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The Adventure of the Unsinkable Sky Vessel; Introduction Case
Topic Started: Apr 25 2016, 12:11 PM (518 Views)
Sun Tzu
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[ * ]
Launch of the Sky Vessel RMS Titanberg

The maiden voyage of the greatest Sky Vessel of the modern age is set to commence on Friday, the 13th of August, 1878. As our readers will be aware, the Titanberg is the product of a great international effort to provide the most luxurious method of transportation to our friends in the New World. The great Sky Vessel is the largest of it's kind ever produced, the product of British industry and the finest minds of the continent.

However, the construction of the vessel has proven contentious, given the threat of the creatures of the Walpurgisnacht even in the heavens. The creatures are far from the sole complaint leveraged at the construction process however. An interview with the head of construction revealed that...

'... The construction was completed on an Indian Burial Ground. Now, I want you to understand that Indians ain't exactly a common sight in Belfast like. The workers we hired for the project reburied their ancestors 'ere just to curse the project. The floor of the dining room was taken from the Flying Dutchman. Did you know the Flying Dutchman was real? Neither did we! The rest of the dining room's no bad though. Cutlery's barely used, taken from some other vessel... Mary Celeste I think it was?'

Regular readers will know that the project manager is none other than the world famed Count Ferdinand Adolf Heinrich August Graf von Zeppelin, the eccentric but brilliant German engineer. Upon being presented with the concerns leveraged by the construction company, his response was as follows...

'The construction of any Zeppelin device is, by the very nature of bearing my distinguished name upon it, a product of the highest quality! Should this be proven otherwise, then I am prepared to accept full responsibility. By which I mean I shall take every minion involved in its construction and launch them from my prototype device into the waiting arms of the very Sun itself!'

Our readers will be advised that the quote does read somewhat different in the original German.'

Typed below the clipping is the following -

Important request from Her Majesty's Government - Flight MUST go off without a hitch. Want your department on this personally. Do not disappoint.

Prime Minster Benjamin Disraeli, 1st Earl of Beaconsfield, KG, PC, FRS


------

This is an introductory case, and will take place on the titular ship. The entire quest will be cinematic. Your character should have some reason to be on the luxury vessel on its maiden flight to New York.
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Sun Tzu
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[ * ]
Chapter One: Reasonable Precautions

His pride, his joy, his greatest work to date. At least until he built his next magnificent creation. A Sky Vessel that defied the laws that bound them to the ground in ignorance. The maiden voyage that would prove, once and for all, that man's true destiny was in the great blue expanse beyond.

Count von Zeppelin had every reason to look forward to this, the day he would prove the construction of his Sky Vessel had been worth all the toil and effort of his workforce, no matter what superstitious nonsense they had been spouting at the end of it.

It was therefore, rather a shame that upon setting foot on board, he was instantly hit by six rounds from a revolver in rapid succession.

------

'Intelligent and observant as always my dear. How you could ever have determined that I only last night finished my portable revivification device?'

Catherine Huntsworth replaced her revolver in its holster after replacing each and every bullet within. A frown crossed her face, as she brushed a raven lock out of her eyes. The regulation aviator suit protected her from the chill wind blowing through the heightened altitude of the vessel, with the additional benefit of containing a number of pockets for a stunning number of gadgets, none of which got her point across like six rounds rapid fire. Some might call her beautiful on a better day, but with her piercing brown eyes locked in a glare of borderline contempt, this was not a better day for such things.

The man at the other end of the glare, nursing six closing bullet holes each in the ten ring zone, was perhaps lucky that he was, at the very least nominally her employee.

'I did not. I sincerely hoped this would be how our professional relationship ended, with me shooting you dead on the bridge of this accursed ship.' With a quick stride, she closed the gap between them and pulled von Zeppelin up, with no regard for his wounds. 'Would you like to inform me how I came to learn of it's existence after the bloody Prime Minister?'

