I'd like to point out that if you write in Word and use the auto formatting feature in Word you need to read through your posts and add in extra spacing. Cause your paragraphs are all running together and it's REALLY hard to read.

To make word stop doing that try using the No Spacing formatting option which will then require you to put in an extra space. Tabs don't work on forums cause browsers remove all extra white space when writing text to the screen.

The early morning sunlight streamed in the window. Rivers of dust and lint seemed to dance in the beams of light. The window was a good 3 feet above the table where a man sat.
An older man paced the room behind him. Back and forth, wall to wall, the man paced. Not fast, nor impatient ...pacing was simply what he was doing at present.
The younger man held his forehead in his hands. Stress winkled his face as he continued to stare and search through the texts laid before him on the table.
All night they had been studying. All night and the past week, they had been studying and training.
Punit was 26 years old, a full Atharim for the past 6 years, and yet instead of being out there, doing his work, he was in here, with this man who was proving to be a tyrant of scholarship.
He had been invited to come to Moscow to study with The Regus because of his stellar reputation. He was deadly as an assassin. He specialized in Rakshasa. He loved hunting these specters of the night. He loved following them and hunting them. That magic moment when hunting prey when you began to think like them and understand their movements. That point when you were one ... Right before the kill. He lived for that moment, that rush.
And he was no dummy either. He had studied about the Rakshasa in the Caucus Mountains and in the jungles of Malaysia and Indonesia. He specialized in the creatures. He read everything he could find on those soulless creations. He hated them, despised them. They had taken more than their share of Atharim, and Punit was determined to do his best to destroy as many as he could.
He had been annoyed at first at being taken off his chosen path to stop and come to Moscow. Of course, one did not turn down a meeting with The Regus, and Punit was honored, but still ... He had Rakshasa to hunt and kill.
So for a week, Punit and the Regus had lived in this room. Morning and night. They slept in periods of 4 hour blocks. The rest was studying, or sparring in the yard. The Regus had been tougher and more deadly than Punit had suspected because of his age. Punit nursed several bruises on his leg and torso, and his shoulder had been strained and dislocated at one point. It throbbed now. He would need the ice pack again, if he ever was allowed to sleep again. They hadn't taken a break from the studies all night. Since they had showered after coming in from practice the afternoon before, it had been constant study. Punit was tired and irritable.
"Do you have your answer?", the older man asked.
"I keep coming with the same translation," Punit responded, a note of exasperation in his voice.
"Not acceptable. Keep reading," The Regus said with steel-like authority.
Punit sighed audibly, rolled his eyes and went back to the books before suddenly slamming them closed and staring at the blank wall below the window.
"You have an issue?" Regus asked calmly, without turning around, or ceasing his pacing.
"The translation is the same. The Mark is an identifier. The Beast is the anti-Christ. This is known."
At this The Regus stopped, his voice was only slightly raised, but if he was the steel before, now he was the forge.
"Known? Known! You speak about what is Known? That which you consider to be "known" can fit into a thimble amidst the ocean of what there is to be learned.
"Known is simply a comfort to the lazy. Those who won't or can't stretch their minds to dismiss the impossible.
"Start over. Read it. Again!"
With that word he slammed his hand down on the table.
Punit jumped, he had not felt the other man walk up beside him.
The Regus then gently opened the texts again and pointed with his long index finger to the passage Punit had been reading.
"Again," his voice was steel again.
Punit started to read again, but his temper was up, and he turned to lash out at the older man.
"Foolishness. Absolute foolishness," he declared, an edge to his voice, "There are people dying out there even as we speak. Men, women, children, Atharim ...dying at the hands of make-believe monsters. And you sit here safe. Pushing your books. Bullying me, and countless others. I have work to do. Out there."
With that Punit pushed back from the table and prepared to stand. Anger flooded his face and his eyes blazed in insubordination.
He didnt make it out of the chair, as The Regus's rock hard hand pressed against his shoulder, keeping him in his seat.
"You are angered. This outburst will be forgiven. Return to the texts. We will continue to study these writings. You will learn the connections with these works and the prophecies of our own Atharim."
"I said I was done. Sir. I have no use for anymore of this redundancy."
"You are done when I say your done. Do you really think YOU are in control here? Do you not know that anything you have done, I had done before you were born? Any kills you made, any assignments completed, hunts you have accomplished ...I have done ten-fold?
"Do you think this is an exercise in vanity?" His voice raised on the last sentence. The forge was flamed again.
"Arithmos tou Thēriou. Literally number of the beast in Greek. But now extrapolate. Think. What else could this relate to. You. Are. Atharim. Use your mind, there should be no limitation on your ability to analyze and find a solution"
Punit's body crumpled in his chair. His resistance seemingly evaporated at the onslaught of the older man.
"I...I....don't know. I can't think," he stammered. Days of exhaustion washing over him.
"You can. You will. Arithmos when plural is Arithmoi, Numbers, also the name of the third book of the Hebrew Testament. To the ancient civilizations numbers were simply symbols, nothing more. Symbols that indicated something of greater value. A mistranslation and the word number became a fixture of the prophecy, when the more generic symbol may have been intended. If we continue to look at the connotation and overlap from the original language to the vernacular, we get the more common rendering of "mark". There is a reason our forefathers carried particular words into their translation. Mark can mean sign, sigil, the act of being marked ... Or even "to brand".
"If we then look at the word beast, and it is routinely translated as beast, what do we have?", The Regus waited with patience.
Punit gritted his teeth. His caution evaporated as he thought of the seemingly futileness of this. "I. Don't. Care.", Punit said and looked boldly into the face of The Regus.
He never saw the back of the other man's fist collide with his face, so fast was The Regus.
Punit fell out of the chair and landed on the floor at the feet of The Regus.
"You will know respect. You will know your place. And you will know this work and this world is not a plaything to amuse you or get you laid after telling adventure stories."
These last words were louder and were emphasized with a swift kick to Punit's side.
"Translate this, Great Hunter of Rakshasa.
'ita bestia vulnerata est. patefacta, non mortuos. oraque ultra recognitionem, adhuc bestiam superstite'," The Regus said with cold derision.
Punit was in pain and tried to speak, but before he could begin to translate the Latin words, The Regus threw a scroll down before him. He saw the Hebrew phrase:
וכך היא החיה מצולקת. הניח פתוח, עדיין לא מת. מצולק ללא הכר, עדיין החיה שורדת

