This is a Terrible Idea
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

I'm sure by now you've heard that his Ascendancy, Nikolai Brandon is coming to visit the United States. The more superstitious among us would question the wisdom of inviting this man to the country at the same time as two nuclear power plants are coming online, what with the fact that disasters follow him wherever he goes.

Even if you're not superstitious, though, there are reasons to question the wisdom of allowing a man who has conquered all of Eurasia and elevated himself to the position of a god while doing so to speak in this country on even terms with the President. The man's created a cult of personality so large Ozzy Osbourne might claw his way out of the ground to offer him work as a ghost-writer.

The CCD--and by extension, Brandon--has made its goal of world domination clear since its inception, and as such it runs completely against America's interests to give him a sounding board inside the country. We've already given him an honor that we never extended to his compatriots Hitler and Stalin by allowing him to even set foot on American soil 12 years ago. Now, after he's been allowed to sit and pull strings for the past decade, we're letting him come here again.

At best, this is an attempt for him to win the hearts and minds of the American people by falsely granting his blessing (as if we needed it) to our energy programs. He's essentially treating us with the same condescension that aughts America did third world countries. The CCD gains nothing from an American nuclear revolution. In fact, they lose one of their largest oil buyers if we become energy independent.

At worst, they might try sabotage our reactors before that happens. Either way they want to convince us to hand over our souls, and the more of a stage we give to him in this country the bigger chance he has to do it. Let's just hope that he doesn't call the Minutemen down on him and cause an international incident.

Now isn't the time for us to receive embassies from foreign powers greater than our own. Right now, we need to buckle down and get back to fixing our country. We're a herd of deer, and the CCD is a pack of wolves. We can't afford distractions or underhanded threats from some near-mythological character.

<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>

The Ascendancy to visit USA

The CCD and USA have started a constructive dialogue toward the goal of a world without terrorism, a stronger global economy, and peace and stability in South America. To facilitate these mutual goals, the Moscow Kremlin officially confirmed today that the Ascendancy will travel to Washington DC for a three-day summit. Sources close to the Kremlin report both the Canadian Prime Minister and Mexican President will also be in attendance. The Ascendancy's last visit to USA soil was twelve years ago.

Critics state the Summit is poorly timed what with the USA's proud construction of two new nuclear power plants: one already running in Southern Georgia, while the second, near Dayton, Ohio, should become fully operational next month. Proponents state the Summit is a chance to demonstrate American independence from CCD energy, proclaim the future of cleaner energy, and celebrate American ingenuity.

However, the market predicts the relationship between the CCD domestic supply of fossil fuels with foreign marketplaces may deteriorate if the trend toward nuclear power continues. Despite safety concerns, three more nuclear reactors are set to open in the next five years in the United States. To cement the Ascendacy's support of the initiative, Moscow has proposed the Summit take place in Dayton, the heartland of America.

Aeva was born around 2015 to a drunkard mother and a Druid father. Her mother was swift to abandon her daughter and three sons to their father's care by dying during an earthquake when Aeva was 5. Their father was a lifelong Druid - influential in the small neo-Druid movement when it was at its height in around 2012-17, and had a fabulous archive of knowledge of both ancient and modern Druidic technique, which he offered freely over the internet. He never stopped adding to his sacred library. His three children were enthusiastic followers, but having had a few minor brushes with religious persecution at school, Aeva was rather quiet and dedicated more than exuberant, and didn't draw attention to her beliefs.
The global disasters of 2020, Anthony (Aeva's father) and other prominent members of the Druid community effectively pushed the entire movement into charity work in the poorer North of Britain and teaching people skills of survival as the UK population took a sharp drop when vast areas of the land were shaken by earthquakes and flooded by unprecedented tsunamis and torrential rain. Scotland was almost blown apart by the long-extinct (or thought extinct) volcano beneath Edinburgh Castle. A very long winter was created by the ash and debris in the atmosphere, making it impossible for aircraft and hazardous for any long travel. With the dust clouds, it seemed almost as though the rest of the world forgot North Britain existed. Crops failed and food sources dwindled.
By 2025, it seemed as though the Druids and other neo-Pagan groups were ready to take charge as they were the ones who had harboured old knowledge and ancient skills and were teaching them to the ragged remnants of the British. However, pagan organisation is a contradiction in terms and people settled into communities with people like the Morgans offering their services around the areas in which they could easily travel. Aeva's oldest brother even became something of a guru - not a very stable one, in ruined Scotland. Her second brother was one of those who died screaming in 2035.
Aeva herself effectively took charge of her father's archive, carefully preserving the knowledge digitally as paper became more expensive, while her younger brother, Taren, began searching for any more that could be found.
When the world finally remembered the UK had once existed and travelled to the region where it once stood, the CCD and Atharim moved in first. Nobody knows which group was responsible for the deaths of Anthony Morgan and his cohorts, though most favour the Atharim as the culprits. There were few protests when Anthony's eldest son was openly assassinated while trying to 'rally the mob'. The turning point came for Aeva when her youngest brother, Taren, went missing and CCD soldiers broke into her home and searched every square inch of it, allegedly searching for clues as to his disappearance. It is more likely they wanted evidence that Aeva had followed in her father and brothers' footsteps, but everything of even minute value had been sold by that time and nothing was left to say what she might believe.

For a long time, Aeva stood over the shattered vase of fake flowers which had sat atop natural stones that had been fashionable almost 40 years ago, shaking and forcing herself to breath quietly. Then she bent down and selected a rough stone of pale cream - the smallest of the half-dozen within the rest of the scattered mass of mixed rocks on the living-room floor where a soldier had wanted to search within the stones for evidence of... who knew what.
She put a hard asbestos tile on newspaper on the kitchen floor, then another sheet of paper, then the rock.
Without giving herself time to think of what she was doing, Aeva brought a large hammer down on the stone and the weak air-dry clay shattered across the paper. She removed the wax-and-cling-film wrapped SD card from the wreckage and carefully gathered up the fragments of air-clay and paper. It went into a plastic bag between layers of the waste from the cat's litter tray before being flung out with the general rubbish. Her old, ruined computer, the fake flowers and fragments of the vase joined it an hour or so later; she would take it to the tip on her regular weekly run - breaking routine would only arouse suspicion. The stones, she tipped into another jar, including the other phony stones made of air clay... just in case.
Were there other Druids in Europe? Her father had told her that many of their communities had once had international membership, and told her the names of places which no longer existed, although a few still did. If Taren were dead, then she was the last of her kind - perhaps the guardian of the only Druid literature still in existence, and Aeva shuddered at the mere thought. Taking out the moonstone, she turned it by the light of her poor lantern and a symbol flashed before her eye for an instant, deep in the blue iridescence of the stone.
Leave, it said. Leave.