The Count seemed rather nonplussed by this scenario really. 'I calculated that it was almost certain that you'd fund my venture once you knew it's purpose, and thought that all things considered, I would skip the middle man!' A great, gormless grin contrasts quite nicely with Catherine's utter disbelief.

'... Five. Million. Pounds.' She spits out between gritted teeth. 'Five million pounds. And now, not only do you have every two bit nobleman of the realm signing their mistresses and their spawn up to ride the damn thing, the Prime Minister has specifically asked me to ensure a safe flight.' She releases the man's collar, causing him to crumple back onto the ground. '... If you weren't one of the greatest minds of our century, it would be my pleasure to shove you off the vessel mid flight. However.'

The real mind behind the organization dedicated to investigating the paranormal and the strange haunting the entire world paces the deck. '... Anything could attack this vessel mid flight you dastard. What could possibly be worth most of my department's budget?'

The Count, now almost regaining motor functions, beams that grin of grins, and in five words, reveals the true purpose of the Titanberg.

Catherine takes one moment to process it, and sighs a world weary sigh. She holds up a finger. 'First class accommodation Zeppelin. Now pull yourself together. You've got a crowd clamouring to come on board.'

------

The Director

Name: Catherine Huntsworth
Age: 26
Class: Gadgeteer

Bio: While Lord Charles Everton Reginald Davidston Huntsworth is the official Minister for Extranormal Affairs as appointed by the Prime Minister himself, it is common knowledge that the Lord spends so much time asleep that the matter of his continued survival is a very technical point of great academic debate.

Quite A. how he managed to procreate and B. how his daughter became a relentless perfectionist and creative mind with the aforementioned parentage is another matter for scholarly debate. Catherine Huntsworth is the effective head of the Ministry of Extranormal Affairs, in effect the long suffering woman in charge of a group of lunatics and in many cases borderline sexual deviants. Never one afraid to speak her mind or where words are deficient to express her views with a well placed bullet, Catherine leads from the frontlines, often from a higher grade of accommodation than her subordinates.

As a descendant of the creator of the original mana conversion devices that allow much of the fantastical technology of the modern day, it is of little surprise that Catherine is a powerful gadgeteer in her own right, the inventor of numerous devices of her own division. Most however, are tied up in patents as a means to pay off the numerous natural disasters that follow in the wake of her employees.

------

Mumbling her dark thoughts, Catherine looked out over the edge of the ship to the docks of Liverpool below. From here, the masses waiting to clamber onto the vessel of their dreams looked almost like a heard of sheep. And for the most part, sheep they would be if something were to crop up on this maiden voyage. She shook her head at the very idea of the word 'if', as if there was any doubt.

After all, where the Ministry for Extraordinary Affairs was involved, the unthinkable was disturbingly often the commonplace.

Belatedly, she briefly considered the cuts she'd have to make to afford Zeppelin's extravagance. She briefly postulated cancelling Christmas, only to be reminded of a case the previous holiday. And the holiday before that. Honestly, Ghosts seemed to be remarkably defensive of the celebration of the birth of Christ.

A brief smile crossed her face however.

Any price was worth the chance of discovering the Lost Continent of Australia after all.

------

Catherine is the ministry rep for this scenario. Any character may join in this scenario. If they are not already part of the ministry, they'll be part of the passengers or crew of the vessel and will be recruited as the scenario progresses.

This scenario will be cinematic. The battle system will come in later.
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Mezeryn
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From the shadows... DOOM
[ * ]
The docks were, as one would expect on the predicating voyage of the Titanberg, absolutely rife with the clamor of excitement. Footsteps pounded irregularly, children and adults alike shouting to slightly displaced relatives, arguing over footing, or excitedly discussing the inbound vessel.

That was the utmost of sensual cacophony that a particular individual was subject to, however, seeing as how he couldn't actually see up and through the floor of the dock he was perched under.

