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Literary Hatchetman

STATUS: Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4… 7 yrs ago
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7 yrs ago
Current Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4…
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9 yrs ago
Example of a "Character Flaw": roleplayerguild.com/posts/32..
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Bio





"Character Flaw"

Keystone's Daydream

Checking for Mental Intrusion

The Power Of Pain Compels You

The Greater Good

Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady



Most Recent Posts

In 🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S. → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Vladimir Alexandrov

Location: Scotland, north of Port Annan (Ludwig's Path)
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English


The lines of inquiry running involving the more academic of their group (that being Ludwig) did not directly involve The Great Bazhooli. He was a man of some learning himself, though not of the more scholarly pursuits to which the odd German fellow had devoteda good portion of his brainpower. His was more of actionable ability, that and language. No sense in working up a crowd with emboldening speeches if they did not understand a word of it. The origin of Soulless seemed to be the topic at hand. While it was indeed a topic most interesting to him, being as his people were often called upon to handle these matters in their home Empire, it was not one that struck him as being important to the moment. Ergo, this generation's incarnation of The Great Bazhooli gave it only passing attention, or what passing attention was possible when tearing up the path behind them whilst in the saddle of a fine Russian Brivaldi horse.

To that end, Vladimir was perched atop his noble Tolstoy(!), riding high in his saddle and making the earth beneath him dangerous for man and borrowing mammal alike. His keen eyes scanned the land before him as his body remained braced for movements either gradual or sudden; the subtle type that shifted weight and allowed the horse to know precisely how and when to change direction. One strong, dexterous hand gripped the reins while the other trailed behind him, acting as both ballast and a sort of wind rudder, giving him a greater sense of solidity and range of movement from the back of a galloping steed.

One piece if he conversation did reach into the maelstrom of his attention. It was the repeated mention by Ludwig of something involving "pointy shoes". Vlad was beginning to unravel some of the Ludwig To Russian (and/or English) translations. There was some meaning behind those word, maybe another piece of the overall, grand puzzle. "Master Zimmer!" he called behind him, "Who is this pointy shoes man?" Or maybe Vladimir had no clue what the hell was going on with the man, and this was just going to be another awkward, incomplete conversation while they rode along the more secret roads of southern Scotland.
In 🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S. → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Gilbert Summers
Location: Ville au Camp (Main House, Room 101 (Sitting Room))
Skills: N/A


Gilbert was a man of many long centuries, during which he was present to many long conversations of varying levels of importance. The grand scheme of the universe, multiverse, or nigh-infinite timelines existing within them all could be best described in their own histories as a series of important conversations alternating with a series of important battles. As it turned out, Gilbert was an huge fan of both. Especially if the discussion concerned the approach of an important battle. This one seemed to be the klaxon call of a campaign on the outset. He was intrigued.

As the conversation seemed to be centered around the potential application of Faith's gifts as a Paradox, Gil quietly sat with a small smile on his face and allowed the discussion to continue past his own observations, learning as much as he could about their situation at hand. He was well aware of, and acquainted with, the persons of whom Siduri was speaking. Before she decided to meet any of them by herself, she needed a highly in-depth introduction into their world, beyond what Evelina had already shown her. And something to ensure her safety from the more aggressive elements of their culture. The one piece of Siduri's conversation that addressed him could be responded to with a simple reminder of, "My base nature has not changed, only the level of my refinement. Of course I will fight." An ounce of grief passed over him as he remembered that the most vocal person discussing his level of refinement (or lack thereof) was Evelina.

It appeared that he had inadvertently answered Giosue's question in the discussion with others in the room, but he had no problem reiterating his thoughts. "These children are not ready to fight a dragon yet, Giosue. With proper training, they might be ready to fight a war soon." Continuing, he added, "What I would like to do is strategically place each of them in different combat settings throughout history and let them take experience the hard way, but that would do nothing to develop their gifts. As powerful as we believe we are, we can only guide most of them partway. They must either teach themselves, or locate those who are better versed with their gifts then ourselves. Either way, I believe that we require a period of reflection here in the Loop, after which training should begin again."

James Grady
Location: Ville au Camp (Main House, Room 101 (Sitting Room))
Skills: N/A


To James, it looked like most of the people in the room agreed with each other. It was just a matter of having the conviction to move forward. The nature of life and death, whatever it meant to be a Paradox, and the squishy nature of time were all secondary to what was sitting before him. He had come from a timeline that the Bible might have referred to in Revelations. He and others carved a life for themselves in the middle of Hell with blood and sweat and raw determination to survive. Everything that he knew was destroyed and he got to see almost everyone that he cared about die, one by one or en masse, sometimes right in front of him. The only thing that truly mattered anymore was the collection of people that you took to yourself as family. Even the horribly dysfunctional people around him right now. Even if the things they needed to face were different and/or more dangerous than the living dead of his home timeline, one just needed to learn the rules. Or discover the rules. Whatever.

