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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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Gilbert Summers

Location: Tunnels (Cairo, Egypt: October 6th, 1924)
Skills: N/A


Gilbert breathed a heavy sigh. They seemed to be going in circles. The haze was the first big environment change, and the thing which prompted them to utilize one of Gio's portals at the outset of this latest adventure. Alright, the universe puts them in places that they need to be. Why the universe didn't put him in this place at this time when he experienced it originally was beyond him, time travel coupled with an extremely long life being what it was. Maybe in the grand scheme of universal events, there was some lesson that he needed to learn before being placed in this position. Or maybe, during this time, the temporally local version of himself was looking out of a window with a profoundly confused but utterly amused look on his face. It wasn't that long ago for an Emendator, really. Come to think of it, it wasn't the mist. It was time speeding up in the Destrehan Plantation Loop.

Looking around at the people with him and noting the voices floating around, he could have facepalmed. Of course, it was the collection of Paradoxes. That was the great "X Factor" in the equation. He needed to make sure that these people were ready for whatever was coming up, these people specifically. Or this was just a huge, random jumble of people, places, and things, all thrown into a soup that they just had to make the best of. While that was probably the long and short of it (and he knew it), Gilbert preferred to look at this as a series of specific events put together as something almost literary in nature. Destiny and free will clashing with just the right pieces of the puzzle coming together, outcome highly uncertain.

This was a very different outlook from the one he had as a young man. It was less sophisticated, certainly, less exposed to the ideas that came with humanity evolving along. Funny how the lessons of humanity seemed to reflect in him, personally.

Well, the situation was overly screwed up, and though going through a portal seemed to exacerbate things in the first place, it was highly logical that it was a good option now. Their goal was gone. Literally gone, along with the city above them. The haze remained. All they accomplished, really, was to get people in one place at one time. Oh, that was an ugly thought. Trap, anyone? Well voices or no, there were the Paradoxes present to think about. "Excellent idea, Giosue," he said tersely, an element of watchfulness in his features. "Time is something we have both too much and not enough of. We might attempt this again later, or try for a different event." Hesitation only made for delay. Delay was costly.



James Grady

Location: Tunnels (Cairo, Egypt: October 6th, 1924)
Skills: N/A


James nodded at Andromeda's words. He could tell that his involuntarily(?) inappropriate words were giving her a bit of a blush, which for someone who was as fair complected as her came out with the subtlety of the elevator scene from The Shining. Far be it for him to try to make anyone feel uncomfortable, despite his many successes over the years. "In my world, dead folks got up an' started eatin' the livin' ones without a warnin' sign at all. Best as I can figure, Apocalypse's a damn relative thang." Perhaps if he engaged her in moderately relevant dialogue, it would help bring the pale back in her cheeks.

That was a thought James never figured he'd have. Oh well, context.

Minor observances in the underground corridor, if indeed this counted as underground anymore, led James to agree with the ongoing consensus of opinion about portaling the hell out of there. If it was possible to get back to the Plantation, he'd be up for it. (And concerning his ethnicity and their history in his timeline, that was also a thought he never figured he'd have. It must be a day for it.) "Yeah, we definitely gots to R-U-N-N-O-F-T," he said, nodding in agreement. He might even have forked over a shiny new nickel for anyone who got that movie reference, provided that he had a shiny new nickel to begin with. Wait, didn't Peter have the money?

Looking at Peter, James voiced openly, "Yeah, we gotta move, some of us more than others. Like, now-ish, get me? C'mon."



Reginald Keystone



Location: Athribis (Underground) -> ?
Skills: N/A




So much as the ceiling's imminent departure weighed heavily upon the mind of the Lord Major, it was not so much as the sudden lapse that he had into self-doubt. Perhaps he was getting too old to do these kinds of things anymore; the running about and adventuring, shooting, driving fast, hopping into his aeroplane from the War and buzzing the outlying regions of Cairo whilst scaring the hell out of various livestockery - truly a sadistic joy he had gotten every so often watching herbs of goats stiffen up and fall over as he drunkenly gunned his engines earthward over a drove of the horned beasties. Not that he bore the goats any malice (they were excellent roasted or prepared with curry and a carrot souffle, he found), Reginald just had a boyish sense of humor sometimes that came out in ways occasionally inappropriate. Perhaps a defense mechanism from his decades of constant war on behalf of his Empire. Well, hindsight being what it was, it wasn't the most dignified thing for a man of his stature to do with his free time.

