Manifesto wasn't really her type of club. Emily enjoyed more laid back places mostly, but here she felt she could think better, and Ayden wasn't responding to her messages, so she had to be alone. She sat at the bar, wondering about Ascendancy's proclamation. Emily needed a drink.

Everything would change now, and of course it would happen just as Emily was starting to figure things out. Emily was stressed. With the announcement, the board had questioned the safety of having the Gala still, but Emily had pushed for it. Additional security might be need for the event, but people here could use the release. It was all still up in the air though.

A text came through her wallet, and Emily hoped it was Ayden finally responding. Emily could use a friend right now, but it was just her sister. Rachel was still worried about Cruz. Emily replied back and told her she would ask Dorian about it. Emily sighed, and rubbed at her temple.

"Can I help you?"
the bartender asked.

"Long Island,"
she said. She wanted something a little stronger.

As the bartender made her drink, she sent Dorian a message.

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Outgoing Message</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>


Hey Dorian,

Rachel hasn't heard from Cruz in awhile, and is getting concerned because of everything that is going on. She just wants to know if he's okay. I'm sorry about this.

ES

Silence.

Pure and beautiful silence.

For months there had never been a moment's silence in the hell hole Nikolai had thrown him into. If it was not the sound of his students working on their art, it was the persistent hum of the White-Cloaks' machines, forever working to find an answer to the one question everyone wanted to know.

What manner of power did he wield?

Michael had not been a good subject. Some of the others like Im Seung Jun, the meticulous former surgeon and Karim al'Shadis provided them with much better answers. They wondered at their power, they wanted to know how and why.

Michael cared little for such things. He was a bonfire in a storm that could snuff him out at any moment. It was enough.

His eight students stood in a line like soldiers. Perfectly still and blessedly silent. Michael himself stood across from them in the main training room, scanning the line.

They had come far in the preceding months. Very far. Some were even talented. All were dangerous.

And now the time had come to unleash the beasts he had created.

Some would stay, men like Sanjay Ramanujan, men who would do well at teaching other prospective ascendants. The others... he would take them to the surface.

Petrovic and Taichechski in particular. Those two were dangerous. They hated him. He could see it in their eyes. So he would keep them close, and if the day came when they mustered their courage to defy him, he would be ready.

"Ascendants,"
he began in a soft, cool voice. "Today you are no longer students. Today you become more than infants. You have done well to survive, and now you will be rewarded for it."


Michael hardly saw what was to come as a reward, but they didn't know what they were getting into. They did not know Nikolai, the man who sought to play God.

"Stand proud. Today, the Ascendancy will welcome you as brothers."


As slaves...

The radio played loud guitar riffs in the background with screaming voices over top. It wasn't what Ilesha called music but it was what Rick was fond of and it was Rick's shop. Ilesha sat across the seat of a new intake - the bike was goregous, the chrome was perfectly polished, the paint job was buffed to a perfect shine, but most importantly it was well taken care of. Everything about the machine was perfect - it was in for it's three month maintenance - like it was every three months.

Danny was not your regular joe who owned bikes, Danny was a collector - but this one he loved - he rode it every weekend. Ilesha knew when Danny pulled into the garage, the hum was perfect. One day maybe Danny would let her take it for a spin.

The radio blurted out the breaking news beeps that alerted the world to changes - usually weather related but this one wasn't. The tyrant across the sea - one Nikolia Brandon was giving yet another one of his famed speeches. Ilesha rolled her eyes - the man was too powerful for his own good and should be taken down a notch. Someday someone would - but really it wasn't Ilesha's concern - at least not until the moment he declared magic real.

Sure Ilesha had heard of Nicholas Trano and his declaration of magic. The entire current event thing had been the only talk around the dinner table for months after it's end. Ilesha didn't really care - it wasn't mechanical in nature but magic - she knew magic. The very man she'd disliked was now kin. A man like herself. It wasn't surprising to hear really - it explained so much of history and how this man looked as good as he did for his age.