When Andromeda found her way over to him, he kept it very short and fairly quiet. "Hey girl, y'ok now? Get some shit worked out? Aight, nuthin over new from what we was on about befo', right? Just workin' out the hows an' whatnot. Ain't a thing certain. Give ya them tiny details later." He set a hand on her shoulder, nodding supportively. "Gonna be ok, ok? Ok. Welcome back."

Then Gilbert went and said something that made James want to slap him. Again. Drop them off in combat and let the learn the hard way? Oh, what bullshit. James lived a life of elbows and knuckles as a young man, and then all of the living dead shit? Nuh-uh. He'd lived enough time sticking around places of constant warfare and turmoil, waiting patiently for the next huge chink of drama to take more people he cared about away from him. Then he gets resurrected as a neophyte wereboar, forgetting all of the practical skills that he knew before? Sure, he'd trained up a good skill set from these people, but it was a crock of shit that he had to lose who he was to get it. And yes, he did get a piece of it back, coincidence though it might be. He still didn't handle a bow exactly like he did before. Damn good, but different technique and how the ass did his brain download all of this Russian shit? ...oh yeah... Belladonna. He had to learn it from another Paradox, a much, much older one. It just came to him pretty easily.

Giving that thought consideration, maybe the same would be true of is Paradox abilities. They had barely scratched the surface. Okay, stay with his people (because that's what these guys were now) and see this through. Maybe even be a badass real soon. That whole "dying" thing? Already did it once. Old hat. Bring this next shit on.
In 🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1 → 6 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Dr. Swamp
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Sewing Room (2F)
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 2
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎


"As the Chanteuse prefers," conceded Swamp, referring to her decision to remain steadying him rather than prop him upon something in the seemingly endless interim between herding the rest of the guests where the Lord of the Manor wished them. "Thank you." His words had a tinge of fatigue added to the strain present; understandable considering the injury inflicted upon him. He continued his attempts to keep as much of his own weight off of Amaranthine as we could, relying on her only as needed to climb the stairs and follow the direction of the houseman. Luckily, past the steps it was just one room up and one room over, though why he was being taken to a Sewing Room and not a proper location for the treatment of injury was beyond him. The Doctor did have to admit a sense of propriety to it, be it in an odd, vulgar sense. There was some stitching to do, after all.

As they entered the Sewing Room and Swamp caught the name of the young lady attending, his eyes searched for a place to sit. He settled upon a chair that he might be able to perch himself upon the edge of, lest his seepage of blood sully the fine upholstery thereof. "If you would please, unburden yourself of me there. Thank you again." He took note of the position of Professor Walnut and the glint of sarcasm in her words. "That is very gracious of you, Walnut. I applaud your gentility, even in these most uncertain of times."

Looking to the housemaid in the room, "Rhoda, yes? Rhoda." He cleared his throat and drew a shaky breath, expanding his lungs as best he could before exhaling slowly. "If you would please, the Professor's injuries are due to her pistol backfiring and should require but cursory treatment. Please see to her first. I offered my own assistance, but I doubt that she would be willing to accept as my own injuries are likewise due to her pistol." That, and he had zero desire to have her acting as witness to his own appointment with forceps, line, and needle. Such a compromising position, particularly when close attention must be paid to the work at hand, might lead to an opening which might be exploited by hostile parties. "Have you much experience closing skin, young Miss?" he spoke with polite inquiry.
In 🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S. → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Reginald Keystone


Location: Benha (Train to Athribis)
Skills: Observation


Indeed the subject of branding was of the utmost of importance, being as this Fellowship was linked together for the most part by a series of odd, symbolic dreams, waking visions, and physical manifestations aplenty, this being most notable by the unnatural searing of the skin present on some of their number. The worst of it that he had gotten for himself was a particularly horrifying (but oddly interesting) dream about a jackal-headed fellow remotely removing Reginald's own heart while creatures most inhuman warred very nearby. Well, and the udjat ring dream that brought them all together in the first place. Well, most of them. The Lord Major's mind fluttered over to the other representative of the Royal Armed Forces present for the excursion. Why was he with them, again?

Reginald shook the thought from his head. They were all bound together by fate, or design of ancient powers, or whatever passed for either of those these tumultuous days. Everyone was there for a reason, even if that reason was unknown at the present. Besides, the old man needed to keep his mind in the present. He was on a grand adventure, possibly the last one of his life. He should enjoy and experience everything to its fullest while he had the opportunity.