But he digressed. Retirement was not his lot, regardless of the his temporary dip into doubt. This was merely a step into a greater adventure, one with dangers and puzzles the likes of which he had not previous experience. This made it even more the adventurous task set before him, as it required preemptive thought and actual study of a situation, not the application of some lesson learned from an incident that happened to him some odd number or decades past that might partially apply in this case. This was truly living, even in his autumn years, and there was the very real possibility that Reginald would not have the answers. He already didn't have very many of them as it stood, Perhaps this would even lead him to a death worthy of the old horned-helmed Vikings of lore, one deserving of a spot in the Halls of Valhalla, even though he didn't believe a word of it, himself. The concept did make for a charmingly romantic story, however.

No, he was not going senile. This was just another obstacle in his great journey with his Fellows (be they technically led by a Fellow-ette, or Lady-Fellow, or whatever the gynocentric equivalent of this was as the word escaped the Lord Major at just that moment, intent as he was upon being polite even in his own mind and even as it showed his more old fashioned and chauvinistic upbringing), one that he would meet with the headstrong certainty and puzzle their way around. Yes, the moment of uncertainty was behind him, ad this newly revitalized spirit of derring-do, the old man would stand and face this new challenge with spirit equal to the stories that still clung to his name.

But this was not to happen. Reginald could feel a change coming over him, and could see as his extremities were coming away like sand in a desert wind, parting from him effortlessly as a gradual lightening of his earthly form filled his senses. There was understandable alarm at first - but only at first. No. It wasn't fair. He had been ready for death for a long time now, if only there was one worthy of himself. Something not just for his vanity or because he was in love with his own legend, but for the honor of giving his life for a greater purpose; God, country, or king. Friendship would have worked, as well. To sacrifice himself for the mission. To save the life of one younger, stronger, with the potential to do real good for the world. His death had to mean something, if just to atone for the mistakes he made in every other aspect of his life. He had upheld the honor of the Keystone line, surely, but he had let down his own family. Wife and children both. Be it that he married out of obligation, he stepped into that obligation willingly and failed them through his lack of presence and his extramarital indiscretions. He had failed his mistress, too. Giving her a child out of wedlock and failing to publicly recognize her despite financial support, like she was a dirty secret. He had sired a whole other Keystone line, unrecognized commoners that now would never know the truth of themselves and be doomed to poverty and hardship, rejected by the classes altogether.

He might have fixed all of it. The dust that was his corporeal form continued to blow away in a windless environment. If he could do certain things over, he would have, without question. But there was no fixing it now. This was not the end that he wanted, but it was probably the one that he deserved, once-hero or not. His only saving grace was that he had another Will drawn up back in his Cairo office that might help his illegitimate offspring somewhere down the line. He just needed his batman, Corporal Reddish, to access it, if only he knew to look for it.

So much left undone. Tears formed and evaporated instantaneously, spirited away the same force that blew away the details of his exterior, painlessly showing bone and blood that never touched the ground. "No," his fading form intoned quietly, "I do not die like this." He had lived his like unafraid of death. It would be wholly unseemly to lament or cringe now that the Great Unknown summoned him. Reginald drew his sword, little more than a hilt and a handsbreadth of solid steel, and raised it in salute. Death claimed him, and he would stand unafraid, challenging the inevitable. Summoning the last strength his evaporating body allowed, he stood tall behind his sword and stated flatly, "Have at you, sir." His brow quirked and eyes changed direction of focus at the last possible half-second, as if he recognized something.

It was at that moment the nothingness took him.



Haring Reddish



Location: Benha (Sun Deck) -> ?
Skills: Pistol




This... what the hell was going on here? And why was that one woman so calm throughout it all? This wasn't the calm of a person who was dealing with sudden and dramatic change, like he was seeing from Josephine. This seemed different. Speaking with a note of authority on issues supernatural, never so much as flinching at the sudden and dramatic change to their environment, things that were otherwise impossible without either himself succumbing to madness or intervention of things most infernal. Madness, he might understand. Reddish had seen and done a lot more than decent, brave men he had served with; soldiers who had lost themselves to the brutality of war. It might just be his turn. Some of the things he had done, Reddish figured he might even deserve it. Seeing as others bore witness to the world's abrupt change and disappearance of the entire crew, it was likely that Reddish hadn't gone mad yet. But if he did not, and this was the world around them all, then everyone else had problems much larger than going a little nuts.

