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[Video]

[The video feed clicks on with a blurry closeup of a cat's paw batting at it. Almost immediately, the audio fills with a pleased purr and it draws back to show a very fluffy and squishably huggable looking white house-cat. It's emerald colored eyes blink in surprise and the purring abruptly stops.

It attempts to speak, but what comes out isn't the meow one might anticipate. But rather, a slightly distorted sound that comes from a mouth not used to speaking English.]

... T-that... that's a bit... speaking... speaking is... is this underrrstandable?

... Saya. If you'rrre arround, I believe I might need assistance. I can't seem to be able to rreach the elevatorrr buttons.

[Video; filtered from Saya]

[The video snaps on to show the rather agitated pacing form of Solomon Goldsmith. The usual easygoing smile is gone from his face, and his fingers fidget with a small photograph held tightly in his hands.

He glances over at the small red light of his video device that indicates that it's recording and sighs before walking over and holding an image up to the camera.]

Does anyone happen to know this girl?


If so, I'd like to speak with you...

[He withdraws it from the camera, his barely composed expression dissolving to show a flicker of the stress that's plaguing him.]

Please... It's important...

[His hand reaches up to switch the broadcast to audio.]


[Private to Keats]
Mr. Keats... I have a job for you.


[ooc: going out for a few hours this evening but will tag when I get back! Backtags always welcome~]

Nathan, you're settling in well.... but can you please speak with Saya about me today? Will she explain things? Others have experienced this. Is advice appreciated?

Also, there is news on Mr. Saxon.

[ooc: Jeopardy Day: Questions are worded in the form of an answer. Answers are worded in the form of a question? Poor Solomon...]

.... I find myself in need of a translator. Is anyone in need of a temporary Corn on the chuffin' Cob, wahn that should Present and Past wahn ter Bo-le Of Glue days? I'll pay 'eaven and 'ell for your nickle and dime, of course.

I fin' it’d be Mae West if someone could cover me shift at the bleedin' 'ospital. I doubt I’d be much Robin Hood in communicatin' wif me nurses and geezer doctors, so would anyone be able ter cover me shift? I can be in after midnight, chicken pen 'opefully me abili-y ter speak will be Hammer and Tack ter normal.

['RTEMIS Filter]
Likewise, Mr. Temple, would ya be able ter brin' me the bloomin' stack of files located on me desk at the bloody lab? I'd loike ter try ter Scapa Fla over sum of the latest reports, even if I’m unable ter respond ter them directly.
[/filter]

'a troublesome, this is...

[He sighs...]

[And to translate for all you people left going "... huhwha???"= It's curse day: "Lost in Translation Day" to be more precise~. Feel free to bug him about this. He's trying very hard to take this in good humor.]

[Accidental Audio]
My God, what have I done?
………
Father in Heaven forgive me… ah…

[The Chevalier sighs in resignation before his footsteps approach the network device. Minutes pass before he speaks again, but when he does, his voice is the epitome of serenity.]

If anyone has seen a 'Father Abel Nightroad', can you please direct him to contact me immediately? I’ve just tried the Cathedral, but have had no answer as of yet.

This is rather urgent, so I would be grateful for any assistance. Thank you my children.



[ooc: Just call him 'Father Solomon' today~. Hit with the Grab Bag curse of ‘I’m a Professional’, the Chevalier is convinced that he entered into the Holy calling of the Priesthood instead of the medical, and business industries. (Which means he has a whole TON of sins to atone for! Confession as they say...)]

[Accidental Video //Action for those at Saya's apartment]

The sound of a man's voice sounds over the network, humming pleasantly as his soft footfalls cross the room of an apartment to a nearby bookshelf. His fingers skim the spines of a row of books before settling on one and pulling it from its place. In the background a clock softly chimes to the stroke of midnight as he walks back to seat himself on the sofa.

On the twelfth chime, however, he jolts out of his seat, dropping the book to the floor with a sudden thud. “WH--?! Oh, not again!”

He sighs, bringing his free hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Taking a deep breath, his eyes trail from the cold metal handcuffs attached to his wrist up to see just who it is that stands firmly affixed to him.

[ooc: And once again, Solomon finds himself the victim of the Handcuff curse.]