Sigil

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar & Keystone

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Location: Chicago (Grimaldi Books)
Skills: Observation, Seek The Guilty (Investigation)
Skills: Observation, Security Procedures

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Keystone didn't answer the book lady. His curiosity as to her innate knowledge of his country or origin was baffling to him just that second, or at least he assumed that was the case considering she rather snidely offered tea. Briefest of consideration weighed that he really wouldn't have declined a decent cup of Builder's right then, but the mystery of her conclusion, however correct it was, irked him. Perhaps she was using an app on her phone that routed into the exterior cameras. Maybe they had sound. Rarer, but these things happened. It shouldn't matter one way or the other. Tiny, irksome mystery that had nothing to do with their reason for being there. As he was from before the moment he entered the building, Keystone remained silent and deferred to the will of his employer.

Sadly, the will of his employer was geared toward the socially blunt, almost totally working in the direction opposite his intent. It was not so much precisely what he said, more than it was the body language and method of speech that was weighing him down. Caesar dipped into his time when he was purely an investigator and agent of the Mexican Federal Police, and acted accordingly. The first thing he did was respond to the lady's offer of coffee with a simple, quiet head shake, his eyes fixed upon hers the entire time. A simple sort of gesture with the intent of politely refusing that looked more like he was waiting for a moment to begin barking at her like a deranged, foamy Rottweiler.

Caesar leaned forward and set his public identification on the counter before him with a deliberate popping sound, issuing from the plastic slapping upon the smooth surface. "I didn't mean to cause trouble, investigating your ex-husband's murder." He sighed in a manner that suggested irritation, "If sating your curiosity is the price of this conversation, fine. It's because I believe his death and my daughter's are connected. As are so many other murders. Very recently." He continued to view the woman with slightly narrowed eyes. The attempt to maintain an act of objective professionalism destined for abrupt failure, Caesar considered the fact that they might have just completely wasted their time in coming here.

Keystone meanwhile seemed oblivious to what was going on around him, merely staring in the general direction of the woman fixing coffee and the back of Caesar's head. If he had the ability to support or curtail his boss's words, he certainly seemed unwilling at the moment. The mystery of the lady's psychic powers might have preoccupied his thoughts, or possibly his last encounter with American tea. To be honest, the concept of massively strong, heavily sweetened tea, served iced and in a tall glass appealed to him. Among the majority of his fellow Londoners it was near to blasphemy, but he kept an open mind. In hindsight, it was a fortuitous stopover that his plane made in Atlanta, when he was en route to Justice, California for the first time. Such were his thoughts, and likely would be still if the building caught fire around him.

🦄 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, Perception

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The crunchy popping sound that was the defiantly Romanesque nose of The Great Bazhooli took him a little by surprise, as was the immediate flash of pain that accompanied the noise. It usually didn't hurt to have the application of Krasnoye, but then again, most of the time steps were taken to assist the technique's ease. Setting a bone as best as possible before healing helped, or so he had thought. But this was a nose, not a femur. And Vladimir really couldn't fault Constantin - his work was excellent. Far better than his own use of the same skill just moments ago.

Vlad raised a hand to his face and gave his nose a little squeeze. Nothing. No pain at all, as if the injury had not taken place. He grinned broadly and clapped his hand about Constantin's shoulder. "Da, da! Good. Feels good! Spasibo, Constantin. I vill try again vith you later. For now..." Vladimir spread his arms wide, accepting the spray of the elements and the sea as it came to him. His grin was accompanied by a sudden light in his eyes, one that a fellow Circus performer would recognize as the currently reigning Great Bazhooli preparing to embrace something unknown and adventurous.

With his arms still wide, Vladimir turned his head to view, in turn, both Ludwig and Constantin. Vitality thrummed in his voice as he roared, "Come, my brothers! Let us give trouble varm embrace! Yes? Yes!" The odd man was having the time of his life. New people to meet. Were the hostile? Did they speak a language he could not? Would he join his forebearing Bazhoolis in death, stand victorious over a pile of knifeslain corpses, or would he make new friends this day? The moment held so many dramatic possibilities for a man such as he, who embraced the fullness of life and adventure at every opportunity. "HA!" he laughed into the wind and water. Let them come.

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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) -> Adjacent House (Exterior)
Skills: Perception, Endurance

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The situation was not ideal. It never was. If the situation was ideal, there would be a lot more living people in the world. Tons more. Ash sat for a second or two and mentally braced for the pain he was about to inflict upon himself, moving quickly and lightly encumbered when he should be staying still and receiving medical attention. But it looked like Mother Nature was about to give them a good kicking again and Ash would be damned if he went down without giving it his best, especially when the closest thing to a miracle he'd seen in years was laying in a carseat next to him, receiving attention from his father. Naturally, that sentiment came very close to being dispelled when the man spoke.

