Sigil

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Central Hall
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 2
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The collection of people gathering in the Central Hall was eye-opening, when Swamp gave it consideration. It seemed an interesting social phenomenon; knowledge of the bridge being destroyed had compelled the unwanted guests (himself included) divest themselves of their masks. It did make sense from a practical point of view, just as much as it made sense to keep them on when the event was more temporary in nature. Swamp wondered who was the first person to come to that conclusion. In the end, that was a detail that didn't matter, given their current situation.

There was much discussion about just that, their current situation. He had his own opinion, which he felt obliged to share aloud to whomever card to listen. "The bridge... is to prevent our escape. This is murder and chicanery. And we are helping whomever is responsible with our individual pettiness." It was probably true. But he realized that he might be perceived as rude, being as the Chanteuse offered him a suggestion he had not addressed first. He nodded grimly to the woman, intoning, "I apologize. Good idea. I could use a few seconds to steady myself." This whole "being shot" thing was fairly new for him. "Safe than sorry, Miss."

The brief pause to allow for others to choose their direction gave him a moment to study the people around him. Then again, it did not take a great deductive mind to see that the man known as Justice Cobalt had opted to keep his own mask on his face. Being as he was the only one so doing this, it rather had the opposite effect to its intended purpose, and made him look more conspicuous than the others. Of course, Swamp knew that he had his reasons. "I would reserve the judgemental stares that some of these people are giving the good Justice. My Lord is a little self-conscious about his extensive facial scarring. It is quite unbecoming to stare so at our betters." He gave a plain smile at Cobalt, "Pay them no mind, My Lord. Jealousy, I am sure."

The matter of Titian, however, was a little different. "The Chanteuse is performing admirably, subject to her own judgement. Though I appreciate." He remembered the last person that Titian "helped". It involved a brief flight and a panoramic view of the grounds before being reduced to uncased sausage stuffing back on the ground. Swamp knew it wasn't his doing. Nevertheless the incident left an impression, albeit in hindsight. He had some trust for Amaranthine. Titian, he was still unsure about. Unless the Chanteuse gave her approval, Swamp was not going to encourage anything.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Benha (Trains)
Skills: Engineering

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That Reginald got a chuckle out of his little joke wasn't an unexpected thing. It was nothing but a tiny bit of punnery and he was occasionally accused of being a little smug. He didn't really expect much of a reaction from the rest of his group, which is why he wasn't surprised by the verbal nudge from Mahendra that was motivated, no doubt, by social politeness more than actual amusement. Well, no matter. The Lord Major appreciated the gesture nonetheless. The mention by the lady introduced to him as Bella, on the other hand, did. He was not certain why it stood out, but there it was nevertheless. Again, no matter really. Reginald smiled politely back at her and, when she offered her hand, accepted it in the proper manner of a gentleman of noble breeding. "But of course. I am your man in the intervening moments, Miss Bella." He gave a polite nod and, confident that the fellow would procure the tickets faster than his ordered attempt, began to escort her toward the train they intended to board.

Along the way, he took note of the great iron machine that was to deliver them to the ancient site of Athribis. Looking first to Bella, then broadening his attempt at conversation to include the others, Reginald vocalized his findings of the train. "This is a lovely machine," he began, sweeping his hand toward the locomotive engine. "While some many things do not change in the vast wonder of Egypt, this grand conveyance was quite recently installed here. From the looks of it, a year or less ago. Yes, quite the stalwart and efficient machine. Piques an old man's interest; we hadn't trains like this during the Great War, don't you know."

So much as he could have gone into the expectations of the train ride, including comparisons of stopping distances and mechanical delay times between fuel priming and noticeable increase of velocity, it was sometime around then that he (and the others) acquired his ticket from J.C. "Oh, thank you so much, my good man. Jolly decent of you." The Lord Major handed Bella back off to J.C. with a curt bow and stepped toward the embarking stairs of the train, curious and anxious both about where they were going next. "Ladies, gentleman, come! We must away."

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Haring Reddish

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Location: Benha (Bazaar)
Skills: Investigation/Espionage

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The constant stream of common Arabic being flung back and forth was difficult for Reddish to follow, even though the man was versed in the local language. Truly, this sort of setting was a massive contributing factor in the commonly held stereotype of the Arab Trader. Well, if a people are good at something, it would be a disservice for Reddish to speak ill of it. Or at all, at this point. The nature of their surroundings were a touch chaotic and he didn't really want to miss out on a detail of what was going on, just in case something of note revealed itself.

Reddish decided to focus his attention away from the back-and-forth conversation in front of him, instead dealing with the Bazaar, or at least the part of in in which he was standing, as a whole. Intelligent eyes studied the people and wares around them, all the while setting a look of nigh total joyous obliviousness to his countenance. While he was amazingly successful at appearing like he lacked any sort of practical cognizance, the more investigative attempt was met with failure. Maybe it was time for a change in tactic.

"Oh Dearest," he began to Josephine, putting an arm about her waist and stepping away from the merchant's table, "this is the most interesting little roadside stall, now isn't it? But I've a mind for..." he leaned in closer and spoke as quietly as he dared, wishing to avoid other ears from understanding him yet still conveying his words to Josephine, "_{Right, might not have been handed off yet. If it hasn't, it won't be so long as we're in plain sight.}" Returning to his normal pitch and volume, he continued with, "...so I'd just be overjoyed to examine the wares over, hmm, well... over there, Miss Clarke." Reddish pointed to another merchant stall fairly nearby, one that seemed to be selling clothing. He hadn't taken too close of a look at where he was pointing, so when his head angled around in the direction of the stall, he seemed to be surprised to see that he was, in fact, staring down an intricate looking belly dancer's outfit surrounded by others of its ilk.

