There was something to going through the motions for appearances' sake. Somewhere in the back of Nikolai’s mind, he was tempted to abandon the gear--the science--of exploration and forge ahead on sheer instinct, but he would not give in to temptation. Forty-five years of discipline kept his hand from sweeping the dangerous flames of temptation too freely or too often. No. Now was the time for logic and reason; the time for science. Instinct was waiting for tomorrow.

By way of plane, then helicopter, he arrived several hours earlier to this field office, an in situ center of operations for the Custody of Energy’s exploration team. It had been two years since his last visit, and while briefings, calls, and teleconferences went a long way toward facilitating the process, eventually the Ascendancy needed to come in person. He had to be here, after all. Instinct did not work unless a man was immersed in context.

Two years of field work led by a team of geoscientists, surveyors, and explorationists currently surrounded his field of view. He was in a control room of sorts, the heart of their operation, but without the gear, the room was meaningless. The focal point on which Nikolai was currently concentrating was an enormous curved wall which acted as a pressure-sensitive screen. The glasses he currently wore filled the screen with images, an operations panel, and a recording device which projected his line of sight to the scientists in an adjacent room.

He tapped a command on the tablet in his hands and 3D floor to ceiling graphs of sonar frequencies were suddenly overtaken by a topographical map. Much of the region in this part of Siberia was made up of the sharp, forested slopes of the Altai mountains, part of a range which ran east-westerly along the CCD border with China and Mongolia. The snow-capped peaks of those very mountains rimmed the horizon on screen. Set before them was an enormous plateau, a flat-table high above sea-level. Prior to CCD consolidation, this region was “protected” from development. But the endogenous peoples which once roamed this region, thousands of years long dead, were nothing today. The media would whine about it, until the Ascendancy point-blank asked those anchors if they would give up hot showers, warm food, and working hospitals to protect burial mounds and cave drawings. The absurdity of the media’s logic astounded him.

Indeed, the rugged terrain of the Altai mountains enclosed the plataeu, as defined by this virtual environment, and as Nikolai pivoted, looking for the pattern described by one of the geophysicists, the image likewise shifted as though he were there in person. This semi-desert valley was more like Mongolia than Siberia, he said to himself, pitted with rocks and tufts of hardy grass as it was. It stretched out before him now, but his thoughts were far from environmentalists, humanists, seismic activity, and computer models.

He approached and swept his fingertips across the screen to enhance the size of the region of interest, a particular rift in the topography which to the untrained eye seemed no different than any other. Then he spoke to the observation panel. “This is the reservoir with the questionable water saturation content?”


“Yes, Ascendancy.”
A man’s voice responded over the comm.

There was a very real petroleum reservoir beneath the virtual landscape. The fact was confirmed by known source rock samples, seismic activity, and the trained eye of their geoscientists, but the rock had to contain enough hydrocarbons to make drilling worth their time and money. A wet reservoir yielded more water than it did petroleum afterall, but there was only one way to know the ratios, which usually meant drilling a sample well. Usually.

“Then that is the one we visit first.”



***


In his father’s time, explorationists with a twenty percent success rate of identifying productive reservoirs were considered the gold-standard. Based on years of data accumulation, drilling sample wells around known reservoirs yielded the best results, hitting viable deposits with every one in five attempts. Drilling in unchartered territory was far more a gamble; and one hit in forty was considered the standard. Of course, science had made some progress since the 1980’s. A fifty percent success rate became the gold standard of the early twenty-first century. Not even a professional baseball player could boast a comparable batting average.

But Nikolai Brandon?

Every time since the first time he felt instinct’s pull, he was right, astonishingly right. It churned his blood when he felt it: that perfect combination of sludge, rock, pressure and density. It crushed his lungs. And it felt like he held the earth in the palm of his hand. God, he loved it.

He had to be on location, of course. The closer to the site, the keener the sense. If he were directly above, walking the surface over which those subterranean chambers flowed, it was like a shard of glass etched the inside of his skull, carving the words he would proclaim into the very bone:

”Here,”
, he ordered to the team watching his every move.

As soon as the announcement issued, they broke into action. The scientists signaled the engineers back at central command the go-ahead to begin work, communicating orders down the ladder of responsibility. A production facility could now be designed. Plans would be laid to build roads and support structures in and out of the region. Branches off current pipelines would need run. A year from now the horizon of this deserted landscape would be unrecognizable.

On the trek back to the helicopter, Nikolai swept a curious study across the team’s activities. It was a comfortable, windless day, and soundless as well except for the various conversations among the team. They were all men he trusted, competent at their jobs, and loyal to the cause. After all, every additional success on the team’s part made these men a little bit richer, grew their power a little bit wider. They were long enough in Custody employ to take the Ascendancy’s word on this matter without hesitation. All but one.

Mark was the youngest member of the field op’s team, though they were never formally introduced. He simply stared across the dry, rolling hills, and studied the mountains beyond. He was the new man assisting Dr. Elliott, a seismologist who served as liaison between the scientists and drilling contractors. A brief glance revealed Dr. Elliott tapping away at a tablet, absorbed in thought and likely already in the beginning steps of his negotiations. For Mark, however, this was his introduction to witnessing the secret to the Custody’s success first hand, and Nikolai had to give the man credit, he was withholding his reaction well.

Nikolai waved for the man to join him for the walk back while two agents fell in behind them. In the distance, crew members were readying for travel preparations; there were still other sites to visit today. While one aircraft could seat the entire group, the Ascendancy and his security team--which today was thinned to the two men in his shadow--always travelled alone.

”Mark is it?”
Nikolai asked when Mark approached.

“Yes, Ascendancy, Mark Dazernaki. I work for--”


”Dr. Elliott, yes,”
Nikolai finished for him, not one to waste time being told what he already knew. Mark took it in stride, but his sidelong glance straightened forward once more, outwardly undisturbed about the interruption, though his jaw tensed slightly as though holding back what he truly wanted to say.

As specialized a team as this was, Nikolai knew few personal details regarding those around him. These were the people upon whom his power weighed, but he had to trust to the machine of his system to ensure everyone’s character. If Mark was here, it meant he passed clearance checks with flying colors, but it didn’t mean he was worthless.

”It’s reasonable to doubt what you are witnessing, Mark.”
Nikolai continued with full sincerity. Nikolai was the one in the center of all this, but acknowledged it must seem strange to behold. A team of experts landing on some remote location, deviating from every accepted protocol since the Industrial Revolution, and going ahead with a full-scale drilling operation on the word of one man, who himself is neither a scientist nor an engineer, but simply and quietly leaves the group, isolates himself, and returns some minutes later to issue the order after having done nothing but stand in solitude, expression darkened with concentration.

