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.

Once on the street, Manix walk toward a brick wall. The wall, looking solid and tall, was on the border of the Izmailovsky Market. Manix slipped out a Sturdy bottle of sea water from his home, using just a small amount to fill the cup of his hand. Looking, without appearing to look he could feel the strange power come thru the water, ropes of white and blue started to weave around him with smaller threads of brown blending in. The ropes and threads wove a rug that made anyone looking seem to glance right past Manix, not seeing him. A second set of threads came forth, brown and reds flowing at the solid brick wall, a door suddenly shimmered in the wall, as if there and not there. Manix walked forward, opened the door and walked in. Upon the closing of the door, the wall seemed solid again, the rug of blue and white was tied in a knot so it would not unravel. He only had a short time. Quickly he changed into finer clothes. With clothes, fitting a wealthy fisherman donned, he left for the Silversmith's shop. Once out the door he untied the threads that held his rug together, wisps of blue, white and brown slowly drifted off. Manix was already n full stride before the weave was gone, going, once again, unnoticed in and out of his little dressing room.

It proved to be a long-term investment. Weeks had passed since the Almaz and Ori's new acquisition. The injuries he'd sustained from White's beating were on the mend, bruises a kaleidoscope slowly fading against his bronze skin, no bones broken, fortunately. She visited frequently, food and water her gift, but he rarely stirred from the thicket of his den. The chains did not clink, but she could hear him breathing in the dark shelter she had offered him to recuperate. Sometimes she caught the feral glitter of gold eyes. A low warning growl.

The man had been plucked from the Underground; senseless, penniless and half-starved. Insane, by all accounts. Savage, more beast than man. Perfect for exploitation in the pits; a brutal fighter spurred, not by money or fame, but by the desperate will to survive. It served as both his motivation and his reward. But it was the yellow eyes that had fascinated her, and sparked the machinations of her presence that night at the club. One could not technically own another person. But she had brought his contract following his release into the crowds, and now he as good as belonged to her.

The smell of him was offensive, his clothes the stained remains of garments he'd worn in the fighting pits. His hair curled dark and wild about his head. Skeletal cheekbones razored above a thick and knotted beard. He was almost lupine in the shadows, coiled on all fours, crouched in the shadows. Though he was chained, she didn't underestimate the corded power of his muscles. Burnished eyes followed her movements. She did not go close. She was not afraid, but neither was she stupid. The food and water she placed within arm's reach, kicking away the remnants of her last visit. She retreated, twisted a chair, and sat. Waiting.

[This is related to the events in Blood Sport]

Anyone watch it? President Petroff makes Nikolai so proud.

lol

Hi guys,

Big changes are coming my way in life. Being able to write/play again is on the horizon rather than a distant hope.

So hang in there. I'll be back to stir the pot eventually.

~A

The bill for the Jeep had been horrendous thankfully the Atharim would pay for it. At least they would now. The perks of actually flying high on their radar of hunters. It meant they would know Nox was back in the States but he figured they wouldn't care, the Old World Atharim weren't exactly found of the New World hunters - all fly by the pants and all. But it was what it was and Nox paid the bill, the Jeep sounded rough.

There was a cache nearby so that was his first stop that and sleep. His body ached from the strain of the fear on the plane. Nox had survived it alone, but he was sure that the people sitting next to him thought he was some sort of freak or mentally handicapped or something. And Nox actually let them believe that; playing dumb was easy - people underestimated him that way.

The storage facility manager looked at Nox warily but nodded as he drove through the gates to the storage locker. To the manager it was just an empty bin, we kept only a few things in each place mostly weapons. Nox's father had been a gun collector, at least that's what he told anyone who'd ask. There was nothing special or black market about the gear, just was a lot of it. They were survivalist to most hoarding water and non-perishables. Waiting for the zombie apocalypse to come. No such things but hey it was a gimmick that people believed. Sure some people thought they were crazy to them but it was believable. It sounded better than they hunted monsters for a living. No one would believe that at all.

