I noticed the same thing in my games. Maybe it is something in the air?

The Upstairs Downstairs Inc. Building - 8th Floor | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 3:08 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

“It’s done,” Blossom quips, rising to her full five foot five inches and unplugging the spliced cable from her wrist. “We’re solid. I’m ghosting the system at the source so we don’t need to worry about sound or motion. Now, let’s get to the human resource computer.”

“Great work, sugarplum,” Vegas smiles with approval but doesn’t raise his voice to the decibel that the netrunner just used. Still speaking quietly, he gives a nod to Echo and says, “Let’s still try to keep quiet. Don’t know what onsite security they have here.”

"Blossom," Bloodbank breaks in, his voice just barely above a whisper. "Do you need the HR computer specifically?" He clears his throat, self conscious of just how little he knows in this particular area. "Wouldn't any computer get you... uhmm, in?"

“It depends on whether they have the HR database locked within its own datafortress,” the little Asian woman replies, dropping her voice to a whisper. “We can always attempt the first computer we come across.”

Bloodbank nods and preps himself to follow the others inside.

Fixer looks at Blossom and congratulates her, "Nice work. I'm glad your on the team. If there is a time limit here or some other risk, let us know." He looks up at the big Crooner and adds, "and like the singer here said, keep your eye out for on-site security. Let’s go in and move quickly but quietly. Remember we still have another team on our heels and a kid who could be about to die somewhere."

“Let’s go,” Vegas clambors over the sill while awkwardly lifting his overcoat and bag high so as not to disturb the remnants of the alarm system just in case. Echo is quick to follow, lifting her coat and hoisting her bag over with the same level of care. Blossom and Bloodbank are next over and in followed by Fixer, who carefully moves into the hallway beyond the broken window and security elements. He is careful to enter as far from the detectors as he can.

Once inside, Vegas and Echo lead the team down the hall to the first door. One with a handgun at ready, the other with her strange submachine gun. The others trail behind with Casino bringing up the rear, watching the window for any sign from across the alley that they have been compromised.

Descending on the alcove of the first door on the right, Vegas crosses in front of the door quickly, having to jog across the hall to do so, and takes up a position on the far side of the space. Echo quickly makes her way into a flanking position on the other side of the door and peers around the corner while the others move.

Squinting against the glare of the hallway lighting on the glass of panel windows of the door set within the recessed area, Echo frowns behind the cloth of her balaclava. Can’t see a damn thing, she grumps. Frellin’ light is reflecting off the door in all the wrong places. Turning to catch Vegas’ eye, she shakes her head and whispers, “Can’t see.”

The Frank Sinatra look-alike grimly accepts the information and glances around the corner himself, foregoing his scan of the hall that has opened up further into the building for a moment. All he can make out is a space just beyond the door and what appears to be a cubicle wall. His gaze drifts to the card scanner by the door and he motions Fixer forward.

The techie moves in along the right hand wall using the jog in the hallway to give him some concealment and approaches the first door. Listening carefully and peering through the glass panel, Fixer pauses to catch what could be heard, seeing what the solo had already seen; cubicle walls.

Casino stops a little further back, almost parallel to the medtech who stands across the hall from him, and stands sentry. Blossom hangs out near the masked medic as well, casually leaning against the wall and rolling her sucker about in her mouth.

Giving up on his cautious approach having heard nothing alarming and having seen nothing to warn him away, Fixer turns his attention to the security at the door.

The card scanner is a standard IR reader. A user would hold their card up to the flat panel and the device would read the imprinted code on the company issued card. If the code matches the records, the door is unlocked, if it doesn’t, the door isn’t unlocked. The only way that the alarm might be triggered is if the door is opened without the sensor being properly triggered. The techie can’t see any other sign of additional security.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 03:10 AM PST)

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Near the Parking Garage two blocks from the Upstairs Downstairs Inc. Building | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 02:50 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

Ghlahn watches as the security teams roll up on the crowd. The arrival of several tons of steel usually disperses people pretty quickly. The warning announcement is at such a low level that he wonders if some of the crowd even hears it. His own hearing allows him to hear it easily. Figuring it is time to update the others he reaches for his radio. It is not there.

"That stupid Bloodbank" he mutters. The medic has taken the radio and left Ghlahn alone with no means of communication. Taking a moment to think, he calculates that it should take the group at least 45 minutes to make their way into the building and find what they are looking for. He has time. For the moment, he will simply stay put and keep watch. If he is lucky, he will see the others leaving the building. If not, he will wait one hour and then make his way back to their last meeting place.