But back to the issue of branding. It was being handled in conversation with their new friends from overseas and Miss Kingston. And Gene. Yes, Gene. To be diplomatic about the woman, Reginald might state that, despite the spirited and outgoing nature of the young lady, he was simply not swept away by her natural charisma nor force of personality. While not speaking his thoughts aloud, he did respond to her affirmation of what passed for permission to take the seat next to him with a cautious look and raised brow; the kind of expression that you might give a person who just told you that they had live snakes in their waistcoat pockets. Did you believe them? Could you afford not to? Did you know the person well enough to tell the difference? The tiniest of shrugs later, he dismissed the thought with a simple, "Quite. Do make yourself comfortable, madame."

His perusal of the train did not reveal any faces that were out of place, but he did try to keep track of some of the faces just in case they popped up later on. Naturally, as they were all going to the same place, that was a very likely possibility. It was good policy anyway. One could never tell who was friend or who was foe while "in country". He used the opportunity presented by looking about to respond to J.C. on a matter much more trivial, as the women and Mahendra discussed the branding, though he pitched his voice a bit quieter as not to override the existing conversation with something a hair toward the risque of topic: "Indeed, sir. A military man, that Mr. Benaszewski. I had always longed for a time that service to King and Country (or whatever you Colonials swear armed allegiance toward, do forgive my ignorance, sir), did not involve the rigors of those cheeky little invaders known to the line soldiery as "Trouser Lice". Be it from camp followers or improper laundering duty, many a good man has been laid low by the beasts. Not even the basic regimentation that ants possess, and I'm not a man who lobbies for their cause, either. Hmm..." Reginald frowned a bit, at this point absolutely certain that, in his rambling about communicable parasites, he had forgotten something important.

Though as long as his mind was drifting about in thought, not to mention enjoying the conversation and the view from the train windows, the memory of him waking up to a camel spider above his bed come to the forefront. He generally rested with his sword nearby; it was a fine weapon and the habit of keeping it nearby had saved his bacon in the past, as it did again concerning the offending creature. Was that part of the whole parcel of odd happenings that befell everyone, or merely a coincidence that happened occasionally along the Nile? Well, his windows has better be fitted with the parts he ordered to prevent such a thing again upon his return to the Qasr El Nil Barracks.



Haring Reddish


Location: Benha (Bazaar)
Skills: Arabic


One thing was for certain: That merchant had definitely lost himself a customer.

Thoughts of buttering the guy up and allowing marginal advantage in the haggling was meeting its swift and dramatic end as a flash of steel arced out from the man, scoring Josephine across her face. Her face. Reddish could get half of the skin on his own visage peeled away by artillery exploding nearby and he would still be able to do his job, although he'd probably never be allowed near state functions ever again. But Josephine? No, this would not do. The man had a blade out. Blood had been drawn. A very different form of Corporal Reddish came instantly to the forefront as, for a mere fraction of a second, his hand strayed to his belt where his Webley pistol rested. His eyes took on a terrifyingly blank aspect, and his other hand which had hung by his side twitched, the impulse to go for something unseen on his person squashed as soon as it flared up.

No. There were three of them. He could not get put into jail and summarily executed for murdering three people in broad daylight in the middle of a marketplace. That is exactly what it would be, murder; and then there was no telling what would become of Josephine. As a western female foreigner, she had no legal rights here. Just being out in public by herself could get her arrested or worse. British Commonlaw was no longer the ultimate arbiter of legal procedure in Egypt, and even when it was this kind of thing happened all the time.

Unfortunately, they did not have a lot of options. He would just love to sink a blade into the base of the man's skull, but nothing that he did was against the existing law of the land. So Reddish listened to the religious vitriol of the man who was very much a product of his time and place. He refused to answer or comment for fear of where his more headstrong nature would carry the exchange. Besides, the clock was ticking with Josephine. He had seen (and experienced) enough battlefield injuries to know that the chances to avoid scarring dropped the longer the wound was untended. She was an actress. Makeup could cover a lot, but damnit, he didn't want to take any chances he didn't have to.

Reddish took up a place at Josephine's side and applied pressure to the wound with his uniform handkerchief. "Hold that to your face, ma'am," he said with a grim, quiet voice. "Doctor, now." There was urgency and understanding in his words. Reddish began to lead the starlet away from the area, looking for a something resembling a medical facility. Maybe toward the Docks as businesses flourished around incoming trade, but he kept his options open. "The boat will have to come back this way, and if we're on it... Best served icy, Miss Clarke. " He maintained his search, asking questions as needed to passersby.

He didn't have the heart to tell her yet that he had heard the sounds of someone haggling over a watch somewhere nearby. The chances that it was the same one were remote anyway, and this was about Josephine's future, not her past.