A rather considered look moved over his features, as if he was processing a thought that he dare not speak aloud. With the slightest hesitation, he asked Josephine, "Mayhap we should, ah, look around a bit, Miss Clarke? I do so appreciate the fashions of the area. Especially that piece! That would look just smashing on..." He appeared to weigh his options, such as they were, "You. Yes! Of course, you. Smashing. Would you care to give it a gander, madame?" At the very least, she might walk away from this day with an exotic souvenir courtesy of the Corporal, be it a paltry replacement for a family heirloom. They could circle back after a bit and see if any of the wares had changed out.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Chicago (Church)
Skills: N/A

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Booze before lunch. And why not? It wasn't like Caesar had a upcoming business meeting or court case that required his presence, and being quite honest with himself, thinning his blood a little might do him a world of good, what with the way that the day had been going so far. Not altogether the most hectic few hours of his life; that honor was reserved for an incident back when he was still a Federale. Nevertheless, not a day that he would remember fondly. It took less than a second for the old man to deftly acquire the shot from the priest's desktop and bring it to his lips. "Gracias," he breathed, setting the empty glass back down.

Caesar took a moment to process everything that Father Pearson was saying. It had been a while since he had looked into the totality of the Bible, even though it was no stranger to him. And yes, when someone mentioned Revelations, his mind went to the bits of it that were most popular in movies first, like most people. It made for an entertaining watch. It also tended to make the other parts of the book fuzzier in one's memory. Caesar felt a little foolish, giving the situation some thought. He had the intellectual wherewithal to go to the Church for an assist, given their resources and antiquity, but not to connect another historically reaching organization to a passage in the Bible that mentions something fairly coincidental. Given the amount of that floating around, it should have been one of the first things he looked for.

Maybe it was a matter of hubris on his part, but Caesar considered for a second that, if they were in the middle of a Revelations-esque event, how would he be mentioned in the writings to follow? More importantly, who would play him when the movie came out? Hopefully Danny Trejo. He loved that guy.

"It has been a while since I gave La Biblia a good read, Father," he admitted. "Are you saying that this," he motioned to the dodecahedron between the two of them, "is one of the stars of Juno's crown?" He peered at it with a sense of inquiry, eyes narrowed and a light scowl decorating his face. This thing was one of the reasons his daughter got mixed up with Juno? Or merely an incidental mystery to the fuckery as a whole? "Is there a specific reason why people want these so badly, or is this just archaeology bullshit?" Unknown people wanted him on the quest for these things. The Church wanted him on this too, apparently, or a representative of it anyway. Fine, he was in. Tinder was going to pay, and horribly, if he was indeed still alive. The first sentence of his obituary (his real one this time) would include the words "anus" and "chainsaw", he swore, but if it was his fate to roll himself in the Lunillud Aleae hunt, so be it. "And here's another one: Where do I find more?" If the Padre didn't have a place in mind, perhaps he had a clue. There wouldn't be an ounce of surprise if the answer had something to do with the place that fate seemed to be herding him anyway - Grimm, Indiana.

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J. Keystone

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Location: Chicago (MSS Chicago -> City Streets)
Skills: N/A

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Okay, Claire had stuff to do. Important stuff. Funereal stuff. He couldn't fault her for needing to get out of Dodge as soon as possible. Come to think of it, it was probably best if he and his boss followed suit and got on the road, themselves. Not that he couldn't spend a good amount of time here in sunny Chicago. He has always heard that this city was a culinary hub, and he was always ready to take a few notes and try new things so far as food was concerned. It was a trait that people unacquainted with the man generally didn't expect from him; a spot of artistry amid the rough edges and promises of intense violence. Maybe after all of this nonsense was over, he could request a temporary spot in the local branch of the company and take in the culture. Provided that he survived, anyway. So many people had died for whatever the hell was going on that he was not overly optimistic about his future. It would be nice, though.

These thoughts were getting him nowhere. He had someplace to be and the clock was ticking. Hopefully, bossman's meeting with the priest was going along swimmingly and they could hit the road soon. He had security and surveillance equipment, nonlethal means of dealing with assholes, several lethal means, a vehicle with a full tank of gas, and a full stomach. If he was very lucky, by the end of the day he would be greeted to the sight of a hotel room with cool air and crisp linen, somewhere other than Chicago. Step one was to get in his car and haul ass.

The departing jeep made him feel a little down. He was now alone in the middle of a parking structure with a duffel full of goodies and more questions than answers. Aside from standing there, the only thing left to do was get a move on. Keystone huffed a quick, "Right, then," and gave a quick jog back to the company SUV. He opened the door and got himself situated, settling the bag in the passenger seat. Quick check to mirrors, electronics, and the like, then he set his company cell in the handsfree mount and keyed up his music. A quick reverse of the last referenced directions of the GPS and he had his destination.

In no time at all, Keystone was cruising down the streets of Chicago, windows rolled snugly up and the sound system blaring "Set Fire To The Rain". It had been a while since he'd been to church. His adventure was taking him to the most curious places.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Hank Wright

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Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: Observation

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"Yeah, what he said." Hank was speaking to Nigel but motioning to Wayne. His voice didn't seem to change much from his general steely yet painfully cynical tones, except maybe there was a touch more relaxation flowing from him. From a man like Hank, it very much sounded like he was not overly burdened with an excessive amount of fuck-giving. Maybe a more appropriate truth to the man hovered around the notion that he took things as they came and was very up front about how he felt about it. Those constant vents of steam that flowed from Hank in the form of sarcasm, cynicism, and creative name-calling seemed to keep him on more or less even keel in a world that seemed destined to knock everybody over. While he could still get genuinely pissed off, and did from time to time, it took an act of God, Congress, or Bobby Orr (not necessarily in that order) to make him fully lose his shit. That didn't mean that he couldn't act like an ass just because he wanted to, though.

Hank put on a fake exasperated look and began opening and closing his hand like he was working the mouth of a sock puppet, saying, "And enough of this stuff, h-okay there, History Channel? For the love of good scotch and pastie tassels, you're supposed to make fun of a serious situation. If it was already a fun situation, I wouldn't need to. Geez, I thought you were a teacher." Yeah, Sportacus did have him nailed on the "Fuck It" attitude, although the motivations behind it were more complex than saying that he just didn't care. Stepping in a little closer, he dropped the volume of his voice and motioned behind himself. "C'mon guy, this is something we can't help with. Really." He nodded knowingly. While massive loss was something that almost everyone who was still alive had to cope with, Hank's own foray into despair started before the apocalypse and very nearly broke him.

