Michael hated the cold.

Even under all of the layers of thick clothing, topped with his massive coat of black - he didn't even know what it was, only that it was supposed to be warm - the chill of Moscow was ever present.

Captain Zokoskev had kept him back late, wanting to go over his plans once more before he started the job. Michael did not like how some of the soldiers hired themselves to the highest bidder, but he endured.

"Get in here and sit down," Tony called from the window. Michael had saved up enough to purchase a house a few blocks from the Moscow river in the Zamoskvoreche. Tony was wary, but Michael insisted on repaying his debt.

He had spent almost a year living on the outskirts of Moscow in near poverty. Tony had hidden himself away after awakening to his talent - chased out of home by authorities hunting for those with the "Sickness" and Michael had only been a burden. He owed the man his life.

"Did you actually do anything today?"
Michael asked as he entered, refusing to take his coat off. Tony sat watching the news - something about a robbery or murder, probably both - with a bottle of cheap vodka in his hand.

He shook his golden curls, his red face sheepish, "I vanished a long time ago, Michael. People like us don't belong here - anywhere."

Michael was sick of hearing that. It was likely fear of the unknown. He knew he was afraid.

"Fine. Teach me then. Tell me how to do something about this damn cold."


Tony laughed, "I'm drunk, man. I might burn down your pretty house."

"You're not drunk, you're lazy. Besides, there's nothing much to burn."
Michael knew the man and his solid bulk could take far more than it had.

Tony scowled. "Bah! You are nearly as strong as I am and you're only a pup."

"Stop making excuses. Whatever strength I might have, I can barely do anything with it,"
he replied.

The older man sighed and sat up straight. "All right then, seize the power, and I'll try and show you a thing or two."

Michael did as he was commanded. He calmed his mind and focused, just like the Aboriginals taught him. The power came rushing through him like a waterfall of ice and fire. He wanted to draw more, he should have been able to, but needles of fiery pain prevent him.

"Easy now, Michael. Don't overdo it, it is dangerous." Tony warned, not for the first time. He seized his own power, Michael could feel it, but it did not seem like he was straining himself. He sat calm and composed.

Tony did something with threads of Fire and Air and the room suddenly became warm."This," he said, threading the pattern deliberately again, "is how you would warm the house. The trick is to temper the Fire with Air. You must make the error of believing that Fire is the key to warmth. You only need a trickle, the Air will circulate the heat."

Michael made to copy him, but Tony swatted him with a thread of Air.

"No! You will burn the house down. For now, you must learn control. Go down to the basement, I have some snow there for you."

"Just what I wanted."


"Melt the snow, turn it to water. Do not allow yourself to use enough heat to evaporate it. When you have mastered that, we will continue."

As Michael made his way towards the basement, the chill returned. "Damn it, Tony. Can't you give me a bit of heat, it is freezing!"


He just laughed. "Only to you, my friend." He shook his head. "Perhaps the threat of freezing will teach you better than I can."

When Michael finally crept into bed, he felt the stark cold more than he had since he had come to this forsaken city.




Edited by Michael Vellas, Jul 25 2013, 07:16 AM.

Age: 23.

Born in London, Dominance VII, September 3 2022.

Current Location: Moscow: Zamoskvoreche, Riverfront.

Current Occupation: Junior Strategic Operations Commander, Custody of Defence.

Physical Description:180cm tall, 70kg. Pale Caucasian. Quite good looking, but his severe expression tarnishes his appeal. He has no style, wearing bulky layers of clothing under a coat to fend off the cold.

Psychological Profile: Michael is a man of contradictions. He is kind to a fault to those who he feels deserve kindness, and extremely harsh to those he deems unworthy. He is quick witted and observant but lazy.He is peaceful at heart but struggles with an inner rage and treachery that spans Ages.

Reborn God: The Titan Pallas, God of Warcraft.

Supernatural Abilities: Channeler with intuitive traits from his previous life.

Bio:
Michael Vellas never knew his birthplace. In fact, he never knew life in the CCD. Days after his birth his parents received a visit from an old friend, Daniel Thomspon. He had come to see the new born child, but started a journey that would last two years.

'Betrayal awaits in the CCD' were the words Thomspon uttered in a prophetic trance, the first he had had in almost 30 years.

Thompson's skill was weak, a few words, a sentence, it was all he could manage at the best of times, but it was enough for Peter and Julia Vellas.

Thus their long journey began. They made their way across the CCD controlled empire, often times with little but a case of personal items and the barely enough food to survive.

Finally, in December 2024 the Vellas family arrived on the East Coast of Australia.

