Sigil

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A

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Ash hadn't expected company while he was picking out music. Not from one of the other groups, anyway. So when the older man who had given the cryptic answer concerning military service hobbled up to him, he gave the man a thoughtful look before responding to his statement about the Rolling Stones. "It was my Dad's music. Grew on me. Really classic stuff." His words were stoic, even dry, through his ragged Virginian, but in his defense it had been a while since he had met someone new that he hadn't either shot at or hidden from. Not to mention, Ash had attempted to make conversation first, back at the showers. Relenting against his kneejerk desire to stay on the defensive, if just for the moment, Ash returned with, "Likewise." He extended a hand to the older man, "Ashton Holloway. Ash."

He seemed more relaxed with Jack as he approached, which made full sense as he was one of the few constants in his life over the past sixteen months. He nodded in agreement with the man's assessment of Mexico Beach, or what they had seen of it so far. Some restraint in his voice remained as he spoke quietly, "Yeah. Yeah, it sure is." He eyed his surroundings, took stock of who of his people were back, what they were doing, and the locals who were around for their introduction to the community. He wanted to stay give this place immediate and complete trust, partially for the sake of Thana (wherever she was, and why wasn't she around?) but mostly because of his Newnan people. If they saw him open and comfortable with everything, it might make it easier for them to do the same. They had followed him this far, after all. He was just a little too wary, probably from the road and the loss they had all suffered as of late, to succumb to the relative opulence of the settlement. "I really hope this works out for us, Jack."

Though he didn't say it out loud, Ash had already made up his mind about one thing. If this place was fully legitimate and his people weren't good enough for it, he was going to take his leave as well. The reciprocal though? If he was the odd man out, there was no way in hell he was going to support anyone (especially Jack, Tati, and little Jamie) leaving with him. This place had resources and they had a baby. Ash was tired of seeing a wide sea of orphans and surviving parents of dead children.

With that particularly depressing thought firmly in mind, the doors opened to admit two carts, both being pushed by individuals that looked significantly more personable than those they had been dealing with so far. They were being treated fairly, even kindly, but these people seemed downright hospitable. The fact that they had a ton of extremely tempting eatables did nothing to remove Ash from that assumption, either. Ash felt the need to abstain from the spread, however. Temporarily, of course. Oh he could eat, no question about that; his stomach even began to make conversation with him on the topic. There was still a hint of group solidarity that motivated him to restraint. He did make one concession.

"Excuse me, guys." Ash moved over to the tables and poured himself a cup of coffee. Actual coffee. He hadn't had that in quite some time, and here it was freshly brewed, waiting on him. He then took a few steps back so as not to be in the way of anyone else filling their plates. Until the last of his people had a turn, that was as much as he was taking for himself. Still, coffee? It was worth it. Ash nodded politely at the woman, Mae, and the more animated Moralez. "Thank you much." he said politely. Motioning to the coffee, he deflected with, "I'll be back when this settles."

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A

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Beatrice might or might not have been entertained by the lefthanded attempt at Pac-Man. Arcade gaming wasn't exactly Thalia's area of expertise, and it was a safe bet that she hadn't usually done so with her left hand thoroughly on the few-ish occasions that she access to a machine such as this one. She had repaired items like this before, and the controls were amazingly simple besides. Nonetheless, turns were missed, power pellets grabbed too early and/or too late. She was marginally okay at best, even when she got her timing on turns down right. While Thalia played, she responded to her friend and fellow survivor, "Nah, I'm mostly straight, Bea. Just got a thing for angry cunts is all. And yours is the most disagreeable cunt I've seen in long time. Shit." The last syllable was reserved for the arcade game, as her yellow protagonist was just run over by a ghost. It was her last life on that quarter.

It got her thinking, though. While she hadn't had any overt inclination toward her own gender prior to Zeds eating the living, she didn't have any problem with the concept. It just didn't happen that she acted on any opportunity of that nature until afterward, and even then, it wasn't until she spent some time with the Reenactors from Castle Town in Fairburn, GA. She might have gone with the excuse of "any port in a storm", or "biological urges", but it wasn't exactly a choice that required a lot of convincing. Thalia stared blankly at the video game screen, giving passing memory to the woman who had made the shield she now carried, or had carried until it was taken by these people earlier. It was purely a passing thing, but she was a good friend and trainer to Thalia. Regarding the thought with a raised eyebrow, maybe she did have a thing for angry cunts. Go figure.

Now, if she did have a weakness, such as it was, it was the presence of food. Thalia could go for long periods of time without feeling hungry, or being able to ignore it well enough to push on with whatever she needed to accomplish. But when she sat down to eat, the girl could put food away like a pro. Opportunities were scarce to do so out in the world, unless she managed to spear a passing animal or come across another overtuned truck of Campbell's Thick & Fugly Stew, but the ability and willingness was still there. Coupled with a metabolism that she had to have inherited from her mother, she was dangerous to the continued survival of any holiday spread set out for just anybody to take from.

When the meal was laid out on the table in front of everyone, she had quite forgotten about playing another round of Pac-Man. Instead, Thalia found herself instinctively raising to the balls of her feet and bending her knees slightly, shifting into something of a predatory stance. Eyes dilated and she took in a quick burst of air through her nose, identifying the nature of the prey before her. Fish, crab, potatoes. Shrimp. Citrus. And something else she couldn't place... but wanted to. Her early terminating arm was held close to her torso, while her more ready left began to slowly raise in front of her centerline, a motion indicating the coming of an attack stance before she realized what she was doing. She needed to hold back, stop herself. There was obviously plenty for everyone, and for once in a long time she didn't have to kill anything or compete with local fauna for foraging rights. This was civilization. She could handle it. (#wishfulthinking)

Without saying another word, Thalia forced herself to walk calmly over to the spread. She looked to the providers of the feast, and tried as best she could to smile at them. Like Pac-Man, it wasn't exactly dead center in her skill set. She then gingerly picked up a plate and set a couple pieces of shrimp onto it. Then picked up one, biting into it as if sampling. She probably should not have done this. Whether it was a polite "Mmm." sound, reserved for someone complimenting the cook, or a wolfish growl of claiming territory was up for debate. Five more were unceremoniously tossed onto the plate before her eyes locked onto the bread. A roll was scraped across the surface of the fresh, salted butter and crammed into Thalia's mouth while her dish began to be laden with whatever was nearby. A fish fritter or two, more shrimp, a couple of those lemon thingies, and the mashed potatoes. Oh dear sweet heavenly whatever, the mashed potatoes. They took up about half of her plate and she stacked them high, splatting them down with direct, tactical strokes of the serving utensil as if she meant murder.

The lady who introduced herself as Mae did instruct them not to be shy. Miss Carmichael did not want to disappoint.

The roll was still hanging out of her mouth when she realized that she might be attracting gawkers. Rather than tone it down, Thalia opted to keep the roll exactly where it was, having only one hand to properly maneuver her plate around, and instead raise her eyebrows and glare at whomever looked like they needed a good glare. Obstinately, she carved out a huge hollow in the center of her mashed potatoes and, in a fit of ingenuity birthed of hunger, filled it with as much clam chowder as it would hold. She was a Boston girl, and oft sounded every inch of it. Like she wouldn't go for the chowdah.