There were a few exchanges that piqued Hank's interest around the room, particularly from the pair of more feminine cueballs who were with Army Guy and Russian Mom's group. He even made it a point to turn his head to offer a well placed piece of sarcasm, given what he felt was a needed interjection. His opinion was based on what he witnessed in the other room, when they were all getting the Sinead O'Conner treatment. One outburst was acceptable, but the other apparently wasn't. Maybe she had something going on with Army Guy... what was his name? Nicknames he gave people were so much easier for him to remember. Ash! That was it. Kind of a girly name, but whatever. It didn't matter so much what he was going to say nor why he was going to say it, as the events transpiring put a hitch in his rant.

What happened next caused him to swivel around where he stood. No, not the coffee drop, nor Tatiana attempting deep breathing exercises following. What put the look of genuine worry on his face was the younger guy, the soldier type, suddenly exploding into a very wordy fit in front of the young mother (that Hank decided he was going to start referring to as Miss Congeniality, but for the love of all things holy not right then). The yelling was a little delayed and highly unnecessary, but most of all it was a trigger for something that he definitely had his eye out for. Hank turned his head to view Wayne, or more specifically, the look in his eyes. The blank, far expression of a man about to do something painful. He'd seen this a few times. More than a few, come to think of it. Well, more times than he could count on his fingers over the past few years. And more than that, he saw what was in the man's hands.

Given enough room and proper motivation, Hank's hetero lifemate Wayne could use damn near anything as a weapon. He seemed to recall a time that the guy expertly utilized a pair of leather soled loafers to beat down a press of Dead Assholes in a hallway, but time and alcohol might have influenced that. Suffice it to say, a bathrobe belt was more than enough for the guy to make life more interesting than they really needed it to be that day. Nope, this was about to be them getting tossed out, no questions asked. Hank took up a position right in front of Wayne and spoke quietly, with a highly false casual tone. "Hey there, Maldonado. Hell of a day, huh? Listen... I kinda like it here, and that fuckwit isn't worth it. Tell ya what, buddy - how about you and me short-sheet the guy later on, huh?" He started to grin and nod his head, as if agreeing with his own idea. "Or (wait for it), we put his hands bowls of warm piss while he's asleep. Double impact, baby. C'mon. Or maybe we can just, oh I don't know, pants him and call it a day. Hell, we can think on it for a while if you like. You know me, I'm open to ideas. Whaddya say?"

For a brief moment, Hank wondered exactly how in the hell he became the voice of reason for his group. Maybe it was the Sheriff in him, still.

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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This sure as hell wasn't an ideal situation to be stuck in. Well, except for the food, and the coffee, and the walls, and of course, the food. Their little survivor's shut-in week was not starting off with the rousing success that she hoped it might. Then again, being around this many people at once wasn't her preferred situation, either. People tended to act irrationally. Hell, she was on the verge of it, herself. All of these unfamiliar people around and she wasn't remotely as strong as she felt she needed to be in case one or more of them decided that they wanted to jump fully into the deep end and go on a wrecking spree. Now from the looks of things, that person was the ballerina. This could prove awkward. She had to respect the girl for that punch, though. Maybe not why, as she was still a little unclear on that point, but the actual hit itself was fluid and had excellent follow through.

Whatever the reason, the sudden application of violence had her guard up. She rose to the balls of her feet and cast a quick series of glances around, taking into account the people of Mexico Beach still in the room with them, nearest exits, bottleneck points, etc., as well as anything that she might be able to use for cover if necessary. But what got her, actually pulled on her sense of personal loyalty was the bare whisper of Alexander after he dropped his cup of coffee on the floor. They weren't exactly the closest of confidants and their relationship sure as hell didn't start out the best, but he was one of them, whatever them meant now. Reliable, knowledgeable, and worthy of trust so far as she was concerned. Maybe this is why she began to get defensive when Tatiana approached the man.

Thalia didn't know how this was going to play out. The previously timid, redheaded mom had just instigated an act of violence, but she didn't look like she was about to continue on a rampage when she got over to Alexander. She even looked like she needed some help, herself. So which version of her was the act, and which was the real woman? Thalia eyed her carefully and, after she had stood from picking up the pieces of coffee cup (as she did not want to approach while Tatiana was low to the ground, possibly appearing as threatening), moved a step or two to stand next to Alexander. She positioned a shoulder in front of his, as if to symbolically shield him, and spoke with a soft but direct voice, "Thank you, Tatiana." Okay, that was the right name. Good. "We've gaht him. You good?" There was an eyebrow raise and some amount of guarded concern on her face, though the target of that concern was debatable. Whatever her story was, there was a whole lot of it that she didn't know about and probably wouldn't for quite some time, if ever. Thalia did get a good look at her back while they were in the showers, however, and could only assume that it had something to do with it.

She was about to ask another question when the klaxon call of yet more yelling sounded from very nearby, originating from the younger man who she was sizing up earlier. Thalia's eyes widened and she felt her nails furrowing into her palm, as instinctively her remaining hand curled into a fist. This was out of nowhere, and this was about to get punched back into it. Alexander sure as hell didn't need the extra noise right then, and there were probably a couple of people in the room who would play shank-a-bitch over Tatiana. But the woman responded to it coldly and moved on.

That moving on, and subsequent change into actual clothing, just showed anyone who had missed it the first time exactly what she had seen in the showers. It was one of the reasons why Thalia approached her in the first place. She had been through her own personal hell, and it showed. Thalia still had reason to stay a little tribal in mentality for the moment, though this was a reminder that they were supposed to be meeting up with this other group, presumably for support. Some of them needed it more urgently. Glancing down at her own severed forearm, she wondered right then which might have caused more lasting damage; her amputation, or Tatiana's ordeal? The fact that she couldn't answer right away, even not knowing the particulars of her trauma, quietly implied volumes.

She couldn't forget the reason she rejoined the group, however. "Hey, how we doing?" she whispered to Alexander. "Good to find a spot and sit? I gotcha."