The remainder of Michael's childhood passed peacefully. They did not live in luxury or poverty. It was as peaceful a life a child could expect to live in the turbulent times.

The threat of war was a distant but constant concept for Michael, one that he showed little interest in but great aptitude. He was fascinated with the distant past. The only battles that interested him were ones fought with steel blades. In particular he was drawn to the Ancient Greeks and Romans.

Despite his lack of interest in modern warfare, the Government saw his potential and he was enrolled in a military academy at the age of 17.

He learned war, and he hated it. It was not death that he hated - although he was never fond of killing - but the lack of skill and integrity in it. Any fool could kill with the press of a button. But he was good at it.

At 20, three years of resentment ended when he developed the "Sickness". He showed all the signs of the epidemic the WHO described. He tried to hide it, but strange things began to happen. Culminating in the mysterious death of a young, healthy man. The man was harassing friends of Michael's. Officially, he died of a heart attack, but Michael knew better. He knew there was something wrong with him.

Fortunately for him, the symptoms were recognised by a friend, Rachiel Elreeve. She had seen it happen before, and told him it was not a disease, but something more. She told him that the Indigenous Australians who sought solitude in the far reaches of the outback could help.

So Michael left everything behind and sought out the only people that could offer him help. They welcomed him in, they told him about a mysterious "Power" which had made men Gods once, but they did not know how to teach him.

He was forced to endure the "Sickness", starting wildfires and drawing bolts of lightning in a storm, but finally he recovered, developing a strange block. He could not use his new power unless he intended to kill.

He spent a year with the Aboriginal people, who taught him all they knew about the power and returned home, having some measure of control, enough, at least, to prevent any accidents.

However, when he returned, he found himself hunted by a mysterious group of people claiming that he needed to die for the sake of humanity. He was forced to use his powers to kill, but mostly, he ran.

It was then he turned to the CCD, where he had found traces, rumours that there were others like him, people who could teach him. He arrived in Moscow - his hunters temporarily eluded - in 2044.

It was here he found Tony Soloyov, someone who could teach him. For income, Michael used his only other real talent, joining the military and establishing himself as Junior Strategic Operations Commander in the Custody of Defence.

Six weeks ago his block was broken after 2 and a half years, thus he began his training under Tony. He showed promise, but struggled with anything that was not destructive.

Michael is driven by his desire to find out who he was, what his power was and why he was hunted by a group of people he didn't even know.


Edited by Michael Vellas, Jul 22 2013, 06:36 AM.

Tehya watched Moscow pass in a slow crawl beyond the taxi window, tempted to place her forehead against the cool glass and close her eyes. She’d hardly slept on the plane, just drifted in and out of vagueness once her thoughts and worries had run dry, then zoned out listening to the music piping through her earphones until the captain had called the descent. Now, so far from her homeland, she was tired. Her long legs were cramped from all the inactivity, and her shoulders ached dully; she was desperate to stretch out. It should have pleased her to finally be so close, but her thoughts were numbly focussed on the actually getting there, slipping off her shoes, taking a shower, and getting some sleep.

Outside it was early evening. Dusk deepened what little she could see of the sky, a striation of red and pink and orange that bounced blinding amber fingers of light from windows and windshields; the last throes of sun’s death. Before long shadows would pool the sidewalks and the streetlamps would start their vigil, and she dearly hoped that by then she wouldn’t still be stuck in this damn car. The roads had been swift from the airport, but commuter traffic had thickened once they reached the city; she’d grown used to the low grumble of the idling engine, but its gentle lullaby wasn’t helping her stay awake.

A knock at the window jolted her from reverie. She frowned up at the man beyond the glass. Tall and whipcord thin, with well-groomed dark hair and a manicured beard shadowing the line of his jaw. He looked like any number of businessmen on the street, but she did not have to see his arm to know what he was. Tey wasn’t surprised they had found her, even amidst the traffic; either the taxi was marked, or she was. A briefly sobering thought. She was still looking for the button to unwind the window when the guy opened the door.

“Ms. Alisdelisgi.” He gestured that she exit, offering a crooked smile. His suit was tailored, but he wore it slightly dishevelled, and the tie was pulled loose. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Traffic’s a nightmare this time of day; it’ll be quicker to walk.”

She offered him a sedate nod in return as she climbed out of the car, reaching into her jeans pocket to find some cash for the cab driver – who, realising Tehya was getting out early, had nudged open his door in order to retrieve her bags from the boot. “You’re Marcus?” She might have been living out in the sticks, but the net made a small detail of distance. Someone like Tehya, who specialised in studying the creatures the Atharim hunted, made great use of their secured networks for theory and discussion. She’d known Marcus years through those channels, though they’d never met. He was younger than she’d suspected; but then, probably so was she.