Returning to his scope, the Cee-metal edgerunner watches the remnants of the crowd moving with haste to be about some other business, not wishing to be added to the Body Count numbers shared by all of the various mainstream news outlets. Rumbling forward, the APC rolls right up to the garage and out of sight behind the cement flooring. Ghlahn can still hear the engine, but he can no longer see it. Traffic along the street returns to normal with ground cars pulling back onto the road and people continue to amble along.

A few minutes pass and then a team of three heavily armed and armored corporate soldiers jog back into view and make their way to the building the skinhead had been leading the crowd into. Arriving at the door, they let themselves in.

For the next few minutes, Ghlahn calmly watches the street. The engine of the BTR-15 APC turns off and the sounds of the street permeate the air. Then, from behind him, lights play over the ground, pass under the vehicle he’s beneath, play across his left shoulder and bicep, and then move on. Someone is using a flashlight and scanning the garage. With his enhanced hearing, M'harú Ghlahn can hear booted soles on the cement… three, maybe four people.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 03:03 AM PST)

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the Long Mile Fueling Station | SanFran Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 2:14 AM PST --- Weather Conditions: High City (heavy rain, 20mph winds from the N.) | Midcity (light rain, 10mph winds from the N.) | Undercity (fog and drizzle, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 15 | Midcity = 36 | Undercity = 86 (masks required - Red warning)

Dangling the keys over the table, Fluke looks lazily at the fixer and presents a crooked grin. Charlie calmly takes the keys and stands, shifting to the side to leave the table.

“What?” Fluke leans back in his chair and possessively drapes his right arm around his companion’s shoulders. “No kiss good-bye? Not even a ******* thank you? What is this world comin’ to?”

The woman sneers and open-mouth chews her gum while eyeballing the well-dressed Native American.

Charlie exits the building at a casual pace and on his way over to the jeep, collects his drone. The chassis of the vehicle bears its scars with rusted edges, dents, and more than a few bullet holes. It’s definitely seen better days. As much as the manufacturer touted the smooth ride, Luther can see that the seats are worn, torn, and patched and to make up for the lack of covering in some areas, old Army surplus wool blankets are draped across them. Aside from the cosmetic blemishes, he did witness them roll into the parking lot with it running and Charlie’s team isn’t looking to win any Best in Show awards.

After some time looking the jeep over, he gets into the vehicle and starts it up. Sputtering and growling, the machine comes alive. Whirring fans kick in beneath him and he’s lifted a couple of feet from the cracked and stained pavement below.

Mentally accessing his agent, Charlie plots a GPS course back to the group by way of the Upstairs Downstairs Inc. office. If they aren’t there in a couple of hours, he’ll track them down using the agent number Vegas had shared with him.

A map of his route visually displayed with medium opacity in his optic splice, Luther takes the wheel in hand and applies his foot to the accelerator. With traffic in its current state, he’s looking at roughly a two and a half hour drive, two if he’s able to speed through traffic without delay. Carpool lanes and hitting exchanges at just the right time can play into timing a lot, and then there’s the issue with local gang activity and nomads. He hadn’t seen any nomadic markings on the rig he’s now driving, so he’s hoping he doesn’t run into any conflicts.

Now’s also a good time to put some work in. Though the air jeep isn’t outfitted with self-driving capabilities, Cred Stick Charlie can make calls and do some audible learning from his Chinese textbooks to prep for Monday’s challenges. He might even be able to connect with some of those “Vendors” on the Dark Web concerning blank shoes. Researching the identity printer further would require more attention than he can safely devote while driving, but these other things, he might be able to work out.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 2:30 AM PST)

That's what I'm going with seeing as that's the only real suggestion I've received thus far.

It would be cool. Very, as a matter-of-fact. If it helps, I have a ton of Star Trek rulebooks in PDF version.

So, Gib has nothing of value to offer at this point. Once others post, that may change, but for now, my post is up.

“So, Little Kitten,” Ch'dau says softly as everyone gathers together once again, “what have your keen eyes uncovered?”

"As may be obvious, this was not a random ambush, as the other attacks around this city. Athandar was targeted," She gestures to the debris covering the bloody footprints, "By who or for what I cannot say." She turns to Midge and holds out one of the piles of papers, "It isn't much, but these seem to be some of his personal scribblings. There may be something of interest for you here."