“It is remarkable, Ascendancy.”
Mark replied, pursing his lips together thoughtfully.

Indeed it is, Nikolai thought. However it was clear Mark did not truly believe the words he spoke. Mark was a reasonable, logical man; and humanity could reason away the unthinkable and logically dismiss the inexplicable--even when the extraordinary manifested right before their eyes. It was upon this canon the Atharim contained chaos from erupting, the reasoning of mankind, and the bloodshed of their members. However, little did Nikolai seek the approval of one assistant. Soon enough he would come to believe in his Ascendancy’s power as had the rest. But it would make the man’s life easier to cease questioning the obvious and accept what lay before him.

They parted for their separate aircraft. The two men from the Ascendancy’s regiment within Custody Protective Services fell in step. Dr. Elliott and the others came last.

A movement caught the corner of his eye: Mark reached under his jacket, and Nikolai’s world solidified with ironclad focus. The wall was already formed by the time he turned to face Mark’s aim; already motioning that the two agents at his side stand down; but it was not upon the pistol which he focused, but onto the face of a traitor.

Mark was clearly not trained for this. Otherwise he would have fired by now, and as the innumerable seconds stretched on, the confusing lack of reaction on their part danced across his eyes.

”Well?”
Nikolai asked with all the weight of a tomb.

It was not the reaction Mark expected, but he finally found his mettle and fired. Nikolai cringed at the explosive sound so near, but kept himself from flinching, having gone through this exact same scenario three times before, and countless times on practice ranges with CPS. Such was how the two agents at his side were confident their assignment was safe.

The bullet struck a barrier no less than arm’s reach away, but the heat of it radiated, slamming Nikolai with memories which reached back to his childhood. It sickened him.

Mark’s eyes widened with horror, and fired until he was out of rounds and Nikolai’s ears pounded with the noise of being in such close range.

Immediately, the two agents descended on Mark, and Nikolai felt himself approach the man. He wondered what that Dreyken must have thought when it approached its two innocuous captives.

Like that Dreyken, Nikolai was not surprised to find the Atharim’s symbol on this man’s arm. Mark bore a celtic interpretation of the ouroboros: the serpent eating its tail was looped into two figure eights and surrounded by knotwork. Nikolai shook his head as Mark’s jaw dropped to the ground. He squat low, speaking quietly, wearily to the would-be assassin. ”They should really stop sending men with the tattoo.”
The members of the team were already moving on, boarding their helicopter as the pilots prepared to leave. There was a schedule to keep after all.

He looked upon young Mark a few more moments before rising to leave. ”Take care of it.”
The agents nodded and Nikolai left them behind to carry out the order on their own. He wanted no part of it.

Tehya Alisdelisgi
(teh-hya ah-leese-deh-leese-gee)

"In ages past, our old ones were the storytellers. This was the way things were passed along to the generations that followed. For this reason, the aged people made it a point to remember every detail so they could relate it at a later time. They were the word and picture carriers making history and spiritual values alive and important. In recent times we have made our old ones think they are not so important. We spoof their stories and make them feel foolish. The truth is that we are ignorant of what is precious and how to 'a da li he li tse di -- appreciate age. Rigidity can creep in and set even the young mind if there are no soft memories, no laughter, no times too deep for tears. Age is grace -- a time too valuable to waste."

A Cherokee Feast of Days - Daily Meditations, Joyce Sequichie Hifler

Though they lived in the city, and had done for generations, Tey grew up on the ancient stories of her grandfather; tales of tricksters and spirits and the Little People who hid among men. She knew these things were not true, because the world was not so benign; and she knew the world was not so benign, because it needed guardians to separate the innocent from the supernatural. Grandfather knew it too; a curled snake marked the puckered, crepey skin inside his arm, just as it marked her father and mother and brother. Just as it would one day mark her. They called themselves Alisdelisgi – protector, in the old language – but also bore an older name. Atharim.

Tehya grew up in the dregs of a dying economy, in a society on the fringes of civil war and poverty. The haze of instability, of misery, inevitably drew the sorts of dark creatures that made her education a frank and practical one. No academic textbooks, no abstract lectures, and no gentle introduction to the world beyond their own: it simply was, from the very beginning, her reality. Beyond her Atharim education, she, along with her brother before her (he was six years her elder), were taught by their mother. As such Tey had few friends outside her inner circle growing up; she was just the weird, Native American home-schooled kid of the neighbourhood, and since she was quite capable of looking after herself, was pretty much just left alone. Not that she ever considered her life lacking from the social exclusion; she had no idea what the life of a normal girl her age was like, nor really cared to know. Despite the fractures cracking deeper breaks into the heart of her country, despite the humble living that was nonetheless considered above the poverty grade, she was happy.

Tehya adored her grandfather – grandfather frog, she called him sometimes in jest, for he sat in his chair like a wise old frog sits on a lilypad. Her beloved Dustu (spring frog, which was also a joke; grandfather was not in the spring of his youth). So many wizened lines cased his face their weight had pulled his skin south … or maybe he had shrunk and left his skin too big - regardless, every crease was a wisdom, every strand of white hair sprouting from his scalp a truth. His words were more important than knowledge, for knowledge was of the past and wisdom was of the future. When Tehya was not schooling, or learning the ways of the Atharim, she was most often found at her grandfather’s knee. Listening. She soaked up his stories with a solemnness belied by her years, though as a child of the Atharim she was hardly ordinary. Sometimes he told the history of their people – the Cherokee, not the Atharim – and of the traditions her family embraced, and of others that had been lost to time. Other times he spoke of his own youth, of its build and apex, of how his left arm had become a stump at the elbow. When he spoke of the Atharim, it was different, somehow, to how her parents taught it; deeper, like it etched a tattoo on grandfather’s very soul. It transcended the simple duty that had been drilled into Tey since she was old enough to understand words. For him it was not simply a calling but formed the ethos of his world.

She was fourteen when she first started to notice the signs something was wrong. A touch of fever, an unusual amount of clumsiness. The odd headache. Tey knew of the Sickness, of course, but it was her old Dustu who pieced it together while the symptoms still wobbled about in those infant stages, before the diagnosis was even clear to those who knew what to look for. She had never seen her father argue with Dustu before that day, if what transpired could be called an argument. There were no raised voices, but their words were nonetheless like the rumbles of mountains. The foundations between them shook.