Ash turned to look at Jack, a man who he had come to rely upon and trust implicitly, a fellow survivor of keen mind and instinct. The man he counted upon to take the reins of what remained of their people and lead in the event that Ashton himself was absent, incapacitated, or dead. He stared for a moment, honestly wondering if his Second was joking about him going blind on account of a diaper mishap. Lost in his own difficulties, as he had been for a while now, Ash simply couldn't tell one way or another. He opened his mouth to speak, thought the batter of it, opened his mouth again (this time with a slight hand raise for emphasis), decided against it again, then switched tactic with a noncommittal, "Not an expert, but I think you'd be the first." The usual hint of his mild Virginian accent was a hair more prominent in his speech, as if he was caught in conversation with his guard down.

Mentally reaching back to business, Ash set down his newly acquired pistol and strained to reach into the back of the station wagon. His fingers hooked around one of the bags they had liberated from the rednecks that they had earlier dispatched and pulled it forward. He leaned up and slung it over his shoulder as best he could with his existing, smaller pack, recovered his weapon, and prepared to make a break for it. "This is going to suck..." This to himself, but for Jack, "Grab what you can, if you think you can. I'll clear the way." Very much like the credo of the Combat Engineer, an occupation which Ash plied with distinction for his country, what seemed like a lifetime ago. "Okay, and... let's go."

The movement from the car to the house that Tatiana had pointed out was relatively quick, quiet, and cautious. Quiet at least on his part, though that was difficult to determine. The second that Ash set foot outside of the vehicle, wind buffeted him, forcing him to turn his head before proceeding. This was not something to be out in for too long. Especially for a baby. Silently, he prayed that this part of the ordeal would be over quickly. Luckily, there really wasn't anything to clear, the main obstacle being the wind. As he neared the residence, Ash could not help but notice that the windows were boarded up. This could be a good thing, considering the weather. But it did limit options for entry. A slight stumble as he slowed punctuated his movement, stopping as he came to the front door. Locked.

Windows boarded, door locked. Weather swiftly turning on them. The needed to get inside on the immediate. Ash looked back for Jack, urgently curious as to whether he had a ready idea on entry. Maybe Ash had missed something basic in his haste.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quincy (in house, C9 -> G6)
Skills: Survival, Firebuilding, Scavenging/Foraging

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"Yeah, fuck yourself." breathed Thalia, gratefully accepting Beatrice's help over to the fireplace. She had a plan in mind, and damnit, that meant burning something. The day might not be a total loss after all, aside from her arm, of course. Fire always seemed to calm her anymore. Or excite her. She couldn't tell sometimes. Whatever, it didn't matter. She was going to try to get one going. "Thanks, girl." Her words seemed in contradiction to her previous ones, but that was just how things were now. The pieces of Thalia's mind weren't altogether traveling in the same direction, anyway, requiring a conscious effort to keep a complicated thought in her head for any length of time.

Alexander had been kind enough to deposit her bag in front of the fireplace, a thing for which she was grateful. Thalia nodded, contemplatively murmuring, "Good, good..." There was a faraway feel to her voice. She opened her pack as best she could with one hand and started rummaging through it. Her firestarter was the big reason for having her pack, but she was also able to scare up enough lint, thread, and scrap to form the inner bundle of what would become a fire nest, if she could get a decent enough spark off and nurture it alive. Worse case scenario, she could dissect a bullet and go about it that way, but it was a last resort. And though it looked like the house was very gently broken in, if at all, they seemed to have enough materials keep a fire going interim, in only she could start it.

Thalia heard Alexander's assessment of her plan to create a crossbreeze. Perhaps he had misunderstood something. A couple somethings, maybe. Distracting herself right at that moment was counterproductive, being as she was still loopy from the medication. This would have to be addressed when she was done with Step One of her plan, however.

Wadding seemed easy to come by, too. Still, she was going to need the people with her to locate a couple of things to actually keep the potential light and wind source going. Thalia placed the starter bundle of lint, scrap paper, and ends of string into the paper wadding and attempted to get it going. All she needed was one good spark to catch something, and the rest was all about technique. Lacking a second hand, the mestiza doubted that she would be able to use the friction bow method for quite some time. To make matters worse, the firestarter worked best with two hands applied to it. It was a thing which Thalia struggled with for longer than she liked, coming close to tears with at one point, yet she refused to abandon her idea.

Finally, she managed to grip the two sections of her firestarting tool in her fingers in such a way as the activating surfaced touched, yet had room to slide against each other. Kneeing over her little nest of scraps and trash, Thalia brought her hand down gently and gave her fingers a sharp snap. She hovered over her project, refusing to move or breathe for long seconds, until a genuine smile of accomplishment beamed across her face. One might have thought she had just discovered a way to remove the calories from ice cream without altering a bit of its sweetness or flavor. She cradled the newborn combustion in her one working hand and brought it up to her lips, blowing upon it ever-so-gently so as to coax it into growth without extinguishing its red-orange goodness. When actual flame appeared, Thalia quickly set into the fireplace and sat back on her legs, a happy sigh of relief emanating from her in a huff.

