Ok. So, I've seen this in another forum and always have fun with it. The game is simple. I start with a picture, then you have to google an image that "ups" it and use that as a response.

Example:

1.) I post a picture of a cat.
2.) Next poster responds with a picture of a dog chasing a cat


Try to get creative, don't just reply to a picture with an image of a bigger version of what is going on in the previous post. i.e. puddle/lake/ocean.

I'll start it off with this:

Edited by Zoya Bocharov, Jul 9 2014, 11:23 PM.

Sierra had gotten Calvin his share of the deer they'd taken down together, and she'd found that she was lonelier than she'd thought. She missed her brother deeply and wished he'd not been lost to the wolves.

It reminded Sierra why she'd come to Moscow in the first place - to find out what had happened to her brother. Why the man with the snake tattoo had killed him. The scar on her leg was a constant reminder as to how bad things had really gotten, but Sierra consistently pushed it away, there had to be a reason he'd gone mad.

Aaron had spent a great deal of time in the wolf dream before his passing. Sierra knew the dangers, Snow had reminded her consistently. But this night she had to try to find out something. To figure out the world she lived in now.

Sierra closed her eyes with Snow lying next to her. He promised to guide her through the dreams, but they wouldn't stay long.

Sierra woke in her room, things flickered in and out of view. Drifting Snow sat regally on the bed. He was not the wolf in her bed, he was somehow more beautiful, more like drifting snow, like he was part of the wind blown snow that Sierra saw in the city. He was beautiful.

Drifting Snow howled at Sierra, she was still human and Snow sent that it was good. Run with me.

And they ran. Sierra trying to keep up but he'd bound in and out of view. When she'd fall too far behind Snow would send Focus! He was teaching her but as all wolves did, they taught by doing, not lecturing, they knew no other way.

Sierra tried her best to find Snow and follow him. It was a very interesting game to play. She could focus on him, and his whereabouts, but when she got there he'd be gone. But as the time passed she was getting better, catching glimpses of him before he'd waft off into another part of the city.

((Any Dreamwalker is welcome to pop in))

Ayden had been working as many hours as she could, they were all over the place. This was the first day off she'd had since she started at Chesterfield's. Ayden knew Connor would be working most of the day, and she'd worked a early shift and was getting home just before Connor would be for the day, but sleep was needed.

Ayden laid down in her own bed, it was hard drifting to sleep with out Connor at her side. He'd become a fixture in her life pretty quickly, the stability of it made her happy.

Dreams had been few and far between since they'd gotten back together, and this was the first real sleep she'd tried to get since them, without him. And the dreams came.

But they were not the same she had been plagued with after the kill. They were still gory and blood soaked as always. But this time it wasn't the sacrifice that plagued her, it was those she loved were dying, and there was nothing she could do about it. It was clear in the from the way it played out that death and mayhem was caused from her, from something she wasn't doing. But for the life of the dream Ayden she couldn't figure out what she wasn't doing. She tried everything to save her family, to save friends. And when it came to seeing Connor dripping blood from some unknown source Ayden sat blot upright in bed.

Ayden's heart was racing. She was shaking despite being overly warm. She'd only gotten a few hours of sleep, it was nearing 5pm and the sun was near setting in the winter sky. But Ayden couldn't sleep anymore. Connor would be home soon. But the vision of him dripping in blood made Ayden get up and go for a walk. She left a note under his door, so he'd not worry. But she had to leave her apartment.

Ayden just walked and walked until she found her path blocked by the nearly frozen river. It was cold, Ayden pulled her gift around her and warmed a pocket of air around her and then turned to walk the path the river took. Maybe it would ease her fears, but so far nothing seemed to get the images from her mind.

Hood generally avoided driving through Moscow. The place was a hot-bed of terrible drivers and traffic jams. She had chosen a very public venue; a place with lots of people, and from which one could easily excuse oneself. Smarter than he had expected her to be; he wouldn't have been surprised if she had invited him straight to her home. Maybe the damn wasn't an endless wave of terrible life choices. Just breaking into monster infested old factories and admitting it to cops.

Whatever the case, Hood drove her ridiculous little eco-friendly junk pile to Izmailovsky Market, arriving almost a full hour early as he managed to avoid the worst of the city's traffic. The market wasn't as much an 'open air' affair that time of year; even for Russians, it was too cold to be standing outside manning a market stall all day. But there were plenty of large, open-floor'd buildings, their walls removable in the summer and insulated for the winter, in which the markets could run all year.

