Last night I dreamed I was Ascendancy in real life. I've dreamt I was various RP characters in the past, but I think this one was the greatest dream of my life. Asc has an awesome life! And is a terrifying hell of a channeler!

Am I the only one that dreams they're their chars?

Three days inside the sterile white walls under the scrutiny of doctors and shrinks and various other medical personnel. Aria felt like a guinea pig, it was even worse than the way the Atharim had treated her. And then one day she was blindfolded and taken out of the facility. The only bearings she had was that she was ascending up and the moment they left the sterile facility she had been kept in. The smells were different. The people she could feel were more and more the higher she went and when they finally removed the blindfold she was lost in the light.

Aria found herself blocks away from home, almost literally. Or what used to be her home. She was blocks away from Lucas. He was her first stop. Aria had two wallets now, both highly secretive in nature, their encryptions were different yet she was sure that with both of the devices a hacker could have fun. Not that she would do that again. That had proved devastating. Aria still wondered what happened to the girl and how she didn't know the girl was a godling. But she had died of the sickness.

Aria walked the few blocks to Dueling Dragons and found the shop near empty. Only Sergei sat at the desk, from the window he didn't look well. Aria tried to pull open the door and it was locked. She knocked on the pane glass to catch the man's attention. Something was wrong and Aria wasn't liking this one bit.

Anyone around these part have characters or NPCs that own telecommunications companies that may have assets in Africa? And if so, interested in a brief tie-in to the Sierra Leone thread? Jacques is planning to take control of the telecom towers in Sierra Leone temporarily (which will likely tun into weeks and months and possibly into more such towers in other countries over time).

He wasn't sure if it had counted as a second date, but it had been as disastrous as the first. A fire had run them out of a high end restaurant, but the night had gone well after that, at least as far as he could gather. The second had been far worse; she'd called him for lunch because she was uncomfortable about her fellow cafe patrons, and he had left at the drop of a hat when he'd received word of the attack at the market. Only to leave her to be witness to an attack by something that had very likely been in the cafe before he had even left, from what he could gather.

Luckily, one of his men had been there to keep things from getting out of hand, and the police response time in Moscow was among the best in the world. It was a matter of some self-conflict that he had been so unaware to the threat at hand, but he had to admit to himself that he had been distracted by the company he had been with.

She had missed the Christmas dinner at the British pub he had mentioned on their first date, but the place was never entirely quiet. Churchill's Pub was located in the basement of a strip of old storefronts, sunken even further below street level as it occupied a space that had been first built some two centuries prior, and while it's location hadn't changed much, the road outside had steadily been added to and repaired, until the few windows in the pub were found in deep wells along the sidewalk's edge.

The interior was rich woods and rough red brick, the tables of an open arrangement rather then the more secluded booths found in most restaurants; it was a communal hall more then a mere pub and restaurant, a place where people came to meet friends old or new, although there were a few secluded booths. The place smelled of rich pipe smoke and lager, the shelves behind the long oak bar were lined with a dizzying array of scotches and whiskeys and ports. And a selection of vodkas, of course. Twenty tap beers lined the bar itself; no bottles or cans were stored in the back or in gaudy coolers behind the bar.

Drayson was dressed much as he usually was, minus one feature. His tie hung from a hat rack next to the door; the barkeep at Churchill's frowned on the work-atmosphere suit-and-tied patrons brought. He stood at a table where two old men were apparently arguing over some past imagined slight between them, apparently involving a fishing trip and a woman on shore. The details were not often touched on in the argument, as both men had been having the same one for going on sixty years. Details didn't much matter to them anymore.

Besides the pair of old men, there was a scattering of other patrons, but so early in the day the brunt of the pub's regulars were still pretending it was too early in the day to drink. Drayson of course only held a cup of coffee, as he was among that group who felt that the crack of noon was too early to be tipping back your first pint.

Straight from the mouth of the creator!

http://www.tor.com/2015/06/24/wot-compan...1-excerpt/

The briefing was held in the courtyard of the Legion's headquarters in Sierra Leone. Dozens of Legionnaires had gathered, and were greatly outnumbered by the refugees-turned-aid workers that were still housed in the adjacent buildings the Legion had appropriated to house them all in the first day of the fighting. Most had been moved to more organized camps, and those few that remained were being trained in first aid, administration, cooking, and a myriad of other supporting skills needed to keep the city from floundering under the current atmosphere.

The briefing had was not voluntary. Most of the Legion's surviving soldiers in Freetown were present. What few vehicles at their disposal had been fueled and what little ammunition that had remained in the supply issued out before the briefing had been announced. Word had already begun to spread that Interi-President General Wallace-Johnson had demanded Jacques' presence. There was also rumours of a Legion supply convoy that had driven from Casablanca only a few hours from the city bringing the promise of reinforcements and much needed aid supplies.