Moreno glances at the top paper in the passing and confirms that these appear to be what he was toeing through earlier. Returning his gaze to the quiet woman's face, he focuses on her lips—something he's done quite unconsciously since he was a young man; an act that helps him process and comprehend the discourse better.

Kith turns back to the others and holds up another small pile of papers, "As I said, I couldn't find what, if anything, may have been sought after here, however, I did find something interesting. These notes and letters all reference something he called simply a 'death cult'." Kith feels the ghost of a rare smile creep slowly across her lips and quickly banishes it. She would be lying to herself if she said she doesn't also feel a slight ping at the party's lack of excitement at her news that they could be dealing with a "death cult".

She continues, "It is difficult to make out much of what is said as these papers have all been severely damaged, but there is talk of some 'ritual' or 'rituals', that may also have something to do with this death cult, as well as an 'anchor'. Again, I've not idea what that could be in reference to, but it is repeated often in what is left of his writings. Have any of you heard of anything like this or know of anyone who could make sense of all of this? Midge, are there any other mages that may have known more about Athandar or have been familiar with his work?"

Gib turns his attention to the Cidal and awaits his reply. He doesn't have anything really to offer to Kith's findings. No piece of information spurs anything he considers worth bringing up and his knowledge of D'hurgen's religious appendant organizations is severely limited—D'hurgen being the god of death thusly being who he naturally turns his attention. Ritual is a complicated thing for any religion with most not understanding the deeper meanings—the esoteric side—of the rites, even amongst priesthoods. For some, that is a lifetime journey which destination is never achieved. And, for all he knows, a death cult could be a part of D'hurgen's church or a rebirth of an ancient and even more pagan religion. All of this being conjecture, he holds his tongue, for no wise advice is ever given without fact or experience as a foundation.

I shall wait to post for Gib until Breebles has posted for Kith and shared her findings.

I second Eol's sentiment. Talk to your CO and get assigned today!

Welcome to the Inn, Charra! 

I'm still posting! Can't help myself. Should be working, but I'm posting instead. 

Stardate 42150.1 (6:10 PM, 02/13/2365 Saturday)
Science Officer's Office, Lab 1

Insects on Andoria are not the same as those on warmer worlds. They tend to either move slowly in their blubberous state, thick and rife with fatty tissue designed to protect their innards from the extreme temperatures or they bore extreme layers of fur and in some cases, both. Either way, their biological designs are repulsive to the blue-skinned scientist. There is one aspect about Andorian insects that she does appreciate, however, and that is that they don't fly. They don't pester... like the flashing notice on the upper right portion of her screen indicating in bright yellow that she has a video message waiting for her. Attempting to ignore the persistent notification as proven impossible. Every time she instructs the computer to dismiss it, the notification vanishes for a moment and then reappears; which she is quite certain is not supposed to happen. 

"Oh, by the Blood of Uzaveh the Infinite!" Will this incessant distraction not leave me be?

Placing her index finger against the screen at the point of the notification once again, she angrily swipes to the right and sends it off screen. 

"Computer, run a level five diagnostic scan on the messaging system," she commands flatly. I'll see what's broken and have Engineering come to repair the issue right away. Then, perhaps I can get some work done.

Rising from her desk, the Andorian Shen makes her way to the replicator and leans her shoulder into the wall next to it. "Katheka, hot." 

As the replicator dispersed with her order, Asovil settles her frustration and focuses her internal energies on the mental exercises taught her as a young girl by a priestess of Uzaveh. Are you one? Are you of two? Are you the third part of three? Are you a whole four? Are you one? Are you two? Are you the third part of three? Are you a whole four? Repeating the phrase over and over again, her antennae stop their quivering and return to their stationary rigidity.

Taking the steaming cup of Katheka from the replicator bay, she blows the tendrils of mist from the surface and sips lightly at the refreshing liquid. Returning to her desk, she sets the mug on the Andorian painted tile she uses as a coaster and takes up her PADD once more. In the upper right-hand corner of the screen, the notification has returned and with it, the shaking of her antennae.

"You win," she snarls, tapping the indicator once resulting in the screen filling with the video link.

Just moving into position behind a desk is a shadowy form, male, human, and wearing black clothing. The figure's features are almost entirely draped in light shadow, not enough to make it impossible to see his features but certainly enough to add a sense of mystery to the whole communication. 

