The worst feeling in the world for Aria was not feeling anything at all. Everything had happened so fast. Manix's offer, her father was dead, everything was just too much on top of the emptiness that she felt inside. She didn't like being in the empty East Wing of her supposed new home. It was perfectly acceptable, not as nice as her room in the warehouse that Nox had built and Lucas' mural was not nothing but ash.

The sadness gripped Aria tightly as she walked through the streets of Moscow looking for anything to feel other than the grief inside.

It wasn't just the grief Aria was fighting away. It was the darkness inside. It welled up into every pore wanting escape. She could feel the slimey texture of her own evil inside wanting to get out - to kill, to seek blood. It wasn't hard to remember how Lucas made her feel. She could remember every feeling.

That was the worst part, there was nothing but her memories. She experienced nothing but what she remembered. No one was projecting at her. Aria was certain there were lovers in some of the buildings. That there were criminal acts being preformed in the alleys. A couple fighting in the heights above - she could year the yelling from the street, but she felt nothing. Emptiness was worse than feeling everything.

It was a new weight, a new hatred of herself. This was what normal felt like. Aria hated it. For ever moment she hated what she was, she hated this even more. What the fuck had he done to her? What gave him the right? What made him think that he could mess with her brain without any knowledge of what he was doing to her?

The questions spurred her anger and the darkness floated outside the empty bubble that was Aria. She hadn't realized she'd reached for the bubble when the world outside was nothing. She felt nothing, and the bubble had come with no effort at all. It was a minor comfort walking through Moscow's cold streets. She couldn't stay mad at her host, he had saved her life after all. She couldn't disregard that fact but she was angry at what he'd done. He ripped her whole reason for being alive from her, the only thing that kept her useful was now gone. What the fuck was she going to do?

(anyone is welcome to jump in)

Hey all -

I've been trying to get back into writing, but it's been difficult to get back into characters mindsets and recently everything I write kind of sucks (at least in my perspective). I should hopefully be back to writing soon - bear with me if it takes a bit to respond.

(Think you guys are only waiting for Jared...)

It has nothing to do with the Wheel of Time, but it has to do with RPing so I'd thought I'd share.

http://www.whothefuckismydndcharacter.com/

This is a favorite roll that I got:

CONCEITED TIEFLING MONK FROM A DESERT TOWN HIDDEN INSIDE A SANDSTORM WHO HAS A DEBILITATING FEAR OF WIDE OPEN SPACES

Nox traveled all over the US picking up his life from the old days. When he had a family. When his mother was alive, and his father was happily teaching him how to hunt - both monsters and food. Nox spent 80% of his time out in the cold and and weather like he had as a child trying to remember what life had been like when his family was a live.

It wasn't sadness that made him do it. He was honoring their memory. One day he woke up and felt like he had to prove he could live on without them. That his life was more than the failure of not protecting his family. He felt better. But he needed to finish this - finish what he started.

The road into Mexico was an easy one - even the guns in his possession passed through inspection with ease. He didn't have many and most of what Nox had kept was hunting type gear so he wouldn't stand out and he could ship that all from Mexico back to Moscow. He didn't have anything back there except Aria, but he would prove to her that he had been worth saving. Nox knew he couldn't kill Aria in the end, but he'd make sure it never came to that. It was the only thing he could do now - protect her from herself.

But first he had to get home. They'd spoken once over the phone since he'd left. She told him about this guy she'd met and there were weird things going on. But they didn't chat long Nox had been driving and he didn't want to get a ticket and there was no place to pull over in the dead of the winter in the mountains that was save. So they hung up with much more to say.

Nox was glad to be in Mexico it was much warmer now. Sleeping on the side of the road was easier and he didn't freeze. There were a few caches in Mexico City and Nox knew there was a safe house for the Atharim there. He had no reason to fear it. Except that it was the heart of the enemy. He could tell from Aria's voice the Atharim were grating on her as well, but that was for later.