Then she turned to Alexander. "Yeah Mugsy." She exhaled again, apparently not ready for a lot of movement just yet. "Flue dampa." Her Boston was acting up again, apparently. "Vents the smoke. Needs to be aupen. Hot air rises, 'k? Tries to draw in air from somewhere else. If that somewhere else is aunly aune spot aun the autha side auf the room, we got current." She shook her head tiredly, "And I didn't neva say to break a window. Crack it. Open a single window just a tiny bit. Put something a foot in front auf it to block light, if you have to." The cost of her effort and now her prolonged speech was wearying her. "A chair back, or something... Know what? I'm good. If you think your way will work, go for it. If it doesn't, you got a second aupinion right here. Fine eitha way."

Thalia was just satisfied to get a fire going. High and one-handed, she still contributed to the group with something meaningful, even if it was just light and breeze. She pulled out a big, floppy beach towel from her bag and spread it on the floor as best she could, lay back on it, and shoved the firestarter in her pocket. She was spent. "Need to feed that mama." she informed, pointing her stump at the hearth. "Smalla things until they catch, then bigga things. Not too much at aunce." Yeah, she was tired. She did manage to raise an eyebrow when Manny insisted that whomever takes watch could use his shotgun, but dismissed it. She wasn't in any shape for security detail, and even if she was, she'd stick with the Ruger on her belt.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Building Interior (F5)
Skills: N/A

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The torchlight was doing a pretty good job of providing illumination, flickering though it was. Hank was not overwhelmingly satisfied with the scintillating dance of its less stable light across his field of vision, alternating with orange light and indeterminate shadow. It increased the time it would take for his tired eyes to adjust well enough to discern detail of his surroundings, even basic ones like the color and shape of the segments of floor beneath him. Was it planks? Sheets of wood laminate? Linoleum? No, it was a mystery that would have to wait until he could get a firmer grasp upon the barest hint of his surroundings, and even then it was doomed to mere supposition until the light of day beamed in a smoother, more powerful form of illumination.

Hank took some comfort in the fact that he knew, catching a decent enough eyeful from the outside, that he at least had access to four walls and a floor. Yes, it was indeed a floor upon which he stood, details notwithstanding and largely unnecessary in the grand scheme of things. He contemplated the luxury that said floor might provide, especially here in a wetland in Georgia, of all places. Hank took stock of that word, wetland. The a compound word; an amalgamation of the words "Wet", obviously, and "Land", also obviously. Land that was Wet. It made sense. And Hank was happy that he wasn't standing on wet land at that hour. Or if not happy, barely content enough with the concept that he did little else but stand quietly and give it further thought. Yes, with the exception of seeing to an inner ear itch with his pinky finger, maybe adjusting his belt a little to place the simple, once chrome colored buckle in the exact center of his waist, Hank took the opportunity to set his mind to idle. Possibly the first of many upcoming senior moments? That remained to be seen.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Gaming Room
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 4
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Dr. Swamp accepted the compliment from Amaranthine with a small smile and a gallant bowing of his head. It looked particularly sweeping due to the influence of his long beaked, bonelike mask. Almost dramatic. It was always a good thing to receive positive feedback about the fruit of one's passions, even something so trivial as a drawing. "My sincerest thanks, Chanteuse. I find that my artistic endeavors have been immensely helpful with my work. The two compli..." His speech paused as Cobalt opened part of the wall. An eyebrow arched, regarding the event. A second later, he turned his head back in the direction of Amaranthine to complete his sentence, "...compliment one another quite well, and by necessity."

When Amaranthine gave notice that they were indeed not alone, Swamp had already noted the discussion outside of the door, and moreover, the discussion about the Chanteuse as if she was not there. It seemed horribly impolite. In response, the Doctor cleared his throat and set both of his hands upon the top of his cane in front of him. If he had to stand quickly for the exchange coming up, he wished to not be placed at a disadvantage when doing so. He did cast an observant look at the newer interlopers to the performance before attempting speech or action, curious and alert to their intentions. What he observed bothered him. Moreover, the small reactions that Amaranthine had to their presence bothered him further.

Dr. Swamp rose, stepping the few paces it required to place himself between the open door and Amaranthine. He looked to the petite woman and, with his back turned to the gentlemen outside of the door, gave her a solid wink and the tiniest of nods. Leaning upon his stick, now set directly before him, the Doctor widened his stance a hair and addressed the newest, unmasked arrivals. "Indeed, too perfect." His voice was stern but not aggressive. "I have always thought so. Gentlemen, I do not profess to know who you are, nor who you believe she is, but I would appreciate it greatly if you did not look upon my intended with such predatory gaze, nor speak of her as if she were not here. I find it highly disrespectful. Please move on." He glanced back to the Chanteuse to see if he had overstepped somehow. It was admittedly a reach, be it one he thought might have the most impact with them on the immediate.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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

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This was not a usual turn of events, even for Emendators. Moreover, it seemed to be a little too tidy for Gilbert's liking, much like the exchange with the younger fellow, Ben, earlier at the Kitchen House. On the one hand, everyone was safe and relatively unharmed, the wound from the roustabout Jonsey aside, not to mention that the giant piece of revolving machinery didn't claim anyone's life as it collapsed. These were all good things. But on the other hand, this was an issue that obviously could have been handled at leisure by the pale lady that everyone had thusfar referred to as "Management". He had suspicions that a lot of this could be a setup of some kind; a deception designed to reveal their hands, metaphorically speaking, and gauge their abilities. It was just the kind of dry run test that he might perform, with some things considered. Or on the other side of things, it was one amazing display of power on behalf of this "Management" lady. Perhaps that was the intended goal - demonstration of power.