Ilesha had graduated having had to take a history class which covered current events and of course their enemy Ascendancy was part of the curriculum but now she saw so many things that could be explained by one word - magic.

The sickness linked to magic. Magic people like herself were about to become targets. The world was about to become a boiling pot of rage and fear. Ilesha tried to tune everything out - she wasn't going to out herself by reacting to the news. Fear and anger were going to rip the world apart. It always did. There had to be something she could do about it. It would just take time to think of a solution that worked for her.

Ilesha Fisher

Age: 2022 (23 years old in 2045)

Origin: New York, New York, USA

Occupation: Mechanic/Engineer

Supernatural Powers: Channeler
Current Strength: 15
Potential Strength: 20
Skill Level: Adept
Reborn god: Ki (Sumerian)

Personality:

Ilesha is a mechanical prodigy. She often displays an aloft/arrogant nature, but she is not trying to look down upon the other person, she doesn't understand human interactions as well as she should. She is often shunned because of her aptitude with understanding things on a different level and is often found sitting alone instead of mingling with others. Ilesha's greatest desire is to find someone who understands her on an intellectual level as well as personal. Her parents have instilled in her a great need for family and friends in her life though she finds it hard to accomplish that. Her biggest fear is failing. Ilesha's only non-mechanical outlet is music - she loves to sing, hum, etc.

Description:

Ilesha is 5' 7" with raven black hair and near black eyes. Her skin is sun-kissed year round and almost always splattered and smeared with grease. Her fingernails are kept short and clean despite her work. Ilesha's long hair is pulled back into a high ponytail under most circumstances. She prefers to wear dark colors to hide the grease and dirt stains of her career and her clothes are lose and baggy for comfort rather than flattering.

History:

It was a particularly difficult assembly Ilesha was studying. Each piece was carefully crafted to fit together just perfectly but one was cracked. The instructor told her everything was fine, but Ilesha knew better. She could see the tiny fine line in the part that would make the assembly fail upon testing. It was that perfect - almost hand crafted into disaster.

Ilesha's thoughts raced, how could she fix this without compromising the assembly and wasting anymore time. Absently Ilesha hummed a pretty little song that her mother sang to her as a child while she tempered her thoughts. A faint warmth spread across her fingers. The metal in her hands grew warm. Ilesha dropped the piece on the floor accidentally. Fear bubbled up into her throat as she bent down to pick up the part. She searched for more damage. But there was none there. The hair line fracture she'd seen so clearly before was gone. Had she imagined it?

Ilesha shook her head and cleared her worries from her mind and finished the assembly. By the end of the day her professor was congratulating her on winning the fasted assembly time, and the only assembly that preformed exceptionally on the tests. But something still nagged at Ilesha.

****

Ilesha was alone in the shop - she was working an old motorcycle. It was her pet project - an oldie but goodie. Her father had found an old school gasoline injection motorcycle from the early part of the this century - a 2016 Harley Davidson Forty-Eight. Ilesha was restoring it to mint condition but some of the parts were completely rusted out.

Or that was what she had assumed. The first piece she'd taken off had come away in her hand and she felt the rust just rub away as it warmed in her hand. It was like magic, Ilesha hummed away the hours it took to restore the cycle to it's mint condition. It was a months worth of free time if not more before she was cracking up the engine. And that month of time had punctuated with a severe cold as well. She'd not made any of her classes or to work at all. She was 16 and had never missed a day of school before then. Now she was missing days at a time - fever and chills and completely unable to get out of bed. Her parents never even noticed that she wasn't well. No one expected her to slack of so no one checked up on her.