[Note: It is believed by some that Merlin was a title amongst Druids, rather than an actual individual. There was only one Merlin at a time, but the role was fulfilled by many different people as it was handed down. He became a single deity as the Arthurian legends developed, but the title of 'Merlin' may have been held by women as well as men, and therefore the Merlin can be reborn as female.]


Edited by Aeva, Jul 28 2013, 09:53 AM.

"Constantine, Krasivolkya", she heard herself say curtly to the Security Officer.
"Access Granted, Ms. Constantine", he replied.

This was their dance. Every morning at 4:30am. She made it to the side entrance, met the man who was the most regular in her life, and entered into the building that housed her soul.

She worked in The Kremlin. That never grew tired or banal for her. All of her studies and hard work and dedication. All of her sacrifices had led her here. To this. To be at the Heart of the political beast that sat astride two continents and ruled the Earth with a benevolent, but strong hand. And she, Krasivolkya Constantine, was a part of it all. Part of a nation that proved Right meant Might, and not the other way around. Part of a governing structure that wasn't afraid to flaunt its wealth or power or its benevolence.

Krasivolkya walked to the Liaison's Office. Her security card and retina scan allowed her to Pre-empt security for those who would come later; her staff (who she allowed to come to work by 5:30 am), other officials, politicians, government staff, VIPs, officers and executives. All whom would come into this world, needing, requesting, demanding and obliging her help. Her support. Her finesse. Her involvement. This was what she was meant for. No, actually, this was a foretaste of what she was meant for. One day, she would be able to provide these services, her superior intellect and problem solving abilities, and her knack for discerning people's motives and desires, to the most important office in the world. The Ascendency of the CCD.

Just as she knew when she was assigned to the Liasion's office 5 years ago, that she would one day be running it; so she knew her destiny lay at the center of the Kremlin. She would make herself indispensable to him and his governance.

Krasivolkya smiled as she padded across the lush blue carpeting. Past the fishbowl of offices that served her support staff, down the hallway and the offices of her top lieutenants and to the big, stainless steel door that led to her inner office. Cut out of the stainless steel and backlit with LED light on the door, "Office of the Chief Liaison of the Custody of State" and beneath it, a simple black enameled plaque with silver etching, "Krasivolkya Constantine".

The morning was the only time this office would see her smile. She didnt make it to this office by smiling, and she wouldn't make it out by smiling either. She coveted these early mornings. No one was in the office before her. She wouldn't allow it. Last year some newbies, up and comers, tried to get in at 4:00. Thanks to her arrangement with the Security Guard, he kept them busy in holding until she could get there. He had sent her a text, apprising her of the situation, and she had sped up her arrival as quickly as she could. She had arrived 18 minutes after 4 and had made it to her inner office, caught her breath and called Security to allow the ambitious new staff in. When they had arrived and saw that she was already there, they had reeked of surprise, and even fear. Krasivolkya could literally taste their fear and shock. Strangely, she had found herself almost salivating ...
After that, she was in the office by 3 am. It only lasted two weeks before the staff gave up trying to beat her to the office. In defeat, they returned to their 5:30 start time, and Krasivolkya resumed her morning ritual.

That reaction to the newbies fear, was one of the things Krasivolkya didn't quite understand about herself. She had a series of reactions and instincts she knew were a part of her, but didn't know why or what they were. Her father had known, she knew. He had helped her acknowledge some of them, and given her strange instructions and advice he made her promise to keep and heed. It had begun after her illness, almost 15 years ago. She had feared she was being struck with The Sickness, but she never got sick in the way usually associated with that strange affliction. Instead she had had moments where she was catatonic and unresponsive. Night after night of insomnia for a solid week. And she could almost feel voices in her head, voices or images really, from far away. So faint were they that she couldn't make them out and could easily ignore them. They were fleeting, but she knew they were there, and somehow knew they were real. He had never explained what had happened. He simply gave her firm instructions on what to do. "Krasivolkya," he had said, "Never talk back or think back to the voices. Avoid rural areas and forests. Be very wary and in control of yourself during the Full Moon. Keep your instincts and insights to yourself. Do not share them. Promise me." She did.
"And if you ever notice your eyes getting lighter, wear these." And he had given her a special pair of contacts, dyed a light brown, to match her eye color. She had not understood, but she loved her Father, and was an obedient daughter. She saw the fear and anxiety in his eyes that day, and trusted his vast intelligence. He had never led her astray, she had no reason to question. She obeyed, and had obeyed after moving to Moscow and even after he passed away two years ago. Yet she never quite understood.

She had not been aware of any voices since moving to Moscow. She still had insomnia once a month, that seemed to correspond with the full moon, her eyes only lightened on occasion, and when they did, she dutifully wore her contacts. But her sense of people had grown, increased and developed. It had helped her, she knew. Her strange talent for reading people. Sometimes she seemed more prescient of what they were thinking than they themselves were. It had helped her discern those who meant her well, and avoid those who jealously wanted to take her down. What passed for workplace "friends" were cultivated carefully based on her instincts. And more than one enemy or rival had been cowed by her before they could act against her ... All based on her insight and odd sense of "smelling" emotions. She couldn't explain it, and didn't need to. It was a tool she had, and she used it to her advantage. Just as she used every tool at her disposal: her reputation, her looks, her height, her staff; all of it. All were tools to help her get to where she wanted to go, to be who she knew she was destined to be. Tools.