Or, it could all be innocuous and totally coincidental. In truth, Gilbert did not know, or could he. His sight into human history was garbled and fuzzy with some of these people, the ramifications of this fact unknown. What he did know was that he had a crop of fairly recent Paradoxes and the number of Emendators on the Plantation was getting fewer by the hour. They were not at full strength, by far. If this was a situation that was bound for hostility, they were already at disadvantage.

For right now, if this was deception, it was being maintained by all parties concerned. If it was not, the emergency had passed, and clearly would have passed just fine without their involvement. Every piece of the effort put to assist on the part of the Paradoxes was pointless; wasted actions that served to reveal things about themselves, whether that was the purpose or whether it was not. Gilbert tipped his hat down to Samson after the diminutive fellow asked if everyone was okay, though his next words were for one of his Paradoxes, not their guests: "Bart? Their man Jonesy is injured." It certainly appeared that way, with all the drops of crimson he was venting while swinging from the big, iron wheel. "Please help him, I do not want any more dead patches on the grounds if we can help it."

Returning his attention to Samson, Gilbert switched his manner and tone to something more open, saying, "That was exciting, was it not? I am glad that is over; a lot of people could have gotten hurt. Or worse." He nodded, seemingly affirming his concern. "Well, if you will excuse me, sir?" Gilbert turned around and solidly strode back in the direction of the Kitchen House. They wanted to wait until nightfall to talk? Fine. No one was damaged beyond repair and he had things to do that day. The first thing involved flour, milk, eggs, and pecans. These people could obviously handle themselves.

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Carnival Setup)
Skills: N/A

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Meanwhile, James looked upon the scene of twisted, falling metal and the near death experience of one of his fellow Paradoxes and two of the carnival folk, not to mention all of the people below (including Gilbert, as it turned out) who could have gotten crushed by the debris, and was exposed to true fear. He dropped the net he was holding and took a step or two toward the scene, impotent to really do anything about the descending Ferris Wheel nor the people whose lives it was about to take. When it ceased falling, and the people hanging from its side safely deposited nearby, James cocked his head to the side in the same manner as a highly confused German Shepherd. "Wait. What th' ass just happened?" he questioned aloud, looking around as if someone had an answer forthcoming. Whatever just happened, it put most of the abilities of the Emendators and Paradoxes to shame with its utter, raw display of effortless power. Most of them. Well, certainly his, but he was still a young Paradox yet.

James answered the observation that Andromeda had just made, about the "power move", with a direct affirmation of her assessment of the whole situation. "Yuh huh, girl. Straight out Magneto stuff's what that is, right there. Hot damn, this one wacky game show." The highly impressed blackneck removed his stetson and wiped sweat from his brow, then set it back atop his head. "And I'll tell you somethin' else, too: That there's a really white lady. Mmm hmm. She even got you beat, Andy. Looks good on you though, real talk." James suddenly realized something, putting a couple of overheard facts together. "Oh, that's why she's wantin' the meet & greet at nighttime. Makes sense now! Okay... Hey, everyone good here? Let's get this net back in the truck, I don't think we got use for it now anyways."

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck, His Stateroom)
Skills: N/A

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It was with no small amount of relief that Reginald located his stateroom and entered without issue. He wasn't sure what the highly American and very young Mrs. Ridgeway was getting at, but at his age, Reginald was far too venerable to be sharing private quarters with a lady who was of an appropriate age to be a granddaughter. Or near to it, at the least. The Lord Major's reputation in England's upper crust circles had taken a bit of a hit about things of that nature, and the last thing he wanted to do was inflict that sort of gossip upon a perfectly innocent young lady. Propriety was all about the appearance of things, after all, not the truth of them. That was the way the world worked, be it that it wasn't always fair.

His quarters were indeed up to his standards. For a boat, anyway. His upbringing in the nobility of Great Britain aside, the Lord Major had spent far more time as a soldier, stationed in a soldiers' quarters. In fairness, they were generally those of an officer. It could not be denied that they were invariably less luxurious than that which his family held as standard accommodations. The short form of Reginald's assessment with his room was that it would suffice; it was better than he expected yet not quite what he thought of when the phrase "First Class" was bantered about.

"Oh I say," he mused aloud, "that obnoxious fellow did a crack job it it, didn't he?" Reginald was referring to the neat packaging of much of his personal belongings, including uniforms, personal effects, and he even thought to pack his riding and marching gear. The old man did not intend to do a whole lot in the way of marching if he could help it, though it was good to see his field gear on standby. He even caught sight of a bundle that he assumed was his rifle from the Great War, wrapped in leather and secured with bayonet unaffixed. He was a more than decent shot with it despite his lack of necessity comparative to others involved in the War with its use, owing to his insistence to train with the grunt soldiers. As a man of gentlemanly practice, preferences marked him as more of a sword-and-pistol combatant.