****

Graduating had been one of the greatest feelings in the world. The cap and the gown were dark against her already tanned skin making it look darker than it truly was. The golden collar made her parents proud as did the golden cords hanging around her neck. Her master's degree in mechanical engineering made her parents proud. They hadn't even been disappointed when Ilesha told them that she was going to stay on at Rick's working on bikes. She wasn't after money - though she had turned down three jobs around the world for high end mechanical engineering firms looking to recruit her. She just wanted to work on bikes and do her own thing. They had been proud of her - her parents. They supported her. And Ilesha was grateful.

****

Ilesha remembered her first dollhouse. It was her only dollhouse. Her parents had gotten it for her for her 5th birthday. It still sat on a table in her room. It had started out as a cardboard box to look like a house. But over the years Ilesha had started restoring it with real wood, and designing the house as it should be.

As Ilesha looked back at the dollhouse, she remembered carving the little wooden handrails for the stairs. The lights had been the most fun to install. She'd cannibalized other toys to get enough lights and wire to string inside her fake house. It was her dream house. Ilesha imagined it talked back to her - lights on.

It truly functioned now when she turned the app on she'd written to control the small tiny house. It wasn't much to do now, but it was her brother's help that made it all possible - her dream home.

Now her pet projects were much larger and more grand. Somewhere along the course of her schooling Ilesha realized that humming was key to power. A power she knew nothing about, but it allowed her to do things that she couldn't master otherwise - it fixed cracks in metal - it could strength a brittle piece - clean rush from a bolt - and even grease a lug on a tire. It was wonderful and her ideas were grand. That's why she'd stayed with Rick. It was why she'd turned down every new job that came her way. Without the freedom of the shop she could never pursue her dream - and that was what she wanted.

Eliot Lagueux (PPC)

Eliot sat in the infirmary clutching a note firmly in his hands. Why didn't I throw this away? He knew exactly why he'd taken the note, and why he hadn't thrown it away. Frank had been his friend - a man with whom Eliot could live vicariously through since he was unable to go into the field and hunt as every other Atharim could.

The paper crumbled underneath Eliot's weak grip - if only he had such strength to crumple something else. Eliot was used to being sickly but when the sickness hit him hard no one had noticed not even Frank.

But Frank was old blood too, just like Eliot. Born Atharim, died Atharim. There wasn't a person in Moscow at the time who knew exactly what had happened with Frank. They knew he killed himself, but they never knew the why.

Eliot carefully unfolded the crumbled note in his hand and read it one more time.

---

I am Atharim. I die Atharim. I do my duty and end the life of a worthless power-hungry god. Forgive me.

---

Eliot had found Frank lying in a pool of his own blood and his brains splattered across the wall clutching the very same note in his hands. The gun was still warm to the touch when Eliot came into see what was the matter. Frank was Atharim through and through to his very last dying breath. He would not suffer a gods existence - not even his own.

No one knew. Eliot took the note and hide it in his pocket. To admit that gods were among the Atharim was to admit to himself that he was a god. That he was too weak to off himself like Frank. Too weak - that was Eliot all around.

Name: Cain Belasis

Age: 23

DOB: January 19th, 2023

Hometown: Tees Valley, England

Psychological Description: Cain grew up with a fiery temper that he had to learn to suppress and control throughout his young adulthood. He's generally a quiet, soft spoken person. He grew up very poor, and had his ambitions stoked by his grandfather to someday escape his poverty and his hometown and make something of himself, but he had to give up those desires once it became clear that he didn't have some glorious destiny awaiting him. Despite his acceptance of his poverty and low status, he still secretly yearns for some sort of glory, even while expecting nothing but anonymity.

Physical Description: 5'10, blocky build, red hair. Worked as a laborer in a factory, so he's a weathered and calloused kind of man.

Powers: Channeler
- Block: Cain can't channel unless he's afraid, because he first channeled by using his fear as an impetus.
- Currently he can't control his channeling, and ends up creating fire or explosions accidentally when he gets too scared.

Current Strength: 5
Potential Strength: 35

-

“Ya know, there was a time once when those of us named Belasis ran things. Why, that big ol’ church up in Durham used to be ours!”