Thalia looked over in the general direction of Mae and Moralez, made a sound that kind of sounded like a "Thank you." through the roll, and carefully backed away from the service table. She found a spot with her back to a wall, hunkered down, and began to put a solid hurt on the contents of her plate. Maybe she really had been outside for too long.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Quarantine (Converted Sauna)
Skills: N/A

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This was an excellent thing to get over with, and quickly. There wasn't much of a reason otherwise to be there, and as soon as everything was handled from their end of it, Hank could rejoin the rest of his group, hopefully with lots of yummy things to eat. Not like he was going to tell any of them this, but they were kind of okay. Even Sportacus in his own condescending way, he at least meant well. He thought he meant well, anyway. There must have been some reason that they stuck together after finding their way into the next piece of civilization, seeing as their plan was to work on vehicles and be on their merry frigging ways. Separate merry frigging ways, that is.

But they stuck together. And now he and his new buddy Nigel were going to look a whole lot more alike, held together by the bonds of total baldness. Unless he went for Option B. But that might deprive Nigel of Hank's company. Surely he wouldn't use it as an excuse to be rid of Hank for three days? Well, whichever way he was going to play it, Hank had no desire to hang around any longer than he had to. "Don't you worry there, Sportacus. I've got next." He nodded smugly and rose, striding over to the man referred to as "Shears". He was considering the standard handshake introduction, but was unsure as to whether it was a great idea, on account of the whole "infestation thing", and so instead plopped down in the chair.

Hank raised a finger into the air, paused for a second, and then pointed at his head while giving a knowing nod. "Need you to snip it, Shears. Snip it good, snip it hard. Scorch the earth if you've gotta. My dance card ain't exactly full these days anyway, and I hear there's something yummy showing up in the other room soon. Let's do it."

Shears got his gear together and went to town on the man. "With them eyes and yer age, you look like a retired skin head," Shears chuckled as he finished up. Hank was now bald and beautiful. Head and face were clean shaven. "Dolphin smooth, just glad I didn't have to shave your ass," he snickered a bit as he took a step back and motioned towards the row of others that were already done. "Got us a fine set of entries for the Sinéad O'Connor Look-alike contest."

Sadly, Hank wished that he had the opportunity to have used a Sinéad O'Connor reference first. Beaten to the punch by another older smartass. It was just the way things went sometimes, and it could be a lot worse. Still, he couldn't just let the previous statement go unaddressed. Okay, maybe Hank could, he just didn't want to. With just a dash of sarcastic color, he responded with, "Retired skinhead? Nah... if I was a retired skinhead, I wouldn't be so... Well, just so Gosh Darned Happy to see you there. Huh?" He rubbed his hand across his face and the back of his head. "Oh, now that's squeaky. Good job, there." Following the example of Amelia, sitting on the other side of the room, Hank did as he was motioned to do and found his way over.

"Hey, Red... I know it sucks, but it's really not that bad a look for you. Couple of months, you'll have one of those Tinkerbell cuts, right? And in a few minutes, you're going to have a full stomach. Not all bad." Hank sucked at cheering people up. Not really his thing. But this young woman looked like the only one out of the group having an utterly miserable time of it, he had to try something. Well, perhaps not that he had to, but it might have taken more effort to ignore the issue than address it, which kind of defeated the point of it all.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers

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

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"Then you are going to want the Glen." suggested Gilbert, pulling from the cabinet an uncracked bottle of Glen Livet. It was commonly regarded as a known single-malt of high quality. Not overly rare, not some special reserve that had obscure notes of something-or-another, but clean and noteworthy quality alcohol that found a place with nobility of the era as well as special occasions for more working class folk. He introduced the contents to the open air with a steady hand and poured three fingers of the aromatic amber liquid into the glass upon the table. Gil then re-corked the bottle and left it on the table next to the glass, which he nudged in Ruthie's direction. "I will not be offended if you pour again for yourself."

The situation reminded Gilbert of an incident from not too long ago, when the new crop of Paradoxes arrived. A jar of moonshine had been brought out, made by the grandfather of someone that two of the newcomers, James and Sophia, knew personally. Sometimes he was amazed at how small the world can be. And just sometimes, he knew what details to provide to make the transition t becoming a Paradox an easier one. But what he was reminded of was Evelina's preemptive scolding about Not Tolerating Drunkenness, which gave him a sudden rush of concern for the eccentric Emendator.

His concern was waylaid by what Ruthie said next, though he did not let it show in his actions. He continued getting a kettle of water together for tea and set it upon the stove, still giving his ear over to the assertion of the woman of two incredible statements: She had died, and Ben had brought her back from it. That last part was especially interesting, if it could be believed. Evelina was one of the oldest entities in the history of humanity and possessed a power of truly unearthly quality, that being able to raise Paradoxes. And Ruthie just claimed that this boy brought her back from death. With the newfound power to interact with the deceased, no less. It was intriguing, to say the least. "How very Paradoxical." he mused, apparently giving something a decent amount of thought. He turned to Ben, a young man of apparently few words, and began to connect a few recurring thoughts, "I mean no disrespect, so please allow some latitude as I do not know how your abilities function in comparison to ours, nor am I overly aware of custom in this instance." He cleared his throat, "Could you not then, if he were willing, restore our Peter Keystone to us? Hypothetically, of course." The breadth of an ability like that made Gilbert's mind wander to other possibilities, but he kept those under his hat for the time being.

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James Grady

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

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Just as much as James liked to talk, and he did, the discussion in the Kitchen House was getting good and he felt it best to stay out of it for now. That is, until someone asked him for his opinion on something or a topic that produced some sense of moral outrage caused him a blackneck telenovella moment. He figured it was about a coin toss, give or take. He did opt to remain quiet and see what was going to transpire first. And damn, was the conversation getting interesting. It was probably obvious that he was listening to what was going on for anyone taking the time to observe him, though why anyone would with what was being spoken about elsewhere in the room was beyond him.

He did nod at Sophia when she mentioned that she would want a little something to eat as well. What noise he made then came about as he readied slices of bread, cheese, and ham into stacks and dealt them together like edible cards, into the final form of a basic sandwich. The application of condiments was left undone, but the appropriate jars were left out so as to provide quick access for those that might prefer them. It was a far cry from the more epicurean endeavors of his previous life, that being the tradeoff for becomomg who he was now. However, his mind was only on that subject for a paltry half-second as it appeared that game changing revelations were afoot in the Kitchen House that day.

He quietly slid a sandwich on a bread plate over to Sophia and silently offered one to Ben. No way he was interrupting this exchange. Yet.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Music Room
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 2
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The words flowing from the lips of Professor Walnut were impressively crafted, all things considered. Swamp regarded her as she spoke, using the moment to inhale and exhale to the extent of his ability. Quiet eyes looked to the people in the room with him; Plum upon the floor, Walnut with her now injured hand and spent pistol, and of course the wildly irritated Jasper, servant to the household. This was not how he envisioned this evening progressing. Not that he had the faintest idea how it might have gone, but this was not it. Swamp carefully reached into his vest pocket and, with lightly shaking hand, withdrew a pocket handkerchief.