But that woman. Reddish was present for everything that had gone down with the formation of the Fellowship. He had seen the deaths that suddenly started to pile up. The older lady, Neema, by spontaneous bloody combustion the moment that Priscilla showed up at the Museum. Neema's nephew. The writer, Haakon, down in Archives. Even the couple who just wanted to get away and start a new life for themselves, Sergeant Harry and Miss Tarek, good friend to the Lord Major. Death my misadventure, all within hours of this woman appearing on scene, talking about matters occult and the like. She had no tie to the rest of the group, supposedly bound only by the common strands of some dream or scarification, none of which appeared to weigh upon her in the least.

No, no something was off here. The way they spoke started this train of thought off in Reddish; the calm if circular conversation on the question of whether they should arm and equip themselves more properly, a thought that he assumed would be a foregone conclusion of logic but which apparently merited talking more. And speaking about the shadowy figures with what he thought was supposition. Or was it? Could it not be direct knowledge, its origin nefarious int he fact that it was not explained? Did she in fact know more than she was letting on?

Not directly related - what was she doing while Nora's group went to Athribis to look for more information and Josephine accompanied him on a lead for the thieves that had been plaguing them? The last he saw of Priscilla, she was smiling and headed to the rose gardens, far away from anything helpful to their expedition. Like this was a vacation somehow. Oh, things were piling up. Highly suspicious things.

But the last straw was right then. The thing which mortared the bricks of his suspicions as he began to fade into oblivion: She looked him straight in the face as his mortality was coming to collect, and gave him the smug one-liner of "So much for that plan of yours." He was vanishing. Vera was vanishing, both of them into the ether of nothingness, and Priscilla was taunting them. Reddish was speechless. Reflexively, he went to Vera, wanting to protect her from the very thing that he could not protect himself from. Vera passed her journal to Josephine, just before she fully disappeared, leaving Reddish to see his own fate in a few short seconds. Mouth agape, he looked to the starlet.

A thousand words lingered on his expression, none of which he would have time to say. If this was the end, he probably shouldn't waste words on inconsequential things like his admiration for the woman, or that the previous night was one of the most memorable of his life and he wouldn't have changed a thing about it. A man less enamored might not notice that the Egyptian sun made her platinum hair glow an angelic white. He might not notice the way that she tucked her hair behind her ears when she was lost in thought, or might not notice that she indeed had an active and agile mind suited to the adventures she commonly portrayed on the silver screen. His look might say that if he were anybody of note in the world, Reddish could have told her so. But he was who he was, and she was who she was, and none of it mattered because he was mere seconds from fading completely away.

As Reddish became increasingly more transparent and fuzzy, and Vera had poofed away completely, he heard further taunt from the woman who went by Mosi: "Good luck, got any words before you vanish as well?" What was she, some dime-novel villain?

The Corporal drew his service revolver and pointed it directly between Mosi's eyes. "What have you done?" he asked pointedly, a trace of whisper leaning toward a supplication, "Make it bloody stop, please." Perhaps if he had the strength to pull the trigger before it was too late, he could put a halt to the horrible things befalling these people, who had done nothing to her in their lives. "Save yourself, Miss Clarke!" he said, tone to the imperative. There were weapons enough for soldiering in his room, and cargo held much besides. If Reddish failed here, Josephine still had options. Or for all he knew, they were all already dead. But he had to try. Even if this was just madness coloring his outlook, Reddish couldn't just do nothing.

His finger depressed the trigger of his Webley revolver, a gun which once belonged to his personal hero. His aim was true and the weapon functional, if fading into nothingness along with its owner. The sound of the weapon discharging seemed echoed and far away, much quieter than it should have been and seemingly without source. The bullet itself streaked out of the barrel, unerringly striking Mosi in her forehead the very instant that Reddish faded out of reality entirely.

The force of the bullet slammed into Mosi like a bareknuckle boxer flooring someone with a devastating overhand right. It, like the gun it came from and the man who pulled the trigger, disappeared before any lasting damage could be done. Mosi could talk about gathering Reddish's supplies while she was picking herself up off the ground.