Also something of impressive note, a basket of that date bread he liked so much, individual sections wrapped in waxed paper, lay waiting for him in the sitting area, alongside a bowl of fruit and a ready bottle of his personal scotch with accompanying tumbler. "Good heavens, that Corporal is taking this 'Valet' business seriously..." There was a touch of awe in his voice, bordering upon disbelief. He was actually a damned good Valet, though he doubted very much if he could see himself hiring Reddish on in his civilian life and having to introduce him to his social circle as, "Ah, yes. This is my Man, Reddish." The concept of having to deal with his usual battle cry (Yes, Lord MAJOR!!!) in his home every time he requested something, such as poached eggs of a folded periodical, was galling.

Reginald shook off the very thought with a shrug and helped himself to a fig from the basket. He wasn't especially hungry, having just finished supper, but it was in the mood for something sweet anyway. In any case, he had come to his stateroom to avoid a situation, which he had accomplished, and now that he was present he refilled his tobacco pouch from personal stock and tooled out his pipe. Yes, a bit of good, brown, Egyptian leaf with his new colleagues and fellow veterans would be a rousing sort of endeavor. Perhaps that Zalil fellow might want to join, were he in shape enough to socialize. Reginald thought he mentioned something about serving a term with the troops in India. A sort of Boys' Night among fighting men, as it were. The thought warmed him.

His task completed, the Lord Major gave his room a once over and then quietly exited, curious as to what he was to do next upon the boat until George was done with his tasks and Mahendra decided whether he was going to poke his nose out of his cabin that evening. Perhaps he would take in the air, lose a shilling or two at gambling, or just listen to the musicians ply their trade as they all floated along the Nile. With such options available to him, Reginald closed the door to his room behind him and locked up, then began to make his way toward the more open guest areas of the Elite Deck.

He suddenly froze in place. His eyes caught something that made him worry that he was either losing a marginal part of sight in his declining years, or possibly a chunk of his mind. It was the Corporal, arm in arm with Josephine, who was wearing the man's uniform jacket. The shock was still fresh with him when Reddish turned in his direction and, without slowing his pace, threw a very casual salute in Reginald's direction. The Lord Major did the only thing he logically could do in that instance: He doffed his cap to the man and returned his salute, though his mind jumbled with questions.

"...what the devil happened at that supper?" he whispered, dropping the salute and letting his hand hang at his side.

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Haring Reddish

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

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"Why Miss Clarke, you bite your tongue." expressed Reddish with mock offense, "Don't go apologizing for a laugh I'm keen on the hearing of. Why, I'll consider it a personal failure if I can't coax another one out of you before the evening's done." He nodded enthusiastically, a resolute look upon his face as if to reinforce this as a personal mission for the next hour. The Corporal took a more appraising look at Josephine, dressed nautically yet warding off the Nile wind with the frock of a non-commissioned soldier of the British Army. Admittedly it was a little mismatched, but the warm smile that touched his face for a moment suggested that he favored the look, be he somewhat biased on the matter.

When the starlet thanked him for the use of his jacket, he responded with a reassuring, even optimistic, "Think nothing of it, madame. Nothing of it at all. If you'll allow my opinion, that being the case it's about bloody time someone did." The single bob of his head seemed to punctuate his sentence with a abrupt period. He took the moment to half drain his glass of wine, savoring the bold sweetness of the aromatic, golden libation.

Reddish looked soberly at Josephine as she commented on the wine. It was a fine piece of the vintner's arts, but it was fair to say that it did not suit everyone's palette. Well, waste not want not, as the saying went. While Josephine made her way to the stairs leading up to the Elite Deck, the Corporal quickly jammed the cork back into the bottle and handed it off to a standby dining steward. He gave over his room number and informed the man that the room should be unused and empty. And speaking of empty, he polished off the remainder of his glass and set it on a nearby table before jogging up behind his walking companion and linking his arm with hers. "Well then, Miss Clarke, we're just going to have to find something that accommodates your tastes better, then won't we? Remember, I'm British. Two things we can do are queue and accommodate, if you'll take my meaning, ma'am! Besides, too much of that stuff is bad for you. Sugary, you see."

Ascending the stairs, Reddish was more than happy to show his ticket to the official present. Soon, he was upon the wondrous and nigh mythical Elite Deck, a place ordinarily barred to common folk like himself. All the wonder and majesty of what the Upper Class got to experience on a daily basis was his to bask in! ...and yet, it didn't seem quite as awestriking as what he might have made it out to be. Of course, expecting to somehow find a fountain of craft beer and people in powdered wigs was admittedly a bit naive. Not just that, but like he had said below, he was here for the view. Before he could get to that, however, he caught sight of someone he knew from the corner of his eye. It was the Lord Major, come from his stateroom with the oddest look on his face, just staring at them. Staring as if someone had just told him a joke that he didn't quite get and struggled in vain to understand. The Corporal cast a look in his direction. As the man said, he was Off Duty. Still, out of genuine respect for the legend known as The Lord Major, Knight of the Skies, Reddish raised his free hand and set it to his temple in salute, albeit never slowing his pace.