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Ash Holloway

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

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Brushing him off and walking away after striking him to the ground. And for what? For declining to talk to her five fucking seconds after he just got hammered by the news of Thana's extremely likely death? No, to say "extremely likely" was still denial. She was dead. And before he could even fully process, he gets suckerpunched and screamed at like he was wrong somehow. Well, to hell with that and to hell with her; little Miss I-Have-No-Brother. Ash didn't have a brother either. He got to see one of them eaten right in front of him, some four or five years back. Never even saw the other one. And that bullshit about Newnan falling? Yeah. A lot of people died. Good people. It was a bitch play bringing that up.

But the part that did stand out was the statement that Tatiana no longer considered him as a brother. Yup, one moment where he wanted to collect his thoughts, at the very least, and suddenly he's a pariah. They might not be blood, but they were as close as siblings might be after all was said and done. Ash sure as hell wouldn't have spent a year of his life helping Jack follow Tatiana's breadcrumbs across south Georgia and parts of Alabama if they weren't.

Suffice to say, a lot was going through Ash's head right then. None of it was good, wholesome, nor family friendly. But the kicker; for a moment - just a tiny second or two - an even darker aspect of Ash's personality flared, giving him the idea that if he hadn't done that; hadn't kept his promise to Jack to find her above the one he made to Thana, there was a possibility that he might have been there for Thana. Maybe she'd even still be ali-

Sitting there, Ash came to despise himself. Nothing within his thoughts were genuine. They were petty and childish and designed to avoid true emotion. He balled a fist and slammed it into the floor. What the hell was wrong with him?

He felt his face where Tatiana's wedding ring had ripped the skin. No. He was not going to do this. He was not going to make himself hate Tati because he didn't want to face losing her. That was what he did, over and over. Not hate, mind you. He pushed people away, shut them out. The fewer people he cared about, the less he had to risk losing. Fear was, and always had been, fueled by love. And that was the point of it. It was also the reason why he did a lot of the things that he did; why he insisted on breaching doors first and eating last, why he maintained a resolute stand on following through on promises made out in the world. He had already lost so much; as much or more than the people around him, and it seemed that anyone who got close was living on borrowed time. He would do anything he possibly could to keep from losing them. Once they were gone, it was a matter of coping. Coping with loss was a whole different animal than fearing it. That was where he began to shut down.

Tatiana was still alive. She had her family back. Ash had not failed her, nor Jack, though it did take so much longer than he wanted it to. But the very last thing he wanted to do right then was play a game of "what if" where it came to the lives of people he cared about. And Thana? In a remarkably short time, that woman found a way to get close to him. And fate ripped them apart again. Ash wondered if he had failed her. It certainly seemed like it, but the two second slip to blame Tatiana just slammed into him like a freight train. The stupid and toxic psychological efforts at self-preservation made him sick to his stomach. Literally, physically sick. He dipped his head forward as his stomach made its first somersault, bringing an amount of what he had previously consumed up with him.

Ash clapped his hands onto the floor in front of him and desperately clung to what little control he could exert on himself and rose, finding his way to the trash receptacle near to where they were serving the food earlier. He stood over the container, precariously balancing with one hand on either side as a marginal amount of what he had recently consumed splatted below. The actual act took next to no time, but a coldness crept along his skin accompanied by a bout of severe lightheadedness, prompting him to remain where he was until it passed.

It was during this time that he heard something off to the side. He was powerless to affect anything in his surroundings, but he distinctly heard more yelling. At least it gave him something to focus on besides the mild shock flooding his body. The more he listened, the more he understood that this was someone screaming at Tatiana. Something crystallized in the man; jagged pieces of the last few minutes coming to form a hard and sharp whole, its sharp tip aimed into Ash's heart. Grim resolution held him together only as well as an inexpertly taped package might be, with the ragged ends of his emotion peeking out at the sides. What feeling struck him at that moment was anger. A low fire of profound heat burning within him. Anger at himself, and anger at that kid who just bitched out Tatiana for whatever reason he had - perhaps it was his own psychological insecurities, or perhaps he was a glutton for punishment. The anger energized and motivated him enough to break out of his momentary shock and walk slowly in the direction where Tatiana had just stood. She was walking away, but he had business with others in the group first.

As Tatiana started to change, Ash looked to Riley and then to Jack, and settled on looking forward. "I'm very disappointed in the both of you. We have acted shamefully." He continued forward. It was about this time that Ash got his first look at Tati's back. He had remembered long ago being shown her tattoos. They were like the woman herself: graceful, delicate, art. What they had become showed much of what she had to endure over the year that they were apart, though he figured that it was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. It was horrible and grotesque abuse that was heaped upon the woman, and a testament to her resolve to survive regardless. She had always been stronger than she let on, but damn if someone didn't try very hard to test her limits.

Ash's gaze was transfixed at the scarring and damage when he stopped directly in front of Hunter. He didn't look at the man when he began to speak, but there was no mistaking to whom the words were intended. "This is your warning." His voice carried with it a rough edge that promised certainty. "That woman is a gem. Talk to her like that again and I will feed you to the fucking corpses myself. Is that clear, soldier?"

Some men might have waited for an answer. Ash might have, if something more significant didn't have priority. The nanosecond the final word left his lips, he continued in the direction of the petite, asskicking ballerina. She had turned again and moved to their guards, asking where her gown and robe should be placed. When she completed her question, Ash spoke to her. "I'm sorry, Tatiana. You were right. I was wrong." His voice betrayed rising emotion, accented by hard stops between sentences. She talked Ash through a similar difficulty a while ago. Between her and his friend James, they were able to get him back and functional. If anyone else alive could read him and put his head back where it was supposed to be, it was Tatiana. Pushing her away was stupid. His voice cracked as he half-whispered, "Please, I need your help."