Caesar & Keystone


Location: Grimm, Indiana (Outside of El Asilo/The Nuthouse!)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A



Some things were best left ignored, lest they escalate beyond a level of response appropriate to a greater issue. Retributive as he could be, somehow the budding argument seemed far less important to Caesar than the giant, shadowy monster ripping the building apart from the inside trying to kill them all, his daughter coming back from the dead, and the massive improvised explosive that may or may not inflict even more damage to their immediate surroundings (and the insistence that it was the only thing capable of destroying the giant, shadowy monster). Did I mention a giant shadowy monster? Totally a giant, shadowy monster, doing giant, monstrous things. Oh, and the ancient international organization that may or may not be behind everything that had made his life suck as of recently. Yeah. Deal with the insult later, if at all. More important things at the moment.

He didn't notice any more voices, or anyone dusting away into nothingness. Most of what happened was cleared away by the sound of an unstable stack of dirty and highly impure chemicals in the proper proportions doing what they do best, in the form of a very impressive exothermic reaction. It was a beauty, too.

Meanwhile, Keystone was gearing up to feel like a dick. Not so much because of what he did, pulling his boss down behind cover. It was the right thing to do. But the fact that even though he did do the right thing, it didn't stop a shaggy piece of random construction material from nigh bisecting the vehicle they were hiding behind. It left Keystone pretty much unscathed, but ripped the backdoor fully away and dragged Caesar along with it. "Boss!" yelled Keystone after him, basically powerless to do anything to help him. He couldn't even hold on. One thing he prided himself on was his punishing physical prowess, yet he could not keep a grip on the older Mexican.

Caesar wasn't sure on the total amount of detail going on just then. Again, more pressing issues. This particular issue had to do with a chunk of the asylum laying on top of a car door, which was partially laying on him, pinning him to the ground. Yet, as the dust swirled about his horizontal, pain-stricken form, all he could do was laugh. It was a little unsettling, really. But he was laughing a hoarse, guttural series of chortles and guffaws. This, this was something. Caesar had gone up against cartels, third-world dictators, criminal kinpins, government agencies, and corrupt law enforcement officers; yet now it looked like the person most responsible for the closest he'd been to death (and the jury was still out on whether he'd get out of it this time) was a 140 lb. twenty-something slip of a girl with a head for science, unintentionally at that. And that, to Caesar, was goddamned hilarious.

Keystone, however... he saw what was happening to him. He had no idea what it was, but in that moment he wasn't thinking about himself. The large Brit looked to Alicia, who was likewise fading away. He still had a job to do. He was given that job by the old man who just got knocked silly and pinned under a piece of a building. See to Caesar's family. Now Keystone's family, and one by blood. No, this sure as hell wasn't fair. They had survived too much shit to get turned to supernatural dust for no reason whatsoever here and now.

If what Caesar said was true, a representative from the Catholic Church would be getting in contact with the young woman taking care of little Liam. She would know where to go, she would know who to speak to. But nothing was certain. Especially now as the family patriarch was pinned under rubble and both of the little guy's parents were blowing away in the wind, other known, reliable family half a continent away and strangers in their midst... Keystone reached a disintegrating hand out in Alicia's direction. His last thoughts weren't on his fate, nor hers. Just before he dispersed completely, he uttered, "Our son..." as if he had more to say. But he was gone.

Underneath the car door and slab of former wall, Caesar lay silent.


Ash Holloway

Location: Quarantine (Conference Room) -> H6 (In Front of W)
Skills: N/A




Victor was gone. Beatrice was gone. If you looked at it, a lot more than those were gone, starting over a year ago and shoving onward. But those two? They were still alive, but they were gone. One of them left by choice, or did both of them? Victor might have tried to at least pretend to be stable, or at least recognize his difficulty and ask for help. Maybe he knew all too well about his darkness, and on some level voluntarily removed himself from exposing people he knew and cared about to it. Of course, that could all be idle bullshit that Ash was feeding himself to feel better about the fact that a man he trusted implicitly had changed so much as to be dangerous and unrecognizable. And for Beatrice? Ash really had no idea. Looking over at the group to which she had said her goodbyes, the once Captain could not help but see that she was leaving behind friends. Close ones. It made Ash curious.

Somehow, now that quarantine was done and they were actually getting welcomed into the community, things became very real. This was no longer conceptual. He, along with others, had made their decision to try for a life here. In Ash's case, he had one hell of a reason to stick it out. Ash looked to Thana and gave a smile. Yup, that would be her. The lady had what appeared to be snatches of conversation with others of CMB, whether that was personal or business was hard to say, but owing to the newness of his presence in the community, Ash didn't press the issue. He wasn't sure if she was still "on the clock", or if the friendlier actions taken with Beatrice during the farewell signified her relative freedom, so to speak.