The adequately cordial sea was the fixation of his gaze at the moment, two eerie emerald dots peering out of the eyesockets of a bird's skull - in particular, the near-football-sized condor skull off of an avian chimera. Had he felled the beast himself? Unlikely. But such things were better left to actual discussion, rather than the fruitful exposition of an entry post.

As the waves, darkened by the shadow of the docks, sloshed around the supporting pillars, the figure reaches out a hand, face-up, towards the unoccupied docking space for the Titanberg. A thin, collapsing aluminum rod extends from underneath his sleeve, jutting out in 3-foot increments before angling upwards, just past the lip of the dock, and casting a split-second surveying laser.

The alluminum collapses once again back into the figure's sleeve, and flashes a brief feed to a panel on his palm.

"Hm."


------

The Infiltrator


Name: ????(Sulvain Arsteaux)
Age: ??(24)
Class: Mendicant

Bio: An ersatz character from a foggy background, his story, as infrequently as he tells it, is even more infrequently an honest rendition. He has hints of nobility in his speech, though the audio is disrupted in a convoluted fashion so as to make his voice itself unrecognizable.

Regardless, his posture isn't that of a nobleman. Entirely reliant on his current mood, he can cast the airy ostentatious vitriol of a linguist while simultaneously hunching over into a threatening birdlike mystique. This would make him predictable, but for the utter incomprehension that seems to be entwined with his attitude. The mind of the man wearing his bird-skull mask is a volatile one.

An inauspicious coincidence to the bird-masked figure is the sudden and graphic death of one Madame Arsteaux, accompanied by the disappearance and assumed death of both of her children, leaving only a decrepit experimenter in the Father of the Arsteaux line as living blood.

-----

He pulls a small canister full of thick liquid out of his cloak and fastens it in a quick rotation to a slot on the bird-skull's beak. He swings his feet off the beam he'd been perched upon and slowly lowers himself into the gently sloshing waters, masked entirely by the clamor above.
Edited by Mezeryn, Jun 2 2016, 02:31 PM.
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Sun Tzu
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[ * ]
The first passengers to board the ship were, from Catherine's vantage point, members of the cream of the aristocracy. Blue bloods to a man and woman, the sort of pampered socialites that invariably found themselves drawn to grand events such as these. Many of them were well known to her from various balls and functions she had attended in the past.

If this cursed vessel were to sink, then at least she could die in comfort, knowing that they would be on the same boat down the River Styx as her. Her only concern was the crew, who had no reason for being dragged into this affair. She could only hope that they would be experienced, and if not that, at least competent.

Her temperament, never the best at the best of times, nor the worst of times, was at a peak of irritation, primarily at being denied the chance to tinker with anything to pass the endless hours of pre-boarding ceremony and pomposity. Several experiments boiling away in her laboratory back at the manor would have to be left without her constant supervision, and machines designed to go ding would invariably go ding without her guiding hand to ensure the correct timing and tone of ding. Granted, what little she could carry with her would provide a base for her to tinker in what would assuredly be fine accomodation, but for the moment...

It is only by the presence of another individual near her that she realizes she has subconsciously been working with her prototype manifestation device. With a brief glance at the figure, she returns it to a satchel and takes a brief glance of two important facts.

The first, and some would argue most important, is that this figure comes bearing a tray, and upon that tray is a proffered drink, which she quickly seizes in hand and swivels about gently before taking a sip.

The second fact, which everyone else on earth would register as actually more important, is the fact that this figure is a child. A child of roughly fourteen years of age. A little girl, from some nation in the vast British Empire, if her African features were of any indication. Dressed in the manner of some sort of tinker, the sort that littered the streets of London. Her tattered coat, ratty scarf and barely held together bonnet were hardly the things that one would associate with the class and glamour of the event.

Catherine takes all this in, narrows her glare, and puts hand to her hip. '... You're an urchin, aren't you.'

The girl grins and nods. 'Right sage of you ma'am. That I am.'