Jacques emerged from the main building as Legionnaires were still filing out into the courtyard. The mood was tense and sullen. Memories of the Masiaka refinery and their cowardly withdrawal still fresh in everyone's minds. Most understood that had they fought there it would have meant death in the long run, but that was besides the point. That was the sort of politicking logic that saw most of them abandon their home countries and militaries of previous service. Do what was right, not what was economical.

He was shrugging into the heavy kevlar vest of the old FELIN 2 combat gear, his pistol strapped to his left thigh. Once the vest was strapped down, his white Kepi cap was produced from a pocket and neatly placed atop his head, the white neck cover protecting the back of his head and neck from the sun.

A pair of officers followed him out then jogged forward to join the gathered crowd as Jacques climbed onto the roof of one of the Legion's SUVs, where he waited in silence for a moment as the last stragglers joined the crowd and everyone fell silent.

“Many of you have questions. About Masiaka, about my decisions there. I gave the order to withdraw, to cede the refinery to the government troops. I will not explain that decision. I gave the order. I accept responsibility of the consequences.”
He would take the their blame for that. Having someone to hold the guilt for that decision would save many from placing it upon themselves. The responsibility of leadership was not without it's burdens.

“Now I have a request of you. I do not ask this of you lightly. And know that this is not an order. Should you choose, I shall do all in my power to see you returned to Morocco. Severance pay will be drawn, and you shall be returned to your countries of origin, or to wherever you choose as your next resident country.”
Jacques was unusually serious of tone; he was a gambler by reputation, and was taking a big risk with the offer. The Legionnaires gathered before him had joined a private security company. Good pay, risky employment, but they were not soldiers anymore.

“Legion Premiere is no more. The company has been folded, the private investors are seeking lawsuits over lost profits and stocks. The government of Morocco seeks the closing of our headquarters and the training camp at Arfoud. The Legion stands, and I have made a decision. Commandant Tuff and the senior officers have sided with me in this decision, and we have left any angry politicians in our wake in the past few days.”
He let the implication sink in on those gathered for a moment. He was creating his own personal army, and breaking laws to do it.

“The world suffers a lot. Not because the violence of bad people. But because of the silence of the good people. I am tired of being silent. I am tired of appeasing laws set by politicians. I am tired of protecting profit margins, rather then people. And I am tired of governments failing their countries. Wallace-Johnson ordered the slaughter of innocent people under the protection of his soldiers. Orders his soldiers carried out without hesitation. Katlego ordered the slaughter of children, orders his soldiers carried out without hesitation.”
The quote was of Napolean, something that seemed to surprise people whenever they learned it. He had ordered they abandon refugees, and they had hesitated. But they had obeyed out of trust. The deaths of those refugees was the catalyst that had sparked the will to fight back among the people of Freetown. That support was what he needed to take the city as bloodlessly as possible. The support of his Legionnaires was what would see that accomplished.

“Wallace-Johnson has called me to meet him. He expects that I shall bow my head to his rule, and promise you men to train his soldiers, to win him the country, and see the Temne people slaughtered. I have a different plan."
The order was that he go alone, but of course he would have an escort to the parliamentary building that the General had made his headquarters. That escort would include the Legion's ace in the hole, Jared Vanders, should the man choose to involve himself.

"It is folly for a man to pray to the gods for that which he has the power to obtain by himself. I have the support of the city police. The military garrison of the airport. City workers. They are poised to take control of key locations throughout the city, with your support. Wallace-Johnson's soldiers are cowards. They do not deserve the title. An organized resistance will see them surrender in short order, especially once I have cut the head from the snake.”


A signal was given through the HUD of his Landwarriors. Every Legionnaire gathered received a datapacket on their own Landwarriors, or their Wallets, or PDAs. Inside were instructions for those key locations, of whom they would work with in seeing those sites secured. Known patrol routes of Wallace-Johnson's soldiers. The Legion headquarters had been hard at work with the planning of Operation Rien N'Empêche.

“We are working on a very tight time line here, gentlemen. It is time a difference was made. Sierra Leone will be whole again.”

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Edited by Aria, Jun 22 2015, 04:10 PM.

delete


Edited by Aria, Jun 22 2015, 04:10 PM.

(Open thread)

Usually when Pervaya called White on his off hours, it was something involving an impromptu VIP job. It wasn't to talk to another operator about quitting the company. They had PR people for that sort of B/S. But, considering the person in question, it made sense.

So White had made a phone call, arranged a meeting, and a few hours later was seated in some high-end cafe in the heart of Moscow, the richest city in the world. As it wasn't exactly work related, White was dressed casually. Tan cargo pants and boots, button-down black shirt, sleeves rolled up tight and neat above the elbows, exposing powerful forearms. A tan shemagh was worn loose around his neck, serving as a scarf against the chill day air outside. A brown rough-leather jacket hung off the back of his seat, and the open black shirt hinted at the pistol holster worn on the left side of his chest.

