Sigil

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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Location: Ville au Camp (Main House -> His Quarters: Room 203)
Skills: Perception

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Gilbert's steps came with just a hair of unsteadiness. He continued to set one foot in front of the other, at this moment oblivious to most of what was going on around him. Even Bartholomew's offer to lend his Paradox gifts to his aid seemed to drill into his head with every syllable. The offer was appreciated, granted, but ultimately pointless. This was the price he paid for stretching his own gifts beyond their intended purpose. You bend the rules enough, they start to bend you back. He waved Bart away, intoning as politely as he could (circumstances permitting), "Nothing you can do. Thank you." He flashed an obviously forced smile and continued on his way.

Before very long his mildly distressed boots came to clack softly upon the wood of the Main House's flooring. Just as carefully as he dared to, Gilbert located the nearest steps and made his way to his room on the second floor. He wasn't sure how long this would continue to afflict him, and he did not want anyone else to see him in a compromised condition if he could help it. The Paradoxes might understand, and indeed would see him in worse states as the years droned on, but these Carnival people? No. He didn't know them, they didn't know him, and on the chance that any one of them had hostile of ulterior motive, he did not want to encourage them.

Quietly, he turned the key in his lock and swung open the door. He wished at that time only to cover his windows and close his eyes, either to meditate until the pain subsided or take a nap and hope that it left of its own accord by the time he woke. But what he saw scrambled both of those possibilities. It was a note; folded paper with his name written on the outside in Giosue's metered and easily legible handwriting. He stood, staring at it for a moment before placing one hand upon the doorframe for support, leaning down, and snatching it up. Gilbert shook it open and gave it due, serious consideration. After all, what needed to be said in a note that couldn't have been communicated in person earlier that morning? As he read, the look of annoyed incredulity became obvious, were anyone around to see it.

"...leaving... blah blah Golgotha... counsel... blah blah indeterminate period in timelines..." he read it three times, slowly, before he let his hand hang at his side. With a sigh, Gilbert sat on his bed and rested his throbbing head in his free hand. Though it pained him to do so, the tall Emendator spoke aloud, "That bastard. It is not the time for this." For once in a very long time, The Hat was the sole Emendator in Ville au Camp, otherwise populated by a cadre of baby Paradoxes, and now an unknown factor of carnival folk who outnumbered them a few times over and likewise contained individuals who possessed abilities setting them apart from natural humanity. Very powerful abilities. From the feel of the note that Gio left, he might be gone for a long, long time. Gil was once a great leader - militant and strong, the ruler of the first truly great empire of men. Commander of countless people in conflicts almost innumerable across the millennia. A sharp contrast to the laid-back, casual person he had become over the last couple of centuries or so. He actually enjoyed just basking in what Humanity had to offer, and the natural wonders of the Earth. This... this might have to change that, at least for a while.

Him being in charge was a mixed blessing at best for these Paradoxes. He would have to be the Field Marshal once again, filling the roles of all the other Emendators, without help nor advice from the others he had come to rely upon. But he couldn't do any of that until the battle in his head stopped its infernal bombing run.

Oh, if Evelina could see him now.

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Carnival Setup -> Kitchen House)
Skills: Perception

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The mention from Andromeda that coffee sounded like a good idea was met with direct and optimistic approval from James. "Hells yeah, coffee sounds good!" He had noted the color appearing in her cheeks. While unsure as to why she seemed embarrassed about something (because he was fairly oblivious to things of this nature, in general), he didn't want her condition to deepen because of unwanted attention paid to it. Hence, a sudden burst of energetic speech to draw eyes to himself instead. "Used to run with this Army Cap'n back in the day, right? Man loved him some coffee. Risk his neck for a cup of instant, if'n he had to." By context and various obscure hand gestures, it was apparent that he meant in his pre-Paradox life. "Grim sumbitch could make some hooch, too. We used to get slap tore-up sometimes, when we found someplace we thought was safe an' he had some extra we wasn't usin' for fuel or whatnot... anyways, sometimes he'd joke around sayin':" James put on a fake serious face and altered his voice to poorly approximate a mild Virginian accent, "...heh... 'I like my coffee like I like my women: ...ground up and jammed in the freezer!'"

He did his best to suppress a giggle, which was to say not very well. "Nah, he's good people though. Hey, Miss Sophia, you 'member Cap'n Ash? Sometimes, that man actually smiled. True story." James grinned as he nodded his head, though inwardly he felt a sense of odd nostalgia. He had good friends, even in the hell that was his timeline. Part of him still wanted to know how they were all doing.

He gave Faith a wave as she gave them the information about heading to the Kitchen House, which worked out pretty well for him considering that he was going exactly to that location for his own purposes right that second. Sophia's concern about waiting for Gilbert was noted, although James didn't really have a good answer for her. Luckily, that didn't stop him from from supplying one. "Dunno. But if he wants java, he need to hurry up."

True to his word, as soon as he made it into the Kitchen House, the first thing James did was set up the drip percolator and get a sizeable pot of strong, black ambrosia going. "It's them little luxuries you miss, when your world's overrun with walkin' dead folks. Miss Andy, how d'you take yours?" He hastily added, "Coffee, not dead folks."