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

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

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"Life is nothing without passion. Nothing." These were the words of the previous Great Bazhooli, gifted to Vladimir, the present, prior to his ascension to the title himself. The words were often a centering phrase for him; a mantra, if you will. A thing which guided his words and actions even if others around him could not fathom the depths to the drama he imparted upon his surroundings. Perhaps such an opportunity to show off motivated him to enter the business of Master Nigel Ownerand, as the persons of La Canela did not appear to the overly impressed with the juggling of knives and smashing of his face. Or perhaps he had an ulterior motive involving the others hitching a ride with the seagoing folk.

The reasons he gave were genuine, though not a complete assessment of his full thoughts on the matter. He did wish to grab a hot meal, the last hot meal he might have in a while, but he also wanted to see if the paths of the other pair were to cross theirs in a more meaningful fashion before they departed. Coincidences seemed to tally up when out in the world of grand adventure, and this Great Bazhooli was going to move along with it in stride. There was the tiniest fleck of disappointment when they removed themselves from the Inn without so much as a nod or glance in their direction. Well, some coincidences were just that, Vlad supposed - coincidences. Incidents which merely happened concurrently.

These thoughts kept his head abuzz as he took back the reins of his great ebon horse, Tolstoy(!) and secured his belongings about the noble beast's tack. He took to his saddle with grace and panache, set his tall hat atop his brow, and nudged the horse to a walk. Safety suggested that he not bring the full power of the fine Brivaldi horse to bear until he had cleared the limits of the city. And then... the rush of wind in his face and the rhythm of hoofbeats thundering beneath him. He gave a broad, warming smile in the direction of his associate, Constantin, and got himself underway.

In contrast to his general verbose nature, Vladimir remained more or less quiet for a man of his ilk while making his way out of Port Annan. It was not until he witnessed the strange behavior (yes, even for him) of Ludwig, ducking away and succeeding in being conspicuously inconspicuous while trying to avoid the lady that he remembered from the boat. "Master Zimmer," he began to inquire, still seated upright in his saddle, "vhyfor do you hide from beauteous lady from boat? Vas there ..ah.. hmm, vhat is word... Ah! Vas there trysting taking place vith you and voman, and now drives you to embarrassment? Trying to avoid, as you have, oh dare I am proposing, other voman vith vhich you are not vanting to know? Qvite the scoundrel, da?" He spoke playfully, as if only half joking with the man about his motivations for wishing to remain hidden. "Maybe ve should asking, hmm?"

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers

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

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Gilbert returned Faith's gaze and resisted the urge to facepalm. Instead, he took on a more mentor-ish stance and politely informed her in low tones, so as not to disrupt the ongoing conversation, "Then you will have to be irked for the time being, Faith. What is being discussed here is ongoing. One of us will brief you later." It was quite possible that she did not know that she was speaking with something akin to a deity. If Siduri was to be believed, the closest thing to a god that she would likely ever meet, if such entities existed. It was bad enough that James offered her a sandwich, of all things, that he pulled out of a pocket (though in his defense, she actually seemed to look at the offer favorably), but brazen forwardness of that nature was impolite even in front of more mundane guests while in conference. Gilbert's own actions earlier in the day, brash and direct in nature, had within them the motivation of the defense of his people. It was granted that he was biased. It was also granted that he was, in contrast to his general nature, rather embarrassed at the most recent of events.

Also a rather odd point that he noticed about himself: Gilbert felt the tiniest bit envious of Drem, upon learning that he might have the opportunity to live a whole, mortal life away from that which he used to be. Gilbert had been self-aware for longer than any of them, and he had often wondered about the totality of an actual mortal life. Gil had accepted what he was, certain that there was no altering the fabric of his existence. Learning that an actual death was possible, resulting in a true life, was even possible was a game changer. But given what was happening right now, that seemed selfish. People needed him. Paradoxes needed him. They were already half-blind without the abilities of The Glasses at their disposal. No, if offered the chance flat out, he would have to refuse.

The advice to start back at the beginning did resonate with him. Coming from this woman, it brought back memories of what he thought was his mortal life, millennia ago. The enigmatic voice of Siduri always seemed to find its way to him during times of epic, quest-worthy events, ever nudging but never telling outright. It actually pissed him off a little. He wasn't a child. This wasn't even his first lifetime. And the benefits of wisdom gained from his exceptionally long life aided him in his many adventures. This wasn't supposed to be about realizing himself and his ability to effect change in the world, nor was this supposed to be a "power and responsibility" talk. He knew about that. He had those talks with other people. But if Siduri spoke in the manner that she did, there was likely a reason for it. Gio took her words to mean the beginning of the Destruere problem in total. Gilbert didn't believe that it was the answer, though he could very well be wrong. Besides, how does one see where it started when the entities themselves have the ability to innately jump timelines? There would have to be knowledge present that he did not think they possessed.

Instead, Gilbert gave thoughts to Eve. When did she begin acting oddly? When did The Dice begin to lose herself? Where was the beginning of her end? If he could save her, he would. Without Evelina, they were much the worse for it. "It is a path to take, Giosue." Gil began diplomatically, giving credit to the idea despite his initial doubt. "It might bear fruit, it we know where to look for that beginning. For me, I would take the path that leads to Evelina. Starting with the last training session she took our latest group of Paradoxes upon, as myself and Andromeda were preparing to do prior to the arrival of our guests. If that yields nothing, we try another of her pivotal events."

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Carnival)
Skills: Court Etiquette

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James was still caught up in the thrall of being very quiet and listening to those around him. As much as he had learned and grown in his time as a Paradox, he knew full well that he was in the presence of some heavy, heavy stuff to which he had very little to contribute. He did break his silence for a second or two when the uber-albino demigoddess gave Andromeda what he assumed was a kudo, giving her a little elbow nudge and a quiet, "Hmm, check out the big brain on Andy! You go, girl."

He did note the rise in tension after the arrival of Faith an the short detour that the conversation took as a result. It was not the most positive influence on what he observed was, until a few minutes ago, undecided morale. James was not a formal man. If only these people knew the exact lack of formality to which he was accustomed in his previous life, they would be absolutely amazed at what he had learned during his tenure as a Paradox. Most of this learning came from a fellow Paradox, the darkly intense Belladonna. The lady hammered much into his skull in the form of language, diplomacy, close fighting, and most importantly, etiquette of days long past. It was exactly this that he decided needed to be flexed, hopefully to save the situation from getting any more tense and cover for the unintended mistake of his associate, Faith.