“Yeah I know Grampa,” Cain muttered, focusing on scrubbing the grime off his hands.

“Are you on about that church again, you old fool? We all know damn well that you’ve never even seen the place!” His Gran limped past them into the small kitchen, and his Grampa waved as if he were swatting at a gnat.

“I ‘ave too now! My grandad took me ‘imself when I was a boy. Like I would’a done with that one,” he jerked his head towards Cain, “If we had two pennies to rub together. Not that they would’a let ‘im in with a name like that.”

“Cain is a fine, biblical name,” Gran protested loyally, just like she always did.

“Phaw! D’you even read that damn book woman? Lord knows his fool of a mum never did-”

“David!” hissed Gran, scowling darkly at her husband.

“What? It’s the truth ain’t it? Cain… now he were a damn demon punished by the Lord God himself for his envy,” Grampa wheezed, repeating his old Sunday school lessons, just like he always did. Any second now he would- “Then again, maybe the girl knew somethin’. What’d ya say boy, ya feeling the old greed come upon ya?”

Cain didn’t bother responding. He’d heard this conversation too many times to think anything he ever said would make one lick of a difference. Even so, he couldn’t control the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tightened. His Grampa cackled.

“There it is! There it is! You’ve still got the old blood in yer veins, boy!”

“Quit it you old bastard,” snarled Gran, her affected London accent fading into a more natural Northern drawl. “Better for him if ‘e didn’t stick his head into trouble!”

“Can’t help it can he? Look at his head there! His hair’s the colour of fire, like the old blood in ‘im. Was a time when we were warriors and knights, when we took what was ours! Belasis men are worth more than working in the coal mine-”

“You ain’t never seen the inside of a coal mine,” Gran scoffed.

“Coal mine, shipyard, steel mill, what damn difference does it make?”

“Not a difference at all!” Gran said slyly. “You worked in the steel mill just like your pa worked in the shipyard and his pa worked in the coal mine, just like Cain works in the factory. The Belasis men are right where the Lord Jesus wants them to be, and it’s best if you stopped putting foolish ideas in that boy’s head!”

Cain slipped out the door, ignoring the argument that he must’ve been hearing for the thousandth time. He pulled a fag out of its pack, stopping when he noticed his hands were trembling. The man closed his eyes, breathing deeply through the tight clench of rage in his chest. Much as he hated to admit it, his Grampa had a point about him. That was the only reason the old man kept bringing it up, and the same reason that the old woman never stopped getting mad at him for it.

He’d been a hellion growing up. Cain had a short temper and a never ending list of ammunition for the other kids to use against him, bastard child that he was (not that three quarters of the others weren’t bastards themselves). The redheaded boy had gotten into a fight every day, or at least it seemed that way looking back on it. His Grampa hadn’t helped things, egging him on with talk of the Old Blood and taking what belonged to him. The old man had always seemed so certain that Cain was going to be the first Belasis in centuries to be something more than a day laborer.

Reality kicked in eventually though. He’d been bigger than most boys, but eventually the fights stopped being with boys and instead with men. The physical beatings probably wouldn’t have stopped him though; he grew into a large man himself surely enough. The real kick came after secondary school. Getting a boy like Cain through A-levels wasn’t an easy task, and bless his Gran for doing it, but unsurprisingly no Uni was going out of their way to offer a space to some rough and tumble boy from Tees Valley with a record like his. It wasn’t like he could afford to study at any of the places that he did get into either. And once Uni was out of the picture, the only avenue left was the factory, doing exactly the same kind of work that every Belasis man had done for generations.

Cain’d had to learn how to push back the rage. His temper had gotten him fired from his first job, and he’d lived on the streets for a while until his Gran came and dragged him back. “You can’t feed yourself on pride,” she’d told him. She was the one who’d gotten him his second job, the one in the factory he couldn’t afford to lose. There weren’t that many bridges in a little town like Tees Valley that he could afford to burn, and if he weren’t working, then his Gran would have to. Her pension didn’t stretch that far.