"Would you be quicker if I spoke it in your own Malay?
Oleh itu, adalah binatang yang berparut. diletakkan terbuka, tetapi tidak mati. berparut di luar pengiktirafan, tetapi binatang itu bertahan"
"Thus is the beast scarred. Laid open, yet not dead. Scarred beyond recognition, yet the beast survives?"
"Correct," The Regus said as he extended a hand to Punit, and helped him to his feet.
"And now, think, my young friend. How can these be linked. Eschatology is simply the bastardized understanding of our mission and our works."
"With all due respect, sir," the sarcasm as heavy as the blood on Punit's lips, "I believe I made it clear, I had no more interest in this conversation."
Punit elbowed past The Regus and made his way towards the door. He could not believe he had wasted a week of his life, for this. For endless speculations and translations. He had monsters to kill. People to protect.
"Mr. Tengku." The Regus said in the iciest tone Punit had heard. Chill bumps suddenly ran down his neck.
"Turn around Mr. Tengku. Your mission is here. Your blood is hot, but you still have work to do."
Ironically, Punit felt as if his blood had turned to ice. He had never felt this inferior or afraid. He knew how to deal with fear however, you kept moving forward. So he took two steps towards the door.
"Fool!" The Regus breathed under his breath.
Punit made to run, to get out of this man's presence as quickly as possible. He was unnerved, which unnerved him even more.
He made it to the doorway just as The Regus caught up with him and caught him around the neck. A sharp twist as his elbow went around Punit's neck, followed by pressure and a crack, and the young Atharim's lifeless body went limp and fell to the floor.
"Damn!" The Regus said, as hot tears glistened in his eyes.
"Why did it have to be so hard? Why did they have to resist and fight. Why were they so arrogant?", he thought.
The tears dried before they hit his cheeks. They were not for the talented man lying dead at his feet, they were for this organization he led.
They must be shaped to his will. They must become the arrow in his quiver.
The man at his feet was a casualty of a greater war, that was all. A discard. After all, a weapon that will not kill where you aim, serves no purpose.

The Regus stepped over the body and out the door. Another would soon come, and he would be ready to start again. Stoking the forge, over and over, until the weapons he needed were fashioned by his hands.
Edited by Regus, Aug 5 2013, 05:29 AM.

Tony Soloyov

Age: 32

Occupation: Drunkard and 'teacher'.

Appearance: Tall and stocky bordering on fat. Pale with long blonde locks, beard and a red nose from the cold. He is unkempt and could be mistaken for a homeless man, but has a strong face under the grime.

Mentality: A drunkard, cynical and depressed. He has lost almost everything in his life and has given up on hope of a normal life. He has a kind heart broken down from years of pain and loss.

Biography:

Tony Soloyov was born into a prominent family in Moscow. Both his parents were government officials with high positions.

He was raised as an only child - his brother a full 20 years older had already left when Tony was born - and was a darling among the rich and famous of the CCD. From a young age he showed great promise and charm - raised as a perfect prodigy.

At 23, he was well on his way to surpassing his both of his parents' importance and renown as a hand-picked protégée of one of the members of the Sphere.

That was until he developed the 'Sickness'. It was new, specially in men, but the upper echelons knew of it. He tried to dismiss it as a bad flu, however, it could not last.

His first experience channelling, unfortunately, came in the presence of his mentor of the Sphere. He was invited to dinner at the family mansion. It ended with the house burned down and Tony unconscious for the next two days.

When he awoke, he found he was being sought by the Custody of Enforcement. Fearing for his life, he ran.

In the proceeding year he watched in hiding the majority of his family hunted, questioned and disappear. The only remaining family he has is his estranged older brother who was not in Moscow at the time.

He fled deeper into the Undercity seeking seclusion. Here he met 12 others who had survived the 'Sickness' just like him. Together, they jokingly referred to themselves as the Cabal and explored their powers in an endeavour to learn just what it was they had been born with.

Little is known of the next 8 years. Tony's memory of the events is cloudy, and that which he remembers, he doesn't think about, much less talk about.

All that is known is that when he received Michael Vellas a year ago, he was the last surviving member of the 13 who called themselves the 'Cabal'.

Time to pick up the pieces.
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

When I woke up this morning, the country was in chaos. A disaster the scale of Dayton, OH has never been seen before. Now is a time for mourning, and a time for action however. In the past few hours I have seen a lot of talk directed towards seceding to the CCD over this: that is a bad idea.

Forty years ago, people used to play a guessing game of sorts. Whenever an act of terrorism or mass shooting happened, they would say "well, I wonder how much freedom the government's gonna take away this time." Don't give up your freedom for this, it's not worth it. Instead, it's time to help the survivors get back on their feet.

The Red Cross is already on the ground on the outskirts of Ohio providing people with medical care. Send them money and supplies if you can, they're going to need everything from water to antibiotics. And if you are in one of the surrounding states, they're really hurting for volunteers right now.