James cleared his throat and stepped forward the moment that there was a break in conversation long enough to speak without interrupting anyone. He removed his hat and bandanna from his head and bowed it slightly, making eye contact with Siduri and returning his gaze lower, as a subordinate might in another era. "Lady Siduri, honored guests of the Destrehan Plantation," he began, his accent still present but reserved to properly enunciate every syllable he intended to speak, "I speak on behalf of my friend and sister Paradox, Miss Masters, who was not privy of the first part of our talk, as well as to illuminate the grievous breach in etiquette we all stand within right now. I apologize. We have been neglectful in showing you and your entourage proper respect on this day."

Keeping his gaze lowered and head bare, he calmly continued. "If it pleases the Lady, there is still some light in the sky. I would humbly suggest that we take our meeting into the Main House, where you can sit comfortably away from the sun. I further offer my service to get us all refreshment, understanding that it will likely not be up to the standards that you deserve."

He took a knee and finished with a trace more of his south Georgia flair, "I'm at yo' service, ma'am." Inwardly, James was pleased with himself. Also inwardly, James felt like his soul had been temporary hijacked by Shakespeare.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Grand Vestibule -> Central Hall
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 2
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Swamp looked a little uncertain now that his face was exposed for the world to view. Wearing a mask for an extended period of time was not outside of his wheelhouse, as it were. People in his profession often found the necessity to don a facial covering as it came to business, be it to examine, treat, or to deal with the miasmas of the dead and dying. He gave a polite smile to Amaranthine and took his avian mask back from her, hanging it over the end of his walking cane. There was no reason for her to have to carry everything, himself included. Such imposition was impractical to her continued assistance.

The Chanteuse made a statement that seemed rather innocent. Hopeful, even naive given the circumstances and a few key facts that Swamp was able to assemble for himself, but he could not deny that it was a call for the cessation of their present drama. Such complications muddied the waters of his purpose in this place. All of it did. Now with this bridge being destroyed (accident, sabotage - didn't matter) this whole endeavor was less of a mission and more of a continuing campaign. Short term solutions could not be the priority. There was a related note of surprise, visible in Dr. Swamp only in the form of an arched eyebrow as he heard Walnut agree with Amaranthine. There were details of her words that he knew were ...inaccurate... forcing him to consider that she might be playing the more long term game as well. The whole truth might damn them both. Perhaps that was what Titian was doing all along. Swamp would have to keep an eye on that one. The big man might be more clever than he was letting on.

So when the Professor extended an apology, he responded with a simple, and noncommittal "Indeed, Professor." before continuing into the Central Hall with the assistance of the Chanteuse. This was a meeting place, apparently. A nexus point of people filing from one location to another. And likewise without the barrier of their masks to impede conversation - not that he was willing to initiate any at this point. His desires prioritized removing the bullet from his side and suturing his wound while he was still alert enough to be of use to himself.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Benha (Trains)
Skills: N/A

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"Well then, I'm positively chuffed to have you aboard, old boy!" bubbled the Lord Major, in response to Mahendra. This was an odd collection of people that he had chosen to surround himself with on this day, as it was on the previous few days. A rag-tag selection of persons from varying walks of life each with their own histories and skills that hopefully were able to mesh well together, or make life entertaining at the very least. That sentiment certainly carried over with the newer additions to their company. Maybe not "additions" persay, more than people who had chosen to associate with them on the perceived temporary: J.C. and Bella, to be precise. If this woman wished to be of use as their interim scholar, then so be it. It was an awfully convenient arrangement. Funny how somethings went like that. Fate appeared to hand out luck with an eyedropper and honestly, Reginald sometimes didn't know when to view situations such as that with gratitude or with suspicion. As with so many things lately, the Lord Major was going to have to take this on faith.

Reginald took note of Bella's suggestion that they visit Athribis first. Much as he was not overly a fan of following someone else's lead blindly, he had to admit that he was not the man with the operational knowledge necessary to make the proper informed decision for anyone else. The fate of their little day trip was int he hands of these strangers. Polite people, certainly. Willing to lend a hand, it seemed. And J.C. was quite the storyteller over decent whisky last night, which counted for a bit in the Lord Major's estimation. But still virtual strangers. However, as he had no basis to go against the advice of the lady, Athribis it was.

Bobbing his head from one side to the other as if weighing options, Reginald responded with a light-hearted, "Oh heavens, young lady! I've a mind to tell you, I have been ensconced in the grip of Arthritis for quite some time and I'd not recommend. Curse of getting older, I'm afraid. But if you insist..." Reginald chortled a bit at his little joke. "Ah, what ho? I've gone and made a funny, you see. HA!" His smug grin at his own amusement continued as he assembled into the line and counted the people in his entourage. Making a quick count, he prepared to procure the appropriate tickets. "I say, were we all traveling to the same locale?"

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Haring Reddish

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Location: Benha (Bazaar)
Skills: Arabic

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Haring was not a professional actor like the lady with whom he was associating, though he did have his own talents. One of which was the amazing ability to appear exactly like a bumbling, nondescript, nigh stereotypical buffoon employed by the Crown with the dubious distinction of being issued a firearm. A walking, talking, oblivious, Lord Majoring stereotype of Britishness as viewed by people in this part of the world. He roamed about a little bit with Josephine, looking at this and that as he went about. He looked at many an item but did not actually make a purchase at that time. Instead of really taking a good look at the wares about, aside from the casual glance at thing he might peruse in earnest if only they had the time after their initial business was concluded, Reddish was mostly listening to people talk.

The best way to hear something was to listen. It was a sentiment echoed by his father's words as a child, complete in its simplicity. Granted, that simplicity made him think that dear old dad was a raving lunatic and/or utter dumbass sometimes. As he grew older, Reddish realized that the very lack of specific intent of those words made them a point of honest, subjective wisdom. He wanted to gather information. He had to listen.