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Cargo)
Skills: Perception

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Storage boxes upon storage boxes, duffels, rucks, and the like all set piled one atop another in organized, tidy rows and columns. To the untrained eye, it was merely a series of identical containers stored in some semblance of order. But to a military man, especially one of the British Empire, this was a roadmap as clear as any, minimizing the time required to locate any item which might be required upon short notice. As Reginald was a highly senior member of precisely that military, his sharp (if slightly ageworn) eyes studied over their practical supplies foremost with the intent to rule out anything of the sort, exonerating his own men from the suspect list. Or at least helping their cause in that regard.

What he actually saw did indeed do that, else showed the active, working intelligence of a man covering his tracks. Indeed there was evidence that someone had gone through their belongings, as far as he could tell, and attempted to replace the items individually in exactly the way they were packed. Unfortunately for their hopes at stealth, the British Military had regulation for every detail of such things, down to the manner in which socks were rolled together and rested in an individual's set of webbing for transport. Details were off. Changes of regulation attire put in with folds on the wrong side. Labels askew. Things which set their belongings apart as having been picked through and replaced, as if in systematic search of something. This would not do. "Mr. Benaszewski," he began in businesslike voice, "I've not gotten to the Museum pieces yet, but I do believe that thusfar nothing is missing. Be that as it may, everything has been pawed through by hands attempting discretion yet failing quite admirably - and I do not believe anyone from among my own soldiery is to blame, unless they were struggling to look like indigenous personnel. This is either a very crafty person (or persons), else very sloppy. Whichever route this travels upon, my good sir, someone needs to be clubbed about the face and head, then thrown overboard." After a second or two of consideration, "And we likely should inform the Shipmaster of these transgressions, as I've not official authority here, you see."

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Haring Reddish

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

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Corporal Reddish was blissfully unaware of the drama elsewhere, merely content to spend this part of the evening in the polite and surprisingly eventful company of someone who, looking back upon it, no one would actually believe chose to associate with him voluntarily. It was shrug worthy, really. If the importance of the evening to him was such that getting a picture with her was the only reason, that being to impress others at a later date, then he would likely be horribly ashamed at himself. The fact that she was famous was not (in and of itself) due reason for the desire for her company. Though if Reddish were honest with himself, it did rather make the experience a little more exciting. Dangerous too, considering that the Lord Major's "Fellowship" had suffered casualties already. Josephine was the type that could inadvertently draw attention to herself. That being the case, perhaps it was a fortunate thing that she was seen with such an unlikely companion. No Hollywood star of the silver screen would be seen with a lowly Corporal on a riverboat. A mental shrug later, he figured that his comparatively workaday appearance was, in this instance, an excellent cover for them both. Subtle. And even if this lady was correct in her assessment of her ability to take care of herself, hopefully Reddish's presence would make such actions unnecessary.

Despite his slender frame and youngish features, The Corporal knew that he could handle himself quite well. His nickname on the Western Front, and the circumstances around how he got it, bore witness to the fact that a skinny kid from Nottinghamshire could accomplish much in the way of unbridled violence if he was too hungry and cold and desperate to be scared anymore. The touch of his own fame among the soldiery was a positive note, too. In a way, it was liberating. And in another, it was appalling. Replace him with any other young man crawling about in the freezing mud of the trenches, dealing with the same circumstances, and it was only a matter of time before they snapped and did something monumentally stupid, too. He just happened to live through it. Then develop a talent. But that wasn't exactly him anymore. Oh, it was still in there somewhere, but he was a vastly different man now, of which that was merely a part.

Reddish forced himself not to think upon specifics of the War, nor the details of his actions at that time. He had spent a glorious few moments with a charming young lady aboard a ship traveling up the Nile; an experience which he would carry with him in the years to follow. And to his credit, she did not run away screaming nor politely excuse herself for a pressing engagement elsewhere that she just remembered. So he would call this evening a success, overall. However, he did take a bit of a risk, offering further recreation in the form of acquiring drinks with Josephine, thusly extending the paired company of himself and the starlet. Well, as the saying went: "Faint Heart never won Fair Lady". He was never known to really have a faint heart, and while she was no one to be won, persay, Reddish would take her continued presence as something highly positive, and her bowing out as simply a woman's prerogative for respectful self-determination. Nonetheless, if he did not throw the whole of himself into the situation, he just wouldn't be true to his nature. In work or in play, Corporal Haring D. Reddish acted fully in the present, as completely and thoroughly as humanly possible.

But in that moment, as he awaited an answer from his deck strolling companion, he kept his smile polite and his face otherwise neutral, just happy to be out and about with such charismatic company.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar & Keystone

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Location: Chicago (Grimaldi Books)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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Though both Keystone and Caesar turned their gazes to regard the sudden burst of inquisitiveness from the other man in the room, it was the larger Londoner that made any sort of move to address the questions, and only after reaching out to gather up his identification, his boss's, and the cup of coffee given to him by the proprietress. Still regarding the man, he absently held Caesar's credentials up for him to take, and gave his coffee a tentative sip. "Thanks ya, Miss." he said quietly, almost stressing the extent of his worldly manners. But to Robert, he was a little more direct. "We ain't got the knowin' of one another good enough to have that talk, get me? Best you stay away from this."

Keystone gave a small nudge to Caesar and motioned his eyes up to the visible security points and cameras, to which the older Mexican gave the mildest of nods. It seemed that they were in agreement about something, though they weren't sharing it out loud. Instead, the pair chose to listen and reflect upon Adelaide's words. Nothing they hadn't heard before in the basic education systems of their respective countries or from other sources more recently, but sometimes it was useful to hear it all in one place at one time. A perspective thing. And her words seemed to imply that this incarnation of the concept of Juno stretched back a long, long way - or was designed to appear as such for those who knew a little about the Roman deity. A sense of permanence, be it as an indication of longevity or merely propaganda.