In 🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S. → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Caesar & Keystone

Location: Chicago (City Streets)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A


With the information gathering segue out of the way, and the prospect of new inquiries firmly set in their minds, Caesar and Keystone set off on the next leg of their whirlwind midwestern adventure. Being as Keystone was somewhat less emotionally invested in the mission to find information about and/or do horrible things to that Tinder guy (who may or may not be dead, though they were counting on him breathing still), he felt a lot less guilt about looking at their situation with more objectivity. It was not accurate to say that he didn't care, nor that he did not want his own chunk of vengeance; Lord knew that he'd love to feel the guy's bones crunch under the continued assault of his ham-sized fists, but it was hard to top the depth of simmering emotion present in a man who had lost his daughter, which would rightly be Caesar. In comparison, Keystone was the woman's former paramour and unknowingly the father of her child. Now the boy, little Liam? That was someone who he would kill mercilessly to protect, and much like the old man, do many unconscionable and brutal things to avenge.

But speaking to his greater sense of objectivity, these Lunillud Aleae, if all was to be believed about them, were so much more important than any single person or a quest for revenge. It was a limited piece of irony, but it was also amazingly possible that it contributed to the death of a woman for which they were trying to account. Furthermore, if this was part of the reason that Alicia was infiltrating the world's most dangerous Women's Book Club, then it made so much more sense to continue her work. Or as best that they could, considering the disadvantages of their gender for this type of work; such liabilities evident by the presence of a Y chromosome and exterior vs. interior plumbing. The facial hair was a dead giveaway for Caesar, as was the expansive muscle mass for Keystone. Attempting to masquerade as anything other than male would be met with suspicion at absolute, grain-alcohol-involved-lapse-of-judgement best, and being shot outright at worst. The long and short of it was that Keystone was good with adding this to their reasons for doing what they were there to do.

Unfortunately, their mission hit the smallest of hiccups while they were just starting out, and by the most mundane of reasons: Traffic. Caesar was used to dealing with traffic in Mexico City, Monterrey, and various other major cities elsewhere in the North and Central America. He should have seen this coming. Likewise Keystone, though his was mostly in London and spots of mainland China. It wasn't so bad as a whole, but it was a fantastically easy thing to overlook, what with everything else going on. Traffic. They were stymied by road congestion. All they needed now was another easily forgettable but equally as delaying factor like a sudden weather development or a drive-by pigeoning. It was going to be a while before they got far enough out to make real headway into their trip to Grimm. Might as well put on some music and grab an extra egg roll from the bag.

The initial planned action to put something on the radio was halted by some interesting and suspicious activity coming from the GPS. There was more than a touch of concern on Keystone's face, mirrored in its own way by the snarl forming on Caesar's when he noticed it, too. Neither of them even thought that the GPS was capable of doing that, much like the screen on the private plane. But there it was, another transmission by this mystery person who was able to pick out where they were and infiltrate the electronics on board. While it seemed like whomever it was on the other end of the transmission was trying to nudge them in the right direction to complete their mission, the fact that they were everpresent and anonymous was disturbing. "Well, least we're on the proper track, then," muttered Keystone, noting that the word Grimm was spelled in the same way as the town they were already moving (albeit slowly) toward, not to mention that the first letter was capitalized like a location might be. "Supposin' that word 'Crypt' means somethin' else, too? All skulduggery-like, eh?"

So long as they were moving at a snail's pace anyway, Keystone waited until an opportune stop to do a quick online search on both "Grimm, IN" and "Crypt". Maybe it would be something, maybe it would be nothing. Or maybe they would have to get into town and look up hardcopy records anyway. Never hurt to try, and it's not like they didn't have the time right then. Caesar, on the other hand, was looking intently at the GPS. Sure this guy was helpful, but the nature of the sudden intrusions was bothering him. Help or not, Caesar wanted to know more.


In 🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1 → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Hank Wright
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A


"Oh, Jesus H. Christ, Wayne!" shouted Hank, already leaning as far away from his survival buddy as was humanly possible and still remain more or less in his recliner. He wouldn't at all have been surprised if the guy didn't hear any of what he had just yelled; neither the invocation of his theoretical Lord and Savior nor his given birth name, owing to the noise megaphoning from his ass at the moment. Hank had been subjected to the horrors that the man's colon were capable of producing, given enough time and raw materials to work with. "This is one of the reasons they kicked us out of Amish country, you asshat!" That wasn't fully a fair statement. Of course, certain creative and social differences led to their being asked to vacate, but it really, really didn't help matters any that Wayne could out-oompah the entire brass section of a symphony orchestra with a single blast of his Horn Resounding.