That didn't mean that he wasn't going to talk. Oh no, in order to be read as a tourist among the locals, he had to play the role. "Oh heavens yes, dearest. We mustn't keep the honey waiting, hmm? But before our foray into sweetness, Sweetness..." he paused to allow for the obvious pun to sink in. Even winked a little. Damn, he was good at acting like a goofball. It was acting, right? "...I find myself interested in the local knickery and knackery about! Shall we?" He gestured over to one of the stalls where the vendor and another man seemed to be arguing. In a much quieter, more serious voice, to his market strolling companion, "Keep an eye out for your watch, Miss Clarke. I shall try to find out what they are going on about. One might learn something."

One thing was obvious, he did learn something. Reddish learned that these people could speak their native language a hell of a lot faster than he was comfortable translating it, as enraptured as they were in their heated negotiations of currency. The object in question was a saber, though he was not paying especial attention to the item as he was assembling the hasty ramblings of them men into understandable English in his brain, alternating with the words and phrases which were more familiar that seemed to slip their meaning through the haze of the linguistical fence through which he had to peer. It was bartering in Arabic, and it took some concentration on Reddish's behalf to appreciate.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Chicago (Church)
Skills: N/A

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"Revelations..." stated Caesar with the slightest rasp of voice. He stared at the dodecahedron on the desk in front of him, oddly curious at the possible connection to the final writings of the Bible. The expression upon his face did not change much, past the half smile/half sneer that reflexively leapt to the forefront, if but for a moment, when Father Pearson mentioned the significance of the most enigmatic and provocative of numbers; the fabled Sixty-Nine. Truly the meaning was universal among any such culture that utilized Arabic numerals, as it was apparently shared between the two men speaking. Also, despite being in the autumn years of his life, Caesar was still occasionally led by his vices - that being the more polite way of putting it.

But getting back to business, Caesar grunted a quick affirmation and responded further. "Juicio de Dios. The Judgement of God. Mi hermano if a priest, Father. I know of The Bible. Not as much as Benicio, but I have the basic idea." He continued to look at the die in front of him. Did he want Caesar to take it? If it was a thing of importance, was it trust or lunacy for him to even show it to him? Stranger things have happened in his lifetime. Like the events of that Indiana Jones movie that had Sean Connery in it. He had forgotten the name of it right then, but it was not the most important topic floating about in his brain at the time. How he came to be wrapped up in this odd sort of mission, now with holy undertones (or at least history) itself was almost secondary to what he needed to do next. Caesar had come to Chicago as simply a leg of the journey onward to Grimm, there in hopes of learning more about this Tinder guy who had the extremely suicidal idea of killing his daughter.

Now, though? In addition to revenge, the repetitive call for him to undertake some crusade HOLY SHIT THAT WAS THE NAME OF THE MOVIE! THE LAST CRUSADE! INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE! HA! for the Lunillud Aleae was painfully undeniable. But the question remained. "What does this trinket have to do with the End of Days?"

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J. Keystone

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Location: Chicago (MSS Chicago)
Skills: N/A

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What began as fairly idle conversation among peers was turning into a more hurried, rushed endeavor. It was fully understandable, seeing as she had family to attend to and a funeral to attend. Keystone accepted the keys from Claire. He shrugged, tilting his head to the side just a little as he understood that the same vehicle that got them from the airport was the one he would be driving back out of the MSS offices. He had given consideration toward something just a hair less conspicuous from the motor pool, given that they were going to be in a small town in rural Indiana. Further consideration on the subject had him realizing that it wouldn't matter what they were driving, the second any of the locals got a look at either himself or Caesar, or God forbid hear them talk. And what he knew about Indiana could fit in a thimble. And the standard was an SUV. Big vehicle, but fairly nondescript as these things go. Hell, the vehicle would be the least conspicuous thing about them.

Further, Keystone thought that Claire had offered to get him clearance... or was that just a conversation that they had about him needing to get clearance to access the Chicago office? It was a little ambiguous of a talk, back in the armory. Well, no matter. It was a phone call back to the Justice branch for Maria - pardon, Ms. Santiago to push it through the system, or head guy Gonzalez to make his own call. But that shouldn't really be an issue, as he was about to leave the building anyway to attend to more pressing business. So the large man set his mind to the ask at hand, that being getting back to Caesar and leaving Chicago in their rearview mirror.

Before he did, Keystone looked to Claire, who had just entered her own jeep. He debated the idea of telling her that her friend Natasha was killed while in transit on her way back from Alicia's funeral. Maybe it was suspect, him having this knowledge and not sharing it, were she to gather these details later on. "Oi, Claire? Your friend... she was 'elpin' us out a bit. Never met her personal, but I did run a check on 'er. I dunno if she died 'cause she was with us, an' I'm right bloody sorry for your loss. We can talk details later, if'n you wanna be in touch. Stay sharp. Best of luck, you." Provided that she didn't have anything to add, and if hopefully he didn't just open a can of drama, Keystone radied to get back on the road, himself. "Thanks, Miss McManus. Bunch."

🧚🏻‍♀️ 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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It was highly unexpected. So much so that, when the petite Russian ballerina's fist made connection with his face, Ash could have sworn that he went fully horizontal before flopping onto the hard floor like a boned fish. Of course, it wasn't remotely as pretty as that, but in the instant replay of his mind it did seem fairly massive. It was a fair statement that he didn't see this coming. In the least. His mind was already shifting him toward the leader he needed to be for the rest of the people he brought into this place. A little grimmer maybe, more stoic; the kind of person he had become by necessity in recent years. Then the punch landed. God damn, that little lady could throw her knuckles. He was actually a little proud.

Pride was one of the emotions running through him as he sat up, his posterior still settled uncomfortably on the floor. But there were others. For starters, he was disappointed. Tatiana had blown her cover as a secret badass, obviously. Moreover, she had demonstrated conflict in their group in front of people who would be deciding what their next address would be. Ash was also pissed. The problem was, when confronted with the sudden onset of these negative sort of emotions, Grief, Anger, Fear, the kneejerk reaction was always to dig in. He was generally a straightforward and stoic man in his daily life because it saved lives. And his ruralish upbringing. And his military training. Forced into a confrontation was not the way to go if someone wanted to squeeze a tear from his eye, not unless that confrontation involved pepper spray.