The national guard was deployed within a couple hours, and has been operating closer to the center of the incident, and so far evacuation has been very successful. Nearly every living person has been evacuated from the immediate area around the reactors and that evacuation bubble is expanding rapidly.

They have been organizing field hospitals and sending regular patrols through the areas still safe enough to travel, making sure to pick up any survivors they can. Army National Guard Lt. Randall Jones had this to say: "All options are on the table to get people out of the area. We have more than 200,000 men and women on the ground right now." The amount of guardsmen deployed in Ohio dwarfs the amount deployed during Hurricane Katrina almost two-to-one.

Ohio, and by extension this nation, will never be the same again. Now it's time to pick up the pieces, and move on. Mourn the dead, care for the living and don't let this pitfall stop us in our tracks. We still have a lot of work to do.

<small>Editor's note: Nolan Trace has donated $5,000,000 to the Dayton, OH relief fund. If you would like to help out as well, a link can be found here
. </small>

<em>Published by Vulpesnet, 2045. U.S.A</em>

Comments are: <strong>OPEN</strong>

<small>((Comments are anonymous unless you state your character's name in the time tag: Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))</small>

Name: Armande Nicodemus
Title: The Regus
Age: 61

Origin: Syracuse, Sicily
Current: Moscow

Occupation:
Regus of the Atharim
Guardian of The Remnant, Vicar of Iscariot, The Oroboros
Nominally: Head of the Historical and Ecclesiastical Archives of the Holy See of St.Peter

Psychological Profile:
Driven, passionate, fiery. Sharp of mind and able to focus, against all distractions, on chosen purpose or will. Not trusting of others, yet incredibly charming when need requires, but even then, he doesn't smile much. Serious. Focused cannot be overstated as a character trait. Incredibly smart, and knowledgeable. Is almost pathological in his intent to know and learn. Will study, dig, research, inquire and gather any and all information regardless of personal cost or health. Expects obedience and focus in subordinates. Very little patience, and definitely not one to double cross. Favorite mantra: "Forgiveness is for children, Forgetting is for the Simple, Work is for Mortals, Knowledge is for the Divine."

Physical Profile:
Average height, lean but not slim, hard but not thick, muscular, but not buff. Natural Auburn hair, now greying with streaks of white. Cold, grey eyes. Serious in face, but not grim. Sleek of style. Nothing flashy, but nothing out of place. Penchant for wearing Grey, Black or Brown, never wears color. Confident stride with a smooth gait, yet he walks much faster than it appears. When watching him, he is seemingly walking calmly at a leisurely pace, yet people who walk with him often look like their rushing.

Chronicle Vitae:
Armande Nicodemus was born to a Prostitute in Syracuse, Sicily. He grew up poor and a child of the streets. His mother died when he was 12, old enough for him to make it on his own, but young enough to still have his innocence. He lived on the streets for a year, staying with her prostitute friends, until he was taken in by a priest, Father Joseph. The priest began to spend time and teach young Armande and was continually impressed with his intelligence and how quickly he learned. Armande soaked up everything like a sponge. Within another year, he was caught up on the basics, and his mentor began teaching him more advanced subjects. He became fluent in Latin, Hebrew, Greek, Russian, Mandarin and English, as well as his native Italian and was able to read ancient Hebrew and Aramaic and Koine Greek. He learned calculus and physics as well as history and theology.



One day, Father Joseph was so impressed he took him to the Library of Syracuse, where a stout, old woman questioned him for the better part of two hours on ancient sources and myths. After having him read, translate and analyze the original scrolls. After this experience, he was sent to live with the old woman, who had him work in the library every morning, study every afternoon and oddly enough, taught him martial arts and hand to hand combat every evening. She was only frail to the unprepared observer. Once engaged, her short stature and dowdy librarian suits hid a muscular and lithe body. Armande studied and practiced with her from the time he was 14 until 17.

At 17, he was sent to study at Hebrew University in Jerusalem to get a degree in Ancient Religions and Mathematics. While in Jerusalem he stayed with a conclave of Mar Thoma Monks who put him through the same rigorous training and routine the old librarian had. Having been raised with nothing, the ascetic life was not unbearable. He graduated with both degrees in three years, and was looking forward to where he would go for graduate work when the Monks told him he was going to Oman. There he would live and have additional training.



He traveled with a group of Bedouins and learned Arabic as well as the rural desert life. They expanded upon his physical training, and taught him the use of weapons to compliment and aid his fighting. For two solid years, he trained his body over his mind. After two years, the Bedouin chief told him he was going to America to study at Harvard University.

Armande dutifully went, carrying his few possessions in a knapsack. Upon arrival in Boston he met his benefactor, the Priest from Syracuse, Father Joseph, who took him to a small convent where he was to stay for his duration. He was told he had been accepted into Harvard School of Divinity where he would study antiquities and archeology as well. At the age of 25, Armande graduated from Harvard with two Doctorates, one in Theology and one in Archeology. He then went on to study a semester at the University of Heidelberg before attending the Pontifical Gregorian University.

It was here Armande fell in love with two people; the Founder of the Society of Jesus, St. Ignatius of Loyola, and a young acolyte, Gregorio Vitti. Gregorio convinced Armande to join the Priesthood so they could be together. It was a wonderful time for Armande as he learned to love after years of doing without. He and Gregorio carried on their secret affair in the heart of The Vatican. A season of bliss and happiness that Armande had never known. However, their time was short-lived as after only 6 months, Gregorio was found hanging in his dormitory, a victim of an apparent suicide.