Koloman sat opposite him, dressed in a snug navy-blue military-cut wool sweater and black cargo pants, his own pistol seated away in a simple hip holster. Both men carried their permits, of course, but firearms were, while not necessarily common, seen often enough in Moscow not to draw too many stares. The looks the two large, fit men drew in the high-end cafe were entirely based on their looks, instead.

Where White had a simple cup of black coffee, Koloman had chosen a London Fog. Earl Grey tea, steamed milk, vanilla flavouring. The man had a bit of a sweet tooth, it seemed. The barrista set their drinks on the table, and cast shy glances at either man as she did. White caught her gaze and flashed a ghost of a smile, and she blushed and quickly withdrew from the table. A tall, raven haired Russian beauty, but too shy for White's tastes. And besides, he was at the cafe for work-related reasons.

“So. I want to hear this from you, Koloman. What the fuck are you thinking?”


Koloman chuckled confidently and watched the waitress depart with their order, eyes lingering before looking to White. Both men shared a brief grin then they were back to business. “You should come with me. Hell, imagine the good you could do over there.”


White let out a bark of sarcastic laughter, “Good one. Do good in fucking Africa. I've killed enough of those bass-ackwards shitheads, thank you very much. Now what the fuck do you think you're going to accomplish?”


Koloman was still smiling; he was confident in his decision. He knew it was the right thing to do, and nothing White said was likely to rattle that belief. “The Legion's gearing up to do something big. Something good. What do we do here all day? Safeguard some spoiled rich sod that has never known a day of strife in their lives. Collect a fat pay check. Most of mine is spent on new suits, bribes, women, and at the gun range of course. Then what? Another fat-cat brat. There, we can save lives. Help people.”


White just stared incredulously at his coworker. Friend was perhaps too strong a word, although Koloman was likely the closest to one he had in Moscow. The man knew damn well how the world worked, and the naivety in which he spoke of going to Africa was almost painful. “Help people? For fucks sakes man. It's Africa. Nothing helps there. You can shoot all the warlords and child-soldiers you want. You'll miss a few, and they'll just step into the void. That's how it's always been. Fuck, even if you manage to prop up a new government, soon as you turn your back it just all goes to shit again. Every damn time.”


Koloman couldn't help but laugh at White's casual tone. As far as he seemed to care, they were talking about the benefits of different strains of grass seed. “This one is different, and you know it, White. He's been running around Africa all his life, and he still cares. You can see it in the press releases, the way the reporters aren't hounding him. He's not corrupt, so they have nothing to slander him with.”


“He's a rich playboy who inherited a company and has dreams of grandeur. He's going to get a lot of people killed, and that's all he'll be remembered for. And the pay is fucking terrible. Fuck, she makes more then one of those African private security twits.”
He nodded to the waitress who had returned with their drinks, and she glanced at him curiously when he referenced her.

“It's not about the pay. You saw what they did down south. His men went into that hell hole without hesitating. How many hundreds were saved?”
Koloman accepted his coffee from the waitress, and the girl glanced between the two men, hesitating a moment then leaving as another table waved or her attention.

“And for what? Two hundred of his men dead? You know full well what happened to their carcasses afterwards. And they may not have admitted it, but he got one hell of a fucking paycheck for it. Probably why he's got these damn delusions now. Chikadees go a lot further in Africa then that toilet paper half those hell holes use for money. Fuck, shiny rocks and pretty sea shells go farther.”
White had seen the press release, and had watched the combat footage. Who hadn't? It was powerful stuff. Wasn't a lot of editing involved. Hell, the man had sung to his dying troops. The man cared too much, and that was going to break him eventually. And when he eventually broke, a lot of people were going to die.

“When was the last time you did something that made that much of a difference, John? I'm growing soft here. Hell, I have no idea how you do it. I haven't been challenged in a long time. But that's not what it's about. I want to help people.”


“You already tried that one.”
White's tone was entirely deadpan, just staring at Koloman. “It's fucking Africa. One more gun isn't going to make a lick of difference there.”


Koloman smirked at that, “No, but I know more then how to just kill a man, John. So do you. Kill the right man, and do it the right way, and you take the fight out of his followers.”


“Just a matter of time before one of those half-starved idiots figure that out for themselves. You going to keep an eye on the Frenchie?”

How happy are ya'll with the wiki?

I'm in the process of looking for a different host mostly because all my sites are so slow on shared hosting. And I really want to start using my domains again for real things.

Do you like the way this wiki works? Or would you rather have something a little simpler?

I'm considering moving the wiki from Mediawiki to WordPress (I can hear FL groaning now)...

We WILL NOT lose any information if we change platforms I will write a script to convert from one platform to another.

So now is the time to speak up if you think a change is in need. If you don't like WordPress and it would hinder you to using it then I'm okay with staying with mediawiki but it's so clunky for our use that I feel another system might be better for our use case. But not totally my call here.