He mused for a tiny moment that this wasn't the first time he got decked by a girl. Ash did miss that one.

Ash waved Riley away with one hand while the other felt the throbbing damage to his face. He noticed that the eye on that side was watering. Maybe that would count as him crying, if that indeed was what Tatiana was after, but he severely doubted it. His voice was ice. Commanding, clear, yet possessing a trace of humanity as he looked up at Tatiana looming above him. "Didn't say that. I said 'I'm good', Tatiana." He spit red onto the floor in front of him. "That's short for 'I'm good enough to keep my shit together until we can talk privately', because one of us damn well has to." He took his hand away from his face and admired the spot of red, the result of the hole dug out by her wedding ring. He sighed. "We passed by 'fine' a long time ago."

The downed man held his blood marked hand up, as if asking for help to right himself. "You're not going to lose me, Tati. Too stubborn."

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Thalia Carmichael

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

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Alright, so the hand of Death herself didn't stop her. This particular moment, it was the fist of a Russian ballerina. But we'll get back to that in a moment. First, Thalia grabbed herself a cup and filled it with the marvelous substance known to mortals as coffee. It was more of a process than it was supposed to be, what with the whole "one hand" thing, but she was learning to adapt. There wasn't really much of a choice in the matter. Thalia wanted coffee. She either got coffee with one hand or she didn't get coffee at all and still was short one hand.

Thalia barely noticed the guy standing by the coffeepot. Maybe her mind was elsewhere, what with the news, unofficial though it was, of Thana's death. After she acquired her cup of black goodness, she took a sip and set the cup back on the nearby table. The tense air was making her a little alert. Bad news tended to do that. This was amplified somehow by the suddenly noticed presence of the soldier - the younger one who was picked up by himself. She didn't think much of it at the time, but when a few errant words leaked out from him, seemingly unrelated to the situation at hand as well as each other, Thalia regarded the man with raised eyebrow and clarity of vision. She took another sip of her coffee and set it back down again.

Alexander's presence, silent as it was, made sense. There wasn't really a lot to say about it, especially as they both knew everything the other did about the situation. No questions to ask, no thoughts to share. They didn't even know anything for certain, except that everyone in the room seemed to believe that Thana was dead and no one was giving out details. Why he was even there was beyond her. Maybe he needed some sort of reassurance, or maybe he thought that exact thought of her - she and Thana were close. They all had come together as the months out in the world turned into a year, and then more. So she allowed for a quiet moment looking at Mugsy, breathing out a quiet sigh. Then the thought came to her that maybe he actually came up there because he wanted coffee. She shot him a puzzled look, moved out of the way to allow him access to the pot, and motioned toward it. Just out of habit, she looked over to Beatrice. Still quiet, all in one piece. Probably still wanted her space. Talk later.

She didn't quite solve the mystery of Alexander's presence when a sound, not unlike someone getting smacked with a flatiron steak, sounded from the front of the room. -back to the Hand of Death/Russian ballerina thing-

Thalia instinctively moved her hand toward where she regularly carried her knife before she remembered that she was still in a hospital gown and bathrobe. At the same time, she noted another reaction from the younger soldier involving speed-drinking coffee and standing at the ready. This prompted another eyebrow raise from the one armed lady. The fight didn't seem to be a fight, persay, but it did look like a crap tactic to impress the people in charge who hadn't yet made up their minds about who would be allowed to stay in Mexico Beach.

Instead of a somber coming together, maybe sharing stories of the departed woman, or (if they were religious types) having some kind of communal prayer, the news of Thana's passing was capped off by someone getting punched in the face and an otherwise feminine voice screaming in a language that wasn't English. There was blood. There was crying. People looked very uncomfortable. "This is my fucking quinceañera all over again..." she muttered, shaking her head.

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Hank Wright

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

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You tend to miss a lot of details when you're hastily trying to change into a pair of fresh, new pants in the middle of a crowded room. Hank wasn't a generally self-conscious sort of guy, though he did possess a moderate amount of something resembling social decency when he gave a crap enough to, hence the fact that he did try to make it as hasty as possible and, likely very thankfully, did not strip down beforehand. It was the little things that kept a situation merely awkward and not completely, downright creepy. Yup, it was probably one of the last things that these people needed to see was an irritable fifty-something airing his danglies so soon after they had all eaten, even if he had actually kept himself in relatively decent shape (apocalypse notwithstanding). But so long as Wayne was on about "pants making the man", he might as well throw in his two cents on the matter. "Yeah, pants. Pants and testicles..." He cut himself short on his intended rant involving a ton of scathing sarcasm as he heard the meaty slap of a punch landing. And damn well, too. Hank was surprised to note that it was the little red-haired Russian girl.

Hank used the momentary distraction to slip into the rest of his allotted clothing. No sense in wasting a moment where everyone's eyes were focused toward the front of the room. Why, it'd be foolish not to take advantage of the opportunity. He then rolled up his hospital wear and tucked it under his arm. It looked like a lot of other people were getting coffee after lunch, and come to think of it, he might could go for a cup, too. The fight (or whatever the hell it was) didn't affect him in the slightest, and it wasn't like he could understand a single goddamned word the little lady was screaming anyway.

Through the din of the incident involving... well okay, he didn't exactly know what the whole deal was, but it was affecting a lot of people in that room and (once again) he still wasn't getting involved. Nope sir, not him. He did maneuver himself close to the coffeepot with a few gruff monosyllables to excuse his presence and get around the people crowded around the area, then over to Wayne. "Well, that guy went down like a drunken prom date." he observed, pointing at the pair of Tatiana and Ash. Nodding in Nigel's direction, he sought confirmation from the man with a quick snap of, "Right there, Sportacus?"

Hank took his first sip of coffee that he had imbibed in a long time, remarking, "Hmm. Good coffee." Yup, not his fight.