The safe house was Nox's first stop. He didn't want to have to carry around his stash in the slums of Mexico City. The plates were clearly American and Nox would sell the jeep once he was done with it, maybe leave it at the safe house for them to use. Whatever, it didn't matter, he didn't need it to hunt in Moscow. He'd had little need forr a vehicle since arriving, there was no point in arriving.

Nox walked into the bar that was the safe house and rolled up his sleeves on his hoodie, the red and black dragon tattoo clearly visible on his left arm biting it's own tail. Circle of life and all that. Nox sat down at the bar and ordered a beer in a bottle, and waited.

Freetown, Sierra Leone, Parliament. 1430 hrs Greenwich Mean Time (GMT)

Jacques guards saw him dutifully to a cell. One shoved him in almost halfheartedly, then slammed the door of the interior-walled small office behind him. It was an awkward choice of cell, as the door didn't actually lock from the outside, and as amusing as the thought of locking it from his side was, Jacques opted against. Instead, he scanned the small office briefly before helping himself to the uncomfortable looking chair behind the tiny desk. It was made even more awkward to sit in for the heavy FELIN Mk2 kevlar armour he wore, and the chair creaked alarming beneath him as he settled into its wooden frame.

Without his Landwarriors and Wallet, he was entirely out of touch with the events in Freetown, but despite that he was oddly calm. Confident, even. He knew the competence of his men, and had no fear of Wallace-Johnson's chances of success with Operation Rien N'Empeche in full swing. Likely, with the aid of his Legionnaires, the police and their supporters had already taken much of the city back from the mad-man and his thugs.

And of course, Commandant Tuft would have already issued the orders for Operation Gauntlet. Captain Zhou Ah Sung's Baadi Qasriga was just outside of Sierra Leonean waters, and likely already navigating towards Freetown, the Captain's much preferred docking point considering the questionable legality of his cargo.

Major Curtis Freeman, commander of the skeleton garrison of the Lungi International Airport, former base of General Wallace-Johnson's troops before he had taken control of Freetown, would already have been forced to deploy troops to secure the coastguard vessels needed to transport his Legionaries to the Baadi Qasriga and back to mount the assault on the General's headquarters, and of course his own rescue.

And the relief convoy from Casablanca was barely an hour from the city, ready to assault Wallace-Johnson's perimeter forces, catching the last bodies of his loyal troops between his Legionnaires in the city and their convoy of armoured vehicles and mounted troops. Everything seemed to have been going to plan.

He was only seated a few minutes before the sound of movement outside the office door drew his attention. A moment of heated discussion in the hallway was followed by the flimsy presswood door of his 'jail cell' being barged open. Three men, one wearing the markings of a Lieutenant, barged into the office.

"Stand up!"
The two non-coms barged into the office past the officer, and all three's faces were screwed with rage. Jacques remained seated as they closed on him, and couldn't help but grin at their wasted display. He wasn't so easily intimidated, even as the officer pulled a machete from his belt, and his two men dragged Jacques to his feet, a task made comical for the fact that he simply stood before they could actually drag him up.

"And what, exactly, do you expect this to accomplish, Lieutenant?"
Jacques stood to his full height, which was actually somewhat dwarfed by one of the two non-coms holding his arms, but physical height paled compared to personality.

"Shut up!"
Already enraged by how arrogantly Jacques had barged into their headquarters, and how close he had come to being able to simply shoot the General in his own command center, the Lt lashed out with his machete, chopping at Jacques' kevlar shielded chest. The machete bit into the armoured plate, part of the blade leaving a cut along his chin and stopping shy of his neck.

Jacques staggered slightly from the blow, and the flanking non-coms jerked him straight, but after the initial shock of the blow he settled once more and tilted his head down to eye the machete, careful to keep his throat free of the blade. "Ah, well then. It shall be like that, shall it?"


He barely had time to notice the Lt's fist before it caught him in the jaw, tearing the machete free of his chest plate. The two non-coms began tearing at the straps and buckles of his FELIN Mk2 armour.