Hood found his way to the entrance of the building they had agreed upon, which was close to the metro station she was likely to emerge from, but far from the public parking lots. He was dressed much as he had been the previous night, and stood leaning against a post near the doors, his back to the corner and surveying the thin crowd of people wandering the market hall, bickering over prices or talking about the day's news.

To those in the States I hope you have a good fourth of july and remember what this country means to us. Be safe!

To everyone: Hope you have a great day!

Michael was woken by an immediate summons to the Kremlin. He did not know what time it was, but any time was too early and too cold for him to be up and ready within the hour.

Unfortunately, he arrived at the Kremlin's military precinct with ten minutes to spare, deciding to use the black coat he had been given the day before. He also wore thick gloves and boots of military grade that only just warded away the snow's chill.

Also unfortunately, he decided to take the prudent path to leave the power untouched. After last night's incident, he was not foolish enough to tempt fate.

Upon arrival, he found himself being ushered into a room in the depths of the military wing, where the population grew steadily less until he was alone with his guide, who finally stopped, gesturing towards a nondescript door.

Michael nodded and entered without further ado. Three faces met his as he entered, only one familiar as the head of Military. The air in the room seemed uneasy and no-one seemed to want to break the silence.

Michael looked toward the foremost man in the Custody's military force. A man who had the greatest army in the world at his disposal - upon the Ascendancy's command. "Good morning, Sir. What are my orders?"


"You will find out in due time, Commander,"
the man replied with a smooth face.

Michael nodded, somewhat surprised, but satisfied nonetheless. "I see,"
he said, cautiously taking a seat at the round table fixed in the centre of the room. So, Nikolai had orders for him. Or perhaps he would announce his execution. Both seemed equally likely possibilities although in truth the latter was highly doubtful.

He should have realised the immediacy of his orders had come from the man personally. Careless of him, he thought he would have had a chance to rest, but this suited him fine.

The only question was, what would Nikolai's answer be?

Michael waited with his three companions for the Ascendancy's arrival.

"It hasn't been all that long since I went on a date, Francis."
Drayson sipped a cup of coffee and looked over an anomalous expenditure report out of one of the local police stations that had caught his interest. It wasn't his job, technically; there was an entire Internal Affairs department to deal with such things, but he liked to poke his nose into things from time to time. It was the best way to keep track of the corruption that was so damnably prevalent in Dominance I.

Francis had called him twenty minutes ago, and had been badgering him ever since. Hadn't even tried to beat around the bush on the motive, just went straight to the point. And all the while, Drayson had payed him half a mind while widdling away at the stack of paperwork on his desk. Well, figurative paperwork; he didn't actually do everything the old fashioned way. There were only so many trees in the world, after all.

"Think about it Drayson. I'm betting the last one was the one I set up for you. And that was two years ago."
Francis was leaning on his own desk, peering into the screen, and more importantly, at the side of Drayson's head to observe for any sort of reaction to the statement.

"What? No. It was with..."
He paused, brows furrowed deeply as he mulled it over. Francis was right. Had it really been two years already? "...yes. Two years. Your point?"


"My point is that you're not getting any younger. And this woman, she's just like you! All work, no play. Hell, maybe it won't be you missing the second date this time!"


He sighed quietly; the numbers didn't add up. Someone at that station was dipping into the pot, and they were being sloppy about it. Corruption was the norm, but so long as it didn't get out of hand, didn't cause trouble, he could turn a blind eye to it. If not, then he would have had to try to arrest every rich-and-powerful in the damn city. But to find such sloppy work in his organization; and in his mind, it was his. His responsibility, at least, if not in actual ownership. Well, it was an insult to himself, and to the people of the CCD. They expected the police to protect them, not to steal their tax dollars. It was going to be rectified. Quickly.

He leaned back in his chair, flagging the expense report for further investigation, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "She isn't fresh out of university this time, is she? I am a bit old for that."


Francis laughed; the last date he had set Drayson up on, the girl in question had been 22 years old. The age gap hadn't proven to be a problem for her, but the fact that they had had to reschedule their second date four times in a month had been a deal breaker. "No. She's much closer to your age."
Nearly ten years his junior, but Francis wasn't about to admit it. Drayson was fishing for an excuse to call it off. "And she's eager to meet you, really! Already broke the idea with her, and she's all for it. Excited."
Also not entirely true, but that was besides the point.

Drayson sighed quietly and faced the image of Francis, "Alright, alright I'll do it. Might be nice to get out for a change."


"Exactly! So, where are you going to take her? Somewhere nice I hope! Ah! Do Cafe Pushkin again! It's a very inspiring place."