“If they discover her, it will not stop there,” her grandfather said. And he was right; it wouldn’t. Such secrets did not openly filter so far down the ranks, but the Regus obviously believed the Sickness to be hereditary. The Atharim assigned to the task always ensured such an heirloom was never passed down, and they did it in blood. If Tehya was exposed, she would not be the only one to pay the price. Their family, their history, their lineage; it would become dust. Unless her father acted first. Heavy silence reigned, as her father’s eyes turned to where she was wrapped in a blanket on the couch. Despite the broad strength of him; the severe cast of his features, his oft unsmiling mouth and all the memories of blood on his hands, she had never been afraid of her father. But his expression now was grim, and what Dustu said next punctuated a grimace with each word.

“You will kill your flesh and blood, son?”

Her father hesitated from an answer, and Tehya felt the first little fissures rent through her heart. Her eyes grew wide, and fear settled cold, because she realised then what they were talking about. And what it meant. Her old Dustu shook his head, and the lines in his face deepened like shadowy crags. He looked gravely wounded. “In my day, Gawonii, the Atharim did not slaughter children and call it for the greater good.” Tehya knew, then, that the conversation was serious; that it was an argument – when Dustu used not a moniker or an endearment, but her father’s name. Grandfather had lived in a time before the Sickness. He had lived in a time before the ASU that became the dictatorship CCD. He had lived before the returned god, the Ascendancy, and in a time when the enemy did not lie hidden in the flesh of men, but in the flesh of monsters. His aged wisdom dwarfed them all, but even addled by fever Tey could see those doubts in her father’s face; the damning consideration that Dustu was old and no longer understood the world in which they lived. So when Dustu straightened and said, “Let me heal her pain,” he could not quite disguise the sharpness in his eyes, nor in his tone.

“Even if you cure her, old grandfather, she will be changed.”

Tey was still a child; a strangely solemn one, granted, but too young to really understand the ramifications of what was happening. She was scared, but she also trusted her family. Her father did not stop old Dustu when he gathered the materials for a smudging ritual. Sage to burn out the bad spirits, cedar for grounding and protection, and braided sweetgrass to attract positive energies. He didn’t stop Dustu, either, when he burned the ingredients and murmured the prayers and palmed the smoke. Nor did Atharim storm the house to take her away and nullify her family line. Through blind eyes and averted faces, the foundations of secrecy took root. Months went by, and they performed the ritual often; sometimes by her grandfather’s hand, sometimes by her own. Always Tehya waited with dread for the first pangs of a headache or the first waves of nausea – because each time the Sickness came, so too did the threat of watching Atharim eyes. Of discovery. Or worse, the moment her father realised the mistake he had made in letting her live.

Sometimes Tey sent prayers while she breathed the smoke; other times her mind was silent and open, willing positive energies to rid her of the Sickness and what it would leave behind if she did not die. One day, the positive spirits answered, and that was the first time she felt it. Pure calm, luxurious and lulling, like soft hands and a mother’s comfort. The world grew a little brighter, a little clearer, and then in one quick flash it was all gone – gone but for the burn of its memory. She confided in her grandfather, kept nothing secret in the same way he had never hidden anything from her, and he listened with a thoughtful stare. Spirits, not Sickness; how could something so unsullied be so corrupt? She posed it to her Dustu, hopeful, but he only looked at her, silent and pensive.

At first it was only when she burned the sweetgrass that she could touch that intense, floating joy. Later she discovered that opening herself to the spirits was enough, though she always felt safer doing it during the smoke ritual. Sometimes her grandfather would watch her when she did this, but if he sensed anything unusual he never said. His silent presence always gave her confidence, and it was under his watchful gaze that she began to realise there were shapes in the light. Distinctive shapes that had form and tangibility and allowed themselves to be moulded.

She did not get sick again.

When her father noticed, he could no longer ignore it. In hindsight, Tehya understands why he allowed old Dustu to try and heal her. Nearly all girls lost their battle with the Sickness. It was a heinous breach of his Atharim oaths to have allowed that chance to run its course, but it was the lesser of two evils at the time. Perhaps he hoped the choice would be taken away from him; that he wouldn’t have to murder his own daughter. But she didn’t die, and the decision weighed as heavy a burden as ever. When faced between your obligations to the world and your love for your family, how do you choose? Her chest tightens at the memory, even now; looking back, she does not know how she ever missed the softness in her father’s hard lines, the aching conflict of duty and love. Back then she only ever saw the furrows in his brow.

He wanted to know, of course, what she had become. The change had been far subtler than either distant legend or recent history told it to be; he wanted to know if she was truly different. Maybe she had simply been ill. At the time Tey felt as though snared in a terrible net. If she lied he would believe her; she knew that. Perhaps he willed for her lie, to absolve them all of the horrific consequence that loomed ahead if she didn’t. If she lied, she wouldn’t have to die; she could hide this gift, control it, and no-one would ever know. The fate of her family would rest in her hands – discovery of her betrayal would burn them all – but they were hands she trusted, hands that had been born to shelter the world. She would protect her family. But the poison couldn’t pass her lips, and when she told the truth she witnessed the pain crush her father’s brows low over his eyes.

Even then, still so young, she understood. The Spirit-gift was sweet and beautiful, but Atharim law was clear. She never pleaded her case, as she had with Dustu. “I’m a monster.” The words were level – far too calm for the amount of years she had seen – but girlish tears welled up in her eyes regardless; big, fat uncontrollable tears that welled on her lashes and plopped down her cheeks no matter how grown-up she tried to be. Her father’s face was stoic; the square lines of his jaw hard, his eyes like little chips of onyx. She could feel the hysteria bubbling, and was ashamed; she was Atharim, or would be one day. Would have been. She would do her duty, even if that duty was to die. But was it so wrong that she was scared? Dark brows drew further over her father’s eyes, until they closed completely, as though he could not bear to look at her. In the same moment, though, he pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin. “When will it be?” The sobs broke free. She cried hard. “Will you do it, father? If it needs to be done, I want it to be you who—” kills me. Only she could say it; couldn’t say anything after that. Her father held her close, his big swarthy arms blocking out the world and its cruel rules, like a bear hiding its cub. But he didn’t answer.

For days she expected it, waited for it; feared it. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, a compendium of creatures she was memorising open flat on her lap, when her father knocked and entered. Ice froze her blood, though she set the book aside bravely as he sat next to her. Silence spread in great, frigid waves, and a warm buzz in the back of mind begged her to embrace the warmth of her gift. And curse. She refused.

