[The feed begins with a sigh from England's end. Though he can't be seen, he runs a hand through his hair, stretches his arms out, feels several pops in his spine and wonders when his bones will really creak like France's or like, God forbid, China's.]

Didn't realise I'd have a new iPhone upgrade so soon or, dunno... find myself on this bloody ship.

I-- I'm not really one for blogging or regular broadcasts as if I need validation by them; not, ah, not that there's anything wrong with blogging or broadcasting regularly, it's just not for me.

[Having gotten that awkward gem out of the way, England clears his throat.]

At... at any rate, I suppose introductions are in order unless of course we've already met. Waking in a gravity couch is no excuse for poor etiquette! There's a lot of things that aren't an excuse for bad manners, really...

I'm here now and I'll have to make the best of it, that's all.

[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 }}