As it came to it, Hanktholomew P. Wright was seated directly at ground zero, fully in repose, not expecting that he needed to have his shiniest survival instinct keyed up and ready to roll. As a result, this was as surprising to him as it was horrifying. Realizing that merely moving his head a foot of two away from the hellmouth that was Wayne's ass, he snatched a cushion from the nearest chair to him and began to wave it in an only marginally successful attempt to beat back the warm, fetid gust of methane and evil that began to slowly fill the conference room. "Dead Assholes eating rotting pig crotch would lose their goddamn appetite!"

Try as he might to get his mind on something else, anything else at this point, there was really no escaping the air pollution inside of Quarantine. And as much as Hank was bitching about it, he also felt too lazy to actually move from his chair. It was a decent enough recliner and smell or not, he was stubbornly going to stay on it until either it caught fire, or he really had to find a bathroom. Still, he barely had the facilities to notice in any meaningful way the movie that Nigel had just put on, nor the arrival of the Padre until he began giving out room assignments. At that time, Hank looked from Wayne over to Nigel, then back to Wayne, and smiled a little. While the others were getting their groups jumbled up, their little circle of fun was kept mostly intact. Fine, whatever. Even if Sportacus was a stick-in-the-mud in dire need of letting shit go, and Wayne was venting toxic gas from his rectum, it was going to be a hell of a lot easier to get some shuteye with these people around. The Devil You Know, and all that.

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


Ash eyed Beatrice thoughtfully. After a second or two, he gave her a small, quiet nod. At heart, he was still an officer. Or at least a soldier, and it did tend to color a lot of the decisions that he made and the way that he handled things. He was a team player kind of guy when there was an objective, and that objective most recently had been pure survival, moving from point A to point B. They were able to, in Ash's mind, because they had a strong identity as a unit, be that unit a family, a military patrol, or both. The human equivalent of a pack of wolves traveling with purpose. If Beatrice's advice was sound, great. But until they were actually accepted into Mexico Beach (and not just Quarantine), they were still his people.

Ash knew that he and Beatrice had differing ideologies that way. He remembered her as being a distant, standoffish woman, prone to individualistic behavior. Or to continue with the analogy, a Lone Wolf type. Because of exactly that reason, Ash was surprised to see that she was with a continuing group for over a year now, let alone in charge of them. Perhaps things had changed with her. To his experience, it would have been a change for the better - Lone Wolf types got people unnecessarily killed.

He was grateful to the former Team Eden for their efforts; efforts that he did dearly wish that he could have been a part of. He had even been training himself for just that thing for a while before Mother Nature accelerated and altered the plan, destroying their home in the process. Well, as that religious iconography of yesteryear often said in stylized font: "People plan, God laughs". He must have been chuckling extra hard that day. And even then, Beatrice's group had sustained their own losses, as evident by a lack of faces from the last time he saw them and that two of them now qualified for handicapped parking. "Good seeing you again, Beatrice. It must have been a rough year. Thank you." He spoke succinctly but not coldly. She didn't seem to be up for a big reunion, and to be honest Ash wasn't in the most cheerful of moods either.

Unfortunately, Ash's opportunity to introduce himself formally to the others was lost in the jumble of whatever argument Wayne was having with his ass. Try as he might to ignore this, Ash simply could not. He waited for a moment or two, eyes widening in disbelief at the continued reverberation and the reactions around the room to it, one of which being Amelia finding a quiet spot to vomit. Not subtle, but an honest response to the world around her. As soon as it died down, his objective was stymied again by the arrival of the priest with their room assignments. Ash looked back to Beatrice, quietly confirming, "Looks like I'm with the kid." He gave a glance over to the one who Beatrice introduced as Manny, the third one in his assigned room. It was then that he realized that the older man wasn't part of the initial group that he had parted ways with all those months ago. Moving to meet up with the three of them; Thalia, Alexander, and Manny, he first addressed the one with whom he was totally unfamiliar, Manny. "Name's Ash." He was pretty sure that he had mentioned in the showers earlier, but it's a poor introduction that takes place over a bar of soap. "Seems that we're roommates. So, how did you come across these people?"

Ash hadn't fully noticed what was most recently put on the TV, nor was he overly paying attention. But in the back of his mind the opening music was starting to pull at him. It was familiar. And sad, somehow.



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


It was an age old story. Guy farts, girl vomits, room smells bad. Really bad. Like a crypt that had been recently opened and not fully resealed; that plus crap. Of all the people in this room, they did seem to be the ones in the best of spirits, though, the older people who kept messing with each other. Maybe that was the secret to maintaining your overall calm in the world today. Okay, so two of the older people in the group over there. The loudest, most obnoxious, know-it-all older people who, for whatever reasons unknown to rational humanity, remained looking positive and genuinely seemed to enjoy whatever was going to be thrown at them next. It was almost Zen.