When the woman decided to leave the area and make for a staircase, Caesar held out a hand to suggest that they wait before moving to join her, in case she was intentionally trying to put some distance between herself and the pair of men. But when she continued speaking to them even as she moved, that idea went away rather quickly. Caesar and Keystone rose and shuffled along behind as quickly as they dared, not wanting to further leave a touchy impression. The conversation on her end stopped with a hefty sum mentioned for the right to peruse her library, albeit indirectly, and set the ball squarely back in their court. Or, as the man with the power to sign the checks, in Caesar's court. "A half million goes over my expense account's limit." he said bluntly. He wasn't lying. Caesar generally gave himself a set amount for an annual expense account, provided it was for business use. Anything higher and he preferred to keep it above board and contracted. It was just good business. "I call this a consultation, maybe we can work something out. But it won't be up front. Sorry to waste your time." Caesar was perfectly capable of acquiring five hundred thousand dollars American, in cash, probably within an hour. Less if a branch of MSS was nearby. But carrying that much on him? It was laughable.

The venerable man began to turn, to be stopped by a quiet throat clear from Keystone. "Cameras, Boss? Work something out, may'ap?" he suggested, prompting Caesar to turn his head back around. "Wentworth... I can't trust a location they can poke their noses in whenever they feel like. Your agreement with them, if it's passive or just reacting to reports, I can't trust that they won't anyway. Here's my offer: Cancel your contract with them, pick it up with us. We can have your equipment flipped out by end of business. Platinum electronics package, physical security if you want it, too. Concierge service. Bodyguards on call. Half million of service for free. Minimum one year, even if the numbers go over 500K. The rest is handled like a standard consultant fee, deposited into an account of your choice after the papers go through." He nodded gravely, curious even about his own motivations for offering up such an arrangement. True, it would ultimately cost his company less in actual, liquid funds as this was mostly service based, but still seemed like a princely arrangement for access to a library that he could not personally confirm. Still, this was important somehow, and not just because of the odd hack-job on his plane's video.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Gaming Room
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 4
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Inquisitive eyes regarded the mercurial natured musicians. Were they merely self-serving, or was there something more sinister about them? Was anything or anyone in this place not tainted with the possibility of ulterior motive? Caution had him guard any exterior show of his thoughts, or at least make a valiant attempt at remaining stoic. When the four unmasked fellows, or rather their fair-haired representative, gave inquiry as to their names, the Doctor gave the tiniest of pauses before answering. Both Cobalt and the Chanteuse answered with but a little reservation, prompting him to do the same. They were all using aliases at any rate, likely for precisely this purpose among others. "I have been given the sobriquet of Dr. Swamp for the use of the..." His voice trailed and one hand lifted from is cane, performing a circular motion at the wrist as if puzzling out the appropriate word for the moment. "...event." There was a hint of distaste at the phrasing, but it worked as passably as anything else might. "Though why I have been gifted with the surname of 'Swamp', I cannot say. Doctor will suffice, if pressed."

Concerning the request made of him by Amaranthine, The Doctor responded by holding her gaze for no more than a second before giving her an affirming nod. Stay close. He could do that. If nothing else, he could use the support and alliance of someone who was not one of the many plebeians or social mendicants that took their strength from position, particularly the position of those pulling the strings attached to them all this night.

His overt attention stayed away from the newest addition to the room, be it difficult not to exhale a sigh aimed at potential difficulty. This seemed to be an impromptu reunion party of his fellow chair enthusiasts from earlier in the evening. From the look of her general bearing and previously absent details about her clothing, the woman had the appearance of someone who had found a different sort of entertainment for the evening. Somewhere, someone was far less enthusiastic about the same fun, he reasoned. He didn't speak of his observations aloud, merely voicing an ominous, "Isn't that interesting?" in her general direction. Otherwise, he appeared unconcerned. The request put to him was to stay close, and by someone else. Swamp might as well stick to it.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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

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Be it not the first impression that Vladimir wanted to make, it was the first impression that he made. A decent display of acrobatics shot to hell because of a blown finale. Such was life; such was performing. Know your stage; an adage as true as the day it was spoken. His father, The Baron Alexandrov, might have told a younger version of himself that one's act is just as much talent and practice as it was site preparation. Again, such was life. He did not know the ropes and steps of the vessel that he had hoped to partake in a celebration of his own physicality upon, resulting in the sudden and regrettable experience of breaking his nose twice in the last half hour. To say that it was less than dignified was a granted token of fact.

But life was also best not spent in the past. Even the extremely recent past, which still stung like a son-of-a-borscht, spasibo very much. Nonetheless, The Great Bazhooli strove to press forward with the conversation regardless, though with a good sense of appreciation that he wore a good bit of red in case of spotting. But moving onward, he gave a quick answer to the Captain's question concerning their place of origin. Or their most recent trip's starting place. "Da! Da, ve start little journey from London Town, vith much helping from Ludvig. Our peoples are not vith traveling much into Islands of Britain. Path unknown to us. But good Master Zimme..."