“Well guessed. The bill is covered, by the way.” The hand he offered in greeting was warm and strong; it made her feel limp and tired by contrast. She didn’t return his welcoming grin – too weary to bother with the niceties – and gave the driver a tip in exchange for her bags anyway; crumpled U.S bills she had no further need of, and maybe neither did he since the exchange rates were so ridiculously poor, but the guy tucked them in his pocket with a quick smile all the same.

“Do we have far to go?” She waved off Marcus’ offer of help – she only had a rucksack and a laptop bag, hardly beyond her means – and waited for him to set off down the sidewalk. He didn’t, not right away; he seemed to be taking the moment to study the solemnity of her features, and perhaps differentiate the years of faceless correspondence with the physicality of her. When her expression did not flicker, he laughed.

“Couple of blocks. You’re in a good building, great metro links. But, uh, seriously, Tehya, you’ll make me look like a prick if you carry all the stuff.”

“I’m tired, Marcus. It was a long flight. You really want to have a discussion about the retardedness of gender politics now?” Either the crassness of her language or the sheer monotone dryness in her tone made him blink in surprise. Her lips hitched up at one corner as she slipped off the rucksack and held it out. “For the record, I don’t care if you look like a prick, and neither should you. Can we go?”

He filled her in on the way; where she would be working and where she would be staying, the Wallet that would now form her primary contact, and a little on the people she would be working with. It was Friday; she had a weekend reprieve to acclimatise herself to the city and the new time zone. That was good, at least. So was the fact that Marcus was happy to divulge with little input on her part, since she was too exhausted to provide much in the way of conversation beyond the odd nod of acknowledgement. She paid attention, though her head was groggy. It felt good to stretch her legs at least.

-*-

The apartment turned out to be small but comfortable, its furnishings finer than those she had been accustom to back home - which wasn’t necessarily saying much. Some sparse adornments marked an attempt to make it feel homely – some ornaments, a few framed pictures – but it still felt spiritless as a hotel room. And it was very empty now that Marcus had gone; echoey. Lonely. Tehya enjoyed her privacy, but had never lived alone. She felt the singular beat of her heart acutely in the silence, and the sound of her breathing was conspicuously loud. It was strange, and not in a pleasant way.

There wasn’t much to unpack. Afterwards she showered, pulled on shorts and a vest that approximated pyjamas, and then curled on the couch with her beat-up laptop, the palm-sized Wallet plugged into the side. That sparky little bit of tech was going to take some getting used to, and it wasn’t a battle she felt like starting tonight, when the newness of her surroundings had her aching for the comfort of the familiar. She fought a yawn, sliding damp hair over one shoulder as she checked her mail. Most Atharim correspondence came that way, albeit safeguarded and encrypted. Heck, almost all communication came that way. She already had a schedule waiting for Monday, sent from a secure Atharim anon account - the sort favoured by the higher echelons of their society, whose identities were even protected from others within the organisation. Marcus had also mailed her the Wallet’s user manual. He must have seen the look she gave him when he handed it over.

Both messages she left unread for now. Instead she sent a brief note to her father - Here now, safe. Will call when I figure the time zone differences. T - then closed the laptop’s lid; it had already grown hot in her lap, hot enough to burn uncomfortably, though she supposed it didn’t matter now if the thing was on its way out. Its laborious whirr died slowly, then settled into silence as Tey got up and flicked out the light. A few minutes later, she was in bed, asleep.

Hello peoples.

Welcome to The First Age, and more specifically, to the non-obligatory OOC introductions and welcome thread! For members new and old *pokes various people into being social*

I'm one of a bunch of us who came from another Wheel of Time RP site, where I've been writing for... oh my gosh, a long time now. I have a feeling it must be close to ten years! Anyhoo, here I write Thalia and also Teyha. I've been a Wheel of Time fan for a loooong time, but have not yet managed to finish the books (Shhhh! That's a secret!). Too little time and too much to read! I'll get there one day...

The OOC (out of character) boards are a good place to hang out while you're thinking up a character or waiting for approval from the Ascendancy. Most of us use the chat room too - feel free to drop in, no-one bites!

The ship and supplies sent back by his father was astounding. No fishing trolley returned, but his fathers custom built schooner. Many of the the family's craftsman and his fathers own "Chief of House" had come to Manix.

Chief, your presence surprises me, a delightful one I must say, but a surprised none the less.
. Chief looks him up and down and smiles: You have read the note, you father wished me to be here with you to get you settled, and to train your House Chief. I fear time grows short.