Meanwhile, Thalia was still not really comfortable with unknown people and air conditioning. It was painfully counterintuitive to what her survival strategy had been for a long while. Keep numbers low, be ready to move. Live off of the land. Have something sharp on standby, and look out the person next to you. Always have a way out. Above all, don't let yourself get soft. That's how people died. She had just consumed the best meal that she had in a couple of years and was sitting in an artificial climate powered by electricity. Getting too used to it would only be a liability when it ceased to function down the road a ways. Even now, Thalia lamented the lack of a stout ash pole, fire treated to a flat, copper-hard point.

She was so much different than when the apocalypse started.

Considering that Army Captain had said that they would talk when they got settled in, it came as no surprise when he began to walk over to their little section of Quarantine. Finally, she might get some answers to a few burning questions that she had about her family and old friends that had survived the apocalypse but had passed afterward, that she heard from others made it to Newnan for a time. When he stopped to have some cryptic conversation with Bea, that was okay. She was the bitch in charge. It made sense. Then the farting. Okay. Then room assignments. Oh, she was with Tatiana and someone named Riley - must be someone else from the Newnan people. She could talk ballet and get the scoop on some things to pass their time. Great. But when that was done, instead of speaking to her like he mentioned that he was going to, Army Captain went to talk to Manny, like she was forgotten somehow.

"Pareces el tipo de chico que mi prima hubiera follado por deporte.1" Oh, that got his attention. She sideeyed the man with obvious annoyance, but followed up with, "Nah, you finish up with Manny and do you. Just remember that I'm still around and we have stuff to talk about. ¿Esta bien?2"

Okay, that was not the way to handle it. They were going to be around each other for a few days and there would have been plenty of time to talk. Thalia silently swore at herself for acting so rashly like that; directness was part of who she was, but impatience was not. A lot of stuff was starting to weigh on her. She must just be tired. The moment it was feasible to do so, she was going to get some well needed sleep.



In 🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S. → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Vladimir Alexandrov

Location: Port Annan (Bridge) -> Ludwig's Path
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English


It can be said that the stamina of a Brivaldi horse knows no equal. Whether it was true or not, there was no denying the power, speed, and surefootedness of the majestic beast that was bearing the massively ostentatious yet legendary performer who inherited the title of this generation's Great Bazhooli. The Great Bazhooli. Often imitated, never duplicated. Accept no substitutes. Either the horse or the impalement artist. But I digress - The great horse, Tolstoy(!), gave a powerful snort as he set hooves past the bridge, somehow understanding its master's wishes for speed and anxious to open itself up to its potential. Tricks aside, this was a horse that could run in such a fashion that it seemed not to stride upon the ground, more than plant its hooves and shove the earth behind it.

Thinking in concert with his horse, Vladimir reined the beast in the precise directions provided by their guide and ally, Ludwig Zimmer, and let it unleash its thunderous fury upon the unsuspecting countryside of southwestern Scotland. "Da! I am agreeing vith Firevalker, Master Zimmer. Take vhat time you can in saddlepacks. Ve must make vith the certainties that vhen ve meet beast again..." His voice took on a dangerous edge as he drifted into a grimmer aspect of his personality, eyes narrowing and gaining a bright intensity in the celtic sunlight, "...it vill not escape us. No vone attacks our Veta. No vone." Vladimir was generally a man of dramatic action, be it open and boisterous or dark and intensity, coupled with stretches of expectant brooding. But this instance had both he and his horse pummeling the unfamiliar ground in the relentless journey northward, resting his psyche somewhere between boisterous and intense. "Just tell vhen to turn!"
In 🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S. → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Gilbert Summers
Location: Ville au Camp (Main House, Room 101 (Sitting Room))
Skills: N/A


Gio and Gilbert didn't see eye to eye very often, though there wasn't any loss of camaraderie over it. Quite the opposite, their similar but not exact outlook on many things led to interesting bits of conversation that were generally varied but rarely boring. To Gil, anyway. To others viewing it, the event could very well be something akin to paint drying, he didn't know. He was an astute observer of the human scene but not so much of a sociologist. In any case, the sudden agreement of his fellow Emendator was enough to warrant a glance in the direction of The Watch with subdued concern. A full agreement without prior discussion at length, weighing the pros and cons, and eventually coming to a decision with elements of his original ideas was generally more likely. Unless, of course, they were in immediate conflict.

