For the past few months, Grym had been living in the shadows, laying low and passing the time much like she was doing now. She sat inside the Monero, a car with a long history, currently working on reupholstering the worn seats. The scent of old leather and motor oil surrounded her as she worked, the familiar smell of her beloved car. The vehicle was her constant companion, and she had poured countless hours into rebuilding it over the years. As she stitched and hammered, she couldn't help but think that one day she would be buried in this very car, perhaps going out in a blaze of glory or sinking to the depths of a lake during a daring chase or run.

She navigated through the cluttered warehouse, dodging boxes and tools scattered on the floor. At her workstation, an old laptop sat next to a pile of leather scraps. She had to special order the leather for her project and have it delivered to a nondescript pick-up address. Grym didn't have an official residence, so she avoided receiving mail. After all, with no surname to use, who would know where to send it?

It seemed the package was ready, so she wiped off her hands with some mineral spirits to loosen the grease under her nails and prepared to go. A thought crossed her mind. Almost no Atharim crossed her path and few left her messages. She was pretty much a lone wolf in Prague, but in Moscow, she knew few in the ranks anyway. Just as she suspected, there were no messages. It was radio silence out there.

She shrugged on the leather jacket and drove to the city. The warehouse was outside the Third Ring Road in a defunct industrial district. There were no residential areas, and most of the buildings were gated, locked, chained, and boarded up tight. Most didn't have electricity, and she only did because of old wiring still powering the bone black incinerators. It made for an eerie drive back, but Grym liked the solitude. She had to fend off homeless or vagrants once in a while, but word spread to avoid her building eventually. At this point, she only had the stray monster to worry about. Except right now, she realized she had absolutely nothing to eat for dinner.

Sighing, she rerouted toward the nearest market. Finally, she reached her destination - a small corner shop with its bright neon sign flickering in the cold winter air. As she parked her car, she noticed a group of gopniks huddled together, their puffed up coats and hoodies shielding them from the biting cold. It seemed they had been there for a while, but unless they made themselves her business, she didn’t care about theirs. She only spared them a brief glance before diving into the shop, eager to find something warm and filling to appease her grumbling stomach.

The laboratory felt like the inside of a thought—cold, orderly, and humming with potential. White light reflected off rows of precisely aligned equipment: spectrometers, zero-point energy regulators, and a supercooled chamber where quantum stabilizers floated in magnetic suspension. Everything had its place. Everything obeyed the rules. That was why she liked science so much - it was predictable where people were not. Usually it was predictable… Today the problem she was trying to solve was not. 

Danika stood in front of the projection table, hands flexing in her gloves as she stared at the equations glowing in midair. Her equations. A lattice of Kerr-Newman metrics, quantum energy tensors, and nonlinear dynamics that coiled and looped in neon-blue threads, shifting slightly with each twitch of her fingers. 

"Okay, Danika. Where are you?" she murmured to herself, narrowing her focus. She inhaled deeply, counting to three, then exhaled, counting to five. The numbers soothed her, the rhythm cutting through the noise in her head. Her thoughts fell into step, each piece of information locking into place like puzzle pieces. This was her process. Order from chaos. One variable at a time. 

Her voice emerged in a precise, muted tone as she narrated her notes for the system’s records. "Throat instability remains unresolved. Negative energy density partially compensates for collapse, but quantum foam interference destabilizes the Casimir boundary. Casimir boundary fails. Wormhole fails." 

She raised her left hand, and the equations rearranged themselves, isolating the unstable throat region of the simulation. The wormhole—their wormhole—the theory put forth by her, Allan, and Marcus hovered in holographic relief. A gleaming ring of luminous particles, twisting inward toward a dark, swirling center. It was beautiful. Flawed, but beautiful. But it refused to hold. 

The projection pulsed red, collapsing into a cascade of error codes. 