A fresh spot of blood ambled down from his nose, forming a small spray of crimson as he attempted to pronounce Ludwig's name. It was, as mentioned earlier, a touch undignified. Vlad sighed and switched his tone to something more apologetic, at least at first. "...so sorry..." This to Captain Montoya and everyone else present. Though still looking straight ahead, his voice turned to his fellow performer, with some urgency. "Constantin! For please, am needing a vigorous Krasnoye-ing! The vet redness has no place in front of Captain, da?"

From his peripheral vision, Vladimir noted a familiar face approaching them. It seemed that they were not the only ones to have recently come from London.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Headland: House (E2)
Skills: EMT Training

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As was a passable trainer, of sorts. He was a generally adept man when passing information along, ordinarily in the form of direct orders or, a lifetime ago, through memo or Email correspondence. When Newnan was still above ground, the stoic Captain even made it a point to pen textbooks. Three of them. One detailed the ins and outs of the structural and civil engineering that went into the construction of their home; walls, improvised power grid, cisterns and all the rest of what made Newnan sustainable, even convenient. Another book was all bout his distillery work; fuel alcohol (as it was often said that Newnan ran on booze), drinking spirits, fermented/brewed goods, water distillation systems, even vinegars for cleaning and food preservation needs. The last was his own personal "How To" guide on the construction of his former pride and joy, his home away from home, the great, lifesaving roadbeast known as The Hordebuster. They were comprehensive and easy to understand. Regrettably, all three of them were lost when Newnan collapsed into itself. Maybe one day, decades or centuries from now, someone would dig down, into where the courthouse building used to be. Maybe they would open the safe in the main office, and maybe future generations would be able to learn from the writing therein, be it to rebuild or merely for a lesson in history.

Unfortunately, now was decidedly not an occasion where Ash's education and intellect were working together to provide a decent learning experience for those who could benefit from it. In fact, the gruff and exhausted Captain Holloway sounded a little too much like Tommy Lee Jones attempting to track down a fugitive, to the detriment of understandable direction. "Alright, what I need from either or both of you is a straight and clear, sanitized bullet removal on a subject that it already close to passing out. Step one (and pay attention) is to secure the patient (that's me) onto an even, nonporous surface - chair or kitchen table will suffice - followed by cleansing the area around the wound and the tools you intend to use. Directly following you will need to establish the location of the bullet and proximity to any major blood vessels (which shouldn't be an issue, we're pretty meaty in there) and careful extraction without gripping muscle or adipose tissue nearby. Gonna have to go by feel for that one and don't spare retraction if it's called for but not if it isn't. Now, at that time there's going to be some blood, not too much or you know something bad just happened and I'm probably a dead guy. Have something to catch the bullet after it comes out, and following that is simple wound dressing. Sound simple? Is simple. The part that isn't is communicating and finding the bullet over the sound of me screaming. We good? Good. I'll probably lapse into shock out halfway through. Best of luck to you."

It was a ramble at worst, rant at best. The part that was likely the most infuriating was that he was technically correct, but the possibility that he didn't effectively communicate loomed in the foreground, obvious to many but excluding himself. This was not his most distinguished teaching moment. Fatigue, pain, and blood loss; this was his excuse.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quincy (in house, G6)
Skills: N/A

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Thalia sat alone in the middle of an oppressive darkness, aware of nothing but a gnawing hunger that permeated her soul and defined what she was to become. She rocked back and forth, shivering to almost the point of convulsing uncontrollably. This was not natural. Not in the least. The most minor of positive change that she could perceive was that she appeared to be whole once more, the familiar feel of two working arms ending with fully articulated fingers, as far as she could tell. The sickening discomfort of everything else gave way for a single, hot second of gratitude about this. Maybe it was the price she had to pay to be physically complete again.

Logically, Thalia knew that this could not be. She had lost a good part of her arm to save her life. Why it would be there now was a ludicrous idea. t was missing so the rest of her could survive, and that was what she did: Survive. But dear, sweet, merciful Muerte, was she hungry. As her shaking continued, Thalia could tell that she had lost most of the feeling in her newly found limb, and worse yet, it was creeping up the rest of her arm. A fast glance turned into rooted horror as she bore witness to her arm, dead and streaked with cold, black veins, began asserting itself on the rest of her body. The ...deadness... of it throbbed farther into her with every beat of her heart, and in that moment she knew what form her hunger took - Thalia required the flesh of the living.

No longer in the pitch black of her isolation, the woman once called "Angel" by those who cared for her stalked in the richer darkness of night and shadow. She was a creature of instinct, yet still possessing cunning intelligence and the desire to devour the living. In her childhood home, the first one she ever knew, even before she knew of her father's people, she extended her now clawed hand from underneath her mother's bed, snatching apart the woman's leg at the ankle. Her screams felt exhilarating, a tangle of confusion, betrayal and pain as blonde hair and red blood tangled and flew while flesh was rent into pieces. The flesh of this woman's back was splayed open in crude, conscious vivisection, a state which was exploited by a pale skinned, black-webbed Thalia, popping apart ribs to get at the succulent meats within.

Trapped within her own mind, she screamed, beating against the impenetrable glass of her prison while she tried to come to grips with the act that she not only wanted this, she enjoyed it. Every piece of organ scrap was a delight, every slurp of blood from her dead fingers ecstasy. She needed more. Not even the carnal chewing of her mother's heart sated her. More and more and more.