-----

Freetown, Sierra Leone, 1500hrs GMT

Barely half an hour after Jacques parted ways with Legionnaire Vanders, the first of the M777's 155mm high explosive shells crashed into Freetown. The seven howitzers were based 25km outside of the city, towards the edge of their effective range, and the crews manning them were not so well trained as to guarantee where those shells would land even if they had cared.

The Methodist Boys High School had been serving as a refugee center in the past few weeks of violence. Its doors had been closed due to lack of funding only a year previous, so the structure had been intact enough to serve; the water pipes and electricity still worked, and the classrooms and gymnasium had easily been converted to house the hundreds of refugees that had found shelter there.

The first shell to land on the city tore a hole in the old football field, a small miracle that saw no one killed. The field was empty, as refugees sought the perceived safety of the school's walls as city police, backed by Legionnaires, worked swiftly through the city to capture our oust the General's troops.

The second shell struck the gymnasium.

-----

Legion HQ, Outskirts of Casablanca, Morocco. 1440hrs GMT

Commandant Tuft stood in the rapidly collapsing Legion headquarters, overseeing the opening moves of Operation Rien N'Empeche when the first of some two dozen Contact Reports began flooding the comms lines. Legionnaires on the ground in Freetown were reporting the same thing across the city; some readily identified the source of the explosions, others sited possible IEDs. But, it was easy to identify in short order. The city was being shelled.

And the forces within were in no position to do anything about it. With General Wallace-Johnson's forces being over run across the city by the Legion, city police, and their associated allies, and the Legionnaires themselves embroiled in the task of retaking the city, there were no forces in place to sortie against the shelling, even if they knew where exactly it was coming from.

"Get Provost Boipelo on the horn. The convoy should be close enough to Freetown now that we should be able to triangulate the artillery's position. And get a link to Bombardier Iweala. Between the city and the convoy, we should be able to find these guns."
Commandant Tuft walked over to one of the few screens still mounted in the room; many had already been removed for shipping to the Legion's new facility in the ghost-city of Sidi Bel Abbès, Algeria.

Within moments of his order, the comm tech seated there had Bombardier Iweala and Bombardier Iweala were on two separate screens. The Provost was seated in the gunner's chair of one of the convoy Panhards, while the Bombardier was kneeling in the streets of Freetown with the sounds of artillery screaming over head.

"Alright Bombardier. What do you need to find these guns?"
The Commandant seemed unmoved by the imagery behind the Bombardier; a hotel half a block down was a quickly turning into a raging inferno, much of the buildings face already collapsed into the street. Smoke and dust obscured much of the image feeds background, but it was clear there were plenty of wounded in the street.

"Sir? I need a source outside the city, we're all too close to get a good picture."
The Bombardier was briefly accosted by one of his team mates, who after a few back-and-forth hand swatting started digging through Iweala's pouches for his bandages and first aid kit.

"Provost Boipello here. The convoy is an hour out, and we can hear the guns from here. That going to be enough?"
Boipello cracked the roof hatch on the Panhard and popped his head outside, and the image feed switched from the in-vehicle camera to his Landwarrior mounted camera, showing deserted, jungle-lined highway ahead of the armoured vehicle's weapon system.

"Three's better, but this'll do Sir. Synch the feeds to my glasses and I'll give you an estimate."
He dug out a map and compass next, kneeling in the rubble-strewn street and laying them both out on the ground before him, quickly orientating himself to the north.

The comms tech did as requested, and within moments the Bombardier was marking positions on his map and drawing lines off the compass. Aided by the programs and HUD of his Landwarriors, within a few moments he had an area singled out to the east of the city.

"Between 15 and 30 km east of Freetown, Sir. Maybe. That's the best I can do."
With the Commandant's permission, the Bombardier was dropped from the conversation, and the Commandant's attention shifted to Provost Boipello.

"You are passing Port Loko. Split the escort, send the trucks on to Lungi airport, take the escort to that area. Find those guns and take them. Understood, Provost?"


"Sir. We can be there in two hours."