"You see what I was saying, Miss Clarke?" he said, looking across the water as they walked along. "Moonlight upon the Nile, I mean to say. Nothing like it in the world." He stopped for a moment, noticing a photographer just a little ways up, taking souvenir pictures of foreign tourists and the like. The Corporal looked like he wanted to say something, but was held back by a sense of propriety. After a few awkward seconds, he finally said, "Miss Clarke? I um... Look, you're all appointed and famous and the like, right? I'm the son of horse breeders from Middle England. This isn't my life at all, if you take my meaning, ma'am. First Class and moonlit walks with bloody movie stars in spectacular dresses. Just spectacular. Could I impose, and I know it's imposing, but would you take a picture with me? Maybe autograph after it's developed? Silly fan club style nonsense, but hey, when am I ever going to have an opportunity again, right?" He looked hopeful, but inwardly braced for a negative response to his request.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar & Keystone

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Location: Chicago (Grimaldi Books)
Skills: General Observation
Skills: General Observation

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Keystone looked to Caesar as the trio of MSS agents approached the building. The larger man made sure to do as his employer requested and left his firearm back in the SUV; it was a smarter call than to engage in a private investigation where things could get heated, and in a state that didn't recognize his specific credentials to carry. Just until he was back in the vehicle and/or crossed the state line into Indiana. For the meantime, staying alert to his surroundings was paramount. A decent backfist wouldn't hurt matters either, if the occasion warranted it.

He couldn't help but notice that the architecture looked fairly similar to the apartment buildings in Boston Heights back in Justice, California. Coincidence, probably. Styles of buildings in urban areas tended to follow one another, often across the continent, from one decade to another. Well, coincidence or not, it seemed that every angle was covered with security cameras. Were Keystone to invert his training and bend Security Procedures to more nefarious ends, he would be hard pressed to enact an approach the bookstore that was out of recorded view. He quietly cleared his throat to get Caesar's attention and discretely pointed the electronics setup to him. More obvious was the fairly recent work that had been done to the building, as if something was remodeled or rebuilt after some mishap had taken place.

Caesar gave his younger companion an equally discrete nod. If the cameras were new, it was obviously done in response to something distinct. The theft of that priceless book he had just learned about came to his mind first. Status of the building and its security points aside, Caesar was more interested in the woman who owned the business they were entering. She was on the phone and speaking, though to whom was anyone's guess. The more curious part was when she hung up the phone, yet continued speaking. From Caesar's vantage point at their approach, he could not see another person inside of the building with the proprietress, though the continued speech suggested otherwise. Or she was bitching about the outcome of her phone call, to herself. Caesar was going err on the side of additional company inside.

As they neared the doors, Keystone opened the door and stepped to one side to allow Caesar first entry to the bookstore. The older man arched his eyebrow at the action, but then understood his action. They had been fairly buddy-buddy for the most part, that is to say, semi-formal at best. At this point, they were in an unfamiliar city in the middle of what amounted to a full investigation, though of what precisely was still up for debate. Keystone was playing his role, hoping to show a professional, organized, united front. The briefest of pauses later, Caesar entered the shop with Keystone in tow, the mammoth Brit silent and keeping to his rear flank.

"Ms. Grimaldi?" he began in his low pitched, gravelly voice. To his credit, he did try to soften it considerably. "Ms. Adelaide Grimaldi? I am Caesar Gonzalez, of Machete Security Solutions. We are investigating a series of murders on the west coast, including a Master Gunnery Sergeant David Lawson, among others. The trail is leading us to your hometown. May we speak?" It was more rigid and proper of tone than he was really comfortable, but attempting to intimidate felt inappropriate at the moment.

🦄 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, Krasnoye

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Sitting bodily upon the deck with blood freely moving from his now mildly misshapen (but still epically Bazhooli-eque) nose, Vladimir was not particularly satisfied with the events of recent hours. Come to think of it, pretty much everything since he had booked passage upon the boat was darkened by a shadow of ill fortune or unknown factors. Such was the nature of life, he supposed. Every moment of every day a new and shiny piece of adventure, every unfortunate turn of fate a new obstacle to overcome. But the most insidious, the most diabolical, nay, the most dastardly evil obstacle that existed within the present hour was that damnedable mast.

Instead of venting his fury upon the stalwart sail-holding former tree, Vlad remained seated to view the approach of Constantin. His lack of action betrayed his comrade, as it allowed ample time for the mast to strike again. And strike it did. There was only one logical course of action to be taken at this time.

"Damn you!" he roared at the offending mast, blood and spittle flinging distastefully from his face in his empassioned rage. "Damn you, mast! Damn you to Hell of Many Lovehungry Bear! You have dropped gauntlet, and insult vill be answered! ...but first, must see to friend." He looked to Constantin, who bore injury identical to his own. A last glance at the mast concluded his monologue to the inanimate object with a snap of, "Are lucky for now!"