Catherine swivels the drink in hand once more. '... What.' She can barely form the words. 'What are you doing on this ship.'

The girl frowns, and nods towards the tray in hand. 'Buttling ma'am. Or um, maiding I guess? Waiting? Count said it was somethin' like that.'

'The Count.' Her grip tightened on the glass.

'Right you are ma'am, real Gentleman that. Comes to our orphanage one day like, chipper as you please, and picks us all up. Says one of his dodads said that his employer would be unhappy with him in the future, y'see? Best way to set about fixing it he says is some act of charity in line with her vision. Dunno about that, sounds like a right scary person from what he said.'

By this point, the empty glass is returned to the tray. 'Keep them coming. So, if I'm to understand this. The Count has staffed this vessel with...'

The girl nods. 'Urchins ma'am! Orphans the lot of us.'

'... I dread to ask, what is he paying you with?'

A bark sounds out, and a small brown dog runs up to the girl's leg. Catherine looks at it, and two and two are put together.

'... Puppies are also orphans if that helps ma'am. You the Count's employer like?'

Catherine sighs, and strides off towards the Count's room. 'Keep them coming. And don't steal anything.'

'Wouldn't dream of it ma'am!' The girl yells, as the door slams shut. A moment later, six loud bangs are heard, before the woman strides back out.

Meanwhile, the girl smirks. 'Wouldn't dream of stealing from you anyways...' she chuckles to herself. Bound to be something worth filching from this though. The girl turns her attention to the boarding passengers. 'Just being a helpful butler like...'
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Mezeryn
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[ * ]
His vision came in the bleary waves that light turned to whenever it threaded its fingers through water. The massive titan coming in to harbor, looking nearly dreamlike, and sending concentric waves of wind rippling across the surface of the sea, devoutly disrupting the normalcy of chaos that the water would have been showing.

Sulvain, twenty or so meters down, did his best to swim his lithe form toward his prospect - a particular cross-segment in the ship inherent to his preferred boarding procedure - but the encumbrance of his various metallic gadgets atop his heavily cloaked form wore on his endurance heavily. He looks at the half-depleted canister he'd affixed to his beak.

Thankfully, he could breathe. For another minute or so.

The Mendicant's Prayer
 
See the animal in his cage that you built,
Are you sure what side you're on?


------

Far past the line-of-sight from the docks, rife with nobility, a clawed forearm juts from the surface of the water, clad in soaked, pitch black cloth, and with a SCCCHHHHIIIIICKKK, a grapple shoots out of the sleeve and magnetizes to the metal ribcage of the behemoth ship. Following it, with a brief whirrr, a figure emerges and soars a brief couple of meters upwards before stagnating, and swaying to and fro in the air between ship and sea, hanging by his arm.


------

"Shit... being waterlogged makes me too heavy..."

A dysfunctional chink sounded all three of the times the bird-masked figure attempted to retract the cord to finish hoisting himself up.

Grimacing with the pain in his arm, holding by itself both his body and all of his equipment, he somehow finds a way to sling his other arm up and fasten his grip on the cord.

The Mendicant's Prayer
 
See the safety of the life you've built,
Everything right where it belongs.


Stifling a cry, he pulls upward, a mere few inches before his arm quivers violently, to relieve the tension on the cord.

The Mendicant's Prayer
 
What if everything around you,
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you used to know,
Is an elaborate dream?

And if you look at your reflection...


The grimace tightens, and he pecks the retraction switch on the grappling hook with his beak-mask.

The Mendicant's Prayer
 
Is that all you want to be?


The tension relieved, the grappling wire whirs again and brings him up the rest of the way. Sulvain goes slack, and then rolls up onto the ledge of the rib he'd snagged with his device, chest heaving under his cloak, fingers trembling, but a grin hidden by his avian visage.

"What if you could look right through the cracks... would you find yourself..."

His right hand staggers up and then relaxes, placed over his heart.