Her fingers twitched in frustration, but she immediately stilled them. "No," she said softly. "Frustration is irrelevant." She repeated the phrase to herself, her tone flat, her posture rigid. Frustration was noise, and noise had no place here. Her job was to listen to the signal. 

Revisit the theory. Her mind pivoted, setting aside the failure and combing through the math again, step by step. 

Danika tapped her fingers in the air, summoning a new set of visualizations. The Kerr-Newman manifold unfolded in three dimensions, its curved spacetime geometry glowing faintly. She zoomed in on the throat region, watching the exotic matter distribution spike erratically before the whole thing collapsed. Again. 

She let out a sharp breath, narrating once more for records. Perhaps AI could help her solve the issue at hand. "Problem: The throat collapses. Cause: Insufficient negative energy density to stabilize quantum fluctuations. Solution...?" She trailed off, her mind racing ahead. 

Her right hand flicked, pulling up a new layer of equations. She scrolled rapidly, her lips moving soundlessly. The Casimir boundary worked, sort of. But the exotic matter injection destabilized the foam. That created a feedback loop. If I... adjust the foam density... No, that breaks symmetry.

Her thoughts spiraled, one idea leading to another, a chain reaction of possibilities unraveling into dead ends. But this was the part she loved. The hunt. The puzzle. The moment when everything else disappeared except for the pure pursuit of understanding. 

The violet glow came quietly, creeping up her fingers in faint, flickering tendrils. She barely noticed it at first, so engrossed was she in the equations. But as her concentration deepened, the glow intensified, tracing faint shadows across her skin, pulsing in time with her thoughts. The magic always came when she worked like this, threading itself through her mind and her hands. 

"Magic is just science we don’t understand.” The reminder was automatic, a mantra she'd repeated to herself since the first time she'd accidentally blown up a lab table. She couldn't let it take over. The math was still the foundation. The magic was just... supplemental. Like a compass, pointing her toward something she couldn't see. 

The equations shifted again, reshaping themselves as her magic whispered through the system. For a moment, her heart leapt. The negative energy density evened out. The throat stabilized. The hologram flickered... 

And then it imploded. Again. 

Danika blinked rapidly, forcing herself to suppress the flicker of disappointment. "It's not enough," she murmured. "Still missing something." 

Her hands dropped to her sides, the glow fading as her magic subsided. The hologram dissolved into a blank field of light, awaiting her next input. She stared at it for a long moment, her mind tracing the edges of what she knew—and what she didn’t. 

"The throat won't stabilize on its own. I know that." She rubbed her temples, the faint pressure grounding her. "Exotic matter density isn’t the problem. It’s... it’s symmetry. It’s alignment. Something isn’t balanced. Remember the two constants.” Of course she was referencing her famous double constants, Zayed’s numbers: ι•Ν and Λ•Γ.

Her mind jumped to a memory of a man’s voice. Calm, steady, annoyingly good at pointing out the flaws she didn’t want to see. "Danika, you can’t brute-force a wormhole,” he’d said during their last argument. ”It’s not just math. It’s geometry. Dynamics. The whole system has to sing together, or it falls apart." 

"Sing together." The phrase stuck in her mind, poetic, but accurate. She could almost hear Marcus chiming in, his tone playful but his insight razor-sharp. "You need the conductor for the orchestra, Danika. I can see the symphonies in my sleep. You’re the engine; I’m the melody." 

Danika turned back to the projection table. Her equations were good—better than good. But there was a piece missing, something she couldn’t see alone. Allan had an intuitive grasp of spacetime dynamics that felt like sorcery. Marcus, meanwhile, had a talent for simplifying the complex and grounding her theories in practical engineering. Together, their strengths complemented her own. 

Days off usually found Cadence in a grumbly mood when she returned. But the past couple of days had been good ones. The day with Ilesha at Kallisti had been amazing for Cadence and the following therapy session, had reinforced that. So when she came in happy and well rested, her band mates were surprised. 

”Morning everyone! I brought coffee,” Cadence said, handing them out. 