Krasivolkya settled into her leather chair, placed directly in front of her door and in plain sight of the front of the office. She would watch each and every staff member come in. Making eye contact with each one, like a ritual, as they entered. No one escaped her notice. This was her domain. She was Alpha here, and they were her tools. She would hone them, whet them and use them.

The office almost received a second smile from Krasivolkya then. But that would have been out of routine, so she didn't. Instead she began to go through the papers and reports neatly displayed on her desk and credenza, and get to work, waiting for her first staff to arrive, some 45 minutes later.


Edited by Krasivolkya, Jul 28 2013, 08:50 AM.

There hadn't been time for Torri to do more than arrange for the majority of her things to be shipped to Moscow. She didn't own much in the way of personal effects, but it was more than fit in one rucksack, therefore she was lightly laden trekking through the bustling airport walkways. She was of slim build, but she was hardly the imagery of petite delicacy. Anyone to catch her stern eye stepped out of her brisk pace, and a few heads turned to watch as she passed them by, only to later realize the CCD patch on her bag.

Although just now sunset, weary lines rimmed her eyes. She felt unwashed and smothered in the stink of travel. She was hardly a hypochondriac but she was severely looking forward to a shower, fresh hair, and a bloody bed. The last few days consisted of half a night in some DPS office for shipment orders, details, arrangements, paperwork, and administrative shit. Then followed by another day scrambling to arrange for others to take over the sensitive work she was doing at the Berlin Institute for Medical and Virtual Genetics, else the last year and a half of her life would have been completely meaningless. Finally a day of travel. She liked point A and point B; but she hated taking the line in between.

Outside, she hailed a cab and made arrangements to be dropped at a hotel downtown, whatever was within short distance of the Kremlin; yes, quick metro ride would suffice; no, nothing too expensive - she was an army physician, not a bloody billionaire after all. In the meantime, orders were orders, and she had yet to know where she was to be living, which meant: hotel. She could hardly walk into the Kremlin a pale, grumpy and tired version of herself. Besides, she didn't have to report in until 0530. Four or five hours of sleep should be enough. Hopefully. It's not like there was much time to prepare for this sort of thing.

Character Name: Krasivolkya Constantine

Age: 35

Origin:
Born: Kampala Uganda
Raised: St. Petersburg, Dominance I
Lives: Moscow



Occupation : Government Official in the CCD Custody of State. She is the Head of the Team of Liasions between the Executive Staff and other Custody Officials and designees. She and her team make sure the Ascendency's, members of The Sphere's and CCD Patrons' directives are relayed to other members of the Custody of State and other Custodys. They are responsible for making sure questions have answers or that there are no questions. As a key linchpin between the offices of The Ascendency and Custody of State, she is sought after for advice from Ambassadors and State Officials on execution, interpretation and understanding of orders, counsel, insight and information. She is close to the Executive Secretaries and Administrators in the executive offices. She is bright and dedicated worker. Working a minimum of 80 hours per work, and expecting her team to do the same. She will complete a project or assignment on time, no matter what. She has an uncanny ability to know and assess a situation or person, almost preternaturally aware of their moods, intents and desires. This has helped her be quote successful and well respected, as she is usually never wrong in her judgement. She aspires to work directly with The Ascendency one day.

Psychological description: Tempered, balanced, reserved, competent and confident. Krasivolkya is no hot head. Not easily angered, and never one to lose her cool. When angered, a few words are enough to silence the target of her annoyance. Quietly cursing under her breath in harsh yet simple words is her vice ... As is ice-cold Vodka mixed with honey.
She is a loner masquerading as a leader. She is icy in personal interactions with co-workers and staff; calm, yet cordial with superiors and in social interactions. Withdrawn when in large populations. She becomes obviously withdrawn and antsy when she is in a very large group with no obvious avenue for retreat or view of the outside or exit. She is, however, passionate about her reputation, her job and her personal philosophy. She is extremely impatient with ignorance or laziness, and can be quite rude and brisk to those who make excuses, play the victim or don't measure up to her ideals. These are usually the targets of her anger.

Physical description: 2 meters tall, 70 Kg. Broad in hip and shoulder, muscular yet feminine.She is of mixed Ugandan and Russian ancestry. She has milk coffee colored skin, short, curly burnt-caramel colored hair that has no length to it and never reaches past her ears or is unkempt. High cheekbones and forehead, with plump lips and a broader nose than is typically seem on Russian women. Her eyes range from light brown to almost golden. Her legs are thick and longer than her torso, and she has curves of hip, butt and thigh.

Biography: Krasivolkya's father was a Professor of History and Anthropology at the University in St. Petersburg. While doing research abroad in Kampala, Uganda, he met a Ugandan Professorial colleague, and fell in love. She became pregnant and gave birth to a daughter. However, a civil war was looming and Krasivolkya's father wanted to move his family out of danger. He could not take his lover with him because they were not legally married, and the government had shut down all licensing and civil departments. She urged him to leave with Krasivolkya, and then work to have her reunited later in order to keep their daughter safe. He left, but before he made it home, the rebels invaded the city and went on a spree of rape and murder. Krasivolkya's mother, as an elite, educated woman, was a target, and did not survive the onslaught. A friend sent the sad news, which Krasivolkya's father received upon returning to his flat in St. Petersburg.

Krasivolkya was raised with the best schooling. Her father never remarried and she became his advisor, friend and colleague. She developed an interest in political science and government, and her father had influential connections that helped get her fellowships and interns and eventually a job with the government in Moscow. From there her hardwork and intelligence did the rest.

Around 20, Krasivolkya started having odd episodes where she would zone out, or have insomnia for several nights in a row. Her father took her to several doctors, but the cause could not be determined. When her eyes started to lighten on occasion, her father knew what was happening. He had several friends and connections with the Atharim, and was often consulted for his research in ancient history. He began to prepare his daughter how to evade detection as a Wolfkin. Stealth and deception came naturally to Krasivolkya. Her world didnt have much room for others to get too close to her anyway.

Krasivolkya has been successful in Moscow for 10 years and has risen to become Chief Liaison for the Executive/Ambassador Staff. Her father died two years ago from A brief bout with cancer, leaving Krasivolkya completely alone in the world of her own making.
Edited by Krasivolkya, Jul 28 2013, 05:22 PM.