After his moment's reprieve, he gets to his knees, and feels for the latch detailed in the schematics he'd studied weeks over. Successful, he pulls a panel of the hull back, and slips into the innards of the ship.
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[ * ]
As the seemingly well-observed commotion persists on the upper deck, among those wealthy enough to have accommodations, an entirely different song is sung by the members of the crew who hang from the hull and dance about the deck. Able Seamen (skymen?) yell between each other at varying volumes; greener crewmen dare not ruin the passenger experience for rich noblemen, while the veteran mates care less about who they upset. Stocking rope, shifting supplies - things that normally otherwise would be accomplished before the deck's nth spitshine - are among what these hardy folk are tasked with. Telling the nobles we're skilled laborers, not servants, however, is a duty of the launching ceremony that you can never really clock out on.

Hidden away from chatter and merrymaking, in the grimy underbelly of the ship, an expert engine technician signs on to his post, making an early appearance so as to be ready for the launching shift. There are many technicians, but not all are experts - some, in fact, are more assistants and mates than true engineers, assigned to the station simply on principle that more hands means a minimized chance of disaster. The man signing on is dressed lightly, like the others, due to the heat, not forsaking the essentials such as gloves, goggles, and denims, but making the tactical decision to bare his arms for some relief from the intense heat of the engine chambers. Any man as young as he is would be steeling themselves for the barrage of heckling and puberty-centric insults that would soon be sent his way by the grizzled veterans of the crew, but Rudolf is confident that his pristine knowledge of the mechanical will be sufficient in winning over his peers.

Strolling into the starboard turbine room, Rudolf is greeted by an aged man equipped with a dark beard, a grin, and a patronizing tone. He starts, before his eager audience of bored crewmen: "Mister expert technician, sir-"

"Stow it, Hermann," Rudolf fires back, "and replace that valve before you send us all to Hell."

A whistle sounds from behind Hermann, whose grin is erased as he whips around and corrects his mistake. Rudolf continues his examination of the engine room. Scheiße, that was cool, he thinks to himself. Good thing none of them are smart to realize I messed with that valve hours ago. Petty and meticulous - not endearing qualities, but they are exactly what make him a skilled machinist.

As he nears the turbine, he encounters a man with, well, - umm - what he can only describe as impeccable taste. In the greasiest part of the ship, the part with the highest likelihood of having to endure scuff marks, the man before him has extremely well-fitting boots, matching gloves, and - is that gold trim on his goggles? What a weirdo.

"Rudolf, you're early. That's why you're the lead, right?"

The man speaks suddenly, and without turning around - his chilling voice makes Rudolf's tank top seem like a regrettable choice.

"Umm, yeah - what was your name, again?"

"Listen," the man continues. "You catch a lot, on this part of the ship, and you know, I swear I heard rats, down somewhere in the cargo hold, or maybe even the bowels. Would you mind checking that out for me? We really should be on the lookout for rodents. They can get themselves wedged in all kinds of places."

Rudolf stands, for a moment, completely still. He figures he's still got a few minutes before he can order around the newbies, and the fewer complaints he gets from nobles, the better. "I suppose I can do that."

"Thanks, dear. Don't take too long."

Rudolf turns around, and heads for the door, turning back precisely one time to see the man continually affixed to his post, fiddling with the turbine.
Edited by Adonan, Jun 18 2016, 04:24 PM.
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WhiteLycan
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Can you feel it, Mr. Krabs?
[ * ]
Fake it until you make it.

That became the spontaneous motto of one of the passengers. Outwardly, one would see a speckled, as well as a lightly freckled woman of diminutive size. Barely reaching above five feet, the rounded frames sat upon meek features. Though her garb was very plain. A frilly buttoned shirt, cream colored, as it was accompanied by green and plaid. She'd given her name as Claire MacBenett. That sounded scottish enough- and her accent would pass for scottish no doubt- or at least it seemed to. For all of the lack of experience being sheltered brought, her literary accomplishments seemed to far outweigh where she lacked in just about everywhere else.