He gave her the option to leave. His willingness to loose her on the world was startling, and for a moment she was horrified at how easily he cast aside his Atharim vows. Then came guilt, for having forced the toll of such awful choices on him. To kill his flesh and blood, or to break his promises to a society that was his blood’s legacy. If she left she would relieve him of the heavier burden, but Tehya couldn’t turn her back on duty, no matter what she was. Her eyes closed, her head bowed. She shook her head. The mattress lightened as her father sighed and stood, its springs creaking heavily. Tehya’s heart was like a jackhammer as the warmth of his hand pressed against the back of her head. At the time she had thought it meant goodbye; only later did she realise it was his unspoken acceptance.

If words give substance to secrets, then this one never existed. No-one ever spoke of it, and only her Dustu ever alluded to it. There had always been morality to his stories, and this was never truer than in the years that passed after: he shaped many of Tehya’s principles and morals as she grew older. She only ever touched her gift with Dustu or when she was alone; learned it little by little, one tiny cautious step at a time. Control was paramount, no matter how desperately easy it would be to lose herself to the sweetness of it. The responsibility she carried was engrained in her, that and the necessity to protect her family from the thing she had become. To protect the world. As her discipline and understanding grew, her Atharim studies deepened. Her father’s frown intensified when he learned her intention, but he never stopped her – his only words on the matter a stoic warning. No children, Tehya. The line must end with you.

Her old Dustu; he was proud.

At eighteen, Tehya took the pledge and received the ink. She resolved to reward her father’s faith and honour her old Dustu’s memory - after he passed when she was nineteen - by being the best she could be. Even to this day the Atharim is her life. As such, she rose the ranks with single-minded ferocity, as if to prove herself worthy of the simple serpent inked on her wrist would blot out the secret mark on her soul. She started amongst the Hunters, but quickly began to specialise in the development of weaponry and methods for detecting and capturing/incapacitating creatures, in order to learn their weaknesses. She excelled at it.

There were a few close calls in those early days; sometimes it was achingly tempting to call on the spirits to help the Atharim, despite knowing how it would damn her – and, worse than that, the consequences it would cause her family. By now, her brother had children of his own. The difficulty was that when attacked it was almost a reflex - one reason she was glad to step down from the front-lines. She doesn’t use the gift in her work, but continues to study it in private. To learn its shape and form and uses. To uncover its weakness.

Over the years her reputation swelled. And then the phonecall came.

Her father begged her not to answer the summons to Moscow, to stay away from the heart of the Atharim, where it will be all the more difficult to conceal her nature and the sheer depth of her betrayal. Their betrayal. But they offer the facilities to further her research; the funding and the equipment and the expertise. She will be heading a whole team of others. It’s an opportunity she simply can’t refuse, despite the dangers. A golden opportunity.

Even within the Atharim, there are factions. Tey belongs to a quiet undercurrent – quiet because it is a subversive view, and opposes the directive of the Regus – who, nonetheless, do not believe that eliminating the gods will ultimately prevent another godswar. All it will take is some small few to slip the net, to begin to understand the devastating power bequeathed to them, and how many the Atharim culled in their infancy will make little difference: the Apocalypse will happen anyway. Tehya’s answer is simple. Her people have always believed in the circular nature of life and death; logically, then, a cycle simply can not end with death. Killing the gods only perpetuates a circle – life, death, life, death. What lives, dies. What dies, lives again. The only way to prevent the end of days is to nullify the destructive powers that enable it. To incapacitate the gods.

And the only one who can do it, is one of them.

Description: Tehya is tall for a woman, 5’10’’, and statuesque. She has bold, handsome features; a strong jaw, defined cheekbones and night-dark eyes. There’s languidness to her gaze, and a lazy elegance to her movements; easy, calm confidence. Predatory. A thin pale scar knicks her forehead, just below her hairline, and another, thicker one dissects the top of her thigh – each old remnants of her Hunting days. Her skin is warm gold, her hair black.

Tehya takes her work seriously; she is a hard task-master and brooks no excuses, though is equally firm with praise. Most would see her as quiet, perhaps intimidating. Of necessity, she holds herself to a high measure of control; particularly when at work. There are some amongst her peers who do not approve of what she does – who say she is too interested in understanding more about the Atharim’s enemies than simply how to eliminate them. But there is no denying she is good at it, or that she has been a valuable asset to the Atharim. Her high rank alone attests to it.

Beneath the layers of stoic professionalism lies a sly sense of humour and a wicked grin. She appreciates honesty and has high moralistic values – at least when it comes to the important things. Mostly she prizes a sense of balance. Those who show kindness to, and awareness of, others usually earn her respect - if not necessarily her friendship. She has inherited a deep-rooted sense of duty from her father, and an endless well of compassion from her old Dustu. And from them both - from a rich familial legacy - the ferocious desire to protect. It’s in her blood.

• <li style="display:none">
  
• A Long Way from Home (alone/NPC Marcus)
  
  
  
• Hidey Hole (Hood, Rune, Aria)
  
  
  
• The Divine Truth (Elias, Connor)
  
  
  
• Vague Truths (Aria)
  
  
  
• Connect (Enzo)
  
  
  
• Library of Wonders (Aurora, Yoshimura)
  
  
  
• Dedication (Atharim Convocation)
  
  
  
• [Archangels] The World is Changed (Elyse, Borovsky)
  
  
  
• Waves in the Crowd (Alone)
  
  
  Edited by Tehya, Aug 7 2016, 07:20 AM.
  
  

"Are we there yet?" The age old question. And if most parents thought it was bad, try it from a 6 year old who could say it in 3 languages. "No, Zoe, we are not there yet. Now, what number are you on?" Nadia heard a sigh from her daughter out of the backseat and soon heard the steady thud thud tap of little fingers dancing across a plex-screen. "Nine." "Good, only ninety-one to go then." The next sigh wasn't quiet, but after that the car was for a while.

Transferring cities mid-term was chaotic to say the least for little Zoe, but when the job called, you answered, especially with the promise of promotion. Not to mention that a move to the Central Dominance could only increase their possibilities. Nadia wasn't sure if Moscow was really a city for children, but their new apartment was a ways outside of town in what everyone assured her was a good area, Papa included.

Yes, even now Nickolas Solokov had his grubby fingers dug into his daugther's and grandaughter's lives. While usually it was for the better, there was still fresh stinging bitterness, like a spray of salt water to the eye when she thought of what her father had put her through. But at least he still stayed in touch. Mother hadn't spoken to her since the move to Prague.

No use crying over spilled milk, though. She had started her own life, and she was proud of the life that she had built mostly with her own two hands. She was employed and her daughter was receiving a good education, staying ahead of her class, and they still had time on the weekends to be a family.

