[hr][hr][center][h1][color=9e0b0f][b]Российский императорский цирк[/b][/color][/h1][/center] [center][color=9e0b0f][b](Russian Imperial Circus)[/b][/color][/center] [hr][hr] The sound of crude ceramic shattering upon wood drew the immediate attention from the guards in the form of heads snapping around. When they realized what had happened with the fermented mug of mild intoxicant, the both of them shook their heads with disappointment. [i]"Это пустая трата хорошего пива."[/i][sub]1[/sub] said one, sighing. [i]"В самом деле. Он только болит. Неблагодарный."[/i] mentioned the other, his tone suggesting agreement. He continued in broken English, [i]"Should have drink beer. Abdomen feel better. Head smaller. Not shit upon self as much. But is good. You need go somewhere? Talk somevone? Ve follow for now. Yes. Is for good."[/i] The Baron left his son, Vladimir, after hopefully letting him know that his old man understood his position. Yes, he needed to see to Elizaveta as both a parent and as a servant of the future Czarina. Yes, they needed to get ready to travel. But no, it was monumentally stupid to get things going without a clear direction. One could tell the people of the Circus that London is tapped, they needed to go to Veta and had to travel to Edinburgh or Paris or Brighton. He would impart to his son that a clear plan needed to be established before committing his people to action, if it was possible in the least. This was the application of true leadership, not strength of personality. Vlad had skated on just that for the entirety of his life; raw charisma. That and earning the title of The Great Bazhooli, not to mention the respect that went with it. But he was not a strategic leader. It was exactly this that Dmitri (The Baron) had been trying to instill in his son ever since he became The Great Bazhooli. For the first time in a great, long while, the reigning Great Bazhooli was in line to inherit the Barony. Dmitri had to hold his son to a higher standard. True to his word, The Baron did make his way around the Tent City, letting people know that they might be leaving soon and to effect a soft breakdown of the Circus, meaning to pack away personals and acts for the time being, stow anything nonessential and remain quiet about it. If all went well, they could have the whole of their people ready to leave at an hour's notice. Maybe even less, if they utilized every bit of their Rusyn and Circus training properly. [center][hider=Translations] 1 = [i]That[/i] is a waste of good beer. 2 = Indeed. He is only hurting himself. Ungrateful. [/hider][/center] [hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=firebrick]Vladimir Alexandrov[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3068ada6-2525-4e47-b1a8-14d98dfb6177.jpg[/img][h3][color=firebrick][b][i]"[u]The Great Bazhooli[/u]"[/i][/b][/color][/h3][/center][hr][hr][center][color=firebrick][b]Location:[/b][/color] Russian Imperial Circus (Regent's Park), Outside of Veta's Tent [color=firebrick][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Fal'shbort[/i] (Passive), [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] (Passive), English [/center][hr] This was not the time for his Circus to become divided in mind nor purpose. Everyone deserved their opinion, their feelings on the matter of Veta's unannounced departure, but none of them, not a one, had the right to openly criticize her decision to do so. Except for [i]him[/i]. Vladimir had raised that girl as his own since she was very small, as had Izolde, and even Sister Sophia (though he had some misgivings about that). And while he agreed that this was a rash, foolish decision, there was no way in hell he was going to continue to suffer this conversation out loud and let disharmony flourish throughout the Tent City. [color=firebrick]"Enough!"[/color] he roared, straightening up to his full height. He looked from Sister Sophia to Constantin, and spared no amount of accented eye glare for anyone else gathered around who considered the possibility of grumbling about the situation. Fine, he was supposed to be a leader. Now was a good time to make an effort toward it. [color=firebrick]"There vill be no more of talk. Talk, talk, talk... Solve [i]nothing[/i]."[/color] He swept his tall hat from his noble head and adopted a more humble stance. But not a hell of a lot more. [color=firebrick]"Our little Veta is strong in vay of [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i]. Strong in [i]Chteniye Dushi[/i]. Stronger than Great Bazhooli, stronger than [i]Baron[/i]!"[/color] He didn't know if that was actually true, but she was a young lady of immense talent. [color=firebrick]"If Veta goes, has reason. Duty! And I vill hear not another vord of 'punish'. Is Grand Duchess! As Grand Duchess, vord is law. Action is law!"[/color] Vladimir swept his hands behind his back and began pacing, looking from performer to performer that had gathered to watch the drama unfold. [color=firebrick]"Veta is strong vith sword, for too... or did all ov us forget? And if Sister Sophia speak truths, she goes with others, powerful in Arts of their peoples. Now! Thank yous to Constantin, ve know she goes to Scotland. North! And... and..."[/color] His speech slowed down, finally processing the crazy that had come from Ludwig. Finishing his address to his people, [color=firebrick]"And vhen ve know more, vhere to go [i]exactly[/i], ve ready to move as vone!"[/color] Vlad hurried back over to the German fellow, hopefully in understanding of what he had shown him. In a more quiet tone, he inquired of the mad Teuton, [color=firebrick]"This is for true? Jericho Vall has... Is big enough for Circus?"[/color] A smile spread across Vladimir's face, which quickly formed into a nigh cheshire grin. [color=firebrick]"Tell me more. Slower, for please."[/color] [hr][hr][center][h1][color=c0c0c0][i][b]Sister Mary Ignatia Hale[/b][/i][/color][/h1][/center] [center][img]http://image.phimmoi.net/profile/356/medium.jpg[/img] [sub][color=c0c0c0]"In that day their strong cities will be like forsaken places in the forest; And the land will be a desolation." -Isaiah 17:9[/color][/sub] [hr][color=c0c0c0][b]Location:[/b][/color] Nottingham [color=c0c0c0][b]Skills:[/b][/color] N/A [/center][hr][hr] A dumbfounded feeling struck Mary. She was very vaguely aware of the Russian skill that allowed them to heal others. She had learned a similar one from the Vatican. While theirs was a potent ability that was reserved mostly for physical trauma, Rome's skill was broader in nature, possibly more apt to be of use in this very situation. She had just never considered the possibility of using it on her horse, and that lack of insight bothered her. Why couldn't she? Especially now, seeing as she was on a mission of divine importance, one to which she was specifically tasked by edict and training. Such an act surely would not be vulgar use of the ability. [color=c0c0c0]"Veta, you will have to let me attempt to return this favor upon your Myshka before we depart. I insist, please."[/color] Mary gave a soft smile, the start of her trademark serenity returning despite the fact that she desperately needed to run a comb through her hair and have a moment to freshen up. It was a minor irritation of the road, or travel in general for that matter. Horseback was faster than a carriage, almost always, but tended to show more upon one's exterior. Some things could be repaired once that got indoors. Others would just have to wait. For starters, a decent but modest meal and a little time to sit upon a surface that was not hardform leather wrapped around a moving animal. Mary held her hand out to Virginia and made her way into the Inn pointed out by the stableboy. Locating a table in this place seemed a touch toward the difficult. Mary was able to catch more than a few London accents from among the crowd. That in and of itself wasn't too uncommon this far south, but what really caught her attention was the talk of an attack to the north of them in Manchester. It was too much of a coincidence not to be related to the troubles in London. Luckily, Mary was not dressed as she normally did, nor was she carrying her Swiss halberd. That was with her horse's tack. Perhaps the lone Papist in a room chock full of Anglicans could get an easier time of it than she usually did back in foggy London. She leaned from her seat, hoping to glean some information on the happenings; after all, Manchester was conceivably on their way to Gretna Green. [color=c0c0c0]"Gentle folk, did you say Manchester?"[/color] she began, looking concerned, [color=c0c0c0]"We travel north. Whatever happened?"[/color]