Nox packed the small footlocker in the back of the Jeep and headed towards a cheap motel he knew of. It was not the place he would have stayed with his family but at least it wasn't riddled with bedbugs, or the like. He had certain standards now and he knew the Atharim would pay him what he was worth as long as he kept bringing in the monsters.

Sadly the place was a lot worse off than when Nox and his family had traveled through last and Nox went to the next place on his list. He hadn't been there in a long while. Nox stared at the parking spot they had been in, there was no sign of trauma here, the blood stain had been washed away by years of weather. But Nox could still see the pool of blood lying underneath where his mother had lain brutally slashed and torn apart.

He'd forgotten this was the last place they'd been until he'd seen it.

Time passed and Nox wasn't sure what time it was he didn't even check his wallet just went in, got a room. It wasn't a surprise when he got the same room as they'd stayed in. The room smelled the same as he remembered and what little food survived in Nox stomach wound up in the garbage can next to the door only adding to the putrid aroma of stale smoke and cleaning supplies.

Nox left the door open as he carried the locker inside the room. He wanted to check how things had survived and knew that he'd end up in tears by the end of it but it was to be done. Nostalgia was a killer and Nox fought to keep his memories inside instead of letting the fire that boiled inside of him. The power hummed and sang at the edge of his vision and he knew better than to grab it to heed it's wondrous call.

Instead Nox laid down on the bed and tried to drift to sleep, but memories flood his mind and tears fell as he hugged the pillow tightly against him. Coming here had been a bad idea. But sleep finally came and Nox drifted in blackness.

****

The darkness was never a good thing. It meant only one thing - nightmares. There was nothing but stillness tonight. And then the memories flooded in. All the happy memories mingled with all the tragedy and death Nox and seen. Images that couldn't be real - hadn't been real. Fear lanced through the nightmare and the large black dogs with glowing eyes appeared over the ridge - a ridge Nox hadn't remembered being there before. One, then another and then a third. All stalking in the dead of the night. They split off from each other and Nox lost sight of two of them. It could be only one thing - dark-hounds. The image of his mother's mutilated body flashed in front of him and the hound howled leaving shivers down his spine. Nox was frozen in fear as the darkness stalked him.

Was just wondering if there was anyone around wanting to write something. Even if it's off the wall we can go play in the dream world and it's not real. I just wanna write with someone...

Chief Inspector Drayson took the steps into the Golyanovo District precinct two at a time. Reporters were held at bay by a line of beleaguered and grim-faced police officers, and Drayson studiously ignored the questions being yelled in his wake; how many dead, who to blame, investigations!

The Domovoi raid hadn't exactly failed, but the cost in lives had been far higher than Drayson could accept. Four members of Domovoi's SPMU team dead. Volkov dead. An as yet unidentified man, dead. The fire had raged through The Ministry, and destroyed or damaged six adjacent buildings in the densely packed neighbourhood. Luckily, most appeared to have been empty. Fire crews had yet to find any remains in the debris.

Early news reports were already predicting it as a terrorist attack, or more accurately, a police raid on a terrorist cell that went awry. Close enough, for the moment.

He returned the salutes of two officers at the precinct doors, and shared a look with the pair as he passed. As far above the rank-and-file as he was, the loss of the Domovoi team members had affected him just as heavily as it did them.

Moscow's PR department was hard at work, deflecting calls by reporters, concerned citizens, politicians and city officials. The precinct's main floor/office space was a-buzz with ringing phones and non-committal answers to questions.

Minutes later, Drayson stood in Captain Aleksandrov's office, the two men looking years older then they were. Out of sight of cameras or peeping eyes, their masks were at least momentarily dropped as each shared a shot of whiskey from the Captain's personal stock.

Their conversation was brief; Drayson was brought up to speed without preamble or excuses. Botched intel, bad luck, and the risks of the job were to blame. There had been no reasonable way of knowing about the gas leaks. But while Volkov was dead, there was at least one promising catch in the form of the young magic user that had started the fire.

They just had to figure out a way to question the man without putting themselves at risk.