Chief, these notes explains what I want done and what has already been done, above and below. No man may leave the compound alone. No man is to give any information to anyone, I dont care who they are. If it is a Local authority then bring them to me, but answer no questions. When the work is done, take em all home, save Jackson, Cargo Chief, take him under your wing, he is who I want as my House Chief. Moscow is dangerous, but the danger is in the game. This game I will play why puzzle out the secrets of the scrimshaw.


Satisfied that his orders will be followed, he decides to go for a walk.

Continued in http://w11.zetaboards.com/TheFirstAge/topic/11679407/
Edited by Manix, Sep 4 2016, 03:55 PM.

Chief Inspector Drayson McCullough availed himself of Dr Adrik Ivanov's desk, his Wallet resting next to where his feet were propped up on the expensive oak's surface. He had case files and police reports displayed, as well as the medical files of a surgery that was recently performed. It wasn't the first time he had read the reports of course, nor was it likely to be the last, but it gave him something to do while waiting for the good doctor to return.

The police reports were all standard stuff. Precinct psychiatrists had already written it off as a bad case of work-related stress. The doctor had worked over 30 hours straight before the incident, and a sudden outburst of anger wasn't unheard of in a over-taxed man. Coupled with other eye-witness reports that the patient had been irate, offensive, and 'down right creepy' according to one male nurse, it was all pretty easy to explain.

The man was a dick, and the good doctor snapped. Open and closed case, really. Unless you payed attention to the fact that the patient went out the window to escape the violent doctor. After having heart surgery. Not to mention the...inconsistencies...in the medical report. Those were all confiscated by the CDPS, and replaced with a far more mundane report. He had a copy of that one as well, naturally.

The incident had been flagged noteworthy enough for him to open a case file, and to shut down the 'regular' police's own investigation. A CDPS mandated order to keep an eye out for the missing patient, marked as a 'person of interest' was to be the limit of their involvement. And all the better, really; they had no idea what they were dealing with.

Soon enough Drayson heard the jingle of keys in the lock, and when the door opened, he had his badge and ID held up for Dr Ivanov to see. The good doctor was young; an expert in his field and well respected by his coworkers. He had the man's own files too, naturally. Psych evaluations, school records, even a police report from when a five year old Adrik was caught shoplifting a Snickers bar.

"Who are..."
Dr Ivanov's anger at finding a stranger sitting at his desk was quickly swallowed when he saw Drayson's badge. He froze for a long moment, then turned to close the door. The man hesitated only a second, toying with the idea of making a break for it, before he just sighed quietly and shut the door. "What can I do for you, Inspector?"


Drayson flipped the classic leather-bound wallet shut and tucked it into a pocket, kicking his feet off the desk to stand up. A few deft flicks of his fingers closed the various displays of his Wallet, and that was returned to his pocket as well. Of course, the way he stood left his jacket open just enough that his pistol was boldly displayed in it's shoulder holster. A little reminder for the good doctor to cooperate.

"Three days ago, you cut a man's chest open. And twelve hours later tried to kill him."
Drayson could read between the lines of even the most mundane-seeming of police reports and witness statements. He'd written more then a few himself, after all, and knew what to look for when folks were trying to hide something.

Dr Ivanov sputtered and held his hands out defensively, "What? No! I never...no! No, I was tired, and he was a horrible, horrible man...no, I didn't want to kill him!"


Drayson snorted in ammusement and walked out from behind the desk to glance out the office's one window. The view left a bit to be desired; the roof of this part of the hospital, and a patient wing filled the view, but at least it let in real light. "Belt up, Doctor. You're a respected doctor. We've pulled plenty of long shifts before. Which, I might add, I've already waved off the board from looking into. Insurance reasons, you know. Not fond of doctors working too many hours straight. Asides from one Snickers bar, you haven't stepped out of line your entire life."


The doctor paled a bit; of course he knew that the CDPS would have checked his file if one of their investigators had come to talk to me, but that had been over thirty years ago...it was a sobering realization that they could learn so much about him. He indicated questioningly towards a chair, and after Drayson gave a nod, Adrik sat down tiredly.

"I don't know what to say really, Investigator. He...he was brought into the emergency ward. I don't know who brought him in, I just did the surgery, you understand?"
Adrik sat forwards in his chair, and rubbed at his bruised knuckles. He had never punched someone before. "He was...he was a terrible person. Vile, mean. He tried to bite one of the nurses, did you know that? We were going to gas him, as well as local anesthetics of course."


This was all in the report, but Drayson let the man talk. He leaned against the wall near the window, staring out at the narrow sliver of sky he could see. The patient ward across the way included one window, some three stories above the that portion of roof, that had a piece of ply-wood instead of glass. The man had dropped three stories before running off. After heart surgery.