His question had been answered when Thana entwined her fingers in his and led him over to the Tram, where they both climbed aboard and got ready to take the tour. As he settled into the seat. Ash set his other hand on top of hers and leaned in, speaking quietly, "I was hoping to get a dance in tonight, unless duties call you away. If Doc insists you need more rest for that leg, I have no problem lifting you up and just swaying." There was a smile on his face, a rare thing to view for some. Yes, Ash had teeth. Imagine that. He also had a chance at a life. Imagine that, too.



Thalia Carmichael

Location: Quarantine (Conference Room) -> H6 (In Front of W)
Skills: N/A



Thalia had a lot to think about. She dotted the dampness away from her eyes, put there from the recent departure of Bea. Yes, she was a tough bitch, but it wasn't like she didn't emote. She was known for being a person of deep feelings. It just rarely showed beyond an outward fraction, and surely did not stop her from doing drastic things when called upon to do so. That Army Captain that Navy was interested in liked to keep things close. That was his way, it seemed. Being emotionally enigmatic probably helped him be a better soldier, but Thalia? She liked to let people know where they stood with her before the stabbing commenced. Most of the time. Or in this case, letting Beatrice know that she would be missed.

She didn't know how to feel about that, either. Thalia wished her well and obviously neither of them were the relationship type, but there was a tiny, hollow feeling of being abandoned. It was new for her. She didn't know quite how to deal with it. While trying to define and process, she felt a presence approaching her. Before she realized that it was her half-sibling, Joaquin, she had already tensed up reflexively. The aftereffects of being out in the world weren't going to go away overnight. To a degree, she hope they wouldn't completely go away, period. Those honed instincts kept her alive. That tension relaxed away to a dumbfounded expression of "wuzzafuck?" as Joaquin began to speak to her. Translating from Hermano to English as quickly as her brain allowed, she responded, "Verily, dear Brother, thou art a goober." he spoke in level, mostly uninflected tones, though a hint of Boston crept in. "I'll take you up on that agave though, Joaquin. Thanks." Not as heavy a drinker as she was back Before, she did miss it sometimes. As they walked out to the Tram, Thalia took an appraising look at her brother, marveling over the sheer fact of his presence. "Dama Muerte, what are the odds, huh?" This place was going to be home for a while.

The last place that she called home, semi-temporary though it was, was a smaller place than this surrounded mainly by a wall of pointed logs and open-air structures. Cook fires dotting regular sections where they roasted whole deer for hours. Steel, stone, wood. A place of new beginnings and old methods of survival. She missed it. Maybe one day, she would be allowed to start up something like that of her own. Today though, she was climbing aboard a tour vehicle, ready to see more of her new home. On board, Thalia chose an unused bench seat for herself and slid to one side. She was also oddly happy to be back out of air conditioning.



Hank Wright

Location: Quarantine (Conference Room) -> H6 (In Front of W)
Skills: N/A



Ordinarily, Hank would be right there along with Wayne, guffawing alongside his companion of many years now. The idea that he use his powers of personal observation and interpersonal awareness to accurately gauge the mental traits, immediate intent, and longstanding potential issues within the people of Mexico Beach and/or apply it to newcomers was almost a laughable thing, until he realized that his own sudden thoughts on the matter reinforced the concept. He could have audibly facepalmed, instead taking the sarcastic musings of his good friend with a wry and derisive chuckle. "...alright, fine there, Maldonado. But it's got to be a sign of the Apocalypse that people are going to look to me for a shining example of mental health. Humanity must be desperate."

Why not, though? Maybe he could mold upcoming psyches in this brave, new world to enjoy the little things in life, because really, that's all they had left. Soon, there would be an army of recliner-sitting, plaid shirt wearing smartasses with a penchant for domestic beer, red meat, and condensing complex feelings into simple, monosyllabic grunts. The world might be a better place for it. He gave it a shrug, boarded the tram alongside Wayne, and laced his fingers behind his head in an attempt to look faux casual. "Wellllp, this has been a hell of a day so far. What's next?" Though there was an amount of sarcasm present in his voice, it accented his honest desire to get himself situated in the community and put out his shingle doing whatever it was he was eventually going to do. That and fishing.