All roads lead to Moscow. The truth of the old adage could be confirmed by any GPS, but it seemed to be true for Nadia as well. The last time she had lived in Moscow, she was just toddling around. She only had a very few memories of the city, mostly memories of their old home and the playground. She remembered falling and scraping her knee and a boy who smiled nicely at her and told her it would be okay before mom had swooped in and pushed him aside.

Nadia checked the clock. 14:22. She had hoped to make it to Minsk tonight, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. Still they could stay in Baranavichy for the night before pressing on tomorrow.

******************************************
"Are we there yet?" Oh here we go again. "No, not yet, Zoe. Look, see that sign? What does it say?" There was a pause then "Moss-cow Eighy" Nadia suppressed a chuckle. "They call it Moscow, not Moss Cow, sweetie. But that means it won't be much longer."

Nadia saw Zoe's dark head bob a couple of time in the Crossroad's mirror then her brow furrowed for a moment. "I dunno, Mom, 80 seems pretty big to me!" Nadia shook her head. Yes, eighty was pretty big, but considering that they had already gone almost 2,000km on this trip, 80 more felt like nothing.

Soon enough, they were turning down a side road. As promised, the area didn't seem too industrialized, but was built up enough as to not feel secluded. The studio apartment that she had the key to was small, but nice, and she found herself thinking that maybe this move would be even better than she had first thought. "Home Sweet Home"


Edited by Nadia, Jul 11 2013, 03:52 PM.

Rune had been in Moscow long enough to know her way around pretty good. If she ever got lost she had a gps map tech in the bag slung over her shoulder. So far she hadn't had to need it except when she first arrived and studied the street layouts like crazy. But Moscow was a huge city, much bigger than anything she was used to back in the US. Most of her life Uncle Seth and her bounced from town to town, a mobile Atharim which lived on the road more often than the cabin she was actually born in.

One thing Rune did know was that if someone wanted to look for artsy stuff, they went to Arbat street. Which is exactly what she wanted to do! Therefore, she slipped on her sneakers, slung her bag over her shoulder, spiked her hair and got to walking. Which brought up a really good point, she was going to need to set up a more permanent place to live soon. The Atharim had a job for her, which meant staying in the city for a while. She was pretty excited about it, actually. But not as excited as finally getting the snake on her arm. Uncle Seth's was rad. Arbat street was not the place to get a tattoo (for mercy's sake, you'd think these people had never seen a girl with a hairstyle before! ... there were lots of staring...) but it was the place to meet an artist.

Rune doesn’t exist. Well her fingerprints and DNA sit in countless offices around the world, lost in databases of anonymous persons of interest, but as far as the girl they came from, no records were ever made.

She was born in an old cabin on a lake in Minnesota, far from hospitals and officials of all kinds. Her mom didn’t survive the birth. In fact, her mom was dead when Rune was cut from her uterus. It’s a long story, and kind of a sad one. Although Rune has mixed feelings about it all when she thinks about the circumstances that started her life. Sometimes, usually when things have been slow for a while and she is sitting around waiting for the next job to land in her lap, she lays in bed and sips wine from a plastic cup, preferably with a curly straw (and she’s of course a connoisseur when it comes to the boxed brands), and thinks about what life would have been like if her mom.....hadn’t been possessed by a south-american demon.

That’s pretty much what happened. At eight months pregnant, for whatever reason, a wefuke spirit descended upon her mom, who then proceeded to call her brother (Uncle Seth) in Minnesota and demand to see him. That it was a matter of life and death, and given that Uncle Seth was an Atharim hunter, he actually took the matter seriously.

“Mom” didn’t tell Uncle Seth that she wasn’t coming alone, but it didn’t take long for him to realize something was terribly wrong. Five minutes inside his cabin, mom’s “boyfriend” (who was not Rune’s dad) attacked while “mom” sat back and watched. That night, the sounds of slaughter drowned the crickets. Seth always kept shotguns closeby (and colts and pistols and machetes and...). Even though “mom’s” partner failed to infect a known Atharim, she remained calm at the kitchen table. It took Uncle Seth a few minutes to figure out what Mom was, but even before he did, he knew his sister was already gone.

Then, suddenly Seth had a baby he had no idea what to do with. There was nobody to care for the infant girl, nobody but him. His parents, also Atharim, were already dead. He had no other family, except the Atharim. So he kept the baby and raised her as honestly as possible. By the time Rune was old enough to go to kindergarten, but of course never actually attended a school, she knew monsters were real and Santa was a joke. She learned how to clean a gun before she ever had her first doll, something she bought at a garage-sale at this old stone church across the street from the hotel they were in that week. She also bought this giant, gooey chocolate chip cookie, not the kind spinning in warm-racks in gas stations, but an actual homemade cookie in a ziploc baggy. It was kind of a let-down: the gas-station Otis Spunkmeyers were better. That was also the day she decided she was going to avoid churches at all costs, but more on that later.

Rune did get to go to school, kindof. All with fake identifications. It was all online, but by then the American states had distance learning as options. It was originally meant to help kids being “bullied” …which was a totally lame reason to not go to school. If a bully tried to keep Rune out of school, she’d punch them in the nose and tell them to leave her alone. Anyways, Seth took advantage of the handy development. While they zipped along interstates, Rune had her laptop on her knees and wrote history essays, or scribbled out math problems, or whatever, just like any other kid.

But she wasn’t just like any other kid. Not only was she raised by an American Atharim, but she was psychic. Or maybe she was a medium. She was never quite sure about the difference. What that means is she can see spirits. Not just any spirit, and they’re not at all like in the movies. She’s not a spirit guide. She definitely doesn’t do trances. And she definitely doesn’t know if there’s “another side.” But she gets a feeling of something familiar but also of something completely out of phase with this world. Then, she’ll see one. It’s not quite in her normal vision, but like looking through a highway heat-mirage in the desert. Sometimes they’re wefuke, though it did her and Uncle Seth no good since they couldn’t be killed unless they possessed someone, and who knew when that was going to happen. Sometimes they were ghosts, walking around like they’re unaware they’re dead (think Bruce Willis). Sometimes they were something else. These were spirits that Rune has no clue whether or not they’re dangerous, but its safer to assume they are.

By far the more useful trick than tracking spirits is that she can sense feelings of wrongness. Like if a soul, an actual human soul, expresses a profound and deep emotion, like of rage before a murder or horror during a rape or thrill during a feeding (though it’s questionable if rougarou have souls, its like the emotion’s strength imprints on the spirit world. Rune can follow their footprints like tracks in the snow.