He's an older human, Asovil places him at around fifty to fifty-five years of age, with graying brown hair cut regulation short and sagging cheeks. His eyes look tired, the upper lids hanging heavy over his dark irises and massive bags rolling over his cheekbones. Bushy gray-white eyebrows adorn his brown in a tilting frown and his tall forehead is alive with creases.

"Lieutenant Asovil Sh'iraolnas, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," his lilting voice announces as he settles into his chair. Peering past him, the scientist attempts to pick out any item of decoration she might recognize, symbols, or another identifying object, but is immediately disappointed to see nothing more than a dark blue wall.

"I would say the same but for the fact that I do not know you and you've interrupted my work with your persistence," at this, her antennae press towards the screen though her face remains emotionless.

"Yes," he shakes his head in what the alien assumes is an unspoken apology. "I regret that. I'm sure you have a great many details to iron out concerning your recent success with dark matter."

Chills spread through her chest and her body freezes as the only movement that continues is the slight turning back of her antennae and the marginal tremor that courses through them. "Who are you?"

"My name doesn't matter, but my reason for reaching out to you does," shifting in his seat, the older man leans into the camera causing the shadows to deepen about his eyes. "There will be many requests by the scientific community to collaborate or expound upon your findings, Lieutenant. It is in the best interest of all that you do not turn your discovery over to anyone until you hear from me again."

"And you'll tell me who I'm supposed to share my research with, am I correct?" Asovil's voice carries with it the cold winds of the Mesanthi'ton Plateau. "Do not contact me again." 

With that, she ends the conversation revealing her paper as though emphasizing the man's words. Narrowing her eyes, she sets the PADD down and looks up at the picture of the Andorian mountain range called Abpathni, a tourist attraction and a very dangerous but beautiful local. 

"Lt Sh'iraolnas to Lt Berk," she states crisply.

=/= Berk here. =/=

"I just received a video transmission. I'd like to know where it came from."

=/= Was that just now, Lieutenant? =/=

"Yes."

=/= One moment. I'll look into that for you. Is everything all right? =/=

"Please just locate the source of the transmission," she responds, not intentionally coming across as surely, but unaware of any way to change her mood at the moment.

=/= I show that you've not received a transmission for days, Lieutenant. =/=

"That's impossible. I just ended it."

=/= With who? =/=

"I don't know, Berk. That's what I'm attempting to find out."

=/= Don't bite my head off, Asovil. I'm trying to help you out here. Look, I show that you ordered a scan on your messaging system that's close to finishing. I'll come to your office and we can look into this further. =/=

"Yes. Let's."

Staring balefully at the PADD lying next to her computer on the desk, Lt Sh'iraolnas takes her Katheca in hand and sips at it. Like most Andorians, she is a patient woman, the trouble here is that she feels threatened and she has never taken that sitting down. Peering out her office door to the empty lab, she wonders at how this individual could have received the information he had so quickly. Her report would be accessible to the brass within Starfleet but this man was cloaked in shadows and mystery, not the usual approach ranking officers take. The only other way she can surmise such information reaching someone else's desk would be if it were actively shared, and she isn't entirely sure that many on board the Peregrine would even know what she'd done, let alone with enough information on hand to elicit the kind of call she had just fielded. There certainly was intrigue and non-conforming actions going on within her department before she arrived but not to the level where she felt as though she were suddenly a part of some great conspiracy. Did this call have something to do with Captain Drake? Was this an attempt to keep a potential command victory out of the discussion when her captain went to trial? 

Antennae pressing forward, she sits upright at her desk, the cup of hot liquid sloshing in her hand but thankfully not spilling over. I may be on top of something, she incorrectly uses the human phrase. "How realistic is this hypothesis?' she remarks out loud, setting the mug on the table next to the tile coaster.

"Drake is going to be court-martialed, of that there's no doubt," Asovil muses, her antennae now dancing about in excitement on the back of her head, her braided white hair already showing signs of whispy defeat at the end of the day now swaying with the steps she takes. "Jacobs obviously dislikes Drake, even I could see that. Would he attempt to conceal events to eliminate appearances of success from the Captain?"

Pacing about in front of her desk, Asovil's mind works furiously over the data points she has on hand. "He is certainly political enough, and to be disgraced in front of his ship like that would elicit any Andorian captain to demand Ushaan. Perhaps this is the Terran version of Ushaan?

"Computer, what is the Terran version of Ushaan?"