Does Anyone Remember Shame?
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace


There's a phrase that's always bothered me, when people use it. It's normally reserved for use by conspiracy theorists and crazy fringe political groups... but never has there been a time where this phrase is more true, or more necessary: Wake up America.

I've said before that empires thrive on conquest; halt the food supply and the animal starves. Nations thrive on nationalism. When the populace becomes lazy, when it becomes too comfortable, when it starts to hate itself for its success, that's when they fall. Right now we're witnessing the death of nationalism, and with it our nation.

Less than fifty years ago, if anyone from that time saw what our nation has fallen to now they would be beyond angry. If they saw us allowing the CCD to spread as it is, they would be terrified. We've fallen, people, and fallen far.

Think about what CCD means for a moment--Central Custody of Dominion. It's not the Central Custody of Freedom, or Happiness or Unity or whatever other nice word you could put there. It's Domination. In their very name, they volunteer the truth: They're not here to help, they're here to control as much of the world as they can. The only credit I can give them is for being honest about it.

The problem that we're witnessing however, is that a lot of people are ignoring the simple truth that's staring them in the face. The Europeans were easily seduced when the Ascendancy offered to help them through their economic problems. After all, it only cost them their souls. The American people were not willing to bend the knee, however, and I'm proud of that.

What's worrying is this new generation that's being raised right now. My generation had our parents who lived before the disasters. Kids being born today will only have their grandparents. None of them will remember first hand America the beautiful, the greatest country on Earth. Instead they'll live and work in the wreckage of our dreams. How can we expect them to see the potential we all have? How can anyone be sure that thirty or forty years down the line an American people with far less fortitude won't give up and succumb to tyranny?

We're the last bastion of true freedom on Earth, and we're living on borrowed time. The only people left aside from us who would stand against the world's new evil empire are Australia and China. China has already been softened by a century of totalitarianism, and Australia isn't very large compared to all of Eurasia.

A suicidal lethargy has overtaken us, every single one of us. Too many are satisfied to live on government aid which we can't afford, or drown their sorrows in drugs and alcohol. The American people my parents' generation remembers were innovative, hard working and resourceful. I have no reason to believe that all of you alive today are incapable of those same levels of achievement.

You're probably thinking by now, "Alright, you've told me about all of these problems. How do we get to fixing it?" And the sad truth is, I don't have all the answers. If I did we wouldn't be in this predicament. But I will say this: Overcome that lethargy.

Go to college, invent new things, read, study, research. Found businesses, create jobs. Help your neighbors, serve your community. Contribute to public works projects: build bridges, pave roads. We can't get back to America as we were without everyone lending a hand. Every American should do all they can to put this nation back on track.

The government should not, and God willing will never force you to give your money or your time to others. That doesn't mean it's the wrong thing to do. We've been reduced to the lowest level we've ever been since before World War 1. We have a duty to turn it around. In the early 20th century, nobody had any idea that America would soon become the world's greatest superpower.

Now, in the mid 21st century, we could have the same chance.

<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>


Edited by Nolan Trace, Jul 28 2013, 02:59 PM.

<small>((This badly formatted facsimile of a biographical article is probably littered with grammatical mistakes, but I just wanted to get it out there.))
</small>

<small>WikiNet--we beat out Wikipedia a couple decades ago. Deal with it.</small>

Nolan Trace is a modern political demagogue who is rapidly attaining widespread appeal within the United States with his denouncement of the CCD and support of groups such as the Minutemen, alleged to be terrorist organizations by the CCD. His strong support of the Liberty First party and millions of dedicated readers have turned him into one of the most influential journalists of the era. <small>[citation needed]</small> He has been openly denounced by officials within the CCD as a supporter of multiple terrorist groups, and is currently working towards a political career. He is expected to announce his candidacy for the presidency in the coming months.

<small>[Contents]
1. Early Life
2. Political Beliefs
--A. Liberty First
--B. Trace Time
3. Published Works
--A. A Return to Greatness
--B. Freedom's Last Stand</small>

<big>Early Life:
</big>
Nolan Trace was born on September 11th, 2013. He was one of the lucky ones. His father, Christopher Trace, was a Texas oil tycoon. His mother Jean Gunther was the elder Trace's third trophy wife.

In the wake of a series of natural disasters, Christopher Trace's fields became one of the nation's few remaining major supplies of oil. He would've become a billionaire, the demand was so high. Sadly, he only padded his bank account with a few more millions before President Clinton signed an executive order to seize all the oil fields. Nolan Trace would allegedly go on to describe her as a "commie bitch."

The elder Trace, his wife and newborn son fled to the inner states, eventually deciding to settle in South Dakota. They raised their son in the relative safety of Aberdeen, then a small city which was rapidly growing into the economic powerhouse it is today as the rich fled from the coastal states. The early years of Nolan Trace's life were fairly uneventful, although he did progress remarkably in his schooling up until sixth grade.

Around that time his parents went through an ugly divorce, and perhaps as a childish way of getting back at both of them he withdrew inwards, paying less attention to academic pursuits. However, he did do incredibly well in english and history classes despite his near constant failure to turn in homework, and incessant interruptions in the classroom. In his early high school years he gained a position on one of the town's smaller news nets and contributed several well received articles under a pseudonym. His articles were unique, as they represented a conservative viewpoint that was fairly rare in the rich, mostly white town of Aberdeen.

Late in his senior year of high school, he chose to join the United States Navy, or what was left of it at the time, as he felt he would have a difficult time getting into a good college. He scored in the 93rd percentile on the ASVAB, and qualified for the Navy's nuclear power program. However after a medical problem nullified his contract, he chose to do Mass Communications instead. Essentially working as part of the U.S military's propaganda corps, by the end of his five year commitment he was quoted as saying he was "thoroughly disillusioned with the U.S government" of the time.