Addressing Walnut through half clenched teeth, "I would stick to something that sounds like logic, Professor." he advised dryly. "I doubt that summoned tears will move these people. We are unwelcome guests who are making a lot of noise." It looked like an item of certainty that only one person wanted them there, and this person was attached to blackmail. "I am curious as to why you and Plum were conspiring, and now if he wasn't just an unwitting puppet." The Doctor moved his kerchiefed hand to the site of his injury, holding pressure even as he was ruining a perfectly good square of cloth for the sake of self-preservation. "Oh, let me know if you want me to take a look at that hand." The offer was without emotion nor nuance.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

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Location: Port Annan (Docks)
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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Another leg of their most recent adventure in the world had been traveled. The length and breadth of what had just transpired was not fully lost on Vladimir, though it was possible that in his mildly egocentric way of looking at things, certain areas of nuance would have to be reflected upon later for complete understanding. These things could be retrospected later on. For now, they had the next part of their journey to begin. And for Constantin's good fortune, it was upon horseback. Both seasoned Brivaldi riders, this would be swift passage of land and time for the talented Russians. But not until they cleared their immediate surroundings. The least thing they needed was a trampled group of otherwise busy Englanders holding up their progress. And naturally, the possible injury to innocent people was highly negative, in the seasoned performer's reckoning.

Vlad gave a final wave behind him, though he did not turn around to face the sailors of La Canela. Forward, ever forward. If fate decreed that they would meet again, it would be so. He hoped that it would. But first, Epic Questing! Agreeing with his friend the Firewalker, Vladimir addressed Ludwig, "Da, Master Zimmer! Ve continue to Green of Gretna, for family and friends. You know vay, ve use Vay of Ludvig! Is good. On vay, maybe you can tell me more of good Captain. You are friends, yes?" The Great Bazhooli reined his mighty horse, Tolstoy(!), toward the nearest piece of proper road. They did need to get moving. It occurred to him that he had not eaten since before yarkblaffing the contents of his stomach upon the deck of that merchant vessel. A little something along the way wouldn't hurt. Maybe if they passed something convenient; they really did have to move.

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

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George Benaszewski
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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck, Reginald's Stateroom)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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The security measures of the riverboat handled as clockwork as they had been throughout their adventures that day, Reginald found himself standing in front of his stateroom door. From the look of things, he was the last to arrive at his own party. "Apologies, gentlemen. Stairs tend to be the adversary of an aging man's knees. Excuse me." He extended a hand, unlocking the door and swung it open. Standing to one side, the Lord Major motioned into the room with his free hand. "Please, make yourselves at leisure. I shall attend to the drinks." His voice wasn't cheerful, so much as it was relieved that the day was coming to a close.

J.C. didn't seem to mind and chuckled a bit. "Don't be worrying any," he said before he stepped into the room and took a look around. Having a seat he got comfortable and relaxed against the back of the chair. George nodded towards the Lord Major and entered behind J.C., quietly and taking a seat as well. His one eyes looked around a bit as he sat there with his hands on his knees, rubbing them back and forth a bit.

"Mmm, thank you for the mmm invite Sir."

"Why, think nothing of it, dear boy." It was a polite intonation. Reginald opened a reinforced leather box upon the small table nearby, containing what appeared to be a gentleman's traveling kit for the booze enthusiast on the go. Thick glass rather than more fragile crystal, but finely made, and a decanter which already contained a fair amount of light brown spirits. He poured for his guests first, and added a hollow swizzle stick into the one he handed to George. "Not a straw, persay, but it should function just as well in a pinch. He filled and raised his own glass, adding, "My sincerest gratitude, gentlemen. I am in your debt. Cheers."

George look the glass and it was obvious by the expression on the exposed side of his face he was grateful for the accommodation. He could drink without a straw but with the mask on it made it far more difficult. He rose his glass as J.C. did. "Nah, think nothing of it. Wouldn't be the first time I drug a body out of the water but hey, much better out come than last time," he said before taking a sip. George cast a glance towards J.C. and nodded with a bit of a chuckle. It seemed there was a story there.

The Lord Major sipped from his glass, enjoying the smoky nuance of the fine scotch whisky. It was a pleasure that drew men from all walks of life, quite possibly why alcohol was used in this fashion. Still, making light of saving lives was either novel or false modesty. While it didn't matter in the long run which one it was, it seemed to be a conversation starter. "If you insist sir, I shan't make garrulous mention of the incident past this evening, Mr. C. Suffice it to say, Lady Munn's safety is of great importance to me. The other fellow I am merely acquainted with, but he seems a decent sort. Do tell though, as my more curious nature is piqued, what was the outcome of the last time?"

J.C. choked a bit on his drink, nearly snorting it with a chuckle. "Ring me mother." Clearing his throat he caught a smile pulling at the corner of George's mouth. He had heard this tale before but he wasn't opposed to hearing it again. Setting the drink down, J.C. wiped his mouth with the back of sleeve and then rubbed his hands together. "Okay, please, make no mistake, death at any time is a bad thing. And that's how this turned out, the man was dead when I got to him. Thing is, I am pretty sure he was dead when he was still fifty feet in the air as well." That was a hell of a start. "Picture it, New York, 1924, Spring is in the air and so is the booze. Prohibition is strong but where there's a bath tub, well there's gin. Fires and booze don't mix well..."

The intro was enough to raise an eyebrow on Reginald's distinguished visage. As a dutiful host might, he unstopped the decanter and quickly splashed a refill into the glasses of his guests and himself, even though there was but a little sipped from each of them. He sat and crossed his legs, leaning forward. "You have my attention, sir. Please, continue."

George figured attention would be gotten quickly with that one as he sipped his booze from his swizzle stick. It was quite the portrait. Picking up the glass, J.C. took another sip before he set it back down again and continued. "Well I wasn't sure what happened to get it started at first, that part I found out later in the news paper. All I know is I was butting heads with this Drug Store Cowboy about a Moll and suddenly, like Haley's fucking comet there is a blaze boosting through the air like nothing I ever seen," he started. Thing was, there was a lot more to story, even before the rockets red glare.

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Martin Gallagher

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Location: Lower East Side, Manhattan - New York, NY - April 19th, 1924
Skills: N/A

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Martin Gallagher died earlier this year.

It came on suddenly, as he told us it would. Hindsight reminds us that we saw it coming, too. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense now, but it did when it happened and it will again in time. It's a question of perspective. Look, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with that morning.

The man awoke from disturbed sleep, vividly aware of the alcohol he had consumed the night before. It wasn’t a huge, massive amount, but he wasn't a heavy drinking twenty-something anymore. His tolerance for “The Creature” was formidable; that was not up for debate. His age did lend a certain sharpness to the morning following, however, that just wasn’t present in his earlier years. He drank too much, anyway. More than he should. The Prohibition Act was in force, but facing the facts of 1920s New York, anyone could get hammered if they even halfway tried.

Martin had a lot of vices. He hadn't fully pushed himself out of bed yet, but he had already put a match to his first Lucky Strike of the day. He then turned to the lady who shared the bed with him and said, "I gotta get back to the firehouse." She understood. Martin had to be there early in case his wife came by, thinking he was still on his rotation. Yeah, he had vices.