=/= In the medieval era of Earth history, humans would engage in duels over besmirched honor, but this practice was outlawed and aside from a time in the pre-industrial era where cowboys would have violent gunfights in city streets, duels do not take place within human society. =/=

"Not even in different forms?"

=/= I do not understand the question. =/=

Sighing, Asovil attempts to rephrase her question in a way that the computer might better decipher. "Are there any forms of human dueling that take place today that do not include physical altercations?"

=/= Duelling is considered a barbaric practice and has not been— =/=

= Beep chirp =

=/= —in practice for hundreds of years. Other forms of dueling included rites of manhood within tribes of natives on the continent of Africa, the western cowboys and their glamorized showdowns in the American Old West— =/=

"Cancel," grumpily admitting defeat, Asovil turns to face her new arrival.

Lieutenant Berk stands just inside the doorway, his eyebrows raised quite high on his forehead. "Thinking of challenging someone to a duel, Asovil?"

"No," she replies bluntly, feeling a little embarrassed and defensive at the same time. "Please, just look at my system."

"So long as we're not going to end up in a duel..."

"No dueling," she assures him irritably, her antennae rigidly quivering and pulled back nearly against her silky white hair.

Shrugging, Mathias moves to her desk and holds a tricorder over the components. "Has the system finished its diagnostics?"

"It has not reported yet, no."

"All right, well, I have Engineering running a deeper scan on the shipwide systems. If you received a transmission—"

"There is no doubt that a transmission came through, Lieutenant," Asovil snaps.

"—right. Sorry." continuing while looking at his tricorder readings, the Chief of Security attempts to assure her, "We will find any sign of it with these deeper scans."

Remaining silent (in part because of doubts that she's harboring), the Chief Science Officer continues her pacing and her deliberations while her counterpart in security does his work.

I did. I posted quickly and then realized it didn't feel complete.

The discussion between the Admiral and Drake was entertaining. Well done!

It's Christmas in September!

I have posted for Asovil as well.

Beautiful posts, everybody! Good reading.

Stardate 42146.6 (11:48 AM, 02/12/2365 Friday)
Science Officer's Office, Lab 1

=/= Zai to Lt Sh’iraolnas… =/=

Blinking away the strain she feels within the deepest recesses of her alien eyes, Asovil Sh'iraolnas breathed in sharply and practically jumped against the chair back in surprise.

"Uh, yes? I mean, this is Lt Sh'iraolnas," the voice sounds familiar... oh! OH! "Tochi! Hello."

=/= Good afternoon, Asovil. If you’re not busy with more important things, we were hoping you might consider having lunch with me. =/=

"Lunch? But it is still ear—" pausing, the Andorian scientist taps her computer screen and raises her finely manicured eyebrows. "It's already close to twelve-hundred! Time buys when you're eating plums, I suppose. Although, that makes no sense as I'm not eating plums..." Considering the statement for a moment, she shrugs it off and realizes that she's not yet answered the man.

"Yes," she finds herself responding thoughtfully and then following it up with a more forceful affirmation, "Yes. I would enjoy that. Shall I meet you in the galley?"

Still caught somewhere between her analytical mind and her fumbling social persona, Asovil returns her attention to her work for a moment, unconsciously picking up a couple of sentences up from the end of her recent report on the Black Matter Displacement Formula for Determining Cloaked Objects in Space. It's one thing to have come up with a methodology; it's another thing entirely to write it in such a way as to deserve publication. Glancing at the commendation Captain Drake had awarded her with earlier this morning, the blue-skinned woman fears for a moment that she had missed Tochi's reply, lost as she was in her thoughts.

Stardate 42150.0 (5:35 PM, 02/13/2365 Saturday)
Science Officer's Office, Lab 1

= Beep chirp =

"Come," Asovil responds absently, her nose just a few inches from the screen of her PADD and the sensor report she was looking at for the hundredth time since the battle.

"I thought you'd want to know," Ensign Maize remarks on the heels of the hydraulic hiss emitted from the opening door, "that we've arrived at Starbase 118."

Settling back in her chair, the Chief Science Officer of the Peregrine rolls her head on her elegant neck and sets the handheld computer on the smooth surface of her desk. "And the captain?"

"No word has come down yet... officially," Dalia responds.

Eyeing her subordinate with slightly hooded eyes as the strain of her studies slowly leaves her shoulders, Lt Sh'iraolnas considers the other woman's words for a moment before pursuing further insight. "And unofficially?"