Armande was told he would be released from his vows as a Jesuit, and was sent to the Greek Orthodox Monastery, Holy Mt. Athos to study and meditate.

Armande was sad, but not devastated. He had learned that people you love do not last in your life. His only constant was knowledge. He was 27. Upon his return to Rome, he was told by a Jesuit Monsignor, who had become his advisor, that he would be leaving to go to Cairo University after his current semester.

Armande, who still had no attachments went without question. His whole life was being mapped out for him, and he was dutiful and even grateful for his opportunities. He missed Gregorio, and longed for him, but his books and his studies filled this void. At Cairo University, Armande went on archeological digs and studied even more. He began to learn Coptic and to study and read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. It was on one of these archaeology digs he was abducted one night.



When he woke up he was in a tent. He was bound hand and foot. In front of him were 6 people, the librarian from his youth, the Chief of the Bedouins, his Jesuit advisor and 3 younger people he did not know, one was a tall, toned young woman, about his own age with long red hair and plump lips. The Bedouin Chief told him they were a faction of a secret and ancient group known as The Atharim, or The Remnant. The Remnant of what they did not know, but they had a purpose. His benefactor, the late Father Joseph had been a friend of The Atharim and had brought him to the Librarian, because he knew Armande could be a valuable asset one day. They explained that the Atharim were not all known to each other, but some worked in tandem to accomplish their mission of protecting mankind from monsters, myths, legends and End Times prophecies. They explained that every bit of his training so far had been at the direction of The Atharim, and now, he had a choice to make. He could choose to be a part of their secret order, or hunted and killed. Armande made the choice stoically and without reservation. He underwent their days long secret ceremony and ordination, including receiving his tale-tell Ouroboros tattoo, and began his life as the 7th member of their faction of Atharim.

He accepted assignment after assignment. Using his physical strength, martial skills, education and knowledge and razor-sharp mind to accomplish every task set before him.

He saw the Librarian die fighting a specter of the night, and walked in on his Jesuit Advisor being disembowled by a creature that seemed to escape through a crack in the wall. He and the young woman, Jova al'Tiar became lovers and spent a decade and a half in a torrid relationship until she disappeared one day, never to return from an assignment.

It was this second loss of love that convinced Armande he was destined to never be attached to another person while on Earth. Atharim described death as "waking from the dream", perhaps when he awoke at some point in the future, Gregorio or Jova or both would be waiting for him, but until that point, he would covet and desire only his knowledge and his passion for his life as an Atharim.

Armande was 51 when he was summoned to Rome. He had an appointment he was told in the Vatican City. Upon arrival, he was abducted, for now the second time in his life. Upon being released discovered he was in the very presence of The Holy Father and 2 other people who recognized as Atharim from their Ouroboros tattoos.
Candles and ancient wooden chairs filled the windowless space. in the middle was a table with antiquated scrolls and manuscripts upon it.



He was being chosen, he was told, because of his stellar intellect, pursuit of knowledge and deadly accuracy at completing missions, to enter a new life and take up a new challenge. The choice was the same as when he first received his own tattoo ...accept, or be hunted. This time there was more hesitation and trepidation on Armande's part. He was deadly as an assassin and hunter. He had seen living nightmares. What would running from being hunted for the rest of his life bring that could be more dangerous that what he had already experienced? And yet, there was more knowledge than he could ever dream awaiting him if he only agreed.

The Holy Father explained that since the days of Constantine the Great and Pope Sylvester I, the Roman Pope has had a hand in acknowledging the choice of The Regus, the legendary leader of The Atharim. And from that time, The Regus was the final arbiter of the selection of the Roman
Catholic Pope, Bishop of Rome.

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Quote:</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>
"My child, Armande. The most famous leader of your organization was none other than Judas the Iscariot. You know your order exists to protect mankind from the physical manifestations of Apollyon. The Iscariot was convinced the wandering itinerant preacher from Nazareth was the Apollyon made flesh and was going to bring about the End Times, and the Next Age. Following his attempt to destroy a man he was convinced was a Destructor, a God-Man. We, the Early Church strove to discover who he represented. The legends of his 30 pieces of silver and shameful demise were created to hide his true identity. The Romans knew The Regus and detested him. They set him up in conjunction with the Jewish Sanhedrin. The world mourns one great betrayal on Good Friday, but there were two people betrayed in that act, Jesus and Judas.

The Atharim were shamed by his failure and the betrayal of the Jewish Sanhedrin which had entered into agreement with The Atharim to rid themselves of a threat. They were humbled as an organization and kept themselves incognito for over three centuries. Nursing the wounds their leader had allowed to be inflcted on them. They chose Judas's successor and successors, keeping their focus on the signs that would shepherd in the real End Times.

Meanwhile, for centuries Church Fathers searched for the truth behind the betrayal of our Lord. Finally, with the backing and influence of Emperor Constantine, it was discovered that Judas led a group of followers, dedicated to protecting mankind from prophecies and myths marking the End of Days. We, the Church, could not let that knowledge out. WE were the Protectors of the Souls of Men. The presence of another group, possibly rival organization, determined to protecting the existence and survival of mankind, MUST be associated with our Spiritual purpose or be destroyed.

It was under Pope Sylvester I that first contact was made with the then Regus. Pope Sylvester arranged to have him kidnapped and presented him with the information that had been discovered. Sylvester told him the future of The Atharim were in his hands. Two things must happen, or the Church would annihilate every member and wipe the remnant off the face of the Earth. First, The Regus had to be integrated and associated with the Church. And secondly, the Atharim were too closely knit. They would not need to disband, but they could not assemble in congregate anymore. Your Regus did the noble thing, and saved your Remnant from calamity, but he set you on the path to where you are today, disconnected factions, secret from themselves. Fulfilling clandestine duties, with nary a coordinating effort. This has been the way, even though power has waxed and waned through millennia between our various and diverse predecessors.

