Tybalt Capulet — Roleplayer Guild

The fire was a bit slapdash, but warm enough, and it created an aura of general well-being that was welcome indeed. Aster found herself relaxing more than she was accustomed to in the company of relative strangers. Of course, she had never really had real friends back home, so it would have been a foreign experience even if they hadn't been in a world made up of ones and zeroes.

Sticking close to Alisea, the person that she was the most comfortable with, she laughed along (a bit more quietly than the others) at the good-humored jokes being thrown back and forth. She even shot a good-natured scowl at Alisea after the jest about the ghost, figuring that it was all in good fun. It didn't stop her from glancing over her shoulder a few times, though. She wasn't a naturally paranoid person, but then, this wasn't the real world. For all they knew, ghosts were a very real enemy in the game. She shuddered, both from the increasing cold, and from the thought of fighting specters, and scooted closer to the fire.

In the light of the fire, Aster ate an unpleasant dried biscuit, and then pulled her secret purchase from her pocket. The cloth was still as white as ever, but in the firelight it seemed almost luminescent. As an afterthought, Aster tied it to her sword's hilt, in the style that knights of old might have tied the handkerchiefs of their favored lady.

As everyone began to roll out sleeping bags and blankets, she sighed, realizing that, unfortunately, she had failed to pick up anything of the sort. Instead, she thanked her foresight in choosing quality clothes, and stayed as close to the waning fire as was safe, not wanting to bother any of her teammates. Huh. That was a concept. Teammates. She smiled at that, one arm tucked under her head as a makeshift pillow, the other tightly grasping the handle of her sword.

"There once was a man, who is well known in his city. His name was John but on weekends it was Britney. On Sundays, his name was Carl. The rest of the time, it was 'dumbass'. And he has two things that always accompany him, a list of names and a worn-out red marker. It would surprise you to know that, while it went against the expected function, the marker was not for writing on paper.

Morning light filled the hospital, the smell of death hung in the air. The pale walls shone wetly. Above Dumbass's bed hung a portrait of the Quartermaster of the KSR, and by his nightstand was a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush. John had ended up with a broken hip after tripping himself at the stair. Or, at least that's what he told the Doctors had broken his hip. In fact, it had been something far more sinister;"

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