[ this device is still somewhat beyond her. but she can now speak through it without much difficulty, which is progress! hours of button-mashing are starting to pay off. even so, she is a little intimidated to possibly be addressing this entire ship.

so if she sounds like she's far away or just really quiet, that would explain why. ]

Uh, hello. [ she's off to a great start! ] I'm not sure just who can hear me, or if anyone can because I might be using this thing improperly.

But I wanted to ask-- [ no, not about the voices and the memories. ] has anyone seen a tall man, dark-haired and bearded, possibly swinging around an obscenely large greatsword?

That would be my brother, Garrett. Garrett Hawke. I was with him before I came here, and haven't seen him since.

Causa latet, vis est notissima fontis.

[ and if lucrezia is bothered by -- well, everything, it doesn't show. if anything, she insists on a smile that is brilliant and light as she sits on her swing in the garden, feet bare and the edge of her dress painted green as if she were sitting on the grass before ]

The cause is hidden, but the result is known.

[ and how true that seems to be, isn't it Tranquility? the cause is always hidden and the result is always known; and a bit too late, at that. ]

But why wait until mine are known? I would play a game, Tranquility, and spoil my own surprises. A memory for a memory and a secret for a secret.

[ and who does not want a secret from a Borgia? ]

If I shall find a daring enough partner.

[The video opens up on a man sitting too close to the screen, poking at said screen to confirm that the settings are all appropriate for his purposes. He looks positively pissed and has a wad of tissue stuck up one nostril. Though the ship-induced insomnia has ended at last, the subsequent identity issues have been especially taxing on a man who has spent the entire last month working through the meaning of life after death while delirious with lack of sleep, antagonizing his closest friend (entirely on accident), and still acclimating to the various ... quirks of the future and The Tranquility.

Not being able to think as himself has thrown him for a loop that he is not best equipped to handle -- and which he tries so valiantly to resist.

It has not ended very well, if the constant nosebleeds and piercing headaches are any indication.

So it has come to this. Bahorel clears his throat and looks directly at the camera, now reasonably spaced away from it, though still not at the most flattering angle. He'll never quite figure this thing out.

His voice is a little gruff and stilted at first, as he is not exactly sure how to address this matter, let alone a full ship as audience. But he sure as hell is sick and tired of this unnecessary invasion of his usually manageable headspace, so he's going to get this out, one way or another.]

Hello. For those of you who do not know, my name is Ambrose Bahorel. I hail from Paris, France, of the 1800s, and am often associated with a handful of others who call ourselves Les Amis de l'ABC.

[A pause. This is so dumb and awkward, and he is really fighting the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head.

... Nope, lost that fight pretty quickly there. That was less a fight and more a massacre.]

To be absolutely frank, I hope that anyone who recognizes me or my voice from one of their foreign memories will contact me immediately. After the travesty that was last month, now is not the best time to be playing mind games, and I would appreciate settling this matter promptly.

[He contemplates turning the goddamn thing off already, then adds as an afterthought,]

Thank you.


{{ OOC: This will be Bahorel's catch-all for all mid- to late-stage links! Naturally is open to all, and for anyone who wants moar empathy links for any of the stages, you can find a quick ref of Bahorel's available memories here! PM this account or paraverbal if you need/want more deets. :3 }}