Sylvester was the first to honor your Regus in this way. And that has continued to this day. To this moment. To you sitting here with me, just as your Predecessor's Predecessor sat here when I first found I had the opportunity to be chosen. What is said here, must never part your lips.
You may notice I alone represent the Holy Mother Church. Ever since Sylvester erected Old St. Peter's Basilica, The Regus has officially housed in the Church office of Head of the Historical and Ecclesiastical Archives of the Holy See of St.Peter. But only The Regus and Il Papa know of that relationship. Your two comrades here have chosen to be a part of the ancient ritual of selecting their new leader. Should you accept, they will die. This will preserve that only you and I shall ever know our connection and relationship. The same is done when my predecessors were chosen, and will be done when my successor's time is nigh.

Decade and decade for millennia, such is the waltz we dance to preserve mankind. WE fighting a spiritual warfare for the souls of men, YOU fighting a temporal one for their minds and survival.

Do you accept Armande Nicodemus? Do you swear to lose your name and soul? To become The Ouroboros? The Vicar of Iscariot? The Guardian of the Remnant? The Regus of the Atharim?"

The new and improved forum tips and tricks thread (since we have changed forums from our original home)

Account Switcher: Perfect for those with multiple characters. Head to 'User CP' and find 'Account Switcher' in the bottom left. Enter the username and password of the account(s) you would like to connect. Please be aware that this information is public, so if you have characters you would not like to be known make sure you select 'Hide this User on attached accounts list'. Once you're connected there are multiple ways to switch between accounts - in the grey User CP bar at the top of the main screen, by each account's associated posts, and in the three bar menu in the top left.

You can also easily change a post's author (before or after posting). If you post the wrong account in error, make sure you are in that character's account and then use the blue drop down arrow next to your name on the specific post you want to change. It will allow you to change it to any of your connected accounts.

NOTE that if you switch accounts while in the posting box it will WIPE anything you've already written and you'll have to start again.

Who's Who: You can find a stickied Who's Who thread on the General Discussion board. You can also quickly view all attached accounts by clicking the "account search" icon at the top of the page.

PMing/replying to multiple users: You are able to address PMs to more than one member (perfect for plotting), however please be aware that if you use the "quick reply" feature it will ONLY reply to the member who sent the PM, and not the others originally copied in. If you wish to reply to everyone, you need to select "reply all" to do this.

<big>Immediate News release</big>



At 8:45 P.M. Eastern Standard Time, eight hours after the final breakout session of the World Leaders' Energy Summit - three days of negotiations and talks between Mexico, the USA, Canada, and the CCD about the future of the energy trade industry - emergency crews reported a fuel rod meltdown in all four of the Dayton, Ohio plant's reactors; followed six hours later by plant explosions. Fourteen plant workers, seven emergency responders, and four civilians died within hours of the accident.

Mitigation measures were immediately underway, but within hours after the first anomaly was detected, the incident was upgraded in severity to that of disasterous consequences. By midnight, radioactivity was detected external to the compound.

At 3:21 A.M. EST, the increasing pressure from hydrogen gas produced in the chemical reaction between the melting fuel rods and leaking coolant triggered explosions which destroyed exterior walls. Experts explain that the immediate decrease in pressure within the interior vessel indicates a substantial breech in containment integrity. Tests immediately began to monitor the detection of environmental radioactivity.

INES, The International Nuclear and Radiological Event Scale, reports the Dayton accident as that of level 7 in severity: indicating widespread health and environmental effects due to external release of reactor core inventory requiring implementation of extended countermeasures. The Dayton disaster has officially been deemed a "major accident."

The Emergency Broadcast System was implemented at 3:53 A.M. EST, mandating immediate evacuation of a 10-mile radius surrounding the plant, affecting approximately 60,000 people.

At 6:17 A.M. EST, a 100 mile radius containment zone was initiated, mandating all persons within the zone seek interior shelter to diminish their exposure. Everyone from the region of Columbus, OH to Indianapolis, IN have been ordered indoors as sheltering can reduce exposure up to 10-fold. However, it is estimated that up to half a million people will exposed to the supra-threshold levels for radiation sickness in the coming days. Early estimates place the loss of civilian life in the thousands.

The cause of the accident is unknown. "This is not a station blackout," Kevin Bressen, a reactor analyst from IENS said. "The type of accident which is occuring in Dayton is unprecedented. Common cause accidents usually entail a loss of on- and off-site AC power leading to coolant malfunction. In the Dayton case, coolant circulation remained operational until the explosions."

Fortunately, all nuclear reactions were shut down by insertion of control rods before the first explosion. However, the current threat of radioactivity comes from decay heat still leaking from the cores. The fallout is anticipated to leak into the atmosphere for several more weeks.

The newly patented thermoabsorptive Liquigel Coolant systems remained stable, officials report. However despite continuous operation, the interior reactor vessel continued to overheat. Melting radioactive puddles slumped to the bottom of the vessels, quickly melting through the containment floor which also appeared compromised. It spread as a molten pool -- like lava -- to the edge of the steel shells and melted through in less than an hour.

To date, The largest accident by a nuclear reactor meltdown within the United States was that of a level 5, an "accident with wider consequences" during the Three Mile Island exposure. A cooling malfunction combined with worker error led to partial meltdown of the reactor rods, forming a radioactive puddle at the bottom of the vessel. However as the vessel remained intact, exposure was contained, though some radiation did escape the plant into the surrounding environment.

