Foy Coiffeur
Location: Foy-er -> Quarters ->
responded Foy, placing a hand on his present neckware.
"Hmm... were I to opt for the a cravat, sir, I should think to use a Napoleon method of neck tethering, given my potential role in the situation upcoming. The Osbaldeston seems a smidge old-fashioned for such a rigorous undertaking, does it not?" Foy thought about that statement for a half-moment. He shook his head sheepishly and smiled with mild embarrassment.
"My friend, as always you are a man of cognizant sophistication; perhaps moreso than myself. Of course. The Osbaldeston. I should think that the Captain may wish to engage in some manner of diplomacy before the festivities begin. Were one present for such adroit discourse, one would be hard pressed to be seen wearing a neck knot in the fashion of Londinium Regent. Capital notion, sir. The high collar that such a method of cravatting would provide should give the necessary appearnce of authority as well, in the likely event that my less genteel talents are called upon. Were I wearing a hat, sir, I would tip it generously to your sense of refinement." His own elements of personal health and hygiene taken care of earlier in the day, Foy returned to his quarters to attire himself in fashion befitting a Gentleman Barber under contract with the Alliance. He picked for himself a particularly well-fitting suit consisting of matched slacks and high collared waistcoat (basically a vest) of mottled charcoal with a cream colored, linen dress shirt. Following the advice of his dearest friend, Foy produced a length of stitch detailed silk, also cream colored but distinguished by its material and wispy decoration. He folded it over thrice, wrapped it about his neck, and indeed tied a flawless Osbaldeston with manual dexterity generally reserved for skillful surgeons or those versed in advanced ninjacraft. He further secured it with a platinum tie pin in the shape of a single tiny rose. A pair of well polished Madisons adorned his feet, the epitome of style and function combined.
For the first time since Persephone, Foy looked to his standard firearms: Two Colt Pythons with customized grip and sights. He gazed down upon them, still in holsters on his embossed leather gunbelts, each filled to capacity with individual rounds of ammunition. A bit quaint, even antiqued in feel, but true classics never go out of style. Besides, they were the equal (or better) of any of the more modern firearms he would encounter within the nearest three planetary systems. He buckled them on swiftly and casually, obviously a man who was accustomed to doing so.
Also for the first time since Persephone, Foy took up his black long coat. He would very likely be doing one of two things that would justify a gentleman donning such an article of clothing - either he would be stepping out on business, or he would be receiving new, unintroduced guests. In a manner of speaking, anyway. Of course, there was the possibility that he would not survive the event; if he did indeed die, Foy wanted to be the most polished corpse on the field. It was the imperative of any good standing member of the Farradayan Gentry.
He peeked into his trunk one final time. There lay a partially disassembled weapon, one of such engineering genius and reliable personal service that it likely deserved its own name. Foy had yet to give it a proper one, preferring to refer to it as "My Callahan". A Callahan Full-Bore Auto-Lock, the best personal sidearm ever devised by civilized man. The immaculately dressed gentleman grinned, a certain sparkle in his clear, blue eyes. He took a knee next to the chest, and fitted the various pieces of the weapon together with speed and practice befitting a professional soldier. The seconds were still within the single-digit range when he affixed a strap to the firearm and slung it across his back. Better safe than sorry, especially if they were venturing into the coming situation hot. Yes, he would have to name his weapon soon.
"Ah yes, however could I forget you..." he spoke aloud, taking up his black felt bowler hat. It was a fine hat, his primary helmet in the battleground of aristocratic gentility. He carried with him as he exited his quarters, looking quite the Cosmopolitan. The additional ammunition he had pocketed did almost nothing to detract from his slim, athletic figure. As a little ritual, the polished man looked to his mirror.
You are one Dapper Gentleman, Foy Coiffeur." he praised to himself.
"Time to go to work, old boy."
William Harper
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Location: Retribution, Bridge
responded Harper. He brought the Retribution down to a respectable cruising speed as they neared the planet's upper reaches of atmosphere, and adjusted his angle of descent to match planetary movement and ensure a relatively smooth transition from artificial gravity to Whitefall's own natural. These little pieces of Alliance life he didn't mind. Of course, he had a serious twinge of guilt, knowing that the listed mission of the vessel was. Of course, now that the I.A.V. Retribution was a Black Ship, Harper couldn't ascertain quite what the actual mission had become, or even if their primary objective had been altered.
Mixed emotions, but a cool exterior. He decided to simply enjoy the moment, piloting the ship. It was all he really could do at the moment, at least until more information was forthcoming.
Harper brought the vessel low, selecting a vector of approach along a relatively flat and unpopulated route. The blip blip blip of sensors reading around topography kept a bit of his attention, as did the sobering reality that, if their sensors were manned and active, the other crew had every expectation of company coming hard and fast.
"Captain, the Vengeance will be within visual just over this next rise. How do you wish to proceed, sir?"