His morning was peppered with coffee and cigarettes, plus a quick slam of the pup what bit him the night before. He rushed to get a few blocks up the road on foot, though he did stop to swap a dime for a bite on the way. It was Lower Manhattan and he was in a hurry. Some things were just convenient. Hot dogs being one, and having a mistress within walking distance of work being another.

The truth was, Martin hated himself. He didn't know why he kept doing the things he did. He had an honorable, rewarding job that he loved, great family who he also loved, and most people considered him something of a flawed hero. Maybe he was wired that way. He was every bit his father's son. People had said that to him for a long time, moreso than his brothers and sisters. He looked like the man, sounded like him, and was respected around the neighborhood like him. No one ever knew that the old man hit his wife. His kids too, if they disrespected him or "got out of line". He drank, had affairs, and he could really make their lives a living hell, coming home at night reeking of nickel whisky. Martin carried a couple of marks into adulthood that originated from his father's attention on those nights. Burn marks, mostly. They were quickly explained away after he joined up with the Fire Department as job-related, but he knew. He never let himself forget.

Another truth, aside from Martin hating himself - He really was like his father. But he took some traits from his mother, too. Enough presence of mind and basic human decency to know that, despite being the spitting image of Asshole Primus, he didn't need to continue the cycle with his kids. Martin was still an asshole. Still had his vices. Smoking, drinking, gambled on occasion. He could be mean. Acrimonious. Cheated on his wife. Wasn't around enough. Never hit. Not his wife, ever, and not his kids excepting disciplinary action acceptable for the time and place.

I'm getting away from topic again. Marty was an asshole and he knew it enough to feel bad about it. He was close to hitting a low point in his life. Maybe even low enough to do one of those introspective, life-affirming turnarounds that you see so many of in the books and motion pictures and such. The problem was, we'd never know.

As soon as he set foot in the building, his Chief informed him that they were a couple men short on the Ladder Company 16 crew, and wanted to know if he could clock in officially. Martin was a responsible guy. He did what firemen did; grabbed some coffee, did his safety checks, and settled into a routine. It was your average day in the Lower East Side.

Sometime in the late morning the bell sounded. It was always a thing which got the place animated. The men of Engine Company 39 and Ladder Company 16 were tried and true units; swift and organized, precise, experienced, and dedicated. They had answered this call many times. Martin donned his helmet, grabbed his axe, and joined the men on the ladder truck. The line of smoke was spotted toward the East River, where new tenements had been built. It wouldn't have been the first time someone torched their own, very new property for the insurance payoff, certainly wouldn't be the last. Regardless, it took little time for the crews to arrive on scene. Riverside residential structure. Apartments. Privately owned.

The fires appeared contained to one side of the building upon arrival. This worked in their favor. The Engine 39 set up nearby, trailing a manual hose into the river for a continuous stream of water. The people on ground assured the Fire Brigade that the place had been evacuated, to the best of their knowledge. But these men wanted to be careful. The supervising Lieutenant grabbed Martin by his shoulder and shouted over the noise of flames and men alike, "Gallagher! Take your team and give us a sweep on the river side! Put eyes on it now!"

Without hesitation, he barked back, "I've heard ya, L.T.!" and called Ladder 16 together. They moved the truck around the block and went through standard procedure, checking windows for any sign of people trapped above, making sure fire exits were clear, and reporting among themselves back to the Ladder Engineer. Just when they were about to return to their colleagues and join them fighting the blaze, Martin caught sight of something up high. "Wait! Wait, damn ya! Fourth floor, left!" He could have sworn he saw something move in the window. Maybe it was nothing, and maybe it was something. There was no way he could ignore it. In his personal life, he wasn't a very nice man. At work, he was a medaled hero.

"Hey, Guy! You get me a ladder up to that fourth floor corner window, right goddamned now, or you'll be a'wearing my galosh in your ass! Get me? Hey! Talking to you!" He didn't waste time for an answer. Even as it was being raised, Martin was already on the ladder, climbing as it was ratcheted up, up, up to its intended window.

When he got there, he placed a hand on the windowglass. It was warm, which could be a bad sign, but not blistering hot. It could just as easily been the morning sun radiating upon it. At the very least, it was still cool enough that he could likely break through without feeding a hidden blaze with fresh air. Martin tapped the glass with his fire axe. It gave way and he stepped in. "It was this window..." he mumbled, though he could not see a thing in that place past large, blocky shapes. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, and yet again he could have sworn he saw movement. "...please, don't be a kid hiding on me..." he whispered, followed by, "Fire Department, City of New York! We've gotta get everyone out of the building! ...damnit... Hey kid, you wanna sit in a real Fire Truck? C'mon!"

Nothing. But his eyes were beginning to pick up more detail. Barrels. Coils. Sealed pots and oil radiators. He smelled sour fermentation in the air, and instinctively he took a step backward. It was not a good place to be. Not at all. The entire apartment was converted into a series of pot distilleries and holding tubs, each in the middle of different stages of alcohol production. There was no telling how many apartments were set up like this. If he lit a cigarette in this place, he'd take a chance with his life. And the building was on fire.

The door burst open, weakened from thermal pressure, allowing a sudden wave of heat and sparks to enter. The fire must have caught something inside that carried it to his corner of the building, by chance or by arson. It didn't matter. Martin knew what was coming. He wasn't getting out of this alive. He still tried to make it back to the window.

The apartment went up like a stack of dynamite.

Martin F. Gallagher's final moments were surreal. He registered a bright flash of orange-white light, and he could feel his body swept up in the concussion. There was the objective knowledge that he was on fire and outside of the building, high up in the air. Mostly though, he felt a profound sense of self-loathing. He really, truly was an asshole. As much as he struggled to be nothing like his father, he sure did one bang-up job filling his shoes. He had kids he rarely saw. A wife who he wasn't faithful to. A nagging problem with illegal whisky which, fittingly, was literally killing him that second. He had plenty of chances to make it up to them all, and pissed each and every one of them away. Marty was going to die, right then and there, flying through the air on fire, very probably in more than one good-sized piece. He could never apologize. Never kiss his wife again, nor ruffle his childrens' hair. There would never be a chance to see his grandchildren. Martin was a dead man, and nothing could change that.

Before his life was snuffed away mid-air and his body folded on the surface of the East River, he whispered three words that no living, human soul would ever hear, but needed to be said.

"I'm so sorry."

---

---

Back To Now

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---

"Oh Christ, I swear, the the look on the mans face was like this," J.C. said between chuckles before contorting his own facial expression to this. "Arms flailed out like he was being strung up on the rack and I can't be sure but I would bet me life on it that he still had a cigarette in his hand when he hit the water." George was chuckling a bit in his gravel tone. It was a hell of a tale to be spun and J.C. was a consummate story teller.

A dry chuckle escaped Reginald. Not at the story itself, which sounded truly tragic, but from the explanation prior to and the expression afterward. It quickly manifested as a chortle, as the man was attempting to restrain himself yet was failing, and so soon gave way to a small bout of mirthful laughter. Perhaps he would blame the whisky. "Oh dear, that... Tragic story, yes. Tragic." He did try to recover composure. It had marginal success.