The 1986 Chernobyl accident was far more devastating; a power surge caused an explosion in one of the plant's reactors which released huge doses of radioactive fallout into the air. Two plant workers died within hours; 28 more died in the following months from radiation poisoning. The fallout from Chernobyl was widespread, and the health effects of the disaster remain difficult to quantify. Within 24 hours, the Dayton Disaster has already dwarfed that of Chernobyl.

Oriena Rusayev

Her parents split when she was eight years old.

Oriena was brought up by her mother on the poor outskirts of the city, shadowed beneath the thumb of the CCD and struggling to make ends meet. There was little to no state care for someone with mental health needs, which aside from marring her divorce papers with “irreconcilable differences” also left her mother unable to hold down a steady job. They lived hand-to-mouth on what little they could earn, steal, beg or borrow, alongside the small package of money her father wired for “maintenance” of the child he had abandoned.

Ori learned to take care of herself young; oft times caring for her mother, too. She was a sarcastic and wilful child, often ostracised by the other children for her chaotic nature and disinclination to play nice - though she was utterly devoted to her mother. Those who ridiculed the illness that drove her to manic highs and oppressive lows learned not to do so within Ori’s hearing – and that’s as true now as it was then.

When things were good she attended state school – at least when she wasn’t on expulsion for her smart-ass attitude and stubborn aversion to following the rules. Her neighbourhood wasn’t the safest for a kid her age to hang around alone; amongst the tenanted apartment blocks, derelict buildings competed with half collapsed, abandoned demolitions, and there were as many squatters as rent-paying citizens. Squint your eyes and ignore the high city rises in the distance, and it almost looked like it had been ravaged by war. Still, it was home, and Ori was full of brash, childish confidence. She was never afraid of the shadows that scuttled in empty buildings; was even curious in a morbid way, to peer at those misfortunates worse off than herself. When they came too close she knew to keep away. Better, she knew how to keep them away.

The first time she got Sick her mother was on the tail end of a low, and Ori’s fever plunged her right back into it; convinced her that death had come to claim her only child because she was a terrible mother. Her tears were hot on sweat-soaked skin, but they didn’t burn as much as the anger in Ori’s gut. This was the CCDs fault. Medication would have aided her mother’s moods. Psychological treatment would have taught her to cope in a way a fourteen year old couldn’t teach her. With those two things, they could have earned enough to make a decent living. Oriena pulled herself up from bed out of sheer bloody obstinacy to wrap her arms around her mother’s heaving shoulders. The first time she got Sick was the last time she got Sick.

Life continued in a volatile stream of ups and downs that passed for normal.

When things were especially rough, they survived almost exclusively on her father’s monthly pay-outs, until the day Ori became a legal adult; then the burden of finance fell on her shoulders. She bounced between jobs, mostly bar-work in the city centre, and kipped on the floors of various acquaintances when it was too late to take the metro home. Her life had little structure, which she more or less thrived on, though she hated leaving her mother unattended at home. In her spare time she studied business through use of old textbooks and the internet, too poor to afford the tuition. It wasn’t ambition so much as general restlessness, particularly with the order of the world. The realm of business was so deeply systematic and regulated; she hated it. So she wanted to understand it.

It was while working in the prestigious Manifesto bar that she met [name omitted], a prominent CCD official with an errant grin and sly sense of humour. What started as a battle of charm and wit propelled headfirst into something else, and it was with foolhardy recklessness that she threw herself into an affair with a married man. Secrecy and lies weren’t difficult things for her; she slipped into the deception like old skin, and felt no guilt. The guy even had kids. And like most who rode the apex of the civilized world alongside Nikolai Brandon, he also had an obscene amount of wealth. His attempts to lavish gifts always ended poorly, though he persisted despite her quite blatant disinterest. For him, at least, it was the epithet of his affection. So she tolerated it. For that. Money, after all, is the key to so much in Moscow.

Nearly two years passed before things unravelled.

She made the mistake of falling in love.

Ironically enough, when the shit hit the fan, it was not discovery of the affair that ended it all, but Oriena’s discovery that she was not the only mistress. She was mortified by her own naivety; it had been foolishness of the highest calibre, and she was disgusted with herself. Not that she wasted time wallowing in self-pity; there’s little more fearsome than the wrath of a woman scorned, and Ori has never been the type to let an insult pass. Corruption among the upper echelons of the CCD was and is no real secret, but it has its limits. Discretion is paramount if a man wants to keep his reputation, and it’s surprising what a man will divulge in pillow-talk. She threatened to expose their sordid secret, and he did what most men in his position chose to do; he bought her silence. It cost him. It cost him a lot. Not the price of a broken heart, though it was broken, but the vicious extraction of retribution. Enough to set herself up, and to soothe the sting of her own stupidity. Enough to twist the knife in his stupidity.

The first thing she did was buy a motorbike. The second was to flip [name omitted] the finger in the most caustic way she could think of.

She used the money to set up a business. Specifically, she used it to set up a Burlesque House.

It had a pleasing sort of irony, since [name omitted] had relegated her to little more than a whore, and she’d been the idiot who let him. Taxation was too high to take the “fuck you” to the highest extreme of a more clandestine enterprise, and she’d be damned if she was going to funnel more cash than necessary into the heart of the “liberal” CCD. Viciousness sharpened her mind to the task; now a young woman, Oriena knew exactly how to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was for [name omitted] to never, ever be able to forget his mistake.