-----

Wari, Sierra Leone. 1450hrs GMT

Wari, Sierra Leone

The village was abandoned before Warlord Shakespeare and his men arrived. They had taken the ford to the north that morning, and were making steady progress south into the unprotected in-lands of Sierra Leone. An occasional militia would try to resist them, but most were smart enough to scatter before the Guineans could arrive.

With no sport to be had, Shakespear pushed his men south; they would avoid the international airport, knowing there was a military garrison there. But the town of Port Loko would be easy pickings, surely.

Dozens of trucks armed with anti-tank recoilless rifles and .50 machineguns rolled south towards Porto Loko road and an unfortunate run-in with a very lightly guarded Legion supply convoy.

-----

Freetown, Sierra Leone. 1500hrs GMT

A platoon of Major Freeman's troops from Lungi airport, aboard three Sierra Leonean coast guard vessels, stormed the ferry crossing in northern Freetown. The fighting was brief and some of the most violent in the city to that point.

The troops guarding the ferry were taken offguard; they had assumed the approaching coast guard ships had reinforcements. By that point, it was known that there was an uprising in the city against the General, but particulars were still being figured out.

The troops holding the ferry crossing didn't realize what was going on until it was too late, but even then they refused to simply surrender. Not to 'traitors to the cause', at least. It was over in minutes, with dozens dead on both sides, but Major Freeman's men were succesful in the end, sending the last of the General's troops fleeing back into the city and leaving them to occupy the ferry crossing, awaiting the arrival of the Legionnaires that would be bound to the Baadi Qasriga and the weapons waiting aboard the transport.


Edited by Jacques, May 11 2016, 09:01 PM.

Calvin heard the incident before he saw it, despite the distance from it. Throughout the past months, he had learned how to utilize his abilities for his police work. He graduated from Police Academy with high marks and then was assigned near the edge of the city.

It was also dark. This part of the city wasn't kept up as well as the rest, but there were still street lamps. It wasn't like the lack of light would bother Calvin anyways. He could see just fine.

Upon hearing the struggle, Calvin moved in a quick run towards the sound. He soon saw what was causing the commotion. A man assaulting another with a knife. Calvin called out, drawing attention and the assailant looked to see a police officer approaching, hand hovering near his pistol. The assailant, more interested in saving himself than hurting the other man, broke for it.

Another cop approached arriving at the same time as Calvin even though Calvin had been farther away, said he would take care of the scene and instructed Calvin to give chase. He did as instructed as the other officer spoke into his radio to inform command.

Calvin followed as the other headed into an abandoned warehouse. Calvin entered carefully after, neglecting to use his flashlight. That would only give away his position, and Calvin didn't need it anyway. It was like the other times that he had been able to use his abilities to his advantage.

A few weeks ago, he had found a stash of illegal drugs, and before that, he had tracked a criminal by scent. He always kept his reports vague enough that he wasn't lying, but at the same time, he wasn't revealing his abilities to others. He couldn't exactly put on the report that he had found the drugs simply because he had smelled them.

Calvin stretched out his senses. The room smelled musty, and Calvin crinkled his nose slightly, but kept searching for a scent that didn't fit. He listened for the quick breathing of a man who had just finished a sprint. And he searched through the dark building looking for odd shapes.

From the left he heard the breathing - quick and shallow. Calvin moved quietly with the stealth of a hunting wolf, making his way behind the assailant. The man jumped as Calvin spoke, directing the man to drop his weapon and place his hands behind his head. Surprisingly, the man did as instructed. Calvin read him his rights and cuffed him taking him outside and informing dispatch that the assailant had been apprehended.

Upon returning to the station, Calvin once again filled out his report. He kept things vague as always. It had been another day's good work.

Marcus stared at the stainless steel ball on his desk. Night had long since fallen, long dark shadows that reached and spread out until they bathed the room. There was still enough ambient illumination from the lights outside- the twinkling stars and nebulae and suns of the universe that was Moscow under the leadership of the Ascendancy.