In his words, he found that more often than not his job was to put a positive spin on failed military programs than it was to showcase his beloved nation's military might. When his five years were finished, he got right out. He left the Navy as a Petty Officer 2nd class. With military experience, it was far easier than it would have been otherwise to find work on the major news nets. Eventually he settled on the Vulpes net as his primary place of journalistic residence. While most of his early years were spent on what he considered unfavorable jobs such as obituaries and investigative pieces on highly publicized crimes, eventually his opinion pieces got a decent following.

<big>Political
</big>
As one major opponent has said, "It turns out, that when you live in a country that used to rule the world a voice urging a return to grace can find a lot of ears." Contrary to his witty, warm demeanor in person his articles on the news nets were a vision of brilliant, fiery demagoguery. In the rapid rise of the CCD, Nolan Trace sees a repetition of history, and often wonders aloud when the Ascendancy will become "the next Stalin, or Hitler, or both." Trace has been a vocal supporter of DARPA programs to develop "next-gen" weapons.

He also urges a return to cold war tactics in regards to the CCD, claiming in a speech made on September 26 2040 that

"...Containment worked. You can argue all you like about the morality of propping up two-bit dictatorships in third world countries, but it worked. There aren't any communist countries left, because we made sure to topple every last one. I'm not going to say America's always going to be the 'good guys.' The problem is that a lot of soft-hearted people in this country think our duty is to be those guys for the rest of the world. Our duty is to ourselves. In the badly paraphrased words of Ronald Reagan, we're the last bastion of true freedom left on the planet, and if we fall there's nowhere left to escape. We're off balance right now, and Ascendancy's got all the cards. To those people I say this: The only way to help the world is to help ourselves. Dictatorships crumble when the leader dies, and an empire the size of CCD isn't built to last. We might not have the hard power right now to go toe to toe with the thousand pound bear, but we have more than enough soft power--SEALs, Delta Force, Rangers and who knows what else--to stab that bear in the paws enough times that it'll stay in its den until it starves. Empires thrive on conquest, and the longer we deny them that conquest the better chance we have of preserving liberty..."

When contacted for comment on the speech, CCD officials scoffed. One, quoted on condition of anonymity, stated that "if the yanks think that they can keep playing God, they're in for a rude awakening. Rome fell and never rose again... ...Britain fell and never rose again. Now it's the American empire's turn... ...[Idiots] like Nolan Trace just don't have the manners to fall gracefully."

Despite dozens of death threats, Trace continues to speak out against the rise of the CCD, and has been a vocal supporter of alleged terrorist groups such as the Minutemen and Asas Ghayara.* Interpol has opened an investigation into his finances in an attempt to arrest him for funding known terrorist groups, however their findings are inconclusive as of now. In the words of an anonymous Interpol agent familiar with the case, it is "unlikely that we'll be able to try the suspect even if we find sufficient evidence, due to his high profile and position in the United States unless we catch him travelling abroad."

Liberty First:

Nolan Trace is a strong and vocal supporter of Liberty First, an ultra nationalist neoconservative party which is rapidly gaining ground in the U.S--due in no small part to Trace's news net fame. Founded by the late Senator Rand Paul in the late 2020's, their goal is to restore America's place in the world, and at home. Trace, and the party, claim that the "old Republican days of demanding tax and spending cuts won't cut it in today's world." "The CCD is the thousand pound bear in the proverbial room," says Trace, "and you can't keep that bear out without some nice walls, or kill it without some nice guns."

In the short term their goal is to increase taxes and invest heavily in the research and development sectors both for civilian life and military defense. They believe that America has little chance of matching a continent spanning empire in production, and instead plan to elevate their technological industry to new levels. While their economic policy may appear fairly liberal, they constantly refer to themselves as "die-hard constitutionalists." LF politicians have never voted in favor of any policy that contradicts the Constitution, and are actively (although slowly) working to kill the national bank.

LF represents a new, moderate breed of American conservative. Their idealism has been tempered by an understanding of the harsh realities of the world. They claim absolute dedication to their nation, to the exclusion (and many opponents say detriment) of all others. Their stance on the CCD can be easily summed up with the words of their late founder Rand Paul: "Until the CCD can be counterbalanced, the American people remain under constant threat of tyranny. Thus, our goal is liberty from the CCD first, before complete freedom can be achieved."

NolanTrace is currently the front runner for Liberty First's presidential candidacy. However, he has not yet publicly expressed his willingness to run. Officials in both the American and CCD governments have been quite vocal in their worry that if a volatile political candidate such as Trace achieves office, instability between the two titans will result.

Vulpes News Network

Nolan Trace is a weekly contributor to the Vulpes News Network, and he has used his incredibly popular weekly segment as a major sounding board for his political ideals. He often interviews important political figures on the show. He also uses his massive audience as a powerful voting bloc. When he throws his weight behind a candidate, that candidate has a major advantage. It is believed that his popularity will play a major role in the 2048 election, where it is believed he will be the candidate for Liberty First.

Published Works

Nolan Trace is currently the publisher of several books which, while popular among his readers and those politically aligned with him, have been lambasted by more moderate and liberal critics as "a virtual civilian declaration of war." When asked for comment on some of the criticism of his work, Trace released a statement on his Vulpesnet channel: "There's been a lot of outcry over my last book, Freedom's Last Stand, and I get it. A lot of people have become content with our position as the omega wolf of the world's pack. When I advocate a return to our original position, people call me a war monger and a fool. Some people are satisfied with begging a dictator for scraps, I'm not. If you're ready to stand up and live, then stand with me. If we keep lying down, we're all going to die."

A Return to Greatness:

A Return to Greatness (Mons, 2047) was Trace's first book and was mostly overlooked by readers, only selling several thousand copies. It presented a far more moderate viewpoint on the political landscape of the world at the time, advocating open dialogue between the United States and the CCD. As a fairly new writer with no following, the book was quickly forgotten by America's mainstream media.

Freedom's Last Stand:

Freedom's Last Stand (Mons, 2042) was released after Trace had gained a significant following, and topped the libnet's best selling list for political and philosophical texts. In the book, Trace took a far more aggressive stance against CCD expansion and advocated a strong U.S. response. He voiced disgust with how far the country had fallen, and offered up several possible solutions for problems facing the country. While receiving high ratings from conservative-to-moderate review nets, left-leaning readers were very vocal in their disagreement with the message portrayed in the book.