Her father fell next, though he was able to put five bullets into her before she got close enough to tear his throat out and watch him as his lungs filled with his life's blood. But not for too long. No. She had to begin consuming the old man before the light fully left his eyes. He did always have kind but stern eyes, that one. She chewed them from their sockets first, savoring the tender squashing feel of them between her molars before cackling in a dry, inhuman voice. Wordless, shrill, decaying screams of enveloping laughter. She was not death. Death had the potential to be kind, warm, even loving. Death was the final arbiter of one's life. She was rot and malevolence. Thalia was infection and indiscriminate hurt. She was a parasite who enjoyed feeling the loss of others. Thalia was a monster.

She gave her cousin a chance to scream, and that was only because it gave her pleasures untold to do so. To allow a woman who she idolized in life, who always seemed so much stronger than herself, the opportunity to bless the moment of her demise with the sounds of her unneeded suffering. Thalia pulled skin from her flesh and consumed it in front of her, and when she could not scream any longer, the thing that used to love her pulled out handfuls of intestines and shoved them down her throat. It was bliss. It was a new kind of love, this special, extra attention she received. Thalia even lay next to her, holding her as a sister might comfort, but hissing and sputtering mirthful noises into her ear as she choked and bled away. Wetness, gore, corruption, heaven.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, as she picked away those she cared for in life, Thalia's sorrow and horror began to externalize. She wasn't sure at what point, but finally she was outside of the Beast. There was pain. Actual pain, and a cold heaviness where her arm used to be. The taste of blood was still on her tongue, but at least she no longer craved it. The thing that did was still there, though, looking at her with awful, mesmerizing curiosity. Thalia looked upon herself with pity and anger. It seemed to grow wiry, twitching tendrils of inky blackness from everywhere underneath its skin, smiling at her with jagged teeth and staring with black, hollow eyes. Her people had always served death in one form or another, be it conceptually or directly, and this creature was not part of that. Understanding did dawn that whatever this actually was, it was a part of her. As vital and honest as anything else about her, this thing was the worst of her. Every representation or incarnation of her soul would have this thing inside of it. This made her angry. Both of her.

The Beast leapt at her, swiping furrows of pain and blood across her face. She could no longer register one of her eyes but could feel a thick, warm liquid like egg whites pouring down her cheek. Another swipe ripped her from breast to navel, not quite enough to empty her guts onto the ground but more than plenty to drop her to her knees. She could hear the laughter, if it indeed was that, and feel cold, clammy hands wrap around her throat. When her remaining eye began to lose sight, a single word floated into her dying mind.

"No."

The Beast seemed perplexed by this.

"NO." Her remaining hand reached up and grasped a wrist of her attacker. Surprise followed when her other hand, still cold, still heavy, grabbed the other one. Defiance surged through Thalia like a lifegiving shot of adrenaline. She was able to relieve just enough pressure from her throat to audibly croak out the word, to bring her thoughts to the air. "NO!" Her voice was hoarse but strong. Thalia allowed her eye to move to the side, seeing how she was able to hold anything in a hand that was not there. But it was, a full arm clad in steel from fingers to shoulder, solid metal from the point it was lost and onward. It moved stiffly but powerfully, and when it clamped down it didn't let go. She rose to her feet, still grabbing the thing that was her, writhing in black and decay, evil and putrescence. "By Tyr or by Death, Odin or Jesus Christ, I don't fucking care anymore. You are a tool. I own you. And you're going back in the goddamn box!"

Her fist of iron, still clamped upon the creature's wrist, slammed into its face once, twice, three times. Thalia brought it down at a sharp angle, ripping the limb away just below the elbow, even as her true hand hardened its fingers and burrowed into the thing's black eyes. A blade, wide at the base but narrowing sharply until it terminated with a stiff point two feet down, slid and formed from the iron of her limb. It penetrated the creature's chest and impaled its heart with little difficulty. Thalia even got to hear it scream. Before it fell fully silent, she leaned in close to the thing. "You belong... to me." Her teeth, her own living teeth - sunk into the black veined flesh of its throat and ripped away a piece. After a hard swallow of the awful stuff, Thalia spoke in a manner that could freeze bone: "And I'm taking you back inside of me. Behave."

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Thalia's eyes flew open, though she did not move. She was in a house in Quincy, Florida. The fire was still going, though with less illumination than she remembered. Time had passed. No one was in immediate danger, everything seemed quiet. Slowly, her eyes began to close again, but this time, a small smile formed on her lips. Oh, what interesting things the day might bring tomorrow.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Building Interior (D4)
Skills: Perception

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The moment that Erica got into a proper, rigid, "Lift Me" position, Hank took to his appointed role as heavy lifter with grace and gusto. Such was it that he was able to easily, even a little recklessly, hoist the younger lady up to such a point that he could brace his feet at perpendicular angles and form a mighty human platform from which she could inspect and/or climb into the attic with minimal effort. Perhaps the recent bit of exercise worked wonders for him, even as he was at the beginning of his declining years. Or perhaps being in the presence of younger people made him likewise feel more youthful and vital. Hank reminded himself that, at his age, any amount of unnecessary physical bravado might just land him with a slipped disk or the like, which could probably get him killed long before the injury subsided. But he did take the moment to appreciate that he was still a pretty damned strong guy, his age taken into consideration.