Was that what this was becoming? It certainly seemed that way, looking at the loss of Emendators and Paradoxes both in a short span of time. Their ability to bolster their numbers was removed, their people scattered across the timelines, and the enemy outnumbering them many times over. These new ones were still green and unsure of their abilities. Now this voice from thousands of years ago reappears at just the right moment to utterly piss him off and then nudge them in the direction of something epic and final. Maybe they were at war. "We are in a compromised position and our opponents are many to our very few. Thank you, Giosue, for your endorsement. We should handle that sooner rather than later." The tone to his voice was experienced, steady. "The people of the Carnival are welcome to our hospitality for as long as they want it, so long as they remain respectful of our grounds and our residents. We have resources enough for everyone. Remember, one day lasts for a very long time here." He gave a nod to Gio, as it was his command over time that allowed Ville au Camp to exist. "We shall concentrate efforts to improve our Paradoxes and bring in others to assist. Maybe it is even time for the elder of us to learn new things again." Part of him wanted to address Faith on her issue, but the situation had been addressed and the decision was fully hers to elaborate upon.

"Siduri, a very long time ago, before I knew what I was, you advised me to abandon my quest and enjoy the simple wonders of life. Would you advise that course of action now?" Ever the headstrong one, Gilbert had a good idea of what he wanted to do. But he was so very different than he was back then.

James Grady
Location: Ville au Camp (Main House, Room 101 (Sitting Room))
Skills: N/A


Hundreds. James let that thought rattle around in the recesses of his brain for a moment or two. Really flit about, ricocheting off of one side of the inner wall of his skull with a thoughtform pinging sound before zooming back to the other side, smacking over and over in rapid succession until the internal noise became a deafening cacophony, not unlike a vast sea of metronomes announcing their presence and just staying there, ad infinitum, incessantly, until James felt like standing and screaming. Not that he did. James simply sat quietly, listening to the conversation go on around him about things that he was at present vastly unprepared to venture into. An army of superpowered assholes of various shapes and sizes that were just described as "those of the darkness", lurking in the various timelines just itching to eviscerate each and every one of them.

And what could James do to fight the Forces of Darkness? What mighty powers could he bring to bear to stem the flow of the hordes of evil and entropy, to combat the End of Everything? Well, so far James had turned into a pig. And talked to squirrels. Horses once, but mostly squirrels. If Faith had the potential to expand what she could do, then what could a well trained, motivated man-boar do? Admittedly, probably not step into the netherspaces between the almost abstract concepts of Life and Death. That would be silly. Well, no sillier than the idea of being a Paradox, which was in its own way very much like existing in a place between life and death. So yeah, James's head hurt. But out of all of this, one solid fact remained: James now knew about Diplomacy, the practices of ancient courts, Heraldry for dick's sake; he could fight with a knife and shoot a bow like frigging Robin Hood, even speak fluent Russian. But his actual Paradox abilities that set him apart from the common schmuck that could have picked up the same skills at a trade school? Yep, just a bit undertrained and unutilized.

Now, after a long, long training session, the last thing he wanted to do was jump back into it. And this had been huge. All the same, he wanted to do his part. But who among any of the Emendators or Paradoxes had any experience with shifting forms? Gilbert maybe, though his type of bodily change made him into different people, copied perfectly or fresh and new, individual as snowflakes. Maybe he could help in a broad sense. But if James had to learn all he could learn by trial and error? Or got stuck in some monstrous hybrid form? He had to get himself in top form for whatever this coming "End" was. "Aight, I'm in. However y'all need me, but we gots us some logisticals to hammer out, 'specially as we on hotdamn hundreds of baddies thinkin' on eatin' us."

"Maybe we ought get e'body on the same page. Where you want I should start?"
In 🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1 → 6 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Dr. Swamp
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Central Hall
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 2
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So there was more waiting. Swamp could cope with waiting. He could even cope with standing, be it with a bullet in his side, though he did wish that this portion of the evening could find its inevitable conclusion so he could treat himself - or more likely, talk someone through treating him. It would be highly difficult to suture himself given the position of the wound. Ah, the limitations of the physical form, so mysterious and complex, yet possessing much more easily quantifiable limitations. No matter. Swamp would get this handled and continue with his reason for being in this place. He was fairly certain that it was the same reason, or a similar one, as the others who had formerly worn those masks. This day could have gone better. Much.

