[The video network feed kicks on to capture the interior of Everglade's cathedral fully corrupted into a disturbing visage twisting the warm, inviting embrace of a fatherly deity with the cold, cruel touch of death.

At the center of it all, the Skullgirl with her gaping back spewing baleful fire sits before a piano. The camera, carried by one of Marie's floating skulls, focuses on the undead girl as she readies her hands.

Then, her fingers slowly and graceful began to dance over the piano keys, emitting a melody for all the world to hear. Despite her suppressed desires to annihilate her enemies, Marie looked remarkably at peace at this moment.

The camera slowly pans around to then capture the church filled to capacity with Marie's undead minions, sitting respectfully in the seats, listening to the Skullgirl's performance. The camera floats down the aisle, towards the doors as they open out to the yard, revealing a larger army of undead, all standing guard around the cathedral. The camera made sure to take one lap around the cathedral so the entirety of the army is seen before returning inside.

The meaning behind her broadcast is plain and simple: The Skullgirl is still here, and she is up to no good.]

[Stone Ridge, Room 104. 7:30 AM. That's Marc sitting at his breakfast table, a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice close by. His copy of the Genessia Tribune lies open before him.]

This almost reads like something from home. I mean, 'Hands of Decay'? The hell's their problem with magic?

[He turns a page. There's the bounties section in all its glory. The look on his face suggests a hint of nostalgia for a life long past.]

...man. Me and my crew would've been all over this back in the day. Little too old for that now, though it does make me warm and fuzzy knowing others here can step up to the plate.

[Finally, he takes his first sip, lifting it in toast.]

So: happy hunting to all you sellswords, guns-for-hire, and Good Samaritans. I'll be watching with bated breath.

[A barely suppressed snicker cracks his neutral expression as he reaches over to end the feed.]

Condiment Empire. Jesus...

( Private to David Haller. )


(OOC: Feel free to notice that Marc's hands are faintly streaked with plaster dust. He's been working on something since he arrived, and it's just about done.)