Vladimir Alexandrov



Location: Gretna Green, Church
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English, Mamushka



Flipping and tumbling, tumbling and flipping, thus began the acrobatic bounding of The Great Bazhooli committing to motion that which sung out from the noble breast of all Rusyn Trained warriors of light. Yes, the Mamushka was strong with Vladimir. Not too strong right that second, as if he had truly been affected by the powerful blow of the fell and fetid creature, be it only a temporary instance of timing. The grace and balance of Vlad was enough to have him retain the ability to traverse the distance from his landing spot to the side of the altar, though without opportunity to hurl pointed fragments of (possibly) sanctified wood at the creature, nor the dramatic pauses for proper levies of insult.

Perhaps that last part was for the best, considering the formidable job already being pounded into the creature by the women of varying Trained sources. Vladimir was happy enough to have the Circus represented among this number. And he had done his part, identifying something potentially useful or exploitable in the future, though it gave him a shudder to consider having to deal with something like this in the future. Were he a very lucky man, this thing was unique and it was being handled. Nevertheless, fortune favors the prepared. The gallant and artistic steps, flips, and cavorts of the strange Russian man finally found him at the the side of the church's altar, one hand bearing a blade and one hovering over a second, awaiting chance to plunge it into his foe or, in the event of Constantin's vision manifesting in the proper direction, giving the evil thing a semi-proper blessing. How he did wish the redheaded lady-knight was still around for this piece of the puzzle.
Dr. Swamp
β‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Ž
Location: Shadowell Manor: Attic (Laboratory -> Laboratory Stairs)
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 2
β‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Žβ‰Ž


Dr. Swamp nodded toward Amaranthine in a conciliatory manner. His own contributions to society came in the form of scholarly pursuits; just as she had many talents that he did not, he had his own ways and methods about him. All the same, the curiosity expressed earlier about the laboratory had not been sated. Whomever the master of this place was, he or she was able to accrue works of knowledge unparalleled to his experience. Possibly to anyone else's experience, either, so far as he knew. Swamp's eyes went to the table he had been working upon, noting its construction and details of its workmanship, then comparing it to the other furnishings. He noted the papers and noted the tools, took a glance at anything with lettering upon it. After a moment he stopped, straightened, and proclaimed, "This is getting more interesting, Chanteuse."

"Indeed, indeed it has been some time..." agreed Swamp. Longer than he would have thought the houseman would have been away, but apparently their presence in this place wasn't as loathsome a prospect as he imagined it might be, all things considered. It further reinforced his observations from the room.

All of that aside, now that Amaranthine had mentioned it, it was getting colder in this room. Moreso than he preferred, especially with the amount of blood he had already been deprived of so far that evening. It was curious that he didn't fully notice that before "Yes. Perhaps we should. The lab coats that we procured should give us some additional protection, as will this lamp," he surmised, holding the device aloft. "Though I believe we would fare better in more insulated environs. I recommend the stairwell behind Door Number One," he said, walking to the first door they had opened after Quinton had left. "I doubt that we can get anything more from the Lord's remains nor the room itself." But that library... Swamp was not done with this place yet. For now, for his sake as well as the Chanteuse's, he had to leave it be.


James Grady

Location: Tunnels (Cairo, Egypt: October 6th, 1924)
Skills: Peccary Form


Oh, the wonder of piggy senses. Sometimes, it felt like being psychic. Oh sure, James figured that having a porcine sense of smell would be more of a liability than an asset in a subway. Or anywhere near a public restroom. Or near a water treatment plant. Okay, so that wasn't the point. This wasn't the first time that he'd turned into a boar, obviously, but it was the first time that he'd taken on a rider. The combination worked for him, too. Andromeda wasn't so tall as to shift his center of gravity much, and if she leaned forward while she held on, speed could be comfortably reached. James couldn't imagine doing this with someone as large as Gilbert, for instance. He'd be one low bridge away from testing his claims of immortality. It'd be funny, though.

As they made their way down through the corridors, James gave the occasional chuff or snort, though remained silent for long stretches at a time except for the small, regular clacking sounds of his hooves upon the stone beneath them. On the occasions when he did make an audible noise, it was usually preceded with a pause and sniff at the air, a perk of his ears, or a sweeping motion of his snout upon the ground as if detecting something and trying to suss out what it might be. It was probably a good thing, considering the nature of the haze around them and his new, lower eye level thanks to his scrofal physiology.