So the fire in his chest had become familiar, as had the knot of anger boiling at the base of his throat. But he’d learned, despite his Grampa’s best attempts otherwise. It was easier if he just accepted his fate, and maybe someday he’d be able to without trembling in anger. Finally, he lit the cigarette and inhaled a deep drag. It seemed appropriate that the only thing that could quench his flames was breathing even more fire. Cain tapped the fag on the railing of the small balcony outside their flat, watching the ashes drift into the wind.
-

The TV was showing images of a city wreathed in flame. An enormous gout of fire appeared over a road. A man was throwing lightning from his hands. According to the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen, the city was Moscow and the feats were magic, or perhaps clever technology. According to the newscaster, a terrorist named Theo Andlain was claiming responsibility, as well as claiming that the government was covering up magic. That the sickness the WHO had been worrying about actually gave survivors magical powers, and that he could teach people how to use them. Cain’s Grampa was cackling.

“Look at them bastards! Finally getting what’s coming to them, ain’t they?”

“David!” Gran snapped. “That’s horrible. What’s Moscow ever done to you?”

“Not a damn thing woman, and that’s the problem! Those Dominion folks all promised we’d have a better life if we joined them, and Westminster caved like the bunch of cowards they are. I didn’t vote to join no CCD. When I voted to leave the EU we were supposed to get our sov-ern-ity back!”

“Sovereignty,” Cain corrected under his breath.

“Fat load of good that did anyone,” Gran countered.

“At least it was something! CCD said we’d all ‘ave better lives if we joined them, well I’m not seeing any of that ‘ere in Tees Valley! Westminster says everything’s fine now that London’s the capital of Dominance VII, just like everything was fine for them when London was the capital of the United Kingdom, or the British Empire, or whatever. It don’t matter in Tees Valley whose flag’s up in London. We’re poor just like my grandad was poor just like his grandad was poor. Maybe when this magic fellow shakes things up a bit, whoever rules London next will finally see fit to send a little something up North for once!”

“They won’t,” Cain muttered.

“What’d you say boy?”

He must’ve spoken too loudly. Normally he’d just ignore his Grampa; he’d gotten pretty good at it the last few years. Something about his temper, about the fire in his veins, seemed more intense today though. Lord knows he’d almost snapped back at his supervisor in work earlier. “They won’t send shite up here and you know it. Moscow can burn if it wants but you’re going to die a miserable death, just like your grandad did and just like my grandkids will!” It wasn’t until he found himself standing up that Cain realized he’d been screaming at the end.

“Cain,” Gran whispered, staring at him, shocked. Even Grampa looked alarmed. They must have seen him in a rage hundreds of times, albeit back in his teenaged years. But something about him felt off and they must be able to see it. Suddenly the throbbing in his ears didn’t seem like the normal jolt of anger, the fuzziness in his head not simply a cloud of rage.

“I… I don’t feel so good,” he muttered, staggering back towards the couch. The last thing he saw was the panicked eyes of his grandparents before he passed out.

-

Cain had brief moments of lucidity in which he could hear his grandparents’ flustered chattering.

“It must be the Sickness. It must be!” Gran murmured. “We have to get him to a hospital!”

“A hospital?” Grampa scoffed. “Sickness survivors just attacked Moscow. Ya think they won’t be experimenting on ‘im or whatnot?”

“Don’t be ridiculous David-”

“Sandra,” Grampa sighed heavily. “Folks’ve been sending their kids off to quarantine or whatever for years. Do ya know a single one that’s come back?”

Gran’s silence spoke for itself.

“Give it a day,” Grampa pleaded. “We’ll see what happens.”

-

“Who’s this then?”

“A nurse, she said,” Gran replied.