-----

The actual date was arranged for five days later; a Thursday, 1900hrs. It was the earliest Francis could arrange for the two to actually meet, and even then Drayson had had to rearrange his schedule. It hadn't been difficult for Drayson to get a reservation; he had been to the Cafe Pushkin before, and the owners enjoyed the presence of the city's more powerful individuals. While Drayson was rarely known to use his title for personal gain, he was known to them and an a table was found for him without any fuss. Honestly, he expected that they had his number on file, and knew who he was before even answering the phone.

Drayson arrived early of course, and was seen to their table with all the usual hollow fan-fare one expected of a high class restaurant. The maitre'd recognized him; likely a scanner hidden above the door imaged who ever was approaching, and pulled up their particulars for the man to peruse before they reached him.

He was decked out in his finest suit; a brown tweed number, well tailored and perfectly fitted, but not of the quality one might expect of a person seen in so prestigious a restaurant. Of course, Drayson never cared so much about such things. A light blue dress shirt contrasted nicely between his dark skin and a tie of a somewhat lighter shade of brown from his suit. Also tweed, of course. He liked the pattern of the fabric rather then the more plain solid appearance of more common, expensive suits. It had more personality to it. And, of course, they were durable, serviceable, and inexpensive.

At that hour of a week night, the restaurant wasn't teeming; the place never was. It was intentional that not all tables would ever be occupied, allowing for a buffer between guests. He was seated on the upper level of the Library Hall, in view of but far enough back to enjoy the musician duet, playing a harp and flute.

The first few days had been highly eventful. The new job proved to be exciting and scary all at the same time. Meeting the woman who could be the dreaded hybrid offspring of Autunna Luna and her father made Alex worry.

The night after meeting her Alex called her father. Her mother answered the phone. They chatted about things, but when Alex asked to speak to her Father, her mother became worried. It was unusual for anyone to want to speak to him. Alex reassured her mother, but it would do little good once her father told her mother about the conversation.

Alex's heart jumped in her throat the moment he answered, "What is wrong Alessandra?"

In a whisper, "I think Autunna Luna's offspring survived the Atharim, in their own society even."
Alex didn't know why she was whispering there was no one in her apartment, much less close enough to eavesdrop around her, she was sure of it. Her senses were stretched wide. She'd know if anyone came anywhere near her door.

There was a long pause on the other side of the phone as her father thought. Talking on the phone was always disorienting for Alex, she was so used to feeling the other persons emotions run through their minds. But then again she was sure she didn't want to know what ran through her father's head.

"Why would you say that? The Atharim kill us on sight."

Alex sighed, "I know this Father. But she is Sentient, and she is Atharim. I know for fact both, she bears the same exact tattoo on her left arm as Autunna Luna."


Giordano was a hard man, he was a strict father, and an even stricter leader among their kind. He was respected, and feared by the Sentient community. Alex didn't want him to come to Moscow, but she knew he would, long before he told her.

"Did you get her name? Give it to me child. I will be there in a few days."

Alex gave her Aria's name, and said she'd have a picture waiting for him. She had taken it from the cameras at the station. Highly illegal, but this was family business, not a police matter.

Continued from Ciudad


To the locals, crisp morning air greeted Dane when he stepped out of the taxicab. Having come from Moscow by way of London, the air was stifling, and a heavy sun was clouded by smog despite the hour.

He'd made arrangements for living conditions prior to the decision to stay in Mexico City. As such, last minute accomodations were organized on the ride from the airport. He paid little attention to the surroundings as they went, caring more about the the destination than the journey.

What remained was the destintion he'd arranged on such short notice. The area of the city was known as Lomas de Chapultepec. Lomas meant hills apparently, and compared to Moscow, Dane found the description apt. There were several areas known as the Lomas, but this one, Chapultepec was the original upon which all the others were duplicated. It was the oldest and most affluent residential area of Mexico City. Despite the age it was also very well organized. The streets were laid along formations of the hills to preserve the natural beauty. Trees were planted appropriately or otherwise undisturbed.

From the sidewalk, Dane peered up the height of a six-story building wedged between two others. Glass balconies were built off the front. The architecture was modern and sleek. Although the curb in front was stained with black and decorated by a pathetic garden, the interior lobby of the long-term suites was acceptable.

The location of the building, Las Suites, would also suffice. He was on the border of the Lomas area, adjacent to the affluent colonia of Polanco, which was otherwise home to government, business, and the rich entertainment district of the city.

The driver traded Dane's luggage off with the valet after barking shared communication in Spanish. Not understanding, Dane frowned and vowed to download a translation application to his Wallet as soon as possible.

He tipped both men with CCD dollars which was as good as gold here. Besides, Dane has little interest in bothering with conversions to pesos.