To his fellow Circus performer, he spoke from a more lighthearted position. "Costantin! Did not know you show Great Bazhooli such favor, as to break own face to appear more like him! It flatters, da? Of course. But ve must fix, Constantin Firevalker. Dot in distance makes us vait for while longer, unless boat makes magic trip again. Come! Come." Vladimir took a long look at Constantin's nose and moved to straighten it with his thumbs. As he did so, he felt his mind fall into the rhythmic thrum that often accompanied his personal application of Krasnoye, or the Rusyn Training Skill of healing physical trauma.

The touch was not with him as much as he would have liked. His own discomfort, the shakiness of his legs after the massive vomiting session, who knew? But Constantin's pain had subsided, if the injury itself was not fully knitted. It was an okay start. "For sorry, Constantin. Ve try again, little later, eh?"

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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: Perception

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It was apparent that Ash was duly impressed by the ease with which Jack handled that diaper, once he got past the initial apprehension and actually got to it. He was ready to dig deep into his education and experience as an engineer to mold himself to the purpose, or at least to act as foreman on such a project, but fatherly instincts beat out more scholarly routes in this instance. It was for the best; Ash shouldn't step on toes that way. There was the slightest bit of sarcastic comment inching its way to the surface concerning the whole ordeal which was quickly cut back by a torrent of vomit inching its way up even faster. Luck was with Ash, however, as he was able to force it back down just before it splattered across the floor of the vehicle.

As he was certain that the diapering was in good hands, Ash focused his attention outward. The last piece of dying illumination from the day, coupled with diffused moonlight, gave him just enough of an image to correspond with what he was hearing around him: They needed to move, and fast. "Hey, Jack? We need to get us and little Jamie here someplace else. This is gonna get real bad, real fast. Didn't Tati say that house," he motioned to one nearby that was pointed out earlier, "had a solid basement? I say we grab what we can and head that way. Think you and your boy are up for it?" They were probably better off than he was in that department. At least Ash had a good pistol and one decently working arm in case something unexpected popped up.

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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The heat and the dark. Depending upon the circumstances, that might not be a bad thing. Indeed it might not be here, except that it was just a matter of time before they start falling over each other, trying for whatever tasks they needed to accomplish to hunker down for the night. Were things different, they would have fallen into the routine that had been adequate to keeping them alive and kicking (except for Mugsy, but she immediately cursed herself for having the thought) for the past year. Thalia had to go and get herself bitten, and then ludicrously high on prescription meds to deal with Civil War style surgery pain.

Her head was the slightest bit clearer now. Clear enough to feel embarrassed at some of the actions she had taken recently, and likewise clear enough to be thinking about a way to help out. She was still weak, still shaky, and still under the influence of painkillers, not to mention missing a hand, but she didn't want to do nothing. Doing nothing got you dead. "Hey," she said to anyone who would listen, "My pack, fireplace." Okay, so she wasn't doing the bast job ever with communicating her point just then. She slowed her words and shifted her can of O's to one side, "If someone helps me, to the fireplace, and grabs my pack... I can get us light. Heat rising in the chimney, crack a back window, air circulation. Minimal exposure at night. Fire will actually, cool us down. Give us light." Slow, deliberate words. Not that she really needed cooling down on account of the blood loss. Point of fact, she would likely still need the blanket. But everyone else looked like they were ready to melt. It had been a hard day all around. It would probably be harder tomorrow. But right then, with a little assistance, she could try to help those who had helped her.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: E3
Skills: Hunting, Scavenging, Survival

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Hank looked at his friend with an expression that was part wonder, part incredulity as he set about piecing together a makeshift torch out of things that he had on him. It wasn't a bad idea at all, having some light when exploring a new spot. One doesn't want one's face eaten by dead people, now does one? Nope, not a bit. However, having been the man's constant companion for about five years now, the fact that Wayne was asking him for a lighter made him wonder about his sanity more than his habit for speaking to things that weren't really there.

That last part probably wasn't fair. Hank knew very well the personal hell of seeing things that weren't real. Far better than most, it was his own tiny Hell for a while there. If that was how his friend coped with things, it wasn't his place to judge him too harshly. Still, he couldn't let the request go. "Yeah, that's good thinking, Wayne." he said, dropping to a knee and opening his pack. He pulled out a full sized security issue flashlight and clicked it on for just a second, inspecting the contents of the backpack very briefly, and grunted out a quick, "Here we go..." He extinguished the light and held out one of his disposable cigarette lighters to Wayne. "Real sensible there, Maldonado. Save the batteries on my Maglite." There was more than a touch of sarcasm in the sentence. He shook his head. The lighter fluid was already on the rag, so there was no point in wasting it. And truthfully, they probably should save the battery life. No telling when he would find fresh ones again.