Cain groaned, wiping the sweat off his brow. Objectively speaking, his illness was getting better. His periods of consciousness were growing longer, and he’d been able to keep down solid foods earlier. His fever hadn’t broken though, and Gran was getting more and more worried.

“I thought we agreed-”

“You agreed!” Gran spat. “It’s been nearly four days David. I’m not just going to sit by and watch our grandson die!”

“Excuse me,” interjected a stranger’s voice. She had an accent, Italian maybe. “Do not fear. I am well practiced in treating this disease.”

“Of course,” Gran agreed, cutting off Grampa’s protests. “This way, he’s through here.”

The door opened, and Gran entered with the nurse. The woman was handsome, in her late thirties or early forties. She had a kind smile and sad eyes. “Please, it’s best if you wait outside. The treatment is often hard for family members to watch.”

His Gran was a strong woman, but she’d spent decades obeying superiors – the kind of people who dressed and talked like this strange nurse. With barely any protests, the newcomer ushered Gran out of the room, flipping the lock as she shut the door.

Cain stilled. “Why’d you lock the door?” he croaked.

The woman smiled at him. “My name is Abrianna. I’m sorry that we had to meet like this.” She walked towards the bed and sat in the chair placed next to it. Abrianna pushed her sleeves up absentmindedly and Cain’s eyes were drawn to the odd tattoo on her forearm. It looked like a stylized image of a snake eating its own tail.

“What… I don’t…”

“Shh,” the nurse soothed, smoothing his hair from his forehead. “You’re very sick, Mr. Belasis. Do you know why?”

“I… it’s the Sickness, isn’t it?”

Abrianna nodded. “I’m very sorry to have to agree. You see, the Sickness is less of an infirmity and more of… a transformation perhaps.”

Cain thought back to the news program he’d seen before his collapse. “You mean… those magic people in Moscow?”

The woman grimaced. “Yes. And if it were just them, then perhaps the problem wouldn’t be so dire. Unfortunately, among these false gods is one prophesized to destroy all of humanity. My Organization exists to prevent that fate.”

Cain furrowed his brow. “False gods? What…” The redhead felt the blood drain from his face. “You aren’t here to cure me, are you?” he whispered.

“On the contrary,” Abrianna disagreed, “I am here to give you the only cure. Mr. Belasis… I truly regret that there’s no other way.” Her gaze softened, and an expression of profound sadness overtook her. “Please forgive me, but the fate of humanity is a burden too great to ignore.”

Before Cain understood fully what was happening, Abrianna was on top of him, shoving a pillow into his face. He immediately tried to scream, or struggle, but he was weakened by his Sickness. Distantly, he could hear pounding at the door, and his Gran screaming. A familiar fire coursed through him. He’d been in enough fights in his lifetime that the rush of anger was almost comforting. But after a few moments of futile writhing, the anger drained out of him. He was too ill, too weak… there was no way he could get Abrianna off.

In that moment, Cain realized that he was going to die. Each breath was a struggle, and he wasn’t getting nearly enough oxygen. It was only a matter of time… Oh God, he was really going to die. Where anger once coiled in his gut, terror now arose. It was all he could feel. Every fiber of his being seemed to resonate with the sensation of pure fear. Cain didn’t want to die. He didn’t want his grave to be another forgotten stone marking a forgotten laborer in the forgotten town of Tees Valley. Desperately, he reached for anything that could save him, any last forgotten reservoir of strength.

The fear seemed to stoke the fire within him far better than even his anger could. Something was building in him, and for the first time in years Cain didn’t suppress it, but rather forced every scrap of passionate terror that he could muster into the flames. It rose to such great intensity that for a moment, the redhead was certain that he would be burned from the inside out. He could feel the fires licking at his skin, exploding outwards. He could smell the smoke. Behind his eyelids it seemed like he could see a blinding flash of light.