"Word has it," Dalia slides into the chair opposite her superior officer and leans forward conspiratorially, "that Captain Drake and Lt Cmdr Zai are preparing to disembark without a retinue."

"And this is newsworthy?"

"It means that the captain is expecting the worse from what we can tell," the other scientist discloses excitedly.

"I am confused," Asovil's brow furrows, creasing her otherwise smooth forehead and her antennae press forward. "Who consists of this group of observers and why is it that you appear thrilled at this assumption? Having been in a far less contentious circumstance, I can assure you that the whole event—while necessary—is unfortunate."

"It is! It really is," Ensign Maize licks her lips and blinks rapidly a few times. "I am not excited because of Captain Drake's circumstances, sir. I'm sharing with you the scuttlebutt about the ship and... well... we humans have a particular affinity for gossip. So, I guess it could come across as something I'm excited about but I assure you that I am not."

"Your explanation does you no credit, Ensign Maize," Asovil frowns a little and reaches up with both hands to rub the back of her neck. "Please, check with Ops and determine what availability there is for our department to experience some leave while we're here, and Dalia? No more shufflebutt."

"Skuttlebutt, sir?"

"Yes, that."

"Are you not—never mind, sir. I'll see to a potential leave schedule right away," rising from her seat, Ensign Maize pauses. "Sir?"

Pausing her self-inflicted therapeutic massage, Asovil raises her eyebrows and peers up at her sub-officer, "Yes?"

"If there is a trial, and it's public..."

"Yes?"

"Would it be appropriate for the crew to attend? To show support for the Captain, I mean."

"Those who are on leave are welcome to attend any public event that they should desire, I would presume," feeling a bit annoyed by the round of questions, Asovil drops her hands back to the desktop and swipes her PADD up. Why such simple questions? Of course people can attend! They should, even.

Without further engagement, the Assistant Science Officer made her way from Lt Sh'iroalnas' office leaving her superior to the work of fine-tuning her paper.

I've posted... Gib's intent is to perform a thorough search to shed light on the summons if at all possible. If they find nothing, then he'll feel that they've done what they can in this town to report their friend's death and carry out the quest. Such reports will have to wait until the next civilized outpost.

The body will be saved for last... Gib is hoping that they find something without having to search it.

Peering at the corpse of the middle-aged wizard dressed in the blue robes of his order, Gib steadies his emotions. His body is not alone; several zombies lie scattered around the room, and it is easy for the warrior priest to make the assumption as to how the poor man met his end.

"He put up a fight, this one," The cleric of Therassor remarks solemnly and with respect, wrinkling his nose at the sudden wafting odor of bodily waste that strikes his nose. Scanning the body's gore and ichor, his mouth growing dry in the process, Gib cannot tell whether the man's bowels and bladder were released upon death or if one of his attackers had been particularly disrespectful. 

Coughing into the back of his hand, the priest shakes his head and turns back to the door, calling, "There's no threat here. But mind yourself as it is rank within."

Then turning back to Aranwen, he adds, "Perhaps there's some indication as to what he had summoned our friend for amongst—" sheathing his sword, he tips his helmeted head towards the messy interior, "—this."

Shouldering his shield, the warrior priest of the Battle Lord moves about the room using the toe of his boot to push papers aside or reveal their writings. 

Excellent.

Espatier, check your PM.

Great post, Giddy! I like the fear of heights reaction and the thought process. +1 CC!!!

"Blessed Battle Father," Gib mutters the prayer as the charred earth and exploded door come into view. Heart racing, the warrior priest unsheathes his sword and rolls his shield from his shoulder to hand. Prepared for battle again, Moreno waits on Aranwen to give the order for their advance and positioning. Straining to hear from beneath his helmet, the cleric attempts to catch hold of any fleeting sounds that might indicate what to expect as he strains his other senses in the same endeavor.

I don't like commercials. I am hereby DVRing this show.

Rolling, rolling, rolling... this has been too long a commercial break.

Espatier, an Awareness check should suffice.

Nomad, consider all doors closed at this point in time and most likely locked with access granted by a card reader (scanner). The black squares along the wall are just architectural pillars. Windows are represented by black rectangles and the circles are lights set in the ceilings. Within the Roll20 site, those actually provide "light" on the map and your character tokens are able to see within the confines of their line of sight and the lit areas as well as what I reveal through the fog of war on the map.

Still need posts from Giddy, Tann, and Aletheia...

Yes. Welcome, Breebles!

I too, want to wish you all of the best of luck in your recovery, old friend.