"We did the surgery. Had to tie him down, least till the anesthetics took effect. And it was...he...I mean, everything was there, right? Heart, lungs, all the organs were there. But they weren't...weren't right."
Adrik looked up at Drayson, obviously frightened by what he was thinking of. "Not...not human? Couldn't be. Or maybe he was, and something happened? Maybe some kind of...I don't know...it wasn't human though. I checked on him a few hours later. I was excited, you see...going to write an essay on him. Make a name for myself. Get a disease named after me or something. The staples had fallen out, and the incision was already scarring over."


That was in the reports that the CDPS had locked up also. The patient had been brought in because someone had stabbed the man in the chest, and damaged his heart. Hence the emergency room and the surgery. Could this thing heal that fast? And if so, why had the surgery been necessary to begin with? And who the hell had brought the thing in?

"The man woke up while I was checking on him. I thought...thought maybe this was going to be a major breakthrough, you know? New age for medicine...but he started talking. He sounded...hungry? Not desperately so...like a man looking forwards to a run at a buffet? Like, he knew, was certain, he was going to eat right away, and just...gloating about it. He was going to start with Antonnia...one of the nurses, the one that he tried to bite before the surgery."
This was in the report also; he had watched the video on the surgery; these things were always recorded, to help regarding malpractice suits. No one had been wearing name tags, and Antonnia's name had only been spoken aloud after the mystery man had been put under, leading to the suspicion he had been conscious for the entire surgery.

"So the man threatened you, and your staff. And you tried to kill him."


Adrik stood up suddenly, "What? No! ...yes...yes, but you don't understand. That man...I...he scared me. Like a wild animal, a wolf or something...his tone? the certainty of it? I couldn't..."
He dropped back into his seat, face in his hands.

Drayson nodded slightly and stepped away from the wall, "Calm down, Doctor. A few CDPS specialists will visit you later today. Medical specialists. They'll want to get your professional expertise on your missing patient."


Dr Ivanov nodded slowly and glanced up at Drayson as the Inspector moved towards the door. "Oh, and Doctor? Your house is under surveillance. Your missing patient knows your name. But don't worry. The CDPS is on the job."
The Doctor's name had been mentioned during the surgery as well, and anyone with a passing knowledge of the internet could find his address, with a little effort. Drayson offered the now pale doctor an almost sarcastic smile, then took his leave.

Continued in: Doing the leg work


Edited by Drayson, Aug 11 2013, 07:01 PM.

CCD - Central Custody of Dominion

Founded 2025.

ASU - Ascendant Soviet Union

Founded 2023, restructured into the CCD in 2025.

CDPS - Custody Domestic Protection Service

Custody Intelligence;
headquarters: Kremlin

Ascendancy
- Authoratative ruler of the CCD
Nikolai Brandon, Former President of the Russian Federation and Ascendant Soviet Union

Dominances
- political divisions of the CCD.
Current Dominances & their capitals are:
Dominance I - Former Russia aka the "Central Dominance", Moscow.
Dominance II - Former nations of the old USSR, Kiev.
Dominance III - the Indies & southeast Asia, Mumbai.
Dominance IV - the Far East excluding China, Tokyo.
Dominance V - the Middle East, Dubai.
Dominance VI - Eastern Europe, Prague.
Dominance VII - Western Europe, London.

Patron
- Ruler of a Dominance;
directly reports to the Ascendancy;
the CCD equivalent to a regional governor

The Sphere
- the executive and cultural counsel to the Ascendancy

Privilege
- the seven individual members of the Sphere

Custody
- CCD equivalent to a department or agency; eg, Custody of Defense

Atharim
- hunters of gods and creatures from the godwars

Regus
- head of the Atharim

Wilder
- a First Age wielder of the Power

The Sickness
- the symptoms which follow an uncontrolled use of the Power

Ouroboros
- the tattoo of a serpent or dragon eatings its own tail which marks a member of the Atharim

How do I know what god I can be?

You can be any god from mythology, so long as its not already claimed by another character. See claimed gods list. GODS of myth must be channelers; however, stories that feature heroes or mortals do not have to be channelers. Also, if you played a RP character from the 3rd Age (time of the books), you can play your old character-reborn.

Will my character ever remember their “past life”?

At this point in our story, we have not developed any means by which characters remember past lives. This is not to say it is impossible, it just hasn’t happened. If this is a storyline you are interested in pursuing, contact us.

Will I feel kinships or familiarity with other gods?

If a mythology says two gods were related in one way or another and both are reborn, certainly! You may or may not feel a kinship, relationship, or a familiarity with that other person. The chatroom would be a great place for the two writers to talk about it!