((Some time between leaving the military and becoming a journalist, his ability to channel manifested itself. While he survived the spark, he has no idea at all about his abilities. He often channels without knowing it, and may sometimes unconsciously use a form of compulsion on others. He can't make you kill your mother--unless you hate your mother, in which case he can't make you NOT kill her--but he can be oddly persuasive at times.

His block is that he can't do any channeling without saying exactly what he's doing. That's why he's capable of convincing people to do things unconsciously--he's saying it aloud.

*Asas Ghayara is me butchering the Arabic Language. Asas Ghayara SHOULD mean Foundation for Change, but I'm just a suburban Catholic white person so what the hell do I know? It probably won't matter anyways unless somebody wants to be an Arabic freedom fighter and latch into that name. Maybe I'll use them as flavor in some articles later on though.))

The issue has come up several times now regarding what to do if you want to write posts which take place outside the general Moscow area.

At this point we do not have designated boards for such circumstances. If the setting of your post pretty much anywhere in the Central Dominance you can post in the 'Greater Moscow and Golden Ring' board. Some people have been adding their location as a subtitle in the 'description' area of the post for clarification, so you could do something like that. For instance the post I created called The Underworld is subtitled as "Siberia."

However I don't want to deprive writers of such an opportunity to tell their story about how they eventually land in Moscow itself. Therefore, alternatively, if your post takes place much farther away, you may post it as replies to your initial biography under the Biographies and Backstory board.

Technically, the interest in such things has been more of providing a backstory post rather than starting a roleplaying thread. If you are interested in having an interaction with another character for your backstory, (ie, both of your back-stories overlap with one another) you may post back and forth to some degree, just don't carry on for pages and pages like a true RP thread.

However I strongly urge everyone to make it to Moscow eventually, as that is the setting for RP interaction with other characters. Also, future events *grin* may severely restrict travel (depending on how things work out), and everyone will need to be forced into a similar geographic area anyway.

I hope this solution works to everyone's satisfaction. Nothing is set in stone, however. We can continue to reassess alternative solutions if this one does not work out.

-A

Jon Little Bird was born on the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation in the southwest desert of the United States. He never knew his parents as they perished in a vehicle accident in his first year of life, and he was raised in his early years by his grandfather, affectionately known as Sooyee, an elder of the Mescalero Tribe, who was responsible for teaching Jon the old stories of the gods and the ancients, passed down orally from father to son and grandfather to grandson since the beginning of Time. Sooyee taught Jon about the spirit of nature and of how the world came to be through the actions of the heroes and the katchinas and the medicine they had.

Once, when Jon was five, he asked what his Sooyee meant by medicine: “Do you mean like medicine the doctors have when they give you shots, or what you buy me when I have a cough?”

His grandfather shook his head. “No, nino, not like that.” He scowled. “Curse the death of our mother tongue to these times. What I mean when I say medicine I mean a thing, as a charm, that you cannot see but possess within you, that allows you to change what is into something else as you want it to be. You understand?”

Jon shook his head that he did not. His grandfather sighed and took a breath. “See the hunters that buy into our trophy hunts and slay a mighty twelve-point elk their first day. They have hunting medicine. See those gamblers that sometimes come to our casinos and, no matter what, no matter how careless they bet or what fools they make of themselves, they walk away winners. As if they cannot lose. This is medicine.”

Jon went to sleep that night, not really understanding what Sooyee meant by medicine. But further stories began to make him think more on the subject, especially as he began to learn of the stories of Coyote: the sly god bearing resemblance to the animal, who was also not a god but tricked god and man alike with his strong medicine. Coyote tricked the gods into giving man Fire, so it was said, and brought a mountain up to split a river in two and end a division between men and women so the First People could be born, and also tended to get drunk on White Man's whiskey and steal all his possessions from him.

It all confused Jon. At times Coyote was at odds with the great gods, at other times he was a god...still other times he seemed more a scoundrel and troublemaker than anything else.

When he was a little older, he asked his grandfather further about Coyote: “What was Coyote, Sooyee? Was he good? Was he evil? It seems maybe he was a little of both sometimes.”

“Now, now, nino,” his grandfather said. “First of all, Coyote wasn't. Coyote is and always will be, as will all the other spirits. They are eternal, and cannot die even though they do. The Great Spirit that flows through all things and makes the trees grow and the rains come will always exist, as will all the things that make up it, including the kachinas and, yes, Coyote, and me and you.

“There are forces that make up the Great Spirit, some that are benevolent and some that are less so. The Bear is a part of the great spirit but he is a danger to you, for it is to his benefit if he can kill you and eat you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sooyee.”

“Some forces did not want man to be, and some do still want man to be no more. There are even some spirits that are benevolent sometimes but malevolent other times. The wind. The rains. Fire. Understand?”
Jon nodded.

“Coyote...as I have learned through all the stories...Coyote was on our side. Everything he did was to the benefit of man even if he were to incur the wrath of the other gods. How he tied a birch tree to his tail and stole away with fire? That gave us the means to take ourselves out of the caves. How he pulled out the blanket beneath the nice rows of stars the gods had made and threw them into the constellations we know now? This gave us the gift of navigation which allowed us to connect with one another and build a civilization. No one can say what his motives were, but his actions were such that it allowed us to thrive as a people.”

Jon nodded, though he didn't really understand yet.

His grandfather could not help but mention to the other Elders the interest Jon had taken to learning about the old ways. So at times medicine men, as they called themselves, came to him and took him places. None of them were arrogant enough to claim they had any actual medicine. Able to work miracles just as Coyote and the other gods, eternally young, they had once been a part of the people and lived with them, protecting them with their medicine, but they had been long gone even before the White Man arrived. Still, his tribe's elders did what they could to teach Jon the rituals. They described to Jon how he must venture out into the wilderness and find his spirit guide.