”Someone’s in a chipper mood today,” Casey Bennett, the bass guitarist said. She was also the band leader, in charge of the band’s rehearsals.

Cadence gave her a smile, ”We got an album to record loves,” she said taking in the other three full time band members into her gaze; Matt West on guitars, Barry Jones on keyboard and synthesizers, and Cara Lopez on drums. Each took their own drink with gratitude as Cadence put down a bag of sugar and cream  in case they desired it. 

Finally, Cadence turned to Marlise, her agent, and handed her a coffee. A woman Cadence had never met, stood beside, and Cadence nodded at her. This was likely her new security detail. 

”Thanks, Cadence,” Mars said with a smile. ”Im pleasantly surprised- I did not expect this mood today.”

Cadence laughed. ”I had a good couple of days. Let’s hope that this momentum lasts.”

Mars frowned, ”I don’t want to ruin your mood, but I feel I should bring this up while you’re in a good mood. You know that I’m heading back to the states. My family is all there. This move to Moscow was a great move for you, but I can’t stay. I’m going to stay long enough to transition you to your new staff and hopefully your first few tour concerts.”

Cadence, although saddened by this, had expected this conversation to come. It wasn’t the first time it was brought up, but it was the first time it had been established. Mars was right though. It was a good time to bring it up. ”We’ve talked about this, Mars. I knew it was coming, and if I haven’t said it enough, I’m eternally grateful for everything you’ve done for me. You gave me my big break and have always been there for me.” she gave Mars a hug. ”Any potentials on that front.”

Mars nodded. ”Ive reached out to a man named Ezvin Marveet. He’s a producer and singer/songwriter. I think it would be a good fit. He has our recording calendar and I’ve invited him to show up anytime if he would like. He has contacts too, so I think we can start there.” Cadence nodded and Mars turned to the woman next to her. ”This is Aline Shaw. She works for Pervaya Liniya Security, and she’ll be your security detail for the tour. I thought it would be best for you to get to know her earlier.”

Cadence smiled. Mars knew her well, and that would be the hardest part of her leaving. Cadence reached out her hand and shook the other woman’s hand. ”A pleasure to meet you.”

Get ready for Season 3 of WoT on Amazon Prime.

March 13, 2025!

Teaser trailer here

Share your thoughts and guesses as to what we're seeing below!

Lucien was raised at Rivington Folly, a large and private estate hidden away in the lush green of rural England. He lived amongst other children of varying ages, a rotation of nannies, a staff of liveried servants, and the Mothers. The children were home-schooled and received an esoteric education in addition to the usual curriculum. Naturally this also included decorum and etiquette. Healthcare was handled in-house via the private med-suite on site, and medical and psychic testing was performed regularly. Though all the children were named, they were also assigned numbers. Luc was number eight: thus, Octavius.

He was seven the first time he met Magnus Asquith, though it wasn’t until many years later that he’d understand the man was his sire. That he was in fact all their sires. Lord Asquith did not usually interact with the children in person. But then, they didn’t usually have the gifts Lucien had.

Growing up he never knew anything much about his biological mother. He never thought to ask, honestly, since none of the Folly children had parents, just Mothers. But he did have a single fact; that she always wore gloves. This was revealed to him when a pair was gifted to him alongside the explanation that she had found them helpful. It was written in his file, recorded in the questionnaire under potential considerations.

As a child Lucien always had his nose in a book, mostly devouring non-fiction. Context helped him better understand his extra sense. They called that reading too, because it was how he said it felt. With a touch Lucien read the past of objects like words on a page, and sometimes people – though that was harder. A person’s history was after all a far more ephemeral thing. He preferred the permanent simplicity of things. But that was what the gloves were for.