Her full name is Runehilda. Yah, yah. Uncle Seth went through an emo-phase for a while; actually, he’s still kind of emo. So lame. Rune has moods. Sometimes they’re dark and depressed, but she never descends into anything unmanageable, definitely nothing a good hunt can’t cure. Usually she’s quite chipper. Even though she’s pretty much on the edge of her seat all the time, waiting for the world of monsters to just knock on her hotel room door. Uncle Seth gave her his blessing to go to Moscow and make her membership in the Atharim official. So now, at twenty-two years old, she’s on her own, fearless and stoked about Moscow.

At all costs she will avoid going in churches and cemeteries. They are either fraught with powerful emotions or haunted by hovering spirits, both of which nearly overwhelm her. The last time she was in a cemetery, she became so disoriented and confused, she was nearly wasted by a stray chupakabra.

Rune is a fit, physical girl. She's been carrying duffel bags bigger than she was since forever. For almost as long, she's been carrying rucksacks stuffed with supplies: the grunt in her very own little one-woman army. Her hair color changes on a semi-regular basis: about the time she gets tired of the current color combination (or the dye fades). Rune does rock the side-shave though, it must be some of that emo in her blood. She likes pretty things, jewelry and the like, but doesn't go crazy wearing anything that isn't tactical. The less to grab at, the better, she says. So she makes up for it with makeup: heavy lashes, dark eyes, bright colors and red lips. As she tends to be pale from not getting enough direct sun (her lifestyle is pretty night-centric), her style is all the harsher. Only a fool who doesn't know what he's doing would mess with her, otherwise, Rune takes care of herself.

Also, never, ever call her by her full name: Runehilda. Just to be safe.


Edited by Rune Marx, Sep 20 2013, 06:39 PM.

Name: Nadia Sokolov

Age: 23 (Born in 2022)

Strength in Power: 18

Goddess: Hathor

Nadia. In the language of her parent’s in Russia, her name means Hope. Hope that the world will find order. Hope that the natural disasters that shake every corner of the Earth will stop. Hope in themselves. Hope in the future. Hope for their beautifully dark haired infant daughter, born into a world where hope was hard to come by.

When Nadia was only two years old, her father’s job in the Ascendency’s Military had them moved to Dubai to begin diplomatic relationships there. Here, she would spend her childhood. She was brilliant, learning things quicker than the other children, and was soon fluent in not only her native tongue, but English, Arabic, and Swahili which she picked up from the refugees of disasters deeper into Africa’s heart. She excelled in schools and was always ahead in the bases classes. She was a happy child who loved to learn more than anything else in the world.

Due to her father’s outstanding service to the Ascendancy, her father was promoted up the ranks and soon took a government position in the newly formed Dominance V. As such, her family became wealthy and she lived a privileged life, but was wise beyond her years and was always aware of the suffering of the rest of the world around her.

By the time she became a teenager, she began looking for ways to help those around her who were less fortunate. She would sneak out the clothes that she outgrew to people in the city who would see them distributed. After dinner, she would hide leftovers and sneak them out to the people in the streets, as well. She was always looking for something more to do, much to her father’s chagrin. Filled with power, Nickolas Sokolov was the face of the corruption of the new CCD government. To the world, he was a man who commanded control and received it, a man who got things done, and in these times, that was the sort of ruler the land needed. But his passion was not saving the people, it was the paychecks. Nadia’s mother, too, was caught up in their wealth. She wanted what was best for sweet Nadia, and to her that was to become the new age belle, always dressed in Moscow’s latest fashions and being courted by the right sort of men.

At the age of 16, Nadia’s privileged life changed forever. The headaches began over breakfast with her parents. Soon, the fever began to overtake her. For a time, she was able to hide it from her parents. The sickness among teenagers was well known by this time, and she was sure that if daddy found out that his daughter had it, he would use it as a ploy to gain political power.

One evening, she was walking home late. Suddenly, like a flash of light, the sickness overtook her in full strength and she collapsed on the side of the road. There, she was found by an unknown man, beaten, and raped. At least that is what the police report read, and sure enough, 6 weeks later she was found to be with child. Her parents were devastated. How could this happen to THEIR daughter?

Nadia was so deep into her sickness that she was rarely coherent enough to speak. The doctors were not hopeful about Nadia’s survival, much less the baby’s, but when Nadia’s parents made the decision that the child should be aborted, strange things began to happen. Nadia, through her fever, was determined that she would keep the child, but was never conscious to express that desire. The day the abortion was to take place, all the water in the building froze over. No one could explain the cause of it, but they could no longer undergo the procedure and postponed it. When the new date arrived, the doors to Nadia’s room inexplicably sealed themselves closed, allowing no one in. The locks were undone and the door wasn’t tampered with, but still they could find no way to get in. By the third such strange occurrence, they decided that it must be fate and to let mother and baby live or die together. There was nothing more that they could do.

The nurses in the hospital, many of them refugees from African nations seeking refuge and work in a CCD state began whispering in the halls about the strange occurrences by this Nadia girl. “Caller” they called her, which was Nadia in their native Swahili. The caller of strange things. Maybe even demons perhaps. Either way, many of the staff began to fear the disease that plagued Nadia.

The next 6 months were much the same. During the nights, she would moan and sometimes even scream through the fever, but as the hospital staff monitored her and the baby, they lived. In fact, the pregnancy was nearly perfect. In Nadia’s subconscious, all she could think was I must live. Must live. Must live for my baby.

One morning, a nurse came in to check them and to her utter amazement, found Nadia with a tiny baby girl curled against her chest. Both Nadia and her baby looked healthy, and while Nadia looked exhausted, her color was better than it had been any time since she had been admitted. Nadia, looking up at the nurse, smiled and said “Meet Zoe!”

Once returning to her home, though, the tension in the house was high. It had been announced that Nadia had died from the fever rather than the scandal of the bastard child be discovered, so Nickolas made quick work of finding a place for his daughter to be shipped off to. Not Moscow. There were too many people liable to recognize her there. Tokyo? Mumbai? Anywhere in the ever expanding CCD would do. After all, he didn’t want his daughter to die… just be very well hidden.

Finally, it was decided and Nadia and Zoe packed a few small bags and were smuggled out through the night to Prague. There, she has lived, raising her daughter for the last 4 years, working for a company to transfer all of the precious oil out of the Central Dominance and out to the ever growing CCD.

<dl class="c_post-attachment">
<dt>Attached to this post:</dt> <dd> Mother_and_Daughter_by_kyou_shou.jpg (52.9 KB)</dd> </dl>

Continued from: Window Shopping - Moscow City



Add in the cars parked along both sides of the street and everyone else had to muscle their way down the center of Nikolskaya street: actually, the nightmare clogged the entire city. His apartment was barely more than two miles away, but throw on a busy weekend, summertime tourists, and a brief blockade for a Privilege’s motorcade and Jaxen finally made it. Well, close enough. The corner was a couple blocks down yet. If the distant honking from blocked cars in both directions were anything to go by, it might take another half an hour to roll the rest of the way there.