What is the process by which channelers advance in strength and experience?

You are in control of advancing your own strength and experience level as a writer which feels their character has developed it throughout your various posts. Therefore, you can further your progress / strength / skill at your own pace. There are no designated rules by which must be followed to 'level up' so long as you don't go beyond your 'potential strength' level, as that is the max you applied for (and were approved) when submitting the application to begin with.

As general guideline, it will likely take 3-6 months of consistent RP to advance from Adept to Expert.

Before leveling up to 'Master' experience level, check with admin first.

On the other hand, if we ever come into a situation where it is deemed someone is taking advantage of such freedoms, we'll handle it on a case by case basis.


Can we invent monsters?

Yes! You have the freedom to add to the monsters and mythos of the world. I only ask that you have an appropriately developed back story to tie in with your creation of sufficient depth to approximate that on the Mythos Blog. At that point, your creation will be added!

Drayson Mccullough
Age: 36

Origin: Castletown, Isle of Man, British Isles.
Current Resident: Arbatskaya district.

Occupation:
Custody Domestic Protection Service.

Psychological Description: Drayson had always been a man of few hobbies, and fewer friends. Growing up in a small town on the Isle of Man, he had always stood out as being far too mature for his age, and the only times he was seen as being aggressive was in a good rugby scrimmage. Drayson considers himself an easily angered person, but it is rarely seen by others. Instead, he is described as having almost supernatural levels of patience.

Physical Description: Drayson is a large man. 6'2" and heavily built, he has a penchant for somewhat dated wool suits, well tailored of course. A bit of a pain in the height of summer, but the rest of the year is usually pleasantly cool. A strong exercise routine is evident in his build, although rarely made obvious thanks to his chosen style of suit and jacket.

Powers and Supernatural Powers: None.

Bio:
Although just a boy when the King of England and the elected government made the fateful decision to bow to the CCD, Drayson still identifies himself as a Brit. The Royal Family are still a remembered and respected tradition, and now defunct United Kingdom still exist as a fond memory in his mind. But Drayson's a realist, not lost in the glory days of the past. Britain would rise as a powerful contributor to the CCD, and it was the men and women of those once isolated Isles that would bring it there.

As a boy, Drayson was the eldest son of five boys, raised by a single mother who did all she could to make ends meet. With the dying economy, she failed. Drayson, aged 9, watched his youngest brother die of pneumonia before his first birthday; funding for public healthcare was steadily cut as the government's coffers dug deeper and deeper into the red. After that, the young boy's entire view of the world changed. Gone was the carefree child, and Drayson quickly took up the mantle of being the man of the house.

He cared for his younger brothers, helped with the chores, and did odd jobs to earn money, food, or odds and ends that the family needed. Kerosene for a heater, blankets, some loose change, a bag of sugar. He was up early and to bed late every day, a diligent student and a common face around Castletown doing whatever he could to help his family. Drayson finished his public schooling and won a scholarship, which he used to pursue a degree in criminology and criminal psychology. Three years of schooling achieved him his Bachelor's degree, and he was quickly accepted as a police officer.

His loyalty to the CCD is more a carry-over of his loyalty to his homeland. So long as the CCD flourishes, so too will Britain. He served with distinction in the DVII Capital Region police department, with a sizable portion of his uncomfortably small income going to his mother and younger brothers, to help cover their ongoing education. It was during his time in London that Drayson drew the attention of the Custody Domestic Protection Service, and after five years as a police officer, he received his transfer notice to the DVII CDPS, based in Scotland Yard.

Another eight years of distinguished service there saw him transferred to the Moscow branch as a Chief Investigator.

-----

The investigation had gone in circles for far too long. They had their third copy-cat killer in the stockade, and their third one that claimed that 'something made them do it.' It was a load of bull; the department's psychologist was guessing they suffered from a mix of split-personality syndrome and schizophrenia. An easy enough story to buy; drugged out, desperate, and crazy, was the best way to describe the homeless population in the slums of London. Even under CCD rule, things had been slow to recover, and the social security net needed to help so many of the forgotten and lost simply wasn't in place yet.

Something wasn't adding but some of them had it figured out. Some new drug must have been making the rounds. It wasn't unheard of for the smaller 'chemists' to test their new product in the shanties. All three killers had been known to live around Gallions Hill, and that was where the three detectives were headed to get to the bottom of things. The three men parked their car in a gravel lot near the base of the hill and climbed out. All three wore wool suits of middling quality. Off the rack sort of stuff, with at least a passing nod from a seamstress to get them fitted. They weren't wealthy men, but they would stand out where they were going.