"Mmm, yes, tragic," George said with a straight face before he gave his own impersonation of the striking facial expression that looked like someone had taken a bad shot of whiskey. It was made even more extreme due to the man mask - so while one side of his face remained set in steel, the other was overly expressive. This time, J.C. lost it an had to cover his mouth to keep the brown liquid from spraying everywhere.

The stately expression and manner of the Lord Major was chiefly forgotten in the moment, try as he might to maintain his traditional Stiff Upper Lippage common to upright citizens of the British Empire. His face reddened and his mouth twisted slightly as he fought valiantly to maintain the presence of his fine liquor on the inside of his body. Finally, after concentrated effort, Reginald swallowed, coughed once, and allowed himself a laugh. "Ah, gentlemen... the loss of a dram of this nectar would likewise be tragic. However! However sirs, this has been the most entertaining conversation that I've been involved with in quite some time. Should you prefer, I would not be opposed to a repeat next evening."

J.C. was still chuckling as he wiped the tears from the corner of his eye. "Oh wow, I haven't laughed that much since I was a little girl," J.C. joked. George grinned a bit and set his glass down. J.C. knew what that meant. It was getting late. "Well, as much fun as this has been, we should turn in and I need dry clothes," J.C. added as he stood up and shook the Lord Majors hand. "Been swell and thanks for the spirits, right fine stuff," he said before making his way to the door.

George rose and buttoned his coat before extending his hand to Reginald. "Mmm, thank you Sir. I mmm will check the halls and then turn in," he said shaking the mans hand before joining J.C. at the door. The two finished their goodbyes and goodnights and left the Lord Major to himself to get a nights rest. It had been a hell of a day, tomorrow was yet to come.

Reginald held the door open for the two Americans, wishing them a pleasant evening. "Yes, yes. I have thoroughly enjoyed your company, of course. Stay safe, gentlemen, and goodnight." The Lord Major closed the door and locked it behind his egressing company. It had been one hell of a day, and tomorrow promised to be equally as interesting. And they had two more days upon the riverboat. He should probably get some rest. Window secure, door locked. Pistol next to his bed, officer's sword leaning against the nightstand. Just like back in his quarters in the Barracks. The Lord Major slipped from his more formal attire and into significantly more casual, nighttime attire, and into his comfortable grey burnoose besides. He tarried only long enough to put away his travel set of fine whisky, turn down his bed for the issues commonly found in Egypt (snakes, camel spiders, scorpions and the like), and settled in for as much rest as his busy thoughts would allow.

---

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Haring Reddish

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck, Josephine's Stateroom -> Second Deck, Reddish's Cabin)
Skills: N/A

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---

Reddish understood. He had a lovely time with Josephine, but that time had drawn to a close. The intrusion to her room and the theft of a personal talisman probably had its role to play as well, and as much as Reddish wished to remain behind and see to her safety, the words were spoken. He was not going to insist upon remaining in a lady's room after she expressed an interest in his absence, even politely as this was. "Absolutely, madame." he said softly. Giving her hand a little squeeze, he rose from her bed and gave a warm smile. "Thank you ever so much for your company this evening, Miss Clarke. I understand that you didn't have to, and I further understand that I have propensity to be an obnoxious, grating individual." His face looked a touch uncertain, but he nodded in affirmation of his own statement. "So I suppose that's a Thank You, madame, for your patience with someone as comparatively workaday as myself. As compared to you, of course, Miss."

All the same, it was likely that, were he witnessed exiting Josephine's quarters it may shine an unfavorable light upon her. Discretion was the point of order and nothing about this evening had been discreet. Even the nature of their differing lifestyles might cast rumor upon the woman. He would avoid that, if he possibly could. "Miss Clarke, if I may?" He sized up his parting conversation and tried to phrase himself in such a way as to avoid insult, if possible. "Please forgive my impertinence, and my continued presence. These are two things I will fix very shortly. I have concerns to your reputation, having a strange man exit your quarters at night. Befitting my ticket, I am here serving at the pleasure of the Lord Major. Allow me the more visibly acceptable excuse, ma'am, of running your laundry to Services? I shall return it upon morning, of course, and then we shall just be two people engaged in the goings-on of the expected social contract between the lofty," he motioned to Josephine, "and the plebeian." And a motion to himself. "With your honor wholly unbesmirched, of course. You need not have to suffer the rumors of judgemental strangers, Miss Clarke. I'd not have it if I could help."

He didn't know what to expect from the exchange, but was suddenly very pleased when Josephine gave an approving nod. He gathered up what he could, from what she had been attired in earlier in the day, folded it loosely, and made and himself scarce. "You have given me a grand gift tonight, Miss Clarke. Thank you again. If you should need anything, please knock upon my stateroom door. At any time, ma'am. I insist. Oh! Please lock the door behind me."

He shut the door as he left, cradling the small bundle of Josephine's afternoon wear, with a polite, "Miss Clarke." and breathed out a wistful sigh. A quiet smile followed. Even if that was the last time he spoke with the woman, he had made an impressive memory with her. Two things prevented it from being the last meeting, however; Reddish still had to deliver her copies of the photograph taken earlier, and he also had to handle her laundry. Excellent! Life wasn't so bad after all. With a skip in his step, he practically danced across the deck and down the stairs, flashed his ticket and information, and bounded toward his own quarters.

He suddenly stopped short for a moment in stark realization of something ...amiss... This ship didn't exactly, persay, ah, or whatsoever have any laundry services. But he explicitly told Josephine that he would deliver her garments to her upon the morning. He simply couldn't do that while they were still lightly used from the day before, that would be highly unseemly! Highly! And Unseemly! No, that would not do at all. The Corporal rushed the rest of the way to his stateroom and hurriedly unlocked the door. As fate would have it, his quarters were as of yet untouched by whatever or whomever was making themselves at home in some of the others' rooms.

Just to be on the safe side, reddish checked his field weapons, additional bayonets, webbing, tack, gear, and lastly his beloved Aeroplane Cards. Wrapped individually was an artistic likeness of the original Skyknight himself, Lord Major Reginald I. Keystone in his finery, standing in front of his preferred craft from back in the Great War. He had yet to work up the presumption to ask the old man to sign it for him, though if he did, it would be worth a great, great deal to a collector. Not that he would readily part with it for anything less than a full emergency. Well, everything was safe and accounted for. Now to his other dilemma. Josephine's clothes weren't going to wash themselves, and neither was the staff aboard this boat. With a heavy sigh, Reddish stepped into his allotted washroom and began to fill the basin. Part of the duties of a batman were to see to his Officer's delicates. He could handle this, he just wasn't getting to sleep for another half hour, was all.

The water slowly rose, and while it did The Corporal began to look over the apparel for anything resembling a stain or patch that might require extra attention. The starlet was a very well put together and proper woman, it seemed, and a simple rinse and freshen was all that her clothes would require. Good. Very good. And it even looked like, were he the sort to go in for thing of the sort (perish the thought), that with a couple of buttons undone (considering that he was a slender chap) that he might actually be able to fit into a couple of these articles. Noooo. No, he mustn't. That just wouldn't be proper.