It was the smell of sulphur that caught his attention first. It was slight, possibly something from the fire, but as they continued it got stronger. By the time they had gotten to where both Emendators agreed was the place, it was almost overwhelming to his porcine senses. It was probably for the best that The Watch insisted that he shift back to his charming and overly handsome (just ask him) human form, considering.

James gave a little shimmy, as he said that he would, before reverting from Wild Boar to Domestic Blackneck. His first act as a human was to give a light cough and say, "Mmm, now Miss Andy? Next time you get to ridin' me, grip with them knees more, k? Way you was grindin' them heels bout had me..." He stopped, taking a glance around with the sudden understanding of one possible translation of his words, be it without context. "Oh, fuck all-a y'all," he whispered, loud enough to be heard by everyone. He wanted to say more, maybe even some form of apology to Andromeda, but his attention was suddenly snapped away by the wafting of voices on the air. He recognized three of them.

He cracked a smile upon hearing Nancy giving someone the business. Another Emendator in their midst would be awesome.

He looked highly confused but suddenly mirthful at the gravelly and unmistakable voice of a serious badass he knew in life. If he was correct, he had a LOT more questions than answers.

And he was purely overjoyed to hear the sound of his good friend and fellow troublemaker, thought lost to them, bitching about SCHRODY. Though there was a smaller puzzle there. He had yet to get a straight answer about that cat. Was he with them? But to hell with the cat - Alicia hadn't been taken up, or whatever the hell they called it. And she was with her father, possibly? Stranger things had happened. Twelve seconds ago he was a boar, for instance.

"Well, hot damn..." he marveled, anxious to see what was going to happen next. One thing he needed to address first, though. Okay, second. The hog riding advice already came first. But second! "Hey um... Anybody else smell sulphur? Like, lots of it, burnin'? Or it that a oinky thang?"



Gilbert Summers

Location: Tunnels (Cairo, Egypt: October 6th, 1924)
Skills: History, Observation


Gilbert generally accepted that this was, indeed, the way the needed to go. He also agreed with his colleague and fellow Emendator that this was also, indeed, where they had to be when he made mention of it. And sure enough, the tunnels all lined up with this fact, from the tiny indicators intrinsic to the tunnels themselves to his own memory of them, compared to his memory of the city of Cairo, above. Emendator GPS, if you will, functioning properly from knowledge of where they started, how long they had traveled, and cues from the tunnels themselves. There was only one problem with the whole situation, but it was massive.

He stopped underneath the entrance, an odd look on his face. Gilbert took in a deep breath, intent on explaining his foreboding feeling when James abruptly turned back into James and addressed Andromeda, and then the rest of the group with an imperative that, if taken followed literally, Gil would be hard pressed to look anyone present in the eye ever again. But he listened. He listened to the voices that manifested suddenly, processing those familiar to him giving a smile at hearing Nancy and Alicia. If all went well, it was possible that they were getting reinforced, though the manner of its arrival had him at a loss. As he had mentioned before, this was new territory for him. It was very rare that he got to say that. Very.

When James mentioned the smell of sulphur, Gilbert immediately stiffened up. He drew his Winchester rifle from his back and looked glanced about his surroundings. "That might be a bigger problem than what concerns me, Mr. Grady, though I will speak mine anyway: We are not under the Qasr El Nil Armory, nor the barracks at all. We are in the right place. The Barracks are not here." This would ordinarily be the time that he made some sort of comment about the situation, saying that it was very curious or fascinating, filling him with a sense of wonder at the natural and/or supernatural world. Not this time, not in the field with new Paradoxes among them, not with the scent of sulphur in the air, and not with the uncertainty of hearing voices of the unfamiliar mixed with voices of the supposed dead. He cast an eye upward, then turned attention above them all with an almost studious look. "And did anyone else notice that the ceiling is disappearing?"


Reginald Keystone



Location: Athribis (Underground)
Skills: Observation




Senility is a horrible thing, especially in one who had lived a life as momentous as the Lord Major Reginald I. Keystone. Indeed, the wondrous and varied things that the man had experienced in both his long career as a frontline officer, and later a Knight of the Skies in the service of King and Country; not to mention the wealth of education stored underneath his cap and the nobility bred into him as a member of the Aristocracy. Throughout his time serving in the African Campaigns of the last century and start of this one, he was exposed to the wisdoms of the native peoples there. One such pearl he'd heard oft quoted but never fully appreciated the meaning thereof until this very second was "When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground." It seemed to Reginald that, instead of his library burning down, the books might have been checked out in huge stacks and simply never returned, leaving him with an embittered old soul inside who kept constantly telling visitors to "shush!", despite their best efforts to help.