They mingled around the car for a moment, one of the police detectives discreetly tucking a short-barreled shotgun under his coat, the other two checking their revolvers. Then they made their move. The shotgun was loaded with bean-bag rounds; they didn't want to kill anyone, but they were ready, just in case. Nearly two dozen bodies in two weeks was simply too much to ignore.

Over the next two hours, the three men moved through one of the city's largest shanty towns. At last census, near 3 thousand people lived in the area, squatting in abandoned or condemned buildings, in decommissioned metro stations or lines, or in tents and lean-toos in what was once a rather nice park. The area was once home to the upper-middle-class before the economic collapse. People that were well off, but not independently wealthy. As factories ceased, mines closed, and companies went other, these were the managers, the bankers, and stock-brokers. Now it was the homeless (and probably more then a few of those once well-off folks who hadn't fared well in the change of times).

With the coming of the CCD, there could be no denial that things were better, and improving every day. But it was slow, and some places saw the affects sooner the others. They asked questions, even roughed up a few people from time to time. Punks and runners, mostly. You would think that a place like that, word that the police were skulking about would spread fast, but these people had clammed up. Everyone was a possible murderer now, and most folks stayed huddled alone or in small groups, around fires or radios, and kept a wary eye out for who-ever was going to pop up as the next killer.

At one point in their journey, they came across a young man, a priest. An Irish priest. The man was doing God's work among the lost and forgotten, but Drayson was almost certain that the young man gave the three detectives far too bold an eye.

The three cops spent hours scouring the camp, and the answers they found weren't quite what they were looking for. Sure there were new designer drugs floating around; there always were. But everyone they spoke to said the same thing. The killers didn't do it due to some drug. There was a ghost. It possessed people, and made them go around killing folks. Skinning them alive, breaking their bones. Torture.

Then the big break. A woman came running towards them the three detectives. Weeping, sobbing, hysterical. But desperate enough to actually come to them for help, which was saying a lot. Her daughter had been taken from near the tent they shared. A man with a knife, crazy, babbling in some language she didn't know. That was a common trend among the killers so far; they had been babbling, probably gibberish according to the specialists. Just another side-effect of whatever drug was making the rounds.

She led them to her tent, and from there the hunt was on. Other squatters pointed them in the right direction, and the three cheap-suited men were soon pounding the steps into one of the abandoned subways in the area. Torches were pulled from pockets and guns jumped into their hands; the city had shut down the electricity in these parts of the public transit system to save money, and it was pitch black.

It took days for him to fully understand what happened next. The three fanned out in the metro station, before the detective sporting the shotgun spotted the culprit, already at work on the now dead girl. No more then fifteen, the girl hadn't stood a chance. The coroner was sure she was already dead before the bastard had started cutting, so that was one small favor. The detective fired, but the beanbag didn't seem to phase the man much. He took it square to the face, then came running. Two more blasts of the shotgun, one of which went wide, and the knife-wielding maniac fell on the detective.

The two were already on the ground struggling when Drayson and the other detective found them. The attacker's knife was already biting into their comrade's throat when they opened fire. Rounds peppered the crazy man, but it was already too late for their friend. The knife gouged through his throat in their death-throws. What came next was the hard part to explain. Just before they opened fire, something seemed to rise out of the knife-wielding maniac's body. A spirit, or ghost perhaps. Neither man really understood what they were seeing.

Most of what came next didn't go in the report. The thing, the ghost, surged towards Drayson's partner. Both men fired at it, but there was nothing to hit. It seemed to wrap itself around Drayson's partner, who let out a terrified scream as it seemed to sink into his mouth, his eyes. The man seemed to struggle, staggering back against the wall and sobbing in pain and terror, babbling for it to 'get out of his head.' It ended quickly, the babbling stopped, as did the shaking and weeping.

Both men were silent for a long moment, Drayson's gun aimed at his partner, the only sound in the room the dying gurgles of the other detective laying on the dirty floor. His partner looked at him, then his gun came up far too quickly. One shot, a second, and Drayson was staggered back against one of the concrete pillars by the impact of one of the two shots that found their mark.

The possessed detective advanced, and began rambling some sort of gibberish. Actually, it almost sounded like a language. There was an accent to it, and a structure, like he was actually saying something, just not in English. Or anything else Drayson could readily identify. The man fired again, another round striking Drayson in the chest, getting a pained grunt from the large man.

Then that Irish priest came out of no-where, a long slender spike in hand. He came up behind the possessed detective, who was distracted with the gun, as if trying to figure out why it had stopped firing. The priest grabbed the detective's collar and drove the spike deep into the base of his skull, up into the brain and gave it a good wiggle as it sunk in. The detective shuddered once and dropped hard.