He continued thinking that it wouldn't be proper as he made sure his door was securely closed and latched. Not proper at all. He felt the same way as he turned off the water to the handwashing sink. Quite the scandalous idea, really. Then again, it wasn't like he wasn't going to make sure everything was clean and dry after the fact, right? I mean, knowing firsthand the cut and color of Josephi- sorry, Miss Clarke's garments would only give a greater understanding of the lady, yes?

Hmm?

FIVE MINUTES LATER:

A little later than most, Corporal Haring D. Reddish had hung freshly laundered clothing up to dry upon the door to his washroom, off the back of a chair, and on the interior of the cabin door. In a handful of hours, everything should be in proper order. He nestled himself in bed, for a while feeling truly content to be alive.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar & Keystone

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Location: Chicago (Outside of Grimaldi Books -> Church)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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---

The exchange was noted with no small amount of confusion by Keystone, as he listened from the car. Then a broad sort of deduction washed over him. It might have made sense, being as the Boston Irish chick was Catholic, that she'd be acquainted with a priest. That priest would know what she did for a living, and in certain circles Caesar was a noteworthy guy. Then the Padre went and mentioned already knowing another Gonzalez. Yeah, that would make sense, too. It could be considered a sort of "investigative exercise", listening and attempting to deduce from facts presented. He was working with a former Federale. It wouldn't hurt to learn something from him.

Comcerning the priest's own deductions, Keystone had also spent quality time with another Gonzalez. Enough time to give her a child, at least. And more. He was aware that Caesar had a brother who was a priest, though he never met the guy; if that was the connection then it made even more sense. It might make for an interesting coincidence. At this point he would welcome the break. Even if simply motivated by sheer frustration at the events of the past few days, it might be nice to get another lead (outside of the funeral planned for that day) that came from a credible source and not a mysterious, string-pulling figure absently dictating actions like one of the older gods of Olympus. But considering what his boss had mentioned about the funeral, he did wish that Claire would get a move on. Timing could be as much an issue as location, and he was not familiar with Chicago.

Caesar took Father Pearson's offered hand. It was good to cut through the bullshit and get down to business, hopefully without the ego that accompanied so many of his recent dealings since moving to California. "Yeah." he rasped, "That's me. Thank you for seeing us so quickly. Maybe we should talk inside." A little privacy might ne in order, considering the nature of the discussion. While he was curious as to how this priest knew his family, Caesar did not want to broach the topic in the open. Call it being cautious. Or mild paranoia. He had earned the right to have both.

Looking back to Claire he said, "Thank you, Miss McManus. Please take care of the other thing. I appreciate your help today." It was a little gruff, as suited his natural limitations, but he meant it kindly. She had gone above and beyond the call of her job description for the man, and he generally did not forget things like that. Turning attention back to the priest, "Do you have someplace quiet we can talk? Not a confessional, if you can help it." While he did have a background colored by the Church (albeit in muted hues), Caesar was not the biggest fan of confession booths. He had done enough in his life to make the hereafter questionable for himself, and it was a sort of reminder.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A

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---

More separations of his group, more time apart. It was bound to happen sometime, even assuming that everything went spectacularly with these people. He would have to hand over the reins to a larger unit and incorporate himself within it. It was part of the plan, so long as he felt that he could trust his people with the settlement. Even then it would be their decision, not his, ultimately. They followed him because they chose to, not because they had to. That time looked to be drawing to a close. Naturally, Ash had some conflicting emotions about this. He'd been in charge for so long now, he wasn't sure what his identity would be like without that responsibility. Things were funny that way.

From his group, Riley and Amelia were shuffled off elsewhere supposedly for parasite treatment. Two of the older guys and the younger soldier were along for the ride as well. He couldn't say much about the quality of character of any of the others in the Yellow Band Club, but he knew that Riley could handle herself well enough. Someone would get a tooth knocked free of its moorings if they got too handsy with either her or Amelia. Also from his group, Jack and Tatiana were together, their nuclear family complete with little Jamie as they spoke quietly in Tati's native tongue. Ash smiled. They deserved a chance. They all did, but looking at things, those three especially. It was a damned miracle that they found each other again, safe and more or less intact. Even that fucking cat. Especially that fucking cat, now that he thought of it. It seemed to have taken a liking to Tatiana. Maybe it had a thing for Russians.

The thought occurred to Ash that their time together in the last few months had given them a true gift. Each of his greatly reduced group picked up the basics of the Russian language from Tati. It was not a commonly spoken tongue in this part of the world, especially now that most of the world's population was deceased. They could still communicate, albeit on a basic level, with some hope of privacy. After Ash congratulated the nimble lady on her Oscar Award Nominee performance thusfar, he was going to have to thank her for the tutorial. She was a goddamned treasure, that Tatiana.

So the only thing to do now was to sit and wait for a little while longer. Ash's own curiosity about the items at their disposal, coupled with an intense desire to force himself to relax a little, gave him motivation to move about the room. His feet wound up taking him to the collection of vinyl albums, stored next to a functional record player. After sorting through it for a moment, he froze. A sparkle of recognition glinted from his eyes, and he stood holding a short stack of compiled works of The Rolling Stones. One might even have caught a little smile form to one side of his mouth. Even if all this was some bullshit ploy and they had to try to fight their way out of Mexico Beach, damnit all, he was going to listen to some Stones.

He selected one of his favorite albums, "Beggars Banquet" - it didn't contain his favorite song, but overall it was a better listen - and geared up the record player nearby. The first few percussion strikes alerted everyone within hearing distance who knew anything at all about the Rolling Stones that this was the immortal classic, "Sympathy for the Devil". In a manner that might have otherwise been considered uncharacteristic to the man, Ash began to, ever so slightly, bob his head in time to the music.

Aside from the obvious reasons of entertainment, to Ash's mind a little music to concentrate on might make conversations a little more private for those who wished to talk quietly. With that in mind, he drew his gaze over in the general direction of Thalia and Beatrice. They might have a little time now to speak. And yes, The Rolling Stones was reason in and of itself.

---

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A

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---

Sleep would have been nice. Still promised to be nice after a while, if she could allow herself the luxury of letting down her guard in a new place, surrounded by new people. Even that was punctuated by the fact that she was in a place, and not up a tree or in a smallish, makeshift shelter like the back of a car or storage loft, or even a perimeter-staked camping spot on high ground with a firepit and various foot traps dug in (if she planned to stay for a while). She sure as hell would have felt better being back in Lola's TANK, but that ship had sailed over a year ago. The thought of it brought tears to her eyes. Not the full spillage onto her cheeks, but enough to obscure her vision before she remembered herself.