So was at the age of thirteen Jon ventured outdoors in the lush pine-tree forest of the reservation. It was already starting to show signs of drought from overuse of the water table by his time, but was still tranquil. Not quite sure what to do, he lay down against a tall fir tree, listening to a subtle river flow, and feel like he was one with all around him. He thought upon the stories of his elders of the Great Spirit and when he was silent enough for long enough, could almost feel himself melting into his surroundings. He closed his eyes and imagined he was really awake and wandering among the trees, swimming in the river with the fish, and running alongside the deer. As if he could simply seep into the earth and become one with it.

And he found he could see from his forehead. Around him was the forest, behind him was himself sleeping. He found he could wander as he pleased away from his sleeping body. A thrum passed through his spirit and he felt eyes upon him.

“Who is there?” he called out.

He saw a blur of motion coming from the tree line. It appeared to be coming right at him. Jon winced and braced for an impact with whatever the thing was.

The thing stopped before him. It was a coyote, sleek with streaks of white, silver and gray fur, the largest coyote he had ever seen. It yipped at him, and arched its neck as if begging Jon to follow. Then it disappeared in a blur through the tree line.

“Wait!” Jon said. He ran as fast as he could toward where the coyote went. It seemed his spirit could move in this place faster than he'd ever before been able to, yet he was quickly lost among the trees. There was no sign of the coyote anywhere.

__________________________________________________________________________________

After his grandfather passed away Jon was awarded to a polite but distant couple as a foster-ling. he was sent to school on the reservation just like the other kids. Education on the reservation had become pitiful, with few teachers willing to take the pay when there were better jobs to be had down in the valley. With the destruction that had come in the massive tsunami, refugees had flooded the desert and the once-humble cities of the New Mexico desert were burgeoning with people from the West Coast. The federal government through the Bureau of Indian Affairs could no longer subsidize many things for the reservation, including pay for teachers, and while the reservation had casino money to fund its education department, with dwindling members, it still could not compete with the tax dollars appropriated to students in more populous regions. Additionally, the new America was much like the old America in which more attention and money was paid to those of athletic talent, and Jon had little of this. So Jon soaked up what he could intellectually, and looked for what advantage he could gain elsewhere. When he grew out his 5'6 frame of 120 pounds he (surprisingly) made his high school football team as a kicker. He became well-known for his ability to make the on-side kick, and was able to use this to devastating effect at the state championships when he convinced his coach to perform this maneuver on the starting kick-off.

He also nearly got expelled for triggering a fire alarm as a diversion so he could break into the school records in broad daylight and destroy student records for one of his friends who had been expelled. Jon had witnessed the altercation between Wendell Geronimo and his friend Asencion Guerrera in which Wendell's hand had been broken, and knew Wendell had been the aggressor in the confrontation, though family connections had made the official story something else. With the records destroyed at least Asencion was free to pursue other academic options, which he ultimately did. Jon was questioned quite fiercely in the incident, yet no one could prove he had done the deed. So he had gone on to graduate.

He never forgot his grandfather's stories or about his experience with his spirit guide.

The push of people was unrelenting from the West. More came as resources dried up from other lands. They began to push onto the reservation, and the BIA pretty much went AWOL. No resources to spare in the new world for honoring old treaties. While land was plentiful, water was not. New Mexico was still a desert. Private interests began draining water from the reservation's aquifer and courts did not seem obliged to stop it. Jon saw all this, and understood. The White Man had come from the west as he once had from the East...These people were a threat to his people should they go on unchecked...but they were only doing what they needed to to survive themselves. And yet another was coming form the east, the CCD, which had as of yet very little influence where he was but Jon was sure would be coming more strongly.

And Jon began to understand Coyote. He did what must be done. And he began to understand that it was out of love that he did it, his love for humanity.

Jon applied, and was accepted into the University of New Mexico agricultural engineering program. He managed to secure a scholarship based on his tribal affiliations, the last of his tribe to do so as it was discontinued due to financial hardship. His intention was to learn about the role water played in desert agriculture so to benefit his people, and he did in fact learn much, both about mechanics and crop production; however, during his college years he excelled as a master of the school's debate team and led them to several regional and one national championship title. He decided to switch his major to pre-law before graduation. During his time in school he also became convinced that land ownership was sacrosanct; his people owned their land in the eyes of the law and by way of treaty, but in this new world would this be honored or once again trampled?


Headed east, this time. After a lengthy but successful clerkship Jon had been accepted into what passed for a prestigious law school these days at Yale. The details of payment had yet to be worked out; Jon figured he'd find some way to persuade the masters to let him stay once he'd been there awhile.

It was Sooyee's rusty 1995 GMC Sierra that propelled him down the road east through Oklahoma. The vehicle was so old there were no parts made for it anymore, yet Jon managed to keep it running, mostly with socket wrenches and hope. Fitting an old Indian's truck rattling held together with duct tape and chicken wire should take him through Indian territory. What Indian territory was left, that is. Were there still Comanche out there, those who had once fought his ancestors but in the end took them in? Little was there to be sure of these days.

The recession and natural disasters had taken great toll upon many of the still-surviving Indian tribes, and there was great cause for worry of the future among them. There was great discussion among the various independent tribes whether they should approach the CCD and ask for admission, and Jon followed the chatter with utmost attention. Best he could discern, there were three emerging camps on the issue. One said the CCD would protect their heritage and bring benefits to the Indian peoples, and be better able to honor the treaties protecting their reservations than the American government currently could in its state. Another claimed it was just swapping one dominating power for another, and the CCD was thousands of miles away, so it was better to stick with the devil they knew. Still a third whispered that the global recession was an opportunity to take back the days of old and not have to live under the shadow of a treaty that survived on the whim of a greater power. Jon wasn't sure what to think about the last argument...he'd sworn that the days of old had died long before his Sooyee, apart from what Jon himself had learned.

Dim headlights lighting up the black pavement before him, Jon couldn't help but let his thoughts wander to thinking about Sooyee and his stories. Would Coyote have let the businessmen chase the Sioux and the Cherokee off their land out here? Probably not; he'd have stolen their suits right off their backs and sent them back running to the Mississippi. Would have served them right, too, to keep messing with such old blood.