While the woman did whatever she was doing, Hank was surprised to find out that she was actually engaging in small talk. Seemed odd, but these little things probably took her mind off of the possibility of some nameless dead guy appearing right in her face the second she stuck it up there and gnawing her little nose off. That would require a lengthy series of events involving putting her out of her misery and somehow fishing the dead guy back out of the attic, destroying its brain, and figuring out who got to go through its pockets first. Somewhere in there, Hank would have hoped that Erica was polite enough to click off his light before, you know, she died horribly. So okay! Small talk! Hank was in. It's not like this information could be used against him or anything.

"New Hampshire there, brown-eyes. Small township in Cheshire County. Used to be the Sheriff there, before, ah... stuff... Yeah, stuff. Damnit. You?"

He had briefly considered delving further into the thought, but the oddest, most out of place noise assailed his ears. It was as if someone were hitting a locked metal box with a blunt object at nighttime in an Dead Asshole Infested Swamp. He didn't say anything at first, but he did turn his head in the general direction of the sound, his face twisted into a clear "wuzzafuck?" expression. He stood slackjawed, wondering what piece of experience based advice (read: sarcastic comment followed by calling him a girl's name) he could offer just then, when something even more unexpected happened.

"Hey there. Does um, does anyone else smell SPAM? Like, recently opened SPAM? Anyone?"

🦄 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 -> Toward Main House)
Skills: Perception, History

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The nagging thought of Giosue's absence weighed upon Gilbert. He could not help but make the connection between the carnival's arrival and his immediate departure. Did he know something that Gilbert did not? The older looking Emendator was not the type to just vanish, abandoning his own. The Hat knew him as a better quality person than that.

Gilbert wanted answers, and immediately. There were too many variables in play, and many of them involved persons or entities with abilities that were supernatural in nature. Despite it being a stretch of the assumed intent of his abilities as an Emendator, Gil thrust his focus into History. Recent History of the area. Very recent, and specifically about Gio's actions that day. The result was not optimal.

It started as a dull throb that quickly encompassed the whole of his head, neck, and shoulders. It radiated searing, white light, ripping through his brain like an unattended chainsaw of pissed-off lava, driving conscious thought from Gilbert and robbing him of his sight. Then it got bad.

While Gil still possessed the ability to stand, and it was wavering, he got his teeth and did his best to inform Faith and Bart that his difficulty was self-inflicted and not an attack done to him. "That was stupid, that was stupid, that was stupid..." he seethed, bringing his hands up to his head. "I am good. That was me. Need to lie down." he grabbed for a shoulder to steady himself, any one would work, then began to make his way back to the Main House. "Get our people together, okay? Give the carnival people their space for now. Need to lie down."

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Carnival Setup)
Skills: Perception

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"Ain't particular on the lookout neither, Miss Sophia." responded James with a neutral smile. "Still tryin' to figure out who an' what I am, myself. Ain't needin' to burden nobody down with that." He shrugged. It was a true enough statement. Then again, it was also true that, while he had no problems making good friends, it was a monumentally rare occasion for someone to get truly close to him. Such had been his life, and quite possibly now his afterlife.

One thing did get his attention, however. James gave Andromeda some scrutiny after her mention of dying at a circus. While the events of his own demise had nothing in common with hers, James did have a sense of empathy for the woman. It must be a different kind of anxiety, having to be in this place surrounded by Carny Folk. His face looked concerned and sober for a moment, and he nodded, "Alright, let's get gone, then. C'mon." Immediately springing back to a more optimistic demeanor, he glanced to Sophia and back to Andromeda, "Hey! Howsabout we get us some coffee an' such back at the Kitchen House? I'll tell ya both 'bout how I died, yeah?" James cast his gaze across the carnival grounds as a whole. In quieter voice, he concluded, "Talk about them other things, too..." The unspoken last few words in that sentence very likely had something to do with being behind closed doors. He started for the Kitchen House with casual steps.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck -> Cargo)
Skills: Perception

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The notion that Vera's quarters had been breached, as was reported by George, gave the Lord Major an immediate sense of militant urgency. One hand strayed to the hilt of his sword while the other rested upon the holster of his custom Webley revolver. It was not until the younger American explained the particulars of the situation that Reginald reined in his desire to rush off in spirited defense of Vera. Cooler heads must prevail. Vera was safe, she was not alone, and he must put more trust in his Fellowship. All the same, it was obvious that whomever had been shadowing them in Cairo had made it onto the boat with them, ever curious as to their plans and seemingly intent upon stopping them. "Why do you suppose that could be, Mr. Benaszewski? This outing is academic in nature, you see. Except for the odd sort of dreams, spontaneous burnings, and odd compulsions to seek out symbols in the small hours, I mean. But why would someone not wish for us to get answers?" Of course, if Reginald had the answer to that last question, it would reveal much about their situation.

The other questions would have to remain lurking in the background of Reginald's mind for at least a little bit longer. As he and George entered the section of Cargo that contained their goods and supplies, the Lord Major took to scrutinizing the area. At first it seemed that all was well and their belongings had avoided the same sort of intrusions that were visited upon Lady Munn's quarters above. Then Reginald noticed something amiss - a label at an off angle. Further inspection gave him the impression that it had been removed, looked over, and put back by inexpert hands. And there were others. One replaced backwards. Another upside down. Almost as if they were removed and replaced hastily by unknown parties. "I say, Mr. Benaszewski? Look here... this appears to be out of order. Say what you will about the Corporal; he is an obnoxious fellow, loud and grating, but the man is nothing if not meticulous. To a fault, I should say. There is an order to which the British Military stores and categorizes supplies, and that man would have himself flogged publicly (or likely do so himself), were something out of that order on his watch."