At eighteen Lucien was formally inducted into the secrets of the Di Inferi, though in truth he had been primed for it his entire life. The transition was seamless. An apprenticeship was secured for him with the British Museum, where he naturally excelled. In the decade since his placement he has produced numerous books and historical papers, mostly concerning the ancient world, which he appears to understand with an innateness and depth of perspective that has brought him much critical acclaim. After the untimely demise of Declan Gregory, Lucien headed the project to study the chamber discovered beneath the drained lake at Roopkund, work that will likely take years. He has travelled extensively for the museum, using his position to enrich the Di Inferi libraries and archives.

In 2045 he relocated to Moscow, under instruction to collaborate on what would soon become the Brotherhood of the Ascension. In partnership with Theron Finnegren, Lucien combed the Di Inferi archives for the prophecies that would form the backbone of the Celestial Codex. Both articulate and comfortable with a pen, he composed much of it.

He is not a formal member of the Brotherhood, and holds no rank, but is not an unknown face amongst the elite members there. To everyone else he is simply the Brotherhood's librarian, and a confidant of the Luminar. His work resides in the Vault, deep in the subterranean levels of the Monument.

The Archivist

Lucien farms out his ability on the dark web, under the moniker of The Archivist. His notoriety is such that he can be selective of the jobs he accepts. It should be noted that this is not a selectivity based on morals, but based on interest. He notifies Theron of anything he believes might benefit the Brotherhood’s collection. He does not read people as part of these exchanges, nor advertises this facet of his gift.

Ability

Lucien reads the history of objects. Recent history is divined most easily, and requires only a brief touch. The same can be true of anything with a strong or repetitive history. A depth of study requires time, needing more effort the further back he reads. In this manner, some objects currently in the Brotherhood’s vault have been the study of many years.

The gift is far more unpredictable with people, and Lucien considers it both uncomfortable and unwieldly, thus his preference for wearing gloves. Since people are far more complex than objects, his reads are rarely linear. He and Theron have long theorised on the possibility of there being prophetic application to these readings, for sometimes they bear little resemblance to the person, or indeed the known world. Unknown to him, these moments in fact include glimpses into previous lives.

He has the ability to channel, but not the Spark.

Appearance and Personality

Lucien has the typical Asquith family colouring, though he is not considered one of them. He is pale with dark auburn, wavy hair, and has deeply sloping cheekbones and an unusual elfin quality to his features. He is habitually well turned out and is very particular in his dress, matching his gloves to his attire. He sometimes wears glasses, small circular gold frames he perches on his nose. Luc appreciates good manners, but is usually bemused by uncouth behaviour rather than offended. He gets on well with others but is finicky about being touched, especially without his permission.

He has no relationship with his half-siblings, and keeps a respectful distance from Magnus. Despite not being a recognised member of the family, owing to his gifts and his value to the Di Inferi he is permitted an extravagant allowance.

Cadence had just had a very successful trip to her therapist. She had been glad to have a session that focused on a lot of positives. Together, her and her therapist had been working on building some social skills, particularly those that involved making friends and meeting new people. She had tried many of those techniques the day before, and they had worked. Cadence was very happy, but underneath that there was a worry that she had expressed as well. Cadence knew she could be “a lot” and was hoping that wouldn’t push Ilesha away. They hadn’t talked since the day before when they had met, but Cadence sent a message now, reaching out to her new friend.

Heya! I just wanted to say it was very nice to meet you yesterday! I had a lot of fun! Hope all is well.”

It was not his home.  It was not his birthright, but he had business here.  Omar was here already and he had his mission. For now, Giovanni, The Jackal, would need to work in the shadows.  Omar was here to be his eyes, his face, and his voice. Moscow was the jewel of civilization.  Egypt was the cradle. 

Giovanni entered the hotel, and got a room, for now this would be his place to stay, although he might go elsewhere.  For now, it was time to get used to being back in the city. It seemed an odd, dark place compared to the sands of Cairo, and Giovanni felt a bit of claustrophobia at that. It didn't matter, Moscow was a momentary distraction for now.  Soon he would achieve his destiny.

((OoC: This is gonna be the only post for this thread - just establishing Gio is back in Moscow for a bit))