Thalia was not in peak condition, in a strange place in which she was not comfortable, surrounded by more people than she had been around in a very long time. Crying was a stupid idea. A sign of weakness. Her lack of an arm was already doing that nicely. She needed nonchalance and confidence when it was called for, not shows of emotion. Now, confidence she could muster. Even though she wasn't at her best, Thalia was no pushover. Nonchalance was a different story altogether. She needed to do something, otherwise she was going to crawl out of her skin. "Heya, Bea..." she started. Thalia was just about to continue her thought when strange noises issued from somewhere behind her. It took a half second to realize that it was music. Older music. Some of the stuff that her Mom might have listened to. Oh yay, another dad person to think about. Yeah, she had to go and find something to do, right about nowish. "Yah, I'm going to go give that Pac-Man machine a workout. I can't just sit down right now. Wicked fucking pent up. You good?" If she wasn't particularly good, maybe a rousing game of "Make the Yellow Circle Eat the White Dashes & Avoid the Multicolored Klansmen" might raise her spirits. Thalia let her hand linger on Beatrice's shoulder for a moment, but made her move to the electric glow of Pac-Man.

The bad news: It still needed quarters. The good news: There were a line of them on the glass already. She carefully picked one up and studied it. It was the first time she had used money to actually procure something since all hell broke loose worldwide. It was a little surreal. She carefully placed a quarter into the slot, listening to the click and clatter that resulted in a single credit for play on the screen in front of her. Okay, she could do this. It was a simple game, old as hell, and only required the use of one hand to play. She needed to train her left more anyway.

Pac-Man: Physical therapy in the Apocalypse.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Quarantine (Conference Room -> Converted Sauna)
Skills: N/A

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---

Hank and Wayne had been Apocalypse Buddies for a while now, even back before the apocalypse actually happened. Maybe it was an exercise in mental preparation, or a sign of their collective lack of faith in humanity. Okay, so maybe Apocalypse Buddies wasn't the best term for them prior, but it kind of fit now. They had heard many of each others stories, both in the nuthouse by means of therapy sessions and afterwards, purely through male bonding. Now that being said, Wayne's recollection of the show was something of a surprise. It probably shouldn't have been. Hank knew that his PB was a family man, back in the day. And Wayne knew that Hank was a family man once upon a time, too.

"Oh, my little girl never forced me to watch this cra..." His voice trailed off. A couple of seconds later, he stated flatly, "Well, shit. I've gone and made myself sad." Hank let out a huff and shook his head. Lucky for him, at that moment the Yellow Wristband Club was being led out and into a separate room, to await the attention of someone called Shears.

But today was a day to look forward, not backward. The past was part of what made him who he was. He was not bound by it. Boy, did it sting sometimes, though. But speaking of looking forward, Hank took the time to hit the STOP button on the VCR, as he was going to fully acquaint himself with this show (possibly for future conversational ammunition, a thing which was not particularly mentally healthy a practice but was just just funny as hell nonetheless), and fell into line toward the back of his group. "Bakc after a while, Maldonado! Save me a seat, huh?"

When in the former sauna, Hank found himself a seat and awaited what was likely to be one of the shortest haircuts in his life. It was a concept that he felt like sharing. Oddly, in a rather understanding and level voice. "Hey, it's alright guys. I mean, don't get me wrong; with a name like "Shears", I don't think they're coming with the mayonnaise treatment, but small price to pay, right?" He looked to Hadrian and gave him a quick thumbs-up. Even a supportive nod. Fun was fun, and the Sportacus stuff was really fun, but this was something of a slightly more serious note. To Riley and Amelia, he gave an understanding look. "Gonna be okay, girls. You'll be back to breaking hearts in no time, promise." It was almost fatherly, in an asshole sort of way. Quickly changing the subject to get minds off of the coming buzz, he opened with, "So what do you think they serve as a Welcome Aboard meal? I'd settle for a can of hash and some coffee, but fingers are crossed for Crab Boil. Hmm? Seafood fans?"

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers

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

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Given the multitude of strange experiences that Gilbert had been a part of over the millennia of his awareness, Gilbert was wary of this bunch, without doubt. That worry translated into considerable annoyance at actions that, to his grievous error, he counted as intrusive and entitled coming from these carnival people. The credibility factor was, sadly, quite wanting. He could tell himself that this was a thing which needed to happen, considering the highly unusual nature of the troupe suddenly showing up in the middle of their time loop, but he was ever the old soldier, alert and searching for the threat in any situation for the good of his unit. This unit being a dwindling number of Emendators and Paradoxes, and by differing means, each.

He had been in the presence of confidence artists in the past. Most were willing to have people part with excess money, some did it just for the thrill of it. Some were truly depraved or nihilistic. Not the least of which had been people who claimed to possess the ability to speak with the dead, but were in truth just unscrupulous charlatans. Those were commonplace across times and cultures, going back to the Beginning. So Gilbert felt absolutely zero guilt nor shame at putting Ruthie through a casual series of questions and social tests to ensure that she was the Genuine Article. Having Giosue there to confirm was just the bonus he needed to re-assume a less guarded posture with the woman. Death was a huge part of being an Emendator or a Paradox. In its own way, perhaps even more for a Paradox. There was no way that Gil was going to let someone prey upon their insecurities or hopes for their own ends, when he could do something about it.

Satisfied, at least for the time being, he smiled and quietly offered Ruthie his arm, the same way in which they were walking earlier. "We may definitely accommodate. Please join us in the Kitchen House." He set to leading his guest back toward the building just across the slim patch of ground to the side of the Carnival, but hadn't gotten a pace or so when a question came from Andromeda concerning her presence. "For a certainty, Andromeda. I had assumed you would be joining us. Please, please do."

Upon reaching the Kitchen House, Gilbert seemed delighted to note the presence of Sophia, Ben and James already present. "Gentlemen. Sophia." He nodded at each of them in turn. "Good to see you about." Moving to the cabinets, Gilbert located and selected one containing the very bottles and assorted containers he sought. Speaking over his shoulder to Ruthie, he observed, "The question before you, madam: Would you prefer top shelf or something with a more homemade quality?" Maybe one type of the other would have a better or more lasting effect with her. Or simply a matter of preference. Gilbert had taken to the initial stocking of this place. He could seamlessly locate just about anything and tended to be a gracious host. "Anything for you, Gio? I might have a cup of tea, myself."

Looking back to Ruthie, he set a glass upon the table and motioned to their selection of fine and not-so-fine alcohols. "Have you always had your gift?" he asked nonchalantly.

---

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James Grady

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

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It was an odd feeling, having Sophia prepare coffee for him. James got a sort of strange 1950s vibe off of the whole thing, and it made him want to do something, anything, rather than sit down and wait for someone to bring him a hot beverage. But she did ask a valid question. "Oh, I'm happy as I can be takin' my coffee however you takin' yours, Miss Sophia!" he blurted, sliding over to a cupboard and rifling through it, seemingly intent upon locating something in particular. From over the din of the broad-shouldered man moving canisters and boxes about, one could hear him softly singing, "Oh Ar Ee Ohh, Oh Ar Ee Oh! Oh Ar Ee Oh-Oh; The White Stuff..."

A quiet moment passed, hovered even, until he gave an exclamation of, "Aha!" and withdrew a cylinder which promised the very Oreos inquired about by the furry, bushy-tailed rodents just earlier. James glanced around, half expecting to see General Fuzzy (or one of his cohorts) staring at him through a window. He didn't catch view immediately, so slid the canister into a back pocket and silently vowed to get it where he promised it would go. In the meantime, "Hey there, Miss Sophia? Breakfast didn't really do it for me. Imma make myself a sandwich or somethin'. You want?" As Ben had already turned down food, he gave the man a courtesy "Hmm?" and point in his direction.