“I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he announced to the driver, and waved off the need for him to open the door.

Though past sundown, there were plenty of pedestrians milling about, and a guy in a white-tie tux getting out of a slick town car drew no extra attention than anyone else. To his eyes, the milling tourists stuck out like a sore thumb, but so also did the local elite-- if only for the contrast. Women strode forcefully through the crowd, stilettos expertly maneuvering along cobble stones and dodging slow-moving wayfarers. Straight-faced men were about the same: a silk pocket square here, a sheepskin briefcase there; timepieces, designer glasses. There was a time when the collection would have earned his entire attention, however, now, in the brief moment of emerging from the car and taking in the sights, it was the buildings which Jaxen studied. Signs illuminated the imposing facades, despite being of relatively few floors, they dwarfed a man by sheer monumental comparison. Angular rooflines streaked high overhead, mostly lost to shadow but mashed together from one building to the next. A whiff of steam puffed up between cars marked the location of manholes. While bulges and niches in various corners pointed out the most likely locations for security cameras. Or birds nests. Or both.

With his Wallet secured deep within his jacket, Jaxen strolled along the sidewalks up toward Baccarat, hands idly in his pockets and glancing here and there, mind blank as he absorbed the place. He wasn’t a big guy, which actually worked in his favor when it came to his hobbies, but the cool expression and sharply styled hair projected an image of a guy who was unlikely to swerve first. The darting glances alone shoved one or two out of his path, the rest took a wider berth.

A block later, Jaxen witnessed a guy follow a couple into a second-hand bookshop. It wasn’t obvious, but Jax knew what was going down. He hesitated. The question was, did he follow after and try to salvage what was sure to be a mess, and probably ruin his tie in the process, or go on? Champagne was sure to be waiting, even if Aisha wasn't.

He checked the clasps on his cuff-links and aimed for the door. It was better to be fashionably late anyway.

Continued here: Window Shopping

Once upon a time, huge Soviet-era apartment blocks stood in long, identical rows, housing thousands of low-income factory workers and laborers. Many still existed even in this 'enlightened' era of economic growth and expansion, but some had been knocked down to make room for newer, nicer, more beautiful structures. But, as with all things, money changed hands, companies folded, contracts were lost, and investors moved on, until all that remained were rubble-strewn lots shadowed by the great Garden Ring Road's overpasses and raised highways above.

Years passed, and eventually folks returned to these abandoned lots. Squat-er camps formed, and government funded housing projects were started up and abandoned, leaving stretches of close-packed cookie-cutter houses built by the lowest bidder and never quite finished. But it was a start, and improvements came sporadically as new city planners came and went.

Bulatnikovskaya block was one such area. Cloned housing and huts that ranged somewhere between ramshackle and whatever was a step up from ramshackle, lined the old streets. What was once a soccer field had been re-purposed into a communal garden, and up the block there was even a small open-air market where people sold fresh butchered goat meat, vegetables, salvaged junk and home-made crafts. The only evidence that this little corner of the world was actually a part of the greatest city in the world (so far as the CCD was concerned), was the not-so-distant skyline a public transit system a person could set their watch to.

Few folks who lived in the area could actually be considered land owners (as much as one could be when living in a city), but some folks earned enough to do more then simply rent. Hood was one of them. But rather then landing himself in one of the many 'mostly finished' housing units, he had one of his own built.

Sea-can construction had become rather popular in the 10's and 20's. Entire apartment buildings had been constructed of them. The metal boxes were abundant, cheap, and water-proof. At first glance, Bulatnikovskaya block's newest addition seemed out of place. A pile of sea-cans that were delivered to a run down residential neighborhood rather then one of the not-too distant train yards. Then came the electricians and plumbers, and even a government inspector. Of course, there might have been a greased palm or two to get the ball rolling, but two months after arriving in District I, Hood had a home.

In the months since he moved in, Hood had spent every waking hour spent at home on renovations. Sanding the outer walls of his new home of rust before he could start coating them with rust-protection. Interior finishings would come later, once he was comfortable his new home would weather it's first winter.

Much of the funding to build his new abode came from the Atharim. Beneath the sea-can cabin, another was burried. Excuses for the digging and dropping of the can into the open pit, was that it would serve as a solid foundation for the rest of the structure to sit on top of, and for the most part, folks bought it (or accepted bribes to make sure that part of the building plans were lost from records). That sea-can, hidden beneath the floor, provided access to the old sewers below; a bolt hole to a safe house for any Atharim agents that found themselves in a spot of trouble. The hidden room would also house Hood's personal arsenal, which was, sadly, still a work in progress.

At 0200hrs, Hood sat on the step of his recently finished porch, under the glow of the lone light fixed above the front door. At that late hour, there wasn't much activity on the street, but there were obviously people still awake. Loud music could be heard from coming from one of the houses a ways up the block. The windows were covered in bars and CGI, the door replaced with an expensive metal thing. A drug house. Teenagers and young adults could be seen coming and going all day, but so far they had left him alone and hadn't caused much trouble.

The occasional yelling couple, the distant wail of sirens and the near constant drone of the near by Garden Ring Road. On some level, he was consciously aware of all those sounds, but they were a distant thing. Sitting next to him was a toolbox, a pile of rags, and some oil. After each day's labor, he would spend an hour just sitting on the step, enjoying the cooling evening air as he cleaned and inspected the tools.

Not too far off, the local metro line could be heard coming to a stop at the station. This far out from the city center, their stop was above ground, but the tracks quickly dipped below ground again on either side of the platform. Minutes later, the sound of the train vanished as it went back under ground, and Hood finally packed his tools away.

He shifted to lean against the a post on his porch, and picked up a bottle of Alexander Kieth's beer. An expensive import, but old habits died hard. He brought the bottle to his lips then paused and frowned at it, noticing a moth stuck to the condensation on the lip. A couple huffs and puffs blew the insect clear, then after another moment's hesitation he shrugged and took a swig.

Soon enough a trio of shaggy mutts wandered into the pool of light around his porch, and Hood stared at the three dogs for a long moment. None seemed particularly excited to see him, and just scooted around him onto the porch to lay down or partake from a bucket full of water next to the door.