It took a few heartbeats for Cain to realize that he could move again. Slowly, he opened his eyes to a surreal vision. Ash floated in the air, almost like a scene from a movie. To his right there was open air where the wall to the apartment should have been. To his left…

To his left was his room, scorched and charred. There was no sign of Abrianna, and the door to his bedroom seemed to have been blown off by some strange force.

“What… I don’t understand,” Cain murmured to himself. He stood from the bed, still feeling weak but not nearly so ill as he had previously. Sluggishly, his mind connected the dots. Abrianna had told him that his Sickness was a transformation, and he’d tried to feed the fire within him… Still it seemed too absurd to fathom.

As he walked through the gaping doorway, he first saw Grampa, slumped back against the back wall, eyes rolling in fear. “The fires of hell… the fires of hell!”

Cain looked desperately for his Gran, only to wish that he hadn’t. The woman had been banging on the door, after all… the door that had been blown off the wall. He felt like throwing up.

“Boy… Cain!” Grampa shouted, snapping him out of his horror. “Ya have to go. Ya have to run! They’re gonna come… They’ll lock you away for this.”

Cain stood frozen for a moment, before his Grampa snapped again “Go!” As he was leaving, the redhead could hear the man’s broken mutterings: “The Old Blood… the fires of hell and the Old Blood…”

-

Cain didn’t know how he was going to get there, but he knew where he needed to go. He remembered the broadcast of Theo Andlain saying that he could teach people how to use their magic powers. He needed to get to Moscow.

Hello! I'm a once and future WoT RPer who's done a little bit of RP in dragonmount. I ended up stumbling over here somehow and was convinced to give it a go by Aria. Just wanted to say hi to everyone, and maybe ask for a bit of advice. Any nuggets of wisdom for a newcomer?

Nox and Dane agreed to meet outside an entrance to the Underground that opened up into the Red Square. It wasn't used as a trash hole like most of the others being so close to the Kremlin and all. It was an upscale dump.

Leaving the Moscow airport for the first time was a bit nerve wracking. The last time he'd flow into Moscow he'd fallen out of plane - not even seeing the airport at all. He thanked whatever deities were out there that he didn't have to fly again. He never intended to return to his old life again. His life was here - with Aria. Wherever the hell she was.

He'd received a text from her - several actually with information. He was to take her old journal form her hiding place in the shop below where she used to live - where Asha now lived and deliver it to an address. Supposedly their new home. Nox had grabbed the text before he found himself in a hotel room. He didn't want to meet this stranger right now. He had more pressing matters - sleep.

Not that when he actually laid down in the lumpy bed did he actually sleep long. But it was the first step in getting things under control and his body back into it's usual rhythm. It had only been a matter of days since Ascendancy's announcement, but Nox could feel the tension in the air. Everyone was suspect. Every cold and every fever was getting second guessed. There were crowds outside the Kremlin protesting. Crime was ramping up.

Hell even the Atharim were ramping up, and Aria was in the thick of it. He didn't know what. She was leaving him out of it. He was grateful for that. He was a reborn god. He was the enemy. And when push came to shove he'd out himself to save her skin, or his. It was better to stay away.

So Nox did what Nox did best - he hunted. He was actually looking forward to going hunting with Dane. He wasn't sure which was more dangerous - the monsters or having Dane at his back. He could only hope that the other man was more interested in killing monsters than killing him.

Nox had prepared himself well. He'd stopped by HQ the day he arrived and dropped his report of his trip on the right desk and took two landwarriors and some random weapons - a cross bow and a few handguns and the appropriate ammo. His were all gone in the explosion. That had been a bitch of a report to write. He was surprised no one had questioned him on Bas' actions at his place. But so far so good... ignorance was bliss. He knew nothing of Bas, only that he'd run into him at a bar - that's all they needed to know.