Had the Atharim priest played his cards right, it could well have been a start to a good relationship between Drayson and their secretive organization. Instead, the priest tried to lure Drayson into a false sense of security. As he tried to come to grips with what had happened, he shrugged out of his overcoat and unbuttoned his jacket and shirt to eye the bullet proof vest underneath. Two revolver rounds were buried into the new cracked impact plate. The priest tried to explain a little of what had been happening. A creature, a thing called a Wefuke. A remnant of something called the Godswars...

The Priest took a stab at Drayson mid-conversation, an attempt to kill the only witness. Drayson was quicker. The two struggled, but Drayson was the stronger of them. Bone snapped; the priest's arm broken at the elbow. Again, the priest's knee. The man dropped like a sack of bricks. Trained to hunt monsters, but the man was no good against another human it seemed.

In his report, Drayson put forward that the priest might have known something about the drug in question. Perhaps was the source of it. There was no mention of horrible ghosts. No mention of what the man had told him, before trying to kill him. It was all mundane and logical. The priest managed to kill himself in the hospital before the Custody Domestic Protection Service could get their hands on him, their interest having been peaked when reports of the Celtic tattoo on the man's wrist made it's way into the medical report.

With a dead Atharim on their hands, they looked more closely into Detective Drayson's report. One thing lead to another, and he was quickly transferred from the police to the CDPS, where he has served ever since, being transferred to Moscow just two years ago.


Edited by Drayson, Mar 30 2014, 07:16 PM.

Continued from: Window Shopping

After the incident at that blasted book store, Mr Arrabat had been far more cooperative about sticking to the itinerary. Even after the delay with the Custodians, they still arrived well ahead of their driver, whom Hood spotted stuck in traffic barely two blocks from where they had gotten out of the car.

The Baccarat Mansion was a lavish structure, made more so for the expensive banners that were rolled down the building's face, bearing the Baccarat seal and of some of the most important guests to the night's fundraiser gala.

A steady stream of expensive cars and limos lined the street towards the mansion's entrance, and CCD police played an important role in the horrible traffic congestion, as they closed off intersections and gave gala invitees priority. Only a handful of guests would deign to dismount and walk, not wanting to be seen doing something so indignant.

Mr Arrabat didn't seem the type to care what others might think if he were to simply walk up to the building. The two were met at the first landing of the steps leading to the mansion's open doors, where a handful of men that were obviously well-dressed guards kept an eye things, and a dozen valets waited to park the cars of anyone who had actually decided to drive themselves.

A concierge accepted Mr Arrabat's invitation and Hood's papers, and the two were allowed in after their names were checked off the list. The two walked in together, and Hood absently adjusted his tie before glancing down at the old man. "Well sir. Safe and sound. I'll be out back if you need me."


Mr Arrabat chuckled and nodded, "Yes well, at least there was some excitement tonight, yes? I will send for you once I am ready to leave."
And with that, the old Italian man moved into the main room, where guests mingled among the glass-encased displays of the Baccarat's finest works of art. Staff circled to deliver drinks or bore platters of expensive snacks, beautiful women hung on the arms of men three times their age were common place, and every second person was just a total waste of skin. In Hood's mind, at least.

He skirted wide of that room, moving to one of the side halls used by the serving staff. One of the servants actually tried to stop him at first, but after getting one good look at him the young man suddenly found himself busy inspecting the tray of empty drink glasses he was carrying.

Soon enough he found himself to the...what was the term? Veranda? Porch? A sign of the wealth and power of the Baccarat's was that their mansion, in the heart of Moscow, sported what passed locally as a rather expansive yard and garden. Guests mingled there too, talking and enjoying pipes or cigarettes. Most of the bodyguards guests had brought were secreted away in a small outbuilding in the yard, a bit out of the way of the main house.

They were allowed to come and go of course, especially if summoned by their client, but most made a point of staying out from under foot of their betters. There was little danger to their clients at the gala, after all. Hood's reason for being present was double-edged, however. Both as Mr Arrabat's escort, and an added bit of security for the Atharim, so he stayed closer to the house.

He loosened his tie and produced a cigar and cutter, with the cap tucked into a pocket rather then simply being discarded as some of the guests had done. Then a deft flick of his wrist and the cigar was lit, a few practiced puffs to get it smoldering nicely. That done, Hood just stood with near perfect stillness, calmly studying the garden and yard, especially the gaggle of bodyguards, the lay of the wall, the cameras, even the guests. He was being payed very well for this job, so he would make a good show of it, at least.