setup - starting with the little fellow who seemed to be in charge. He waved over any Paradoxes on scene not already doing something to help. They would need many hands if this guy fell.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Gaming Room
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 4
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It was not surprising when someone entered the room, lured in by the sound of Amaranthine's music. Not in the least. Though it was mildly offputting when he noticed who it was - the man with the seating issues from earlier. The beak of Dr. Swamp's mask dipped slightly as he brought two fingers up to a temple, seemingly to ward off a coming headache. As Cobalt used the occasion to borrow the Doctor's sentiment about the music and express it further, Swamp peered at the man from behind his bone-like, avian mask. He tilted his head to the side just a bit, a small smile barely visible below his mask. Straightening in is seat, Dr. Swamp removed his fingers from his temple and turned fully to the Chanteuse. His eyes lingered on Cobalt until the moment that the talented lady musician spoke.

He understood the intent behind the words of Chanteuse Amaranthine, even before she began to pantomime a person taking a writing utensil to paper. Though he did find the action endearing in its own way. His response was to nod once, produce his sketchpad from inside of his vest, and wait as the music began to move him before setting graphite to paper. Dr. Swamp gave the recently arrived Justice silent regard from his seated position. Words would have to wait for a later moment.

🦄 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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Reginald felt the need to explain his position a little further, as he did not actually wish to impose his preference of addressing Lauren in the formal when she was, apparently, a much more casual type of lady. In short: American. But that circumstance of birth could be overlooked, even forgiven, because she had every appearance of a decent sort despite a lack of knowledge of certain points of etiquette. "My apologies, madame. I only wish to preserve your standing among some of the more judgemental persons of the area. This social strata takes gossip as a natural dialect of English, I am afraid. Lauren then, as we are among our own people."

The after supper coffee was almost a ritual in this part of the world, though certainly it must have been abbreviated for service to a primarily upper-crust crowd generally could not be bothered with the true meaning of local culture. It seemed a pity to the Lord Major, who was ever so slightly disappointed to simply receive a demitasse of thick, black coffee with a selection of sweeteners and cream, if desired. He waved it away with a casual, "By Jove... I'd not insult the coffee today, there's a good lad." He inhaled deeply the steam that wafted from his small cup, then took a tiny sip. It was potent. The coffee from this area usually was.

Likewise was the explanation of his life of military service. Lauren's response was met with another disappointed look. Reginald quieted considerably, in volume and in terms of his bubbly, avuncular way of speaking. "I am afraid not, madame. It may be polite to say that I am estranged from my family. My wife withdrew from our marriage, and for good reason. I support them still, be it merely financially. But they wish nothing more to do with me. I cannot blame them either, you see. It is quite deserved." Another sip from his demitasse of particularly strong coffee and he continued his response to his dining partner, "I thank you for your condolences. He was a strong, brave lad. Honorable and decent. The world is poorer for the loss of him."

Conversation had taken a turn for the more depressing, certainly. Reginald mulled over the sense of loss that he had accumulated over the past few days. It was considerable, all at once. Lost in the jumble was Aziza Tarek, his one long-term friend that he had no relation to nor authority over. It was an honest relationship, platonic of course, and he found that he missed her greatly, mourning as if she was a family member. The old man sighed and finished off his cup in one fell gulp. He was anxious to be done with the day now. With a tired voice, he looked to Lauren. "I shall take you up on your offer, Mrs. Ridgeway. I am curious as to the nature of spirits from the Colonies these days." And truth be told, he could really go for a solid belt or three before turning in for the evening.

After the food, wrapped as to travel, had been presented to the table, Reginald offered over a socially acceptable gratuity and rose. "For the sake of propriety, madame, I shall escort you safely back to your quarters. I should be grateful to accept your family's fine distilled liquor at that time. Shall we?" He picked up the takeaway meal and offered his arm to the young woman.