Being as Wayne was the guy with the light source, Hank decided to stick close to him. His pack found its way onto his back, and one of his hands was filled with the grip of a Smith & Wesson pistol. While his unstable cohort took to the scene in front of them, Hank kept his attention to the ground and the area around them. Standard covering procedure, altered of course to account for the fact that they were in the middle of an apocalypse with previously unforeseen dangers lurking. "Area looks clear." he advised in low tones, "No recent movement that shouldn't be there, either. Let's go knock."

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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Location: Ville au Camp (Carnival Setup)
Skills: N/A

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However off or misplaced, part of Gilbert's mind considered the possibility that this entire situation was brought about by deliberate means. The one young man (of sorts), Ben, seemed to have no qualms with putting on a display that he had abilities of his own that were similar in nature to those of the Paradoxes. He couldn't believe that it would be a very far cry for whomever was in charge of this carnival to orchestrate a little "accident" to test the reactions of, and feel out the abilities within, their hosts. Perhaps it might be different if that "Ben" guy had been more amenable to conversation, explanation, or simply getting acquainted after the fact. It was all quite peculiar. Still, if they wanted a show, so be it. Such an act would not only force a conversation, if only with the base staff of the carnival, but it served to demonstrate the resolve of the persons of Ville au Camp, coloring them as people of decency and will.

The talk he was hoping for with Faith, and the goddamned pancakes, would have to wait.

Much as Gilbert was straining to see if anyone or anything in particular was bearing special witness to what was going on, be it from afar or closer up with telltale expression, the cluster of happenings right around him prevented even the most basic of observation. He cast an eye up to see a seat clattering and plummeting to the ground, bt barely paid it any heed, either. Whatever didn't directly crash into him or his appeared of little interest to him. His Paradoxes were.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had inadvertently become the paternal figure of this group. Wonder flashed in his psyche as to how precisely that happened without him knowing it.

The next second or to had Gilbert looking around to the Paradoxes around him. They all had abilities that were useful in different circumstances, but the last thing he wanted was for his students to rely completely upon them. Most of the time, the will to act was more important than the power to fly or turn into a cluster of butterflies, or whatever randomness fate had assigned them. The will to act and the intelligence to do so properly was worth more than preternatural ability. "Bart, that man will need healing. Faith, be ready to shunt to others if they need it. If no else is willing, take from me." He would be able to survive it far better than these people by his reckoning, though he would hate to be put in a weakened condition when the overall situation with these people was uncertain. "Andromeda," he began curtly to her. She had been quiet so far. Gilbert had spent more one-on-one time with her than the others, and he knew her to be thoughtful and with qualities he wanted to nurture. Here was an opportunity. "Backup plan. If this starts to go south, use your instincts. The others will support you. For now, get everyone you can on that net, starting with these two." he nodded to Bart and Faith.

For himself, Gilbert intended upon staying put for the time being. Andromeda could still fall. Jonsey was close to it himself. Maybe his strength would suffice to break a fall without sustaining mortal damage, maybe it would not. Staying on scene to manage the effort and keep people back seemed the proper thing to do at the moment. If the falling seat wasn't enough to get people to clear people away, then he was certainly going to accomplish the same effect with his presence and his voice, assisting the much smaller carny manager in the effort.

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Carnival Setup)
Skills: N/A

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Meanwhile, James looked to Ben, and Gilbert, and finally Samson. He restrained himself from saying his usual, "On it, Boss" after he instructed the younger woman, Libby, to show him where the net was stored. Reflex action from years and years of service to others, be they only ever ones he chose to be of service to. If anyone was his Boss in this place, it was one of the remaining two Emendators. James tended to be a loyal man in that way. He was also a man of industrious labor, and there was definitely work to do. On the extreme quick, mind you. James wondered how long that man swinging above could hold on, even venting blood as he was. Wry humor made him answer his own question in a mumble, "...fo' the rest of his life, I'm bettin'..." Thankfully, it was not very loudly.

He locked eyes with Sophia when they made it to the truck containing the net. James was glad to have her along with him. She was the most familiar face out of the bunch, and the one he felt most comfortable around. Also, and it wasn't something that he had really thought about until this moment, but the presence of people he knew from his previous life like Sophia and Alicia probably kept him sane in his first few days as a Paradox. They helped him accept the reality of what he was now. Lord knew that spontaneously turning into a wild boar was a strain to his sense of reality.

Seeing the difficulty with which Sophia and Libby were moving the netting out of the vehicle, James decided that lending his strength to the endeavor would be better suited, initially at least, by pulling it free of whatever it was hung upon. "C'mon, c'mon." he spoke aloud, yanking handfuls of woven rope off of and out from under the various things packed around it. He was making some very decent headway, clearing a lot of it for other hands to grab onto. There just didn't seem to be enough hands on it at the moment, and there sure as hell wouldn't be enough hands to stretch it out underneath the giant wheel with any hope of saving a life. "Come on, we needin' some help with this! Time's a muthafuckin' factor, y'all!" He called to whomever was around, be they Paradox, Carney, or entity unknown. Oh, it was coming out of the truck. But it was way to slow for his liking.