Kallisti House of Burlesque is a high-end establishment in downtown Moscow, and its grandiose begins right on the doorstep; it occupies an imposing stalinesque building that naturally draws the eye from its neighbours on the street, and keeps it there. During the day it is a building without marker; at night, lights flood its front so even shadows may not thieve its grandeur. It cannot be ignored. The interior within is lavish with nods to the wickedly decadent, its complementary mix of soft and severe differentiating it from the seediness of a strip joint. The main area comprises of a bar and small stage, with a separate room for the restricted performances (this is set up more like a theatre), and its motif is the seductive portrait of a burlesque dancer biting into a golden apple.

As a business model it shouldn’t really work. It operates a strict no-touch rule, but bends the tease to scandalous levels; it delights, titillates and seduces, then smiles and says no. Kallisti’s performers are untouchable, beyond the reach of the nouveau riche and CCD giants alike - despite every last dollar to their name. Strangely, this has made it more popular; it plays right into the current elitist conscious.

Since its opening three years ago, Kallisti has grown a solid reputation for offering the highest calibre entertainment in the most exclusive setting and is renowned for pushing the boundaries of risqué (and for its rather beautiful performers), but never tips into the territory of a strip-club. Among the city’s young billionaires it is a popular haunt; particularly to kick a night off. Given its prime reputation and offer of privacy, it’s not unheard of for important members of the CCD to visit either.

It cannot be ignored.

Thus it kind of served its purpose. Despite forming the entirety of her present income, Ori is not precious about her business. She pays someone to take care of the day-to-day running, and glances from time to time at the paperwork and accounts that come her way. Most would not even know she was the proprietor, unless they were privy to the name on the lease. Occasionally she works the bar and toys with the patrons. One thing she’s learned from years of bar-work is how easily people will talk when in their cups, particularly when soothed by the comfort of the non-disclosure contract Kallisti asks of its staff. As such, she has more than a few of them vised by the balls. Just in case.

Ori's of average height and slender build, with dark hair and blue eyes. There’s usually something quite sardonic to her expression, though she is capable of sincerity. Casual confidence marks her demeanour, pushing towards the boundaries of haughty arrogance at times. Despite the nature of business she’s in, her tastes in fashion and make-up usually err towards the understated classic.

Uncompromising, stubborn, and wedded to a front of apathy. Though still young, Ori’s a world-weary soul. She generally finds the company of other people lacking in both intelligence and interest, and views most of her relationships as a means to an end. As such, she’s free with money, though this should not be mistaken for generosity; she’s largely indifferent to its elitist value, and has an inherent understanding of using it to get what she wants; in the CCD, money means respect.

She’s charming when she wants to be, though her idea of banter occasionally cuts close to the quick, and particularly when bored or disinterested by her company she pushes to get a reaction. She’s the type to take risks just to see what will happen. Natural charisma gets her out of most scrapes, though when it doesn’t she’s hard pressed to step down from a challenge.

Difficult to read at the best of times, her sense of humour errs towards the satirical, and her temper is generally even. She has the façade of someone pretty difficult to ruffle, though in reality it’s just a slow burn; once sparked, her temper comes without warning, often disproportionate to the insult. Her trust, once earned, is usually pretty firm; there are plenty who think they have it, though, and don’t – they shouldn’t be surprised by her betrayal, but they generally are; she marks that down to being a good actress. Those who cross either her or someone she has a reason to look out for can expect retribution; forgiveness comes rarely, if at all.

She has little respect for authority, and despite being Russian-born dislikes the totalitarianism of the CCD. Her record is littered with minor infractions, usually of the disorderly kind, but she has little interest in actual crime; she just bends the rules to either suit her purposes or in knee-jerk reaction to the idea of being ordered about. Her opinion of the nouveau riche, despite forming a proportionate number of her clientele, is very low; most of them are the sort of imbeciles who’ve never done an honest day’s hard work in their lives. And yes, she revels in the hypocrisy of that judgement, since she didn’t exactly do much to earn the basis of her own wealth. Likewise, her view of CCD officials is poor, though since these people have generally earned their positions via merit, she treats this on a case by case basis.

She does love her cat, though.

• <li style="display:none">
  
• Kings of the Castle (Jaxen, Jon Little Bird)
  
  
  
• A Blind Eye (Jaxen, Hood, Spectra, Silas, Yuri, Drayson, Ascendancy)
  
  
  
• Amends (Alone/Luka NPC)
  
  
  
• Promises (Alone)
  
  
  
• Calling in Favours (Claire, Takeo, various NPCS)
  
  
  
• Choices (Giovanni, Nox)
  
  
  
• Blood Sport (Giovanni, Marcus, Hood)
  
  
  
• The Spoils (Alone/Kasun NPC)
  
  
  
• A Wicked Game (Alone)
  
  
  
• Pawns in the Game (Jaxen, Manix)
  
  
  
• Triumphant Return (Jaxen)
  
  
  
• Glass Houses (Claire, Raffe, Ilesha)
  
  
  Edited by Oriena, Jan 20 2018, 03:52 PM.
  
  

From Laying Low

For being tied to a wall with an iron chain and metal lock, Jaxen was in surprising good health--and he doesn't even swim. That is, if he ignored the splitting headache and tender ribs currently reminding him of how much he disliked getting the shit kicked out of him, then yeah, pretty good health. Pretty shocking, actually. Considering he was sure he was on the verge of death--last he could remember.

A bulb from a fluorescent lamp hummed and flickered in the center of this -- room -- he was in. The other bulb was burnt out, but taking a look around, he wasn’t particularly interested in seeing any more details of the place. The harsh light alone already drenched every surface with a sort of mildew-colored black and green cast. It was probably twenty steps to the wall opposite him, and another twenty to cross from left to right. The floor was cement, and nothing filled the open space. Not so much as a chair. Though, if he squinted, it seemed it sloped toward a dark, round disk at the center. A drain, probably. And he thought again of that constant dripping in the distance. The dampness to the place explained the mildew-like musk on the air.