And yet Marcus could only see the cold metal sphere, so very ordinary- a large stainless steel ball bearing- and yet so much more. He basked in the pride that he couldn't help but feel at what he had done. He seized the Force and gently on flows of air lifted the piece again, let it turn suspended in mid-air, its silvery surface a warped reflection of his apartment and the lights from outside.

With a flow of spirit and earth he once again pierced into the great lattice, past atoms, electrons and nuclei, deeper and deeper, beyond quarks and nutrinos and muons until finally he could see the faint rings of energy that were at the heart of all matter, the discrete shapes that were the finest pixel resolution of this vast super-computer the universe existed in. And they resonated at his touch, vibrating now with their own power, in response to his own.

He smiled. So simple a thing, useless in a way. And yet...the promise it held. Already ideas were beginning to form, new avenues of research to pursue. The promise of power seemed to pulse in time with the ball that floated before him.

Marcus had message the woman from that charnel house- the hunter who had become the prey- and left the sword hidden in a safe location with instructions where to find it. He would contact her again. She owed him. And he had questions, questions that had been stoked by his visit to the Almaz. It had been a productive visit. He had made an 'ally' of sorts with Cavelli. The man thought to use him but that was acceptable. If he was careful, he would never learn who was doing the manipulating. And he had the beginnings of a new mystery. Cavelli would eventually give him the information he wanted there too.

But Almaz itself...he felt a slither of excitement deep within at the memory of the place, the smells of smoke and blood and sweat causing his nostrils to flair. Malik wanted to go there again. He wanted to fight. Though of course that could not be. Not in public, anyway. But a hunt was in his future, though. A purging. Malik seemed to calm at the promise. It would hold him. For now.

But the sword had eventually yielded up its secrets. The Force resonance he had discovered in its lattice work of atoms had been a mystery. How had they been 'activated' or entangled with the Force? It had taken him days and reams of paper, reworking his Tau algebra, manipulating his eigenvectors in every possible combination, until he saw the simple truth, the relation to his discovery of the mutability of spirit's vibration eigenvalue in Vellas' weaves at the Christmas party. It was a matter of using threads of spirit in a carefully worked out pattern so that their vibration matched that of the metal.

On paper it was perfect. But it had taken him nearly a week of concentrated calculation and dozens of failures before he'd worked out the accurate mechanics of it. Each iteration, however, each pass, had helped, had allowed him to refine the equations and gave him a better understanding of what was going on in each eigenvalue in the vector.

Finally, it was done. The stainless steel ball now resonated with the Force, seemed to draw on it. He had tried to compress the ball with earth and fire and air and it only seemed to strengthen, as if the very act of compression caused it to draw on the Force. Idly, he considered taking it somewhere outside where he could well and truly use all the Force against it and see how it held up. But the equations wouldn't lie. He could see the thing was indestructible.

Mostly useless, in and of itself. Oh sure, he could think of a host of engineering applications for such a thing. Machinery that didn't break down? Parts that didn't wear out? And as a weapon, of course. But he had no interest in sitting in a factory and manufacturing Force-enhanced objects- which would be necessary for such an enterprise. He had come here to rule. No. But the fact that the thing was now Force-enhanced hinted at more possibilities, most only vague and nebulous. But given enough time...he would find a more advantageous use for this.

And he would contact the woman again. He wanted to know more about the sword and who made it. The thing seemed to convey a sense of great age, a weight of millenia. And yet...was there someone else out there able to manufacturing these things?

After another hour of mediation, he rose. His legs were sore. He'd been inactive too long. He slipped the ball into his pocket and put on a heavy black wool coat. It may be the beginnings of spring but it was late and the wind would be a knife. He let the door latch behind him and walked down to the exit, passing the guards at the doors who nodded at him respectfully.

The park lay before him. A walk would be good.

Cruz was sick. And not just any sick. Dorian was thankful Ana was off finishing her packing to return here and live with them. It had surprised him more than anything that she wanted to but Cruz was her son and where he went she was bound to follow. But now her life was in even more danger than just him being an officer of the law or Atharim. Now the Atharim could come and hunt them all down.