That and her tutor was a Scottishborn exile in his own right.

Which brought this to the terms of the exile where "Claire" is concerned. It should be passing obvious that she wasn't Scottish at all. Nor was she a student who was interested in Native American archeology. Nor did she cease to be baffled at how easily she could sell these lies. Yet she did hold a fondness for plaid.

But honestly.

Posted Image

The symbology engraved upon the pages of her tome spoke of an altogether different interest.

---
The Exile
Name: Naira Mikhailovna Mihailovich
(Given as Claire MacBennet)
Age: 21
Class: The Occultist

A frail looking woman of modest dress, and glasses that almost rival the leather-bound tome she carries in size. As academic as she seems, one would believe she would disvow the presence of supernatural powers, let alone dabble in them. But her science is the very study and use of such esoteric knowledge, attuning it in such a way that can maim and repel her foes. In combat, she utilizes subtle hexes that can subdue those that might threaten harm, and outside of it, she prepares a variety of rituals to aid and addle. Seems to be fleeing from some political intrigue in her homeland.

---

Even so, a bolt of anti-genius wouldn't strike twice. Now that she was no longer harried by customs officials before boarding, it might do well to keep to herself. Wouldn't want her subject of scientific intent misinterpreted as profane religious beliefs after all.

Edited by WhiteLycan, Jun 18 2016, 10:06 PM.
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[ * ]
Catherine's vigil over the boarding passengers came to an end as the last family ascended the gangplank onto the great vessel. It had been a vigil of some few positives, and a remarkable amount of distaste and discomfort for her personally.

The main issue for her personally was, as it always was, in the shape of a singular individual. He had boarded the vessel alone, but no doubt somewhere in the great hold of the ship, there would be a number of coffins containing his vassals, which would spring open once the sun set across the horizon. He was a vampire himself, but as many would say, he was a vampire among vampires. The sun was not his master, nor was any mortal agency including her own.

Catherine Huntsworth had absolutely nothing against Baron Gunderbald Ashcroft, Vampire Lord and Liege Lord of the Magical County Nottavillaine, save for a seething hatred shared by both parties in the relationship. Ashcroft despised Catherine for the mere fact that her agency existed to regulate the paranormal, a position he fancied himself for. Catherine despised Ashcroft for many of the same reasons, and his perpetual attempts to get the Ministry disbanded. And of course, there was the hatred that always existed between two proud, arrogant souls, far more similar to one another than either would be willing to admit.

But for the most part, Catherine would just love to fire the undead bastard into the heart of the sun.

The next notable was notable for the reason that he was choosing to wear a black cloak to obscure his face, an impossible task for the simple reason that he was a humanoid with the face and talons of a Peregrine Falcon. Catherine had to roll her eyes at what was clearly some youth going through a swashbuckling phase.

With more insight and perhaps the omniscience that comes from the narration of events, she might have realized that the Avian was in fact an Assassin. A creature born of the shadows, ready with blade and skill to alter the course of history at whim. A chosen blade, trained for a single purpose, ready to lay down his life to complete his mission. A deadly force, grim of purpose, born of darkness and prepared to return to it at a moment's notice. The night personified. Or at least, that was how Rekhyt saw himself, but in truth, Rekhyt was a bit of a prat.

Delusions of grandeur and dark destiny do not preclude skill however, and Rekhyt was one of the fiercest blades to grace the order of Assassins from which he hailed. He was on board for a singular purpose, and he would see his task carried out.

Truth be told however, there was only one thing on Catherine's mind, besides her overwhelming hatred of Baron Ashcroft and a sincere, if hatefully pure desire that he would spontaneously combust.

Namely, how on earth this godforsaken vessel managed to actually stay afloat?
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Mezeryn
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From the shadows... DOOM
[ * ]
Deep below, pistons churned and stimmied the nimble climbing of the bird-masked wisp, his black gloved hands intent not to relinquish the scarce grip he could keep on the thick brass pipes.

Around him was a cacophony of noise, though it was steadily changing from escaping steam and the grinding movement of the metal that seemed to move like a great behemoth's organs into a duller sort, of distant footsteps and opening, closing doors as the guests found themselves situated - somehow, situated on this immense, writhing, steel creature.

Adjacent to the ventilated hallway of one such semi-residential area, the figure hoists himself up and perches just outside the carbon shaft humming with the passage of air ejecting directly through a grate in the wall. The darkness was pitch but for the dull green light emanating from the eyes of the crow mask, casting a sickly glow on the interior of the narrow slits of the grate as he scanned the folk walking past en masse.

This continued for several minutes. His position became sore, but it was the only one possible while enabling his vigil. All were simple noblemen, both human and integrated magical beast, clad in the ruffles and pomp that noblemen were wont to be.''

A few particulars stood out, one being a diminutive girl holding herself with the same confidence as the nobles but, Sulvain suspected, with something a little more complex beneath the surface. A well-known vampire also made his way forward, though he doubted the Baron's goal was his own room, but rather audience with the captain and other highminded individuals.

And then, akin to looking into a mirror, he saw himself - no, not himself, but one of the order he'd plagiarized, striding with purpose amongst the giddy businessmen and aristocrats searching for their rooms.

"Fuck."
Edited by Mezeryn, Jun 19 2016, 09:29 PM.
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OH MY GOSH A FLYING SHOPPING LIST
[ * ]
The door from the staff hall opens timidly, and Rudolf emerges as does a sheet of paper being hand-pressed over the corner of a desk. As the gangplanks withdraw, the commotion dies down, our once aggressive boarding party congealing into a panoply of passengers prepared to see the New World. Rudolf himself makes his way around the perimeter of the deck, greeting the mates and conversing about the status of the airship. While chatting up the staff, and completing his lap, he keeps an ear open to see if any of the passengers complain to one another about rodents or pests or other makers of strange noises. There are, as always, a healthy stock of oddfellows aboard the ship, but he decides not to make terrible note of them, out of some degree of professionalism mixed in with having outgrown the excitement of people-watching.

However, Rudolf indulges bewilderment before a set of black sheets failing to hide the bird-person beneath; his eyes dart to the vent on the other side once he realizes he's been staring. As a man of the mechanical arts, Rudolf has never really grown fully accustomed to the creatures of the arcane. Painting with a broad brush, the children of the Walpurgisnacht seem to take no interest in his field, but as of yet he has failed to discern whether it's because they are incapable of fitting into the left-brained and logical, or if it's because they have a hard time breaking into the field due to the common reluctance of accepting a stranger folk.

As he feigns looking away, directly into the vent, he realizes that he's eyeing up an eerie green glow. It bothers him, certainly, but as all he can see is the still color shining upon the steel vents, he is quick to utterly dismiss it as a status indicator from some air monitoring device that he has yet to familiarize himself with. Better green than red, probably.

* * *

Hermann Velstadt sits, hunched over on a hefty toolcase in the starboard turbine room. The chamber is as spacious as it can afford to be, which usually grants an arm's length between the next closest technician. However, at this particular time in which shifts are changing, fresh men and women walk in at the same as the worn ones walk out, reducing the perception of space, well, just enough to make him grumble. He goes nowhere, as he's neither hungry or sleepy yet, so he sees no reason to leave.

Except, of course, for the man in the back of the chamber, who also has yet to leave, who incites unease into even the hardiest and grumbliest of mechanics, and who, well, still looks stunning. Hermann would really like it if he transferred to the portside turbine, but he supposes that if the strange man's sticking around, he might just be as stubbornly good at the craft as Hermann is himself. Ah, well; like he always says, there's no point in stirring up a tempest in something you weren't going to put tea in anyway.
Edited by Adonan, Jun 20 2016, 04:55 PM.
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