*** ‘our’ maintained -shrouded- form while ~drifting~ amongst ~Shadowed-Minds- / ‘ours’ have -sought- for [Kaster] ~Cave~ within [New Castle] / ‘ours’ have -encountered- collection of ~Shadowed-homes~ / (irritation) towards ‘ours’ incapability in -locating- ‘theirs’ origin ***
*** 'ours' (serenity) deteriorated with -arrival- [BAF|HMS-Thunderer] / 'theirs' echoed -insistent- drivel throughout ~Eternal-Night~ / 'ours' (gratitude/satisfaction) radiated upon 'theirs' -silence- ***
Code:
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: *Admiral Hall yawns*
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: One of the better looking Bretonian systems.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: I used to look at it every day, all day long.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: And, quite frankly, I would rather be in Leeds.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: But nobody takes heed of an admiral's troubles, does one?
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: No, it seems not.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: It migth seem trivial to you, but boredom is a serious problem.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Good day. What is it you require from the Armed Forces?
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Oh. Oh. Blasted transmitter.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Even my transmitter decided to annoy me.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: I'm babbeling into the vacuum.
K'Hara|Mnemosyne: **{In one of the crew decks. a personification of a nomads presence manifests, it would start to move through the ship. Dressed
K'Hara|Mnemosyne: much the same as everyone else on the Thunderer}**
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Oh great. Splendid. Absolutely wonderful.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Now I have an infectee on... A refugee, I mean.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Refugee. They are so boring, with their casual problems.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: "Oh no, my brother lost his left arm! What do I do?" Well he wasn't very diligent before, was he!?
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: So, there isn't an infectee on board of our ship. There certainly isn't.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Guards, what are you waiting for? Grab that infectee and put him... wherever you put infectees!
K'Hara|Mnemosyne: ***{The Personification would disperse, the illusion falling away}**
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Put holes in him with needles so whatever is inside is dead. If there is anything inside.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Someone will have to get a promotion in any case.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Officer, what was that man's ranking?
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: Officer: I think he cleans your toilet, Sir.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Oh... Well... Well, don't mention it out loud again!
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: I don't have a toilet because I don't need it! I am an Admiral of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, and I don't poop!
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: So, is anyone willing to replace that man in cleaning the chambres that represent my lavatory?
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: You there, you with a mop! What is your rank?
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: The bloke with a mop: A jan-a janitor, Sir!
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Go to my lavatory. You have a promotion.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Is everything in order now? Has the man been put holes into with needles?
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Yes? Good. Full speed ans straight course to South SHields.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: We must see if there are any pirates or Gauls there.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: *hopes for them to, if they are there, hear that and go away so he can leave from
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: *yawns*
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: I wonder why do they require us to patrol Sunderland.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: There is never anything there because nobody bloody knows of it.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: That said, there is no Sunderland, except that restaurant on... whichever planet it was.
BAF|HMS-Thunderer: George: Go there.