"I wake up, and there's a single puddle of piss on this deck, the lot of you are getting shaved and baths." The three mutts glanced at him. They didn't understand him; they recognized some Russian, unsurprisingly, but English was beyond them still. More likely, they were trying to decide if he had mentioned anything about food. He stared at the largest of the three, then just sighed and stood up, collecting his tool box and setting the empty bottle of beer on the step. Someone would collect it by morning to recycle it.

The dogs were a explainable but welcome addition to his new home. They had just shown up one day and started living on his deck. They'd leave in the morning on the metro, heading into town where they could beg and scavenge for scraps of food, then return at night to sleep there. They stayed out of his way, and had proven themselves as an efficient burglar-deterrent, so he put water out for them, sometimes some food, and generally put up with them. When winter came, he'd have to think of some sort of more permanent arrangements.

Hood went inside, stopping in the doorway long enough to toss the three strays some leftovers. The interior of his stylish new home was still fairly spartan. Plywood served as the floor, and a wooden frame skirted the walls. Eventually, drywall and insulation would be installed. The tool box was put away, the door closed and locked, and he did his rounds to make sure the windows were secure. He wasn't worried about people trying to break in. Hell, let them try it. He just didn't want to have to explain to the police why had he killed someone.

A quick trip to the fridge found another bottle of beer in his hand, and he popped the cap just as the phone rang. He frowned briefly; there weren't many who had his number, but those few knew he would still be awake at so late an hour. It would either be his day job, or his night. One payed over the counter, and the other was the reason why he had a tunnel into the sewer under his house.

He let it ring a few times, then finally answered in fluent Russian. "White."


"Sorry for calling so late..."
Hood rolled his eyes and took a sip of beer. It was the over-the-counter sort of work then.

"Don't worry, you knew full well I'd be awake. What's the tasking?"


The man on the other end of the phone chuckled, "If you had a Wallet, I could just forward it to you you know. You really should get with the times."


"Yeah well, prefer doing things the old fashioned way. What're the particulars? I'll come in to the office in the morning for the packet."
Another sip of beer then he set it aside to take up a pen and line up a pad of paper.

"There is a grand opening of the the Baccarat Mansion in a few days. Lots of high society types will be in town for it, and some are travelling under the radar. Without their usual entourage or bodyguards. There are a few parties requesting our operatives, and you're one of our top guys, so you will get first dibs."


Hood nodded, and noted down the relevant details his boss had to offer over the next few minutes. This could well work out to his advantage. Barely five minutes after he hung up, the phone rang again. He made this one wait a few rings too, sipping his beer. It was already getting warm because of these bastards and their long-winded phone conversations. This time, he answered in Arabic. The conversation was shorter, and held no surprises for him. They spoke in code, of course; innocuous, inane chatter. It was a long distance phone call, from a 'cousin' in Dominance III, talking about family and the like.

He scribbled down the important points, and knew which of the high-profile visitors he would choose to serve as bodyguard. An Atharim....were they investors? Owners? The particulars of their organization still eluded him on the finer points, but they did good, so he hadn't been too interested in poking around too deeply.

He'd probably have to buy a suit. A nice suit, anyway...he had suits, but nothing quite fancy enough for something like this. And of course, a new suit meant a new shoulder holster. So at least there was something interesting to be done tomorrow.


Edited by Hood, Jul 27 2013, 06:45 PM.

For days he studied the 5 tombs he bought, 4 of the volumes proved worthless, they gave him little more knowledge than he already had. The 5th however was different, at the time he knew not why he choose it, it was a "gut feeling", one of those things he knew not to ignore. The book was about ancient scrimshaw. He knew much of scrimshaw, being a sailor his whole life and had a massive collection dating back to the beginning of his family. AS he read, he knew of the superstitions that scrimshaw was made for charms to ward off a host of events, but one sentence stood out. "The art of scrimshaw is just that, art. The power of scrimshaw comes from material, from the elements and from within". He know what was meant by the elements, the material was easy to figure, but what does it mean "from within". He must study this, he must learn this and he can't do at home, he must remain in Moscow where there is more knowledge to be found.

Disguised in old clothes and a tattered cloak, he walks with his full stature using a worn but sturdy a walking stick. He is not alone, dressed the same he is accompanied by his 1st mate. Together they enter the underground.

The first encounter was the smell. The smell of unwashed bodies, vomit, alcohol, sewage and death. Bodies were scattered everywhere, it was hard to tell who was dead and who was alive. A few approached, them, a small woman ragged and well used was waved off, a beggar was more aggressive and was left with a crushed chest. descending to the lower level's was like a maze, but a lifetime a navigation proved it easy to map. After 3 level's there was no one to be seen, yet they went further. 3 more levels til the found what they was looking for. A series of rooms offset from the main tunnels, the rooms were dusty and not even animal tracks showed on the floor. The rooms linkage to the tunnel was a late addition, giving a thought to Manix this was someone's bomb shelter years ago. Searching the complex he finds 5 rooms, a common room, a place to prepare food, some type of restroom, a private bedroom and a bunk house. Searching the the each room in detail he finds the door in the common room leading up to the outside world some 70 feet above.
climbing the stairs when enters a basement of a ancient structure. well build but long abandoned, he smiles. His First Mate saw the smile and sighed, he knew that look.

Returning to the ship he quickly issues orders, keeping 2 of his better craftsmen and 2 deck hands and his cargo master he sends his ship, with the 1st mate at the helm back to the Isle of Man to retrieve all he possesses and to deliver the documents needed to turn control of his share of the fishing empire to his cousin. Most important, is the request to his father to collect all scrimshaw and send it to him in Moscow, even those buried in the family tombs. His Father knew of his studies, and suspected more, so Manix prayed his Father would understand and do all the he has asked.

Watching his ship sail off, he issues further orders, to the Cargo Master he sends to purchase the rundown home in Manix's name, sending a deck hand with em for protection. Manix with the 2 craftsman and final deck hand he returns to the home and the underground complex, to store supplies. First mission, He sends Junns (master craftsman) with Steven (deckhand) into the tunnels. The mission, map the tunnels and find a connection to water and seawater and get it piped into the complex. Jackson (Jr. Craftsman) is set to assess what is needed to get this complex up and running, without the knowledge of the CCD.

Satisfied his orders will be followed, he takes on a disguise of lower class citizen to roam the streets and absorb the culture.

**closed and booked**


Edited by Manix, Sep 3 2016, 02:37 PM.

Thalia Averill Milton

Born to privileged parents in DVII some twenty-four years ago.

Her mother often declared she had been born facing backwards; that she was more concerned with antiquity than the brightness of the future. Such an odd child. Thalia remembers those words like a punctuation mark throughout her childhood, but with a faintly nostalgic pleasantness rather than dismay. An odd child indeed, but perhaps only by virtