Sentient Bowtie

posting to be confused but intrigued

”I may look cocky and abrasive, but this is just a placeholder mug for now. I would actually love to talk to all of you if I am accepted!” Respecting Women Beam: ACTIVATE

"I see. I wouldn't want to pry if that is the case. Apologies." "...I feel like I may have been occupying you for longer than is necessary. I should take my leave, Morgan." Blake stands to leave, dusting off his pants and cloak as he does. "Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of your company."

”Well, I had assumed. Was it something troubling?”

yaaaaay and also congraaaats

Currently without a face, but what can you do?

"True, but that still doesn't mean I am a butler." "...Is something the matter?"

"Perhaps they do, but I am no butler. Housekeeping is but a small section of my duties for Lord Coel. A more appropriate term for my station would be... an attendant." Blake picks the word out a little too carefully. "I am certain Lenny would be able to answer your question, if you choose to ask him." He points to the bow-bearing boy over yonder. "His bark, while fearsome, is ever worse than his bite."

Willard is absolutely ready to dive right in for their new plan, until he hears that last part - about drawing away the Cross’ interceptors. ...What? Seriously? They were seriously asking him to make a suicide run after telling him almost every mission not to do that exact thing please for god’s sake Willard you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days? Willard can’t even begin to articulate to himself exactly how ironics and annoyingly hypocritical that was, so he opts to instead broadcast a curt “Sure thing,” followed by unconvincingly hidden grumbling as he prepares his Striker to move.

Morgan's companion doesn't seem to mind it, and continues working. ".....All right, I'm finished. Here you are." Blake suddenly says after some time, and hands Morgan's cloak back to them. All of the blood has gone, replaced by the powder (which is now pinkish) that covers most of where the stain was. It looks a little mushy. "As I said, wash it in cold water to remove the rest of the powder. Let us hope you do not get any more blood on it before you have the opportunity to do so."

”She seems so. It’s good to have a sibling you can rely on if you need them.”

"You might have, in passing. I must have missed it." Still kneading the powder into Morgan's cloak, Blake continues: "I couldn't help but notice there is someone else in our group who looks remarkably like you. I assume she is your sister."

Blake accepts the garment and begins working on it; he withdraws a stoppered bottle of some powder from one of his pockets, opens it, and pours a generous amount onto the stain. He begins to rub the powder into the wet fabric, and it soaks up the blood quickly. "This should remove most of the blood, but your cloak will be a little... unclean until the next time you wash it. Be sure to use cold water. Warm water will cause any remaining blood to set into the fabric and become much harder to remove." He looks over Morgan's armor and a small smile crosses his face. "A suit of armor? I would never have guessed you were wearing any. Very clever keeping it underneath this cloak. Our enemies will never be able to tell you possess it until their weapons fail to injure you - by which point, naturally, it is too late to rectify their mistake." "...Oh, how rude of me. I realize I haven't even given you my name yet." He puts forth a hand, one relatively unsullied by the mysterious blood-removing powder. "I am Blake Oswell, retainer to Lord Coel. A pleasure to formally meet you, friend."

”That is a good point,” he says, as if he wasn’t already able to tell that himself somehow. ”If you want my help with it, I’ll need your cloak, as you might have expected.” Blake holds out his hand for the garment.

"Ah, I see. I hope the two of them are all right. Hannibal especially." He ponders for a second. "Hmm... Has the blood had enough time to dry yet? It's more difficult to remove from clothing when it's dry, but I would be able to help you in either case."

...Don't worry yourself about what that thing said. Not one person here has any idea, and they never will. You just have to keep it that way. But gods, does it get tiring. Momentarily distracted by his own thoughts, Blake's attention wanders from his lord - he seemed fine at the moment, anyway, and they had been together since leaving their home behind - and onto Morgan. Alone again? One would think the heart-stopping action of combat would have given them a bit more confidence to stand with the others. Blake stands, voices a quiet "I will be back shortly" to Lord Coel, and makes his way over to Morgan, who he takes a seat next to. "It wouldn't hurt to try and get a little closer to some of the others, you know." "Both figuratively and literally."

Blake, at his master’s side the entire journey, is quiet. His thoughts are focused on asking the same questions everyone had already been asking themselves, so they weren’t of any use to him whatsoever. Nor were the... other ones. About what that creature had said to him. He shoves them away, locks them in a very deep part of his mind, and focuses himself on helping Lord Coel against the tree, at which point he takes his own seat next to the old man.

Willard starts the first syllable of a response, but stops himself. No, he did not have a plan, and no, he was not going to be able to come up with one any time soon. Strategizing wasn’t really his forte - following strategies, maybe, if he was in the right frame of mind. He sighs into the comms, before replying, “Roger that. I’m returning to the Eclipse.” Damned Rhees. Always knew just what to say to get him off his rush.

At first, Willard didn't believe it. The Resanti had captured the Southern Cross, intact? Impossible. It just wasn't something they could do; the Cross was too heavily armed to make that happen. They'd have to destroy it, or at least heavily damage it. And then Rhees confirmed it, a third time. Her words barely registered in his mind, because it was racing a thousand miles ahead of him. The rustbuckets had their hands on the Southern Cross now. Just what in the hell were these things capable of? How was it even possible? Biological weapons, or some sort of advanced, uncounterable tactics? Something new, something the Assembly couldn't counter. Willard refused to believe it was taken down in straight combat; nothing could have taken an Assembly ship of that size without any fanfare. It just wasn't feasible. ...Though, considering what he was seeing right in front of him, maybe it was. "Let's just... If they have the Cross, let's just blow the damn thing up. We're right here, we can do it. It's a necessary sacrifice." he broadcasts. His usual suggestion when things got hairy, but this time there was less enthusiasm for the idea. A moment later, he adds "The fucking Cross. Oh god." in very un-Willard-like fashion.

[H, 2]. Resist inner urge to shove Gavan out of the way.

Willard smiles inwardly. His usual question never received a proper answer, but at this point it was almost obligatory. Wasn’t really meeting if he didn’t ask, anyway. He listens to the others take their turns, but after Irene speaks up, the pilot chimes in again. “That’s a good question. If things go bad for them, what are we supposed to do? Go in guns blazing?”

After hearing Rhees' explanation on the situation, Willard is almost able to stop himself from asking his usual question - the one he inevitably mentions before nearly every mission. ...Almost. "So when do we start?" The specifics of the mission don't concern him too much (and they never have); cover the Eclipse if things go well, cover the boarding party's shuttle if they don't, and if they were lucky, nothing would have to be done at all. If anything else to worry about came up during the mission, odds were Rhees would have them informed immediately as usual. Simple and easy. Willard doesn't even care about going in blind, since it was usually code for "please don't let Willard go first" anyway. And he usually didn't. Most of the time.

Pilot Striker

Posting now to remember to post a sheet later.

Regret not being able to heft Coel like a barbell, hightail it to [H, 3].