The place he would be renting for now was only vacated yesterday and had yet to be cleaned. Dane refused to so much as tour it until it was adequately cleansed of its former inhabitant. A virtual tour sufficed for now. It was an oversized loft-style studio. Upon entering the front door, a high ceiling stretched a level overhead, amplifying the appearance of space. Beneath a cable-suspended staircase to the bed overhead was nestled a kitchen outfitted with surprising amount of current technology for the present Mexico City. The furnishings were likewise stylish and modern. They felt hollow to Dane, who grew up surrounded by antiques in the french boarding school and the heavy, solid finery of his family's English-country estate.

His luggage was deposited upstairs and the rent paid for several weeks, Dane aimed to seek breakfast and shopping. He was told about the Avenida Presidente Masaryk, a thoroughfare through the nearby affluent Polanco neighborhood. Masaryk as it was commonly called was also one of the most expensive shopping districts in the world: or else it used to be.

Dane held high hopes for the avenue, but upon closer inspection found it to be a joke. London, Paris, Milan, and gods imagined, Moscow were shining beacons of fashion and prestige while Mexico City's equivalent wallowed in squalor. There was perhaps three blocks of acceptable designers, but the shops were worn down, in need of paint, and overseen by guards at the front doors. The experience was hardly welcoming. Of those three blocks only one was worth his time.

Following a strange breakfast of cuisine inspired by local flavors, Dane was forced into the shops for attire befitting the heat of the days. An array of cool, crisp button down shirts were the first to be purchased that he would wear with the sleeves rolled and the top-most buttons undone. As were a pair of round, designer sunglasses. Neutral colored chinos in white, navy and khaki were purchased as well in varying lengths: long, cuffed and to the knee. His fine leather belts were sufficient to transfer to the Mexican arena, therefore he spent time accessorizing his outfits with beautifully printed pocket squares and airy scarves. Some basic tees and polos were necessary, as were suede slip-on loafers and leather sandals.

Finally and perhaps most important was the selection of black driving gloves. He purchased many pairs, far too many for someone who did not intend to drive himself through the tangled jungles that constituted Mexican roads. They were snug and fit his slender hands well.

A goodly amount of money was loosened that day. Enough that his family's bankers called to confirm the purchases were legitimate. On the way out, however, he added a strangely inexpensive rounded straw fedora with a lovely silk band tied around it. He smiled when he put it on and saw himself in the mirror. He was an altogether new man in Mexico City. Having traded the heavy wool of Moscow for the floating classic lines of Mexico, he was finally at ease. After slipping the sunglasses on his face, he was fully satisfied with himself not even minding the thin scruffiness darkening a jawline in need of a shave. He left the shop in decision to walk the streets of Polanco to see what adoration he could glean from those he passed.

Michael made his way home after Nikolai dismissed his guests. He had apparently impressed the head of military enough to warrant his particular attention. He wasn't sure if it was true interest or prompting from the Ascendancy but it was somewhat enlightening. The man was very good at his job but far too focused on might rather than strategy for Michael's liking.

After meeting another two dozen important people, most of whom had little interest in him beyond his momentary notoriety, he arrived in the waterfront house a little weary and mostly frozen.

He seized the power before entering, checking for any potential Atharim threat but was otherwise content to enter, change into warmer clothes and head upstairs to bed.

As he did every night he had the chance, Michael spun webs of practised knowledge, improving his speed and familiarity. Most were webs of death and destruction paired with their counterpart defences. Some webs he had not figured out how to counter, perhaps some could not be, but he gave the matter little thought and funnelled his concentration into spinning his chosen web to near completion before letting the more dangerous dissipate uncompleted.

Mornings he set aside for creation, when his mind was sharpest. He had not created anything truly unique since his first conception of wardings, mostly making minor tweaks or more complex forms of that which he already knew.

Tonight, his mind was clearer than it had been in years. Icicles of fury no longer pricked at his calm constantly. They were still there, as sharp as ever, simply encased in opaque towers; memorials not to be forgotten.

For all the gravity of his position, Michael felt free in a way he had never done so before. His webs were vibrant and unhindered by doubt or frustration. Danger loomed greater than before, but he no longer had to hide. His birthright was war and for once he embraced it.

Until Mecca, he had never understood, not truly, his own mind. The thrill of the challenge was not borne of a desire for death and hurt. It was greater. War was his realm, the struggle of life and death. The cause was his to choose, the execution his burden.

All roads led to war no matter how he attempted to avoid it, all that was left was his choice. A choice he was content with, whatever the future held in store.

In peace he was born, and where hoped to leave the world, but it would be in flames that his flower was in full bloom.