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Haring Reddish

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

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Corporal Reddish rose again as Mosi stood to excuse herself from the table (Again with the standing? Really?), and again came to rest in his seat. It seemed that the dessert course was making it rounds, and the headstrong Corporal was keen on being present for it. "Oh, excellent! I was definitely in the mood for something sweet tonight. Yes... Oh, waiter?" he inquired, waving his hand a bit to gain his attention outside of his capacity to drop off dessert, "After dessert is served proper, I would be so grateful if you could acquire a bottle of after-supper wine and two appropriate glasses, if you would, for carrying about? Umm... I am partial to Riesling; ah, Trockenbeerenauslese - any vintage or house will do - if you have got it, sir." Apparent from his request: He spoke a single-word mouthful in flawless German as if he were native to it. Not as apparent was that he didn't know so much about wines, outside of direct family experience.

He pulled a bank note from his coat pocket and handed it over to the server. Wine might be covered by his meal, but he had a feeling that this might be extra. And if it wasn't, well, the man probably got paid the equivalent of Nottingham Street Sweeper wages. Reddish knew what it was like to be a grunt.

The dessert that was put in front of him was not exactly world-class fare, but he took to it with a sort of enthusiasm that might be reserved for a surprise birthday present. It was a dish of rather simple looking rice pudding. He used the opportunity to tie it into something that Josephine had just mentioned, concerning the cuisine in Egypt. "You see, Miss Clarke? This is like what you were talking about, right? Ha! It's rice, right? Back home we'd use it as a side dish or, or um, ...use it for pheasant stuffing or some such, right? Right! But these Egyptians have this whole other perspective, adding different things and such to it, cooking it in ways I couldn't describe if I wanted. Now poof! It's a dessert." He took as large a spoonful as he dared, considering he was still trying his damnedest to use proper table manners and not just hork it back like the a common street urchin. "Bloody brilliant, this. Oops, pardon that language, ma'am." He reloaded his spoon, pausing enough to come to his actual point in agreeing with the starlet, "The spices here are indeed used beautifully, as you say." And he came full circle, finally.

He did note with some approval that Vera was being protective of the woman with whom he intended to usher about the ship's view of the Nile. Ordinary circumstances would place the counteroffer of drinks with the girls as a proper course of action. Expected, even. But Vera knew who he was. At least, he thought that she knew who he was. Come to think of it, he'd been acquainted with her, but they really had never had a single solid conversation, ever. Any time that he was in a room with her, it had been to pursue a duty for the Lord Major. Not to mention the class divide that existed between them. For that matter, how could she actually know him? It's not like he had ever been forthcoming with information about himself, even to his commanding officer. Okay, she was right to offer Josephine a way out. Corporal Reddish raised a eyebrow at their expedition's leader and gave her the tiniest of nods. "Good show, Lady Munn." he thought to himself.

Turning back to Josephine, Reddish reassured her with quieter voice, "I'll entertain no intentions that you do not as well, Miss Clarke. If drinks with the girls sounds better, even midway, I'll be tops finishing the stroll by my lonesome. Meantime, thank you for accepting."

He really was enjoying his dessert. And the whole "travel by boat" experience in general, so far. Perhaps they'd take this route back, riverboat and all, when they were done at the ruins. He'd like that. When done with his pudding, Corporal Reddish quietly placed his spoon back into the dish and looked expectantly to Josephine. "Well, a breathtaking view awaits. Wherever is that digestif?"

🦄 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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"Ask?" inquired Vladimir, almost in incredulity at the simplicity of the idea. Da, ve could make vith the asking, OR! Or, ve could stand by railing, feeling boat heave fro and to, to and fro, vith look of important-ness and mystery! Answer reveals itself, and ve say, 'Da! Da I am knowing this! But for friend, please explain. Is good?" The look on his face made it difficult to tell offhand whether he was being serious or comical. He finally broke the charade by huffing loudly and shaking his head. "Sorry. Joking. Am not having fun vith this boat ride." A quick look over in the direction of Ludwig made Vladimir shrug in the sole and simple understanding that it could indeed be worse. "I am thinking, maybe he is having less fun than I."