The Lord Major reached into his uniform's inner coat pocket and produced an item of paperwork. "The Corporal handed over our individual manifest as we were boarding, among other things. I daresay I shall not be useful for identifying much from the Museum, but perhaps we may do a preliminary?"

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Haring Reddish

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck)
Skills: Perception

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For all of his supposed suave confidence and very British propriety, Reddish seemed to initially tense up in a manner that could have been described as boyish, even a little nervous, as Josephine moved in closer to him for purpose of taking the picture. As the countdown proceeded prior to the actual photograph being taken, he forced himself to adopt more a more relaxed posture. After the picture was snapped, he even chuckled at himself a little under his breath. It was silly for him to act in that way, even for a second - the unbidden reaction that a schoolboy might have for the pretty girl he was crushing on. Reddish was a veteran of the Great War and presently in the service of a living legend. Yet now that he had been left to his own devices, however interim his free time might be, Reddish found himself quite beguiled by the American starlet. He silently reminded himself to act in a manner respectful and appropriate to his station and her own, noting the difference in the two, and simply be grateful that she acquiesced to be in his escort at all.

He listened attentively to the desire for a print of the picture, beaming a proud smile at her for the mention. "Oh absolutely, Miss Clarke! Though I daresay it makes less of an impression, you being immortalized in photography with a nameless non-com. I should be happy, ma'am, to know that you wish to remember the evening. Positively giddy." Addressing Josephine's further concern of gathering unwanted attention, Reddish nodded his head vigorously. "Say no more, madame! Say no more. I've no desire whatsoever to cause any sort of a fuss nor scene, that I can promise you. I desire only to keep the picture as a memento of one very noteworthy time during my service to look back upon, maybe prove to the occasional nay-sayer that I was indeed in your presence were they to, well... to nay-say." His smile turned to the wistful, "Or perhaps to look to a back genuinely happy moment when the inevitabilities of life weigh too ponderously, Miss Clarke. Thank you, madame. Thank you very much for humoring me."

The Corporal gave his request for number and size of prints to the photographer, providing his room number for the next day's delivery. It must be a tidy source of income for the man, he reasoned, even if it involved lugging about cases full of equipment from place to place. Not too unlike what Reddish did, thinking on it, though he was salaried modestly by The Crown. After satisfied with the coming pictures, he took to note what Josephine had just asked: Was there anything else he wished to do? There went that schoolboy nervousness again. Perhaps it was like anticipating a battle; the wait was killer, but he tended to operate just fine once the actual conflict began. There were several things he might wish to do upon a well appointed riverboat along the Nile, given time and opportunity. But again, propriety and simple manners begged for gentlemanly modesty and the desire to maintain comfort of the lady at all times, unless she directly dictated otherwise.

As he paused to formulate an answer, he could not help but notice a sudden change in the temperature. The desert tended to do that at night, but this seemed more drastic; even unseasonably so. As a chilling breeze whistled past them, Reddish pushed his sleeves back down fully, covering the marks on his arms and hopefully promoting a little resistance to the sudden drop in temperature. "Well, Miss Clarke, ah... at the risk of speaking out of place, I was hoping to behave in a manner that was so befuddlingly charming as to have us make an evening of it. But! But, if I were forced to pin down a single activity that speaks to convenience, or at least a segue elsewhere, I do believe that I had promised to find you a drink more suited to your preference, ma'am. Something less sweet? And if it please you, perhaps someplace indoors, away from this wind. Even with my khaki drill jacket, I do not believe that you are dressed suitably for this sudden chill." That was strange, the turn of the weather. Something to note for later.

He looked to her expectantly, "Unless I miss a point of etiquette, ma'am, and ladies' preference applies here, in which case I am more than happy to attend to your own ideas on the subject." He gave a light bow of his head in deference to Josephine, whatever she decided. "Miss Clarke?"

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar & Keystone

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Location: Chicago (Grimaldi Books)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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It was the "please" that caught Caesar's attention. Giving it an nanosecond of thought, it was probably the first time in a great wile that someone had used that word with him, intending upon being polite. Or at least going through the motions of polite behavior. It could be said that the effort meant something. Now, he had heard "please" before, as obviously everyone had at some point in time in their lives, but the last such occurrence that sprung to mind involved shoving a particularly uncouth drug dealer into the business end of a commercial woodchipper feet first. That "please" was reserved for two things, the first being a loud, urgent request to not mangle him - the second was to just put a bullet in his head and get it over with. It was a horrible and messy way to die. If memory served, Caesar didn't waste the ammo.

Now, the idea was pretty simple, if they thought about it. The two of them had to give a little information to (maybe) get some back. It was like starting a business venture: You had to spend money to make money. In this case, information was just as valuable as cash. Caesar needed greater insight as to their situation, and he had to fork something over to get it. Preferably something related to the nature of the bookstore, but a connection between the victims. Plus the other guy said "please". How could he refuse now? With a sigh, Caesar said simply, "The investigation has uncovered a possible link between the murders and a group called Juno." It was best to keep things a little vague. "I cannot explain much more because we do not know much more. That is the connection." Hopefully, Caesar didn't just put someone else's life in danger for the telling of it.