Luckily for him, the Doctor had some help, in the form of the Chanteuse. "Then I appreciate your kindness as well as the ethic that binds you to it. I also thank you for your concern, but I must insist upon staying upright as long as I am able. I fear that upon sitting, I might have difficult rising again. If you require a break until our escort gives us the go-ahead, please lead me to the banister so that I may lean against it." Sure and steady words that somehow came from Swamp, though anyone listening could tell that it was spoken through ever-growing discomfort. Such discomfort was evident as he flashed Quinton a quick but uneasy smile to his request about bleeding on the floor. He needed to fix himself, and soon.
In 🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S. → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Reginald Keystone


Location: Benha (Train to Athribis)
Skills: N/A


The Lord Major gave a warm smile and nodded toward Lauren as she announced her presence on board the train, offering a cheerful chirp of, "Very good, Miss Ridgeway! Now we've our party. We should be underway momentarily." He gave like notice to Mahendra who piped up with his own militaristic response. "Good show, sir. Positively good." During this time, he took the opportunity to give the train a good visual once-over.

Following this, Reginald perked an eyebrow at Gene's choice of seating. The old man was fairly sure that George's dear sister wasn't too horribly fond of him, though for the life of him he couldn't really tell why. Perhaps it was the sheer, undaunting Britishness of his character; sometimes he had that effect upon Colonials. Nevertheless, he squared his jaw and retained the very image of his culture's Stiff Upper Lippedness in the face of most certain annoyance. He was a gentleman, after all, and a Lord of standing. "No no, Miss Benaszewski," he responded politely. "By all means." He would have made a motion toward the seat next to him, but it was already occupied by the moderately perplexing woman.

Now, back to the conversation about horses, a topic of which Reginald did have some experience. Or the first attempt at returning to it, for as he opened his mouth to speak further on the matter, the train gave its initial lunge associated with forward movement. "Ah, and here we're off. Most excellent." It seemed that circumstance had the occasion to delay his further discussion of matters equine, even despite J.C.'s observations of the American Mustang (of which the Lord Major was keen on making comment), the setting was interrupted by the attentions of a fuzzy orange tomcat. It seemed that they were everywhere these days, cats. Reginald didn't mind them so much; they seemed more or less clean and kept to themselves, though a cat underfoot while attempting to navigate stairs might make the day significantly more adventuresome. And painful. "Ah yes, you seem to have run afoul of the local fauna, dear boy. Ah, there are worse things in this country to hop in one's lap, believe you me. ...camel spiders, indeed... eh, no matter." He shuddered, his memory then roaming to another "lap companion" that gave him pause. "Hmm... trouser lice. Filthy buggers, those..." He let his eyes glaze over as if in horror of the memory of something, turning about to stare off in the distance.

An involuntary shudder seemed to pass through the man, though in truth he was paying attention to the additional commentary from Bella. Emphasizing new friend, which he found a little odd. Mentioning Bastet, a name which he had heard a few times recently in relation to their Fellowship quest, and the part about the cats being underworld guardians. It made him think about that last strange dream that he had about the clash of inhuman armies and a jackal headed general, the removal of his heart, and various other oddities that had happened to them all recently. The deaths. The close calls. Then Nora's recent thoughts about the improbable occurrences that kept happening to and around them.

Perhaps he should invest in a pet cat.



Haring Reddish


Location: Benha (Bazaar)
Skills: N/A


The plan was to be seen looking around the Bazaar, doing touristy things, picking up odds and ends in such a manner as to alleviate suspicion and have the awful bastards offload the watch. If the watch could be located, then perhaps the seller could as well. And if the seller could be pointed out... well, the less savory portions of Reddish's personality might get that dust-off for which it had been so patiently waiting. Giving a glance to Josephine and considering their more recent conversations, Reddish thought that if the offending villain was caught, the starlet's plans for them might be far, far less appreciated than his own. All the same, the odd, slender man had no intention of getting fleeced by the local hawkers over a clothing option, even if it was just for cover. Though he did just adore those colors...

But that price. No, it was more likely that a person who traded in places like this would be accustomed to arguing for the best price, idiot or not. Tourist or not. A man who didn't haggle at least a little might be viewed with suspicion. He began his tactic by turning to Josephine and asking, "Did you hear that, Dumpling? Man thinks I'm after his bloody first-born!" He turned back around to the merchant, trying to vocalize with but a hint of sarcasm, "I'm sorry, sir. There must be a misunderstanding. I'm wanting to buy that one outfit with the dangly bits on it, right there, see?" He pointed toward the item in question, continuing, "Now, if you're selling ten of them at that price, I'm your guy, sir! Or five for half of that, I'm not so picky. Just the one though, thank you Guv." British sterling was still strong against Egyptian pounds, but that price was painful. Reddish's lowball slanted far away from a fair(ish) price, though not as massively as the merchant's outlandish opening salvo.

Maybe he'd pay a touch more than it was worth. Maybe that might loosen up his tongue for other lines of inquiry concerning good places to pick up recently acquired personal timepieces on the cheap. Likewise, his bubbly dumbassery might draw attention away from the actions or observations of his significantly more eye-drawing companion.

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