For being in this sort of horror-flick gone terribly cheesy situation, Jaxen was almost as curious as he was alarmed. For this reason, he stretched to gather exactly how much freedom he had, but was careful to do so quietly in case anyone was around to hear his stirring.

His arms were held straight over his head high enough that his elbows were stretched dead straight and his wrists were gathered together in two shackles. First he went about feeling the metal as carefully as he could, twisting and curling his fingers along their edges, trying to feel for joints, hinges, locks -- pretty much anything he could to get an idea of how to break out.

Then he pulled his feet beneath him and made to stand. The chain itself rustled with the noise, and Jaxen froze half way up, heart pounding, and listened carefully for sounds of acknowledgement.

It was then he heard it. A quiet groan followed by a dry, throaty question. “Is someone there?”


His eyes went straight to her, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed her before. She was similarly restrained as himself but in a corner across the room. Her chains scraped lightly across the cement and next a sunken face leaned forward into the light enough to make her out. Jaxen cringed.

She was sickly pale, with a gaunt face and scraggly, greasy hair. One side of her head was completely patched with the thick matting of dried blood. It was impossible to tell if she was ever once beautiful, or anything else about her really. Then she sunk back into shadow, and Jaxen breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to see any more of her.

“Yeah. Where are we?”
He asked, careful to not throw his voice too far. Whatever was out there, he wasn’t too interested in it coming back anytime soon.

“I don’t know.”
She answered so weak Jaxen strained to hear.

“Who are they?”
He asked, hoping this broad could give him something useful.

There was a long pause. Then finally, she answered, “monsters.”


Jax rolled his eyes, “awesome,”
he said flatly and went back to testing out the chain itself.

There was a rustling sound of an old time key shoved into a door knob. Jaxen’s jaw clenched with challenge. He recognized the man that came in. It was the very same one from the alley. He was pretty sure anyway.

The man wore a standard t-shirt and jeans, but with hard-soled boots covered with muck, giving Jaxen a small clue as to where they were. He had scraggly hair which he shoved behind his ears like he hadn’t had it cut in years, but at least it was clean. He probably didn’t earn a second glance from anyone in the red light district.

He came to stand in front of Jaxen, who quickly found he was too well restrained to kick any more usefully than a whiny infant throwing a tantrum, so he kept his cool and stared the sicko down. Across the way, he heard the girl withdraw like she wanted to sink into the wall behind her.

“Look, I’ll play ball.”
Jaxen started, but the man ignored him, peering upward to check the integrity of the restraints. “I can get my hands on a lot of cash. Anything you want. I am more than happy to deal my way out of here. No questions asked,”
he urged.

The man finally looked him in the eye, blinking briefly, like he were considering what Jaxen just said. Or maybe like he wasn’t quite up with his English. Instead, he smiled a hungry, amused smile and pulled an old swiss-army knife from his pocket. Jaxen swallowed nervously, and felt the tension drain somewhat when the man turned away, but then he walked to the woman, who started pleading incoherencies, and Jaxen frowned, deep and solemn.

He knelt to the girl and grabbed at her greasy hair and held her head still. The rest was blocked from his view, both by shadow and by his menacing shape, but her kicking and squealing was obvious. He yelled, “Hey! Stop!”
And to his amazement, a moment later, the man stopped, and turned around. That sickly greenish-yellow light drenching him. The girl was sobbing in the distance, too exhausted to do much more than simper and groan.

“Just stay away from her!”
Jaxen ordered, then he realized the glisten on that rusted old knife in the man’s one hand and a chunk of something else in his other. The man folded the knife against his thigh and slipped it back in his pocket, smiled, then suckled on the fleshy bend of a ear, bloody in clear demonstration for his next meal to observe. An earring still dangled from the lobe.

“The ears are my favorite part.”
He said, chewing, then left.

Jax sank against the wall behind him, jaw dropped open in utter shock. Fuck me.


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Aug 1 2013, 01:44 PM.

Giovanni smiled as he entered the large open air market. He liked open markets. There were vendors everywhere, a lot of food, and, most importantly, a lot of people he could hide around. It was a lot easier to steal your next meal if there were people you could bump into.

The question foremost in Giovanni's mind was should he pickpocket some cash, steal from a vendor, or cause a little chaos. Giovanni never really understood why he liked seeing all the structure in a particular place fall apart, but he did. He often found himself looking for opportunities to cause chaos. Given his history, however, he had to be careful not to draw attention to himself.

Giovanni looked around at the shops in the market, and decided food was more important at this time. He had been traveling for a long time before eventually arriving in Moscow and was very hungry.

What brought me here
, thought Giovanni. To the center of CCD power.


Giovanni approached a fruit stand surrounded by several people and suddenly stopped.

Am I being watched? Did they find me? Did HE find me?
, he thought looking behind him.

Giovanni sighed. He didn't see an ouroboros following him anywhere. Calmly he approached the fruit stand, working his way through the crowd of people. He waited with a practiced patience, staying far enough away from the stand not to draw the attention of the man selling fruit. As the man, turned away, Giovanni drew closer to the stand slowly. As he reached the front, he looked at the fruit as if examining them to determine which ones were worthy of purchase. He kept in the crowd, blending in as much as possible. Taking another glance at the shopkeeper, Giovanni grabbed a couple of fruits and put them in his pocket. He slowly worked his back through the crowd and continued through the market.


Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, Jul 31 2013, 11:41 PM.