At this time, he noted the arrival of others, who included Gilbert searching for alcohol. He politely returned Gil's nod but left it at that. It seemed a little early in the day, even though he was considering tapping into Alicia's stash of tequila not to long ago. But that was different. He would take a drink or two and remember his friend, and still intended to, even with this new development in the form of visitors. Moreover, Carnival people and Andromeda didn't make for a positive experience for his fellow Paradox. He should be a gentleman (or the nearest approximation) and give her an invite later, if only as a means of giving her an excuse if she didn't want to be around them.

All the same, it looked like The Hat had his own little conversation about to kick off with his own set of people, so until something of personal interest crept up or unless his opinion was invited, he decided for the meantime to stick to his own budding discussion. Supporting Sophia's question to Ben, James offered, "I'm from Georgia, m'self. South Georgia, nearabouts Lee County - real green down there. Good huntin'."

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

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Location: La Canela Ship -> Port Annan (Docks)
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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"Indeed, is time to go." agreed Vladimir, rising from his bow to Captain Montoya. "Mission is vone of haste, and if this is success, it vill be because of the speed and grace of La Canela, peoples whom I vould call friend." He rose, smiling a crooked little smile. A little quieter, he spoke more directly to the Captain herself, "Understand, even as I depart, piece of my heart stays vith Captain Montoya. Spasibo, Kapitan. Is my dearest vish that ve continue conversations another day, not far from this vone. You must tell me then, how man from your vorld shows interest and respect for beautiful voman, as I vish not to make offense nor become peppered vith bullets. Da?" Ever the optimist.

He dipped his head slightly and turned to witness his people meeting up with their belongings on land, below. Or just Constantin. And by "Meeting Up", he meant, "Pledge Undying Servitude to the Earth". Seeing this brought about a chuckle from The Great Bazhooli, who turned back around to declare (with a wink and a flourish, no less), "So dramatic, this man." A playful raise of his eyebrows to punctuate his thought and he began to stride down the gangplank. As Vlad neared the ground, he drew two of his finer knives, twirled them in his hands in a flamboyant effort to exercise his manual dexterity, and replaced them just as quickly.

Assessing the situation with their belongings, Vladimir slung his bags about the flanks of his swift, coal-black stallion. He checked to make sure that everything was secure for overland travel, tightening a few things as needed, and glanced back at the ship. Hopefully, he would see this vessel again. The Captain had made an impression on him. Maybe he should have left off by kissing her hand or some other token piece of affection, but decided against it as he was not fully aware of La Canela custom. Again, the peppering with bullets came to mind. But would it be worth it? Perhaps, in the name of adventure, passion, and panache. But they did have a mission to return to, and now their Alliance had another group willing to lend their support. His own frenzied pursuit of adventures more personal would have to wait.

Vlad recovered a knife to replace the one he had given to Montoya, and mounted his horse, Tolstoy. "Okay! Vhere is to the Greens of Gretna?" He glanced around, "And the Master Zimmer?"

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Cargo -> Lower Deck -> Main Deck)
Skills: N/A

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There was a moment of strange objectivity as Reginald turned to Gene. He had a curious look to his face; not a look that was, in and of itself a curiosity, but one that implied a sense of curiousness to the man. He frowned and shook his head, trying not to dwell upon the negativity that she was attempting to shovel upon the situation. Another item that gave him pause was that George hadn't said a single word, nor offered a facial expression that he had noticed about his sister's commentary. He must be accustomed to it, by this point, in the same way that the Lord Major had simply grown accustomed to the antics of his Corporal. Annoying but ultimately harmless.

He accepted the handshake of the young American, answering his minor piece of self-depreciation with something more positive. "No no, the pleasure is mine Mr. um, Mr. 'C'. And never you mind, I've simply the utmost for the Colonials, you see. Most of them, at any rate. Impulsive lot. Garrulous at times. But a fine people all in all. I owe you a debt, sir, in the form of fine whisky. If you and your fellow doughboy, Mr. Benaszewski, would be as kind as to join, I should like to have us military men toast to our fortunes." He looked to the retreating form of Mahendra, "I believe that he served in our eastern divisions, once upon a time..."

He shook his head, wondering how many of the men in or around the Fellowship had military backgrounds. It would make sense; after the Great War, foreigners (which included himself) who were acclimated to the region and had passable grasp on culture and language, let alone wanted to be there on an extended basis came there originally because of armed service to their countries. The Americans and the long reach of the British Empire surely made up a good amount of those kids of people. And the French, but he preferred not to dwell upon them too much.

Further thought in the short couple of seconds he devoted to it had him realizing that the high majority of the women in their Fellowship were of the intellectual sort, which also made sense for foreign women in the region. Military men, intellectual women. There seemed a predetermined division of tasks in that combination. He shrugged it off, confident that the group would continue to operate with the relative organization that it had thusfar, where they trusted the resources and abilities of the individual's areas of expertise as it came up, regardless of other factors present. It worked for them. "Well, nightcaps from my personal reserve - George, J.C. - I shall be in my Stateroom." The point for his presence was pretty moot, as the men already there had seen to the safety of his people. He could at least express his gratitude.

Reginald kept up with the rest of the group leaving Cargo, attentive to any further pieces of dialogue that required his attention. He showed his ticket again as needed, ascended the stairs that too him closer to his own quarters. He was eager to have the day finished now that everyone was accounted for, and likewise eager to begin the next day addressing their issues of theft and entry.

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Haring Reddish

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck, Josephine's Stateroom)
Skills: N/A

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Reddish tensed a little as Josephine returned his physical expression of comfort. He hadn't not been expecting it, though it was still a bit surprising. After all, she was a Name. Reddish was a soldier, and something of a servant at that. Hell, he was still amazed that she acquiesced to taking a walk with him, or posing for a picture. Still, the tiniest bit of guilt was nagging at him. She was somewhat emotionally compromised, and while his intentions were, at the moment, purely supportive, he felt like he might be inadvertently taking advantage somehow. The feeling intensified as, in their closeness, Reddish caught the scent of the young woman's hair.

"Oh absolutely, Miss Clarke." he agreed with hushed voice, relaxing the pressure of his arms about her but keeping hold of her figure. "You've every right to be angry, of course. Now, you mustn't put a thought into what burdens me, ma'am. Not at all. My affairs would have us checking my quarters below, and I can assure you that most anything that would have been taken from there can be replaced from general inventory in Cargo." It wasn't an entirely true statement, he did have one thing of a personal nature in his quarters, be it a trifle of an object. But the rest of his belongings were military issue. Or clothes, with minimal civilian attire.

Going out on a limb, he reasoned, "I'd rather not leave you to your lonesome in a room that had been recently burgled, ma'am, unless you tell me directly to sod off. Nor do I wish to do anything that puts me in a state of impropriety, especially with someone such as yourself. So I am perfectly content to submit myself to your wishes, even if it means we sit right here for the foreseeable evening whilst you take rest upon my shoulder. I am at your order, Miss Clarke."