It was early in the morning 9am. Not early for him, but early the crowds were just starting to form in protest. Nox waited for Dane outside of the entrance tunnel. He leaned against the ungrafittied wall - it had to be a rarity - but it was close to the Kremlin - it was probably scoured nightly. The pair of landwarriors sat on top of his head like sunglasses and he had a gray hoodie wrapped around his body against the chill of the Moscow spring air. It was colder than Mexico, but it felt good. Sadly the jeans were new, but that's what happens when your entire possessions get blown up.

((Although not a part of the underground city, this first part takes place in Elyse's apartment - I just didn't want to make a separate thread for it.))

Elyse had all her equipment ready to head to the Underground City. She wanted to wait until she heard from Mr. Durante before she did, however, so she was keeping herself busy with setting up her apartment while she waited.

A beep came from her wallet and she checked it. Sure enough, it was Mr. Durante - Nox - sending her a text message. She had to smile. Nox had decided to look at her file and was flirting. Elyse decided to play along and flirted back just as eagerly. As they continued to talk, Elyse became more excited about meeting with Nox. They seemed to have a good rapport already, and Elyse, who had looked at his file now too, found him to be quite the cutie.

And thus, she had a date. She told Nox she was excited, but neglected to tell him that she was nervous as well. It had been a long time since she had gone out with someone - since her change to be exact. She was more nervous than she let on in her text messages.

But the excitement outweighed the nerves, and she was truly excited. Nox had mentioned that good girls didn't like guys like him. It was something she had noted, but Elyse would make her own decisions on something like that. And she doubted Nox was as bad as he made himself out to be. We are our own worse critics.

Elyse had gotten the information that she had needed, and was ready to at least do some scouting. She could handle a few rougarous if needed and she would heed Nox's advice. If she saw any of the strange creatures, she would run.
**********
((Now in the Underground City Proper))

The first thing that hit Elyse was the stench. At first it was hard to keep herself from vomiting. Doubtless, it was less to those who had a normal sense of smell, but Elyse didn't have a normal sense of smell.

After she had composed herself, Elyse kept moving. She had a pair of land warriors on - mostly for the mapping software rather than night vision.

The software was phenomenal. Elyse had also looked up Aurora Durante. Finding her in the database hadn't been difficult because of her relation to Nox. What she saw was saddening. Aurora was deceased - killed by a sicko. It seemed Nox was alone, something that hit Elyse fairly hard. Elyse felt alone, but she still had her family. Nox didn't have family anymore. It was likely hard for him to connect to people.

Elyse kept her pistol ready in its holster. Her crossbow was slung over her shoulder. Based on what she had read about these creatures, she had also packed another firearm with a faster fire rate than her desert eagle.

But she wasn't looking for the creatures, she was just getting familiar with the Underground City, the app, and the potential rougarou nest.

Cont from:
http://w11.zetaboards.com/TheFirstAge/to...524/3/#new



Jaxen waved goodbye to Aria. "Scary chick isn't she?"
He turned to Manix and eyed him up and down. "You won't get into Manifesto in those clothes. Not even at this time of day. Hell they may even turn me away and I'm wearing a six thousand dollar pair of shoes. Kallisiti House of Burlesque is nearby."


He thought for a moment, dark eyes sparkling with mischief over memories of his last encounter there. Would Oriena be there? He'd not thought about her in a while. What with being busy with kidnapping and snake people and learning how to be an Ancient and dodging Atharim teenagers. But admittedly, he hoped to run into the club's elusive owner. Oriena was magnificent as far as women went. Which was saying a lot from Jaxen.

He showed Manix the way. His question struck Jaxen with an amused grin. "You're certainly the master. I sense what you can do. Sense your strength. I am nothing compared to you. A pawn in your game."
Jaxen's silver tongue was always quick to charm. So smooth, it was impossible to tell if the flattery was fake at all.




((Ooc: description of Kallisti found here. http://w11.zetaboards.com/TheFirstAge/si...t=9085018))


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Jul 12 2016, 04:04 PM.