To wit, after a brief exchange with their more increasingly combative Gene resulting in a bit of a saliva-based faux pas, Reginald reached for his pocket handkerchief. He was a gentleman after all, more important a concept in the face of adversity than in times of ease. Before his hand fully clasped the item in question within his pocket, Reginald started to hear voices. He'd heard of people with this difficulty. I was more common in the Service than many were led to believe, some instances horrifyingly bad and others completely benign. Even helpful. But the good Lord Major was pretty sure that any voice featuring his late nephew, now apparently dead twice (and burnt to a crisp to boot), was not a symptom of decent mental stability.

Reginald forced his mind to make recollections of things from the past, long ago and much more recently, to ensure that his brain was still functioning as it should. He even ran a couple of mathematical equations common to engineering with random numbers that popped into his head. Memory was fine, reasoning was fine, he seemed to have a grasp on reality. The problem was, reality didn't quite have the same firm hold upon him. The Lord Major perked an eyebrow up, twitching his vision toward the ceiling. "I say," he said in quiet voice, regarding the gradual fading away of the stone and earth above them, "...it might be coming time for me to retire..." Such a thing was a anathema to the Lord Major. Retirement was for those who had give up the possibility of dying in glorious service. Or those who had become more a danger to his troop than he had a right to be.

The attempt at gathering the kerchief was halted, instead his hand found the flask in his pocket. With practiced motions, he one-handed the cap from it and took a pull, then put it deftly away. In a voice that was far more calm that it had a right to be, Reginald inquired of the group, "Quaint curiosity, mind you; but does anyone else detect the ceiling evaporating away before their very eyes?" He gave a determined nod, "I believe that time may be a factor."



Haring Reddish



Location: Benha (Sun Deck)
Skills: N/A




Corporal Reddish's face began to contort with something that resembled exaggerated confusion as Mosi spoke. It was the oddest sort of conversation from her end, both argumentative and agreeing with him in the same span of breath. But not just a "Yay" or "Nay" to one side, the other, then both; but actual reasoning behind either possible side of the equation with no small amount of supposition added in for good measure, while out there in the distance, whatever it was was still moving. Reddish began to wonder about the implications of continuing the conversation with her. Not to get him wrong, he was ever the fan of lively debate on a subject, if he felt passionate enough to study into it but detached enough not to take the challenge personally, but he'd seen more than plenty so far that reminded him of the uncertainties of war. Chief among this was that, if one wishes to continue breathing and does not have safe spot to jump into, one keeps moving.

Then came the voices. Of course they did. First the Lord Captain, then Mr. Benaszewski. Having processed a lot of this paperwork himself, Reddish was fairly certain that at least one of them was dead. It was also possible that one might see a tiny twitching of his eyelid as his brain struggled to process things.

Briefly, ever so briefly, Reddish's memory flashed back to a time long in his history. He had blackened his face with burnt cork and had just crept into an earthwork defense set up by the Teutonic peoples of Europe, with whom he shared a bloodline. It had been four days since he had eaten anything, and things were looking pretty desperate. There was this fuzzy orange tomcat that helped keep the rats at bay in his trench that they had set up as a sort of mascot. The hour he had considered roasting and eating the little bastich to relieve the pain in his stomach, it was time. That time happened to coincide with a smell of searing meat wafting in from across the battlefield. Later that night, he returned to his trench with a ham under his arm and covered in the blood of seventeen different men, none of whom he bore any personal animosity. You did what you had to do to survive. Period.

Reddish blinked it away just in time to hear Mosi's assessment of Vera fraying at the edges. He didn't see a bit of it, though he felt a bit frayed around the edges himself. Even if something was happening, there wasn't thing he could do about it. Reddish took a cursory step toward the stairs, saying, "One bullet might not. Twenty might, I'd bloody wager. I'm after supplies, who's with me?" Truth being that he would be an unprincipled cad to leave these women without defense, sans Josephine's pistol. Either way, he would be guilty of breaking some form of code of gentlemanly behavior, so he did rather wish they joined him. Sadly, he was still blissfully unaware of Vera's status at the moment, though gave her some regard for the moment's hesitation to check for himself again.
@Lady Amalthea
CSs posted, thanks.
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