Dorian paced in his living room back and froth between the door to the hideous dinning room to the library just beyond which only redeeming quality was the countless shelves that could hid the hideous wallpaper beneath. He hoped Ana would redecorate soon. It was trying his patience the horrible atmosphere of his home.

Cruz would die if he couldn't figure out how to get his son help. He needed to live, Dorian couldn't even begin to think of a life without his son. To bury him for something that he had no control over. Even the WHO had no idea what caused the mutation, or whatever it was that allowed a perfectly normal child to suddenly burst with the ability to use the power of the gods.

Reborn gods were all around now. They survived somehow. Dorian had to find out how that was. But his resources were limited it's not like he'd ever helped one of them before. It had always been his job to hunt them and kill them. They were always sick and dying children on their death beds, only once having had them ever fight back. Dorian didn't which either death on his son.

His hands raked through his hair and he didn't care if it didn't fall back properly on his head. If he could only find a survivor and....

Dorian picked up his cell phone that he used for his job, not the Atharim one that was not his property technically. He had just found a survivor - two of them actually, but he only knew one personally...

Dorian prayed as he dialed the phone and waited for Ivan to pick up.

According to Dragonmount.com's twitter, tune into the website on Wednesday for an announcement from Harriet about the future of the Wheel of Time.

So, what do we reckon it'll be?

Dressed in his finery, Manix looked like what he was, A Fisherman from a wealthy family. His order was finally ready. The flask that took week to design, the design that was handed over to a silversmith. A Silversmith, paid enough money, and allowed enough artisan freedom of ornamentation would ask no questions, they would love the art.
The Design was the work of weeks hunched over a little table in his hidden home. A flask, holding slightly over a pint of liquid, had a slight curve to it allowing ti to fit comfortably on the hip. Re-enforced belt straps will ensure that it will not be ripped off his belt. Silver was not necessary, nor is the ornamentation, but to get what you want, you have to indulge those those are willing to make it. The genius was in the lid. A flat top roughly 5" x 2", was set on 4 pins with springs. With a pin in each corner the lid could be pressed down and when the hand and when the hand was removed the lid would seal itself back into place. The silversmith added to the lid design, small drain holes with splash pans underneath to prevent splash-back and spillage, even if inverted upside down.
(Shop Interior) "G'day sir Smith, does me order be ready?"
Manix talked so little his deep Irish brogue surprised himself. The Silversmith donned his fake upper middle class customer smile. "Yes sir.........."
Manix never gave name, just a huge deposit, and yet the Silversmith continues to try. "It is ready, just moment."
Returning from the back room, the Smith carried a work of art. With the the surname "Lir" in bold, ornate letters, was visions of the seas. Taking the flask, Manix filled it with a sturdy bottle of sea water from his home. Slowly and carefully he checked for leaks, even upside down it never leaked. The Smith looked insulted, of course he tested it to perfection, but Manix only trusted what he could see and feel.
*smiles* sliding a think envelopes of marks over, he tipped his hat to the Smith. "Amazing work my going man, just amazing. G'day sir Smith."
. The Smith waves absent mined now he has his reward for his work as Manix leaves. Outside he attaches the flask to his belt. Slipping his hand into the water of his home he is overwhelmed. Something takes over! Treads of brown and red form and encases his flask and hand. He is not in control, he can not stop it, he cant even breath. The flask glows red, then white, yet does not burn. As fast as it started it ends, Manix quickly removes his hand, not a drop is spilled. Manix sat, or rather fell down onto edge of a fountain. Exhausted from the ordeal, thoughts now enters his head of who could of seen.
Looking at the flask, it looked plain, made of leather. Surprised he touched it, upon his touch it turned back into the work of art, yet different. The seas came alive, the waves flowed upon the sea's. Larger than life where the surname was was the image of the ancient God, Manannan Mac Lir. Awed and humbled, he knew then that the God himself had a hand in what just happened. Sitting on that edge he thought of what that meant.