Keystone had his own reservations about being in the building, now that he knew that Wentworth Security handled their electronic surveillance. That probably meant that there was a copy of the video saved to some temporary server someplace in a corporate office in the Wentworth network. "Those're a shady bunch, them Wentys, ma'am. Bloody cocksmokes, the lot of 'em, got no problem facilitatin' a murder to keep contracts in the black. Had dealings, y'see. Not ever again." He nodded, as if the strength of his assessment had any particular bearing on the present situation. So far as Wentworth having eyes on them right at that moment, it was very possible that it was coincidence. They were a large and reaching security company, as was MSS, and they had the leg up with certain technological aspects of the industry. Machete Security Solutions had primarily been a manpower and sourcing based company, willing to staff a building or secure an area, launch investigations and assist local law enforcement, let alone the obscure and quasi-legal actions of the Special Projects division that solved problems on a more direct, more personal level. But Alicia was bringing the company leaps and bounds into the digital and information age, eating up a chunk of the market that Wentworth had a strong hold upon for a while. That job now fell to her younger cousin and her new team, but there was going to be a gap of time while she familiarized herself with everything and got on track.

His own feelings on Wentworth aside, the woman's sarcastic words of "ancient spells of hokum and fairy tales" did provoke a subject to come to Keystone's mind. One that might actually be of assistance to their investigation, seeing as someone was kind enough to hack their electronics mid-flight to tell them about it. "Yeah, I'm knowing that you're all busy and the like, but s'long as you're on about fairy tales, you got any knowing 'bout a thing called Lunillud Aleae?" He wasn't sure that he had gotten the words out quite right. "That the proper way? Luni-llud Al Eae? Nah, not seemin' right."

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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Location: Bristol Ship -> La Canela Ship
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English, Perception, Acrobatics

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An invitation! Indeed, an invitation to board the great vessel that had pulled alongside, the one with which their ally and guide, Ludwig, was so familiar. Truly this was fate, kismet, or whatever word was best to use in the locally common language of English that best described a fortuitous event, possibly predetermined by a force or entity greater than themselves. And with the utter pride that Vladimir had for himself and his Sem'ya, it must have been a truly great force indeed. Regardless, he was honorbound now to set foot upon the vessel of other potential allies, the enigmatic group known as La Canela. He was an ambassador for his people now. This was expected of him. And why not? With the absence of the Grand Duchess and the Baron Alexandrov, who better to speak with the voice of The Circus, and by extension the whole of the Rusyn Trained warriors, than this generation's incarnation of The Great Bazhooli?

Of course, referring to he and his as "People of Belladonna" was a little irksome. It was technically accurate, yes, being as the Lady Belladonna was the progenitor of three notable family lines, one of which became Alexandrov through time and circumstance, from which the concept of The Great Bazhooli had evolved. And he had an immense amount of respect for the woman. Immense. Yet his family had grown to possess an identity that encompassed so much more than just their ties to the legend of Belladonna, both the good and the bad. But if this was how these people knew of the Circus and the Alexandrov line, then it would suffice. The time for clarification was not at the present; there were more important things to which they must tend.

For starters, getting up to their ship. Ropes and rigging were provided to help expedite the vertical journey, which Vladimir accepted with gratitude. Despite having lived through over forty winters, Vlad was a spry, vital man. It was precisely this which he wished to demonstrate to the crew of the La Canela vessel, most especially their Captain. He swept his hat off with a bow and, hat still in hand, sprinted toward the rigging. A great leap brought one boot solidly upon a horizontal section of load-bearing rope, which he used as a springboard of sorts, propelling himself farther upward. A hand reached out, catching another rope. His toned and conditioned arm became as muscled iron, locking himself into a dedicated arc traveling further along the hull of the vessel, powerful legs running along the side as if gravity held no sway over the man. All the while, his tall, black hat trailed behind him, still in the firm but gentle grip of his right hand, lest he crush the brim.

As he came to his destination, the plan was simple: Plant a foot onto the railing and leap into a single flip, landing at a kneel in front of Captain Montoya and, with an overabundance of grace and panache, sweep his fine hat upon his head and extend a hand to the noteworthy woman. Sadly, the same Fate which brought them together decreed that this was not to be. Reaching the railing, Vladimir had no idea that his foot had somehow snagged a bit of unaccounted for rope, cutting his secondary introduction horribly, painfully short. The other foot made it to the railing, yes, and he kicked himself off, even beginning his spiel with, "...am known as..." before the unforgiving rigging reached its limit, prompting the most perplexed look from the man for about a quarter of a second before he very undramatically slammed into the deck, face first and facedown, with a massively impressive thwacking sound that rattled the wood beneath him.

He lay there for another second or two, rigid and motionless. Then without warning, the boisterous man leapt to a standing position and continued as if nothing happened, despite the very obvious tilt to his nose, AGAIN, with the accompanying rivulet of arterial red indicting that he very well may have just broken something. AGAIN. "...Great Bazhooli!" Just in case they did not quite hear it the first time. He did finally set his hat atop his head, still seemingly ignoring what was probably very painful. "Is pleasing and honor to be received on fine, fine ship." Without changing his gaze in the slightest, he raised his voice to a shout, directing his words to the other Russian on the deck. "Constantin! For please Krasnoye?" He smiled a broad but probably very fake grin. This was not the first impression he was hoping to make.