The road wound on, as Jon sped past bleak mile marker after mile marker. The thump-thump of the slightly uneven pavement against his partially-bald tires crooned to him in a bitter, poor-pitched melody, and Jon felt himself starting to … drift...as he had in the days of his youth while out in the forest, all alone, feeling the thrum of nature's own heartbeat. His spirit guide called to him to walk in the spirit. He didn't fight it, even though in one small part of his mind he knew that crashing his truck could be a real possibility.

As the hypnotic rhythm took effect, Jon found himself looking at his own body. He could still move the truck's wheel with his hands if he concentrated on it, but it felt like he was moving puppets. It was as if he was still driving but at the same time just passively watching. Careful to keep himself anchored to the body that was driving the vehicle, he let himself drift upward to watch the stars. They were dazzling tonight, an array of constellations under a frigid dark canopy. He quickly found the Big Bear, and the Little Bear with Polaris that guided all souls true North. Then the Hunter, chasing his prey across the sky with bow fully drawn.

A coyote suddenly appeared among the stars, and made a silent howl.

This is foolishness. Reason guided Jon to the notion it was incredibly stupid to be taking a spirit-walk while his body was driving a two-ton vehicle at highway speeds. He had no idea how to return so decided he would imagine himself back in his truck. This seemed to work, for he opened his eyes and found himself driving down the dark highway in full control of his vehicle.

He was not sure what that spirit-walk was intended to achieve. Why had his guide pulled him in again? He had already determined through years of research and his own experiences that there must be some truth to the old stories. There had once existed true medicine among his people, of that he had no doubt. There was also possibly some real truth to the katchinas and the Great Spirit. Coyote perhaps did actually at one time walk among the living and steal fire from the gods and bring man into being. There sure weren't any to say otherwise out on this old highway.

He crossed into Missouri without incident. That was a blessing, he had been unsure what to expect from what he had heard of a group that called themselves the Minutemen. Rumor had it they were setting up roadblocks in order to intercept “outsiders,” whomever they might be. CCD perhaps? Seemed a bit foolishness to Jon; everyone knew CCD didn't have any real influence in American heartland. Not yet, at least. Obviously if they did there probably wouldn't be any minutemen. One thing was sure, the CCD was so quick at its consolidation of power there was no way it would tolerate any sort of dissent. That in itself was troubling as considering tribes were thinking about joining with this force?

No. Best form no opinions. This government bloc could be very well something better. Jon just did not yet know all the facts.

Four hours across Missouri, and two more across Illinois. Nothing to see but flat plains. Hardly a light amongst them, not surprising as villages died and people emigrated to what little opportunity still remained in the great cities. Jon was just crossing into Indiana when the dream began to take him once again.

This time, his spirit guide manifested itself in his truck's cab. The coyote jumped at him without warning and threw his spirit self from the vehicle.

Is this madness? Jon's spirit self rose along the side of the road. He panicked, thinking of his actual self still driving his vehicle along the highway in the distance. This is dangerous! I have to wake up!

South. That was all that was sent to him. And his spirit guide leaped at him, causing him to waken.

Jon was back on his truck, driving toward a fork in the road. South resonated in his memory from his dream, and he jerked his steering wheel right.

He drove on, wondering what the hell he was doing driving on this road which was just putting him further from his destination. Stunned as he was, he didn't make any attempt to deviate from his new direction. South.

The fuel light sprang alight on his dashboard. Cursing, Jon began to look for a gas station along who knows what highway he was now driving down. Illuminated lights greeted him shortly, advertising gas prices he would rather forget, but knew he must pay.

The station was completely abandoned, but the pumps were still lit. One of those 24/7 pumps with no attendant, Jon supposed. Jon drove up next to the gas meter and slid his debit card from his wallet. He hoped his last pay from his clerkship had been debited on time as promised. Not only were US dollars worth less than they used to be, but it seemed payers in USD were more often to turn up fraudulent these days. The pump activated and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Jon was just finishing pumping his gas and putting the pump nozzle back in his place when he felt a chill. Instinctively, his third eye felt another presence around him. He looked to his left, and to his right. Shadows swished around the dim lights of the gas meter.

Jon walked slowly back to the cab of his truck. There was something else out there...yet his spirit guide had sent him here, hadn't he? Must be just the long hours on the road.

As Jon reached for the handle on the door, something struck his body, sending him sprawling to the ground. His keys went flying from his hand, finally resting by the rear tire of his truck. Jon gasped and felt something warm trickling down the inside of his shirt. Check that, his shirt was ripped and he was bleeding. And also on his back, with his truck keys just out of arm's reach. Still, with his right hand he stretched for his keys.

He felt a pressure on his right hand, as something was stepping on it. Jon looked up. He couldn't make out anything. Just shadows.

You will yield your secrets to me, the message came. Jon understood it immediately.

“I don't know what-” His feeble voice cut off as a clawed hand wrapped around his neck and started to squeeze.

Tell me how your people still have medicine. Crushing pain! Breath, a simple thing, a moment ago, denied! How the lungs burnt so quickly, the throbbing in the head manifested so soon! Black spots? How in vision already darkened by surroundings could things get blacker? Blood throbs trying to fight its way to the brain and fails! Escape! Escape! Dimmer........

flash.

Jon blinked, and took a belated gasp for air. He gingerly felt his windpipe, nothing felt broken. Stinging from scores on his flesh. So it was real. Spots danced on his vision, and he took another breath.

Memory is where it all begins. Jon stood up and remembered something was wrong with his side. He glanced and found blood trickling from a gash. He tore his shirt and wadded it against his side to stem the flow of blood. Then he looked around.

The windows from his truck had shattered into a myriad of spiderweb cracks. Of the gas station pumps, there were no sign. Only spurts of gas piping up from the tank below. Blackened bubbling patterns emanated on the concrete radiating from where he lay. Jon could smell it cooking, black tar and pitch heated like desert pavement in July. He found his keys, knocked a hundred feet away in a section of burning brush.

Jon stumbled into his truck, and turned the ignition with his key. Thankfully, the truck started up. Mind numbed to where he was not even remotely ready to process what had happened, he started to drive.
South.