The concept of food had a double edge. On the one hand, his stomach was quite empty. A hardship he had to endure many a time in his life, and not one of which he was overly fond. On the other hand, the concern that whatever he sought to ingest might very well make a noisy and dramatic reappearance within a few minutes' time. It would be an honest statement that he did enjoy the Fish and Chips much more going down than coming up. Maybe after a rest, he would attempt again. First, he had something to discuss with the Master of this vessel.

The Great Bazhooli made his way toward the Captain. He did not wish to intrude upon his business, even as he would not want a guest of the Circus to come to him with inane questions while he was directing maneuvers among the Sem'ya. Maintaining a respectful distance, he called to the man in charge. "Kapitan! Er, for sorry... Captain! Vhat is the happenings? Needing help from Mother Russia?" He bowed and motioned to himself, indicating his openness to assist if it was requested of him to do so.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Keystone & Caesar

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Location: Chicago Airport, Private Hangar
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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"Encantada de conocerte."₁ rasped out Caesar, giving Miss McManus a look over. It was fairly smart of the Chicago branch to send someone who spoke his native language fluently, though the fact that the liaison was female gave him the initial impulse to search her for branding. "English, please. El Señor Keystone no habla Español."₂ Caesar couldn't help but notice the way that she was eyeing the big Brit, much the same way that the elder Mexican was looking her over. Sizing him up, maybe? In a straight fistfight, he'd lean toward putting his money on Keystone, owing to his raw power and experience. But MSS didn't hire slouches for Special Projects, and from the look of her file, this was likely a Special Projects lady. She might just surprise him.

There was a grunt of affirmation from Caesar after condolences were expressed about his daughter. She said it, he heard it, he acknowledged afterward. That was really as far as he was willing to take the conversation. Much as it was good manners to extend some mention in a polite manner, Caesar just didn't want to deal with it. Instead, he took to looking into the back of the SUV. It was a granted that the individual regional offices of MSS would be aware of his preferences as it came to working tools, so it came as no surprise to see equipment remarkably like the stuff he ordinarily kept in his residence. As he geared fully back up, he looked to his partner in this little adventure and gruffly said, "Got the address?"

Keystone was also in the middle of gearing up, starting with a ballistic coat common within the company for discreet work. As the company did not commonly carry his preferred brand of .50 hand cannon, he had to resort to a less commonly marketed variety. Not his favorite, but it would suffice. He wasn't really known for being a gunfighter, anyway, despite adequate proficiency. When Caesar spoke, the large man raised an eyebrow in his direction. He was going to have to speak sometime. May as well get it out of the way now. "Yeah, Boss." he responded, the London Underclass strong with him. "Miss McManus, 'fore we move on to Grimm, there's a bookstore what needs a stopover." He gave over the address, continuing, "Curiosity o'course, but are you with us for the long end of it, or is this a ah, whacha call it... Courtesy Visit? To get us movin' in the proper direction, if you take my meanin'."

He was pleased to note that his baggage from the plane had arrived intact. It wasn't much, as neither of the two men had a lot of time to pack, but some of his personal goodies were tucked away inside. With a small smile, he slipped his custom knuckle dusters into their appropriate pockets. He liked those things, even if he rarely found appropriate use for them very often. Thinking on it, he returned to the previous bag that contained the protective gear and handed Caesar over a somewhat smaller ballistic long coat, like the one he was wearing. The older man accepted it quietly and slipped it on.

Caesar regarded a standard issue shotgun, debating the wisdom of carrying something so obvious in the streets of Chicago. "Remember, the weapon laws are different here." He was speaking to Keystone. "Leave the hardware in the car until we get across the state line. Close weapons only. Okay?"

"No worry, Boss. Hope we're uneventful."

"Me, too." Then back to Claire, "Gracias, Miss McManus." He moved his eyes over her half-healed facial contusions, remarking flatly, "We must keep you busy here. But no, I think we're good for now. I would rather we get started."

"One thing ma'am, if I might?" spoke up Keystone, suddenly the pragmatist of the pair, "Anything we ought know about Grimm as you're aware, a'fore we jump in the middle of it?" The query did not stop either man from entering the vehicle.

Translations

1 - Nice to meet you.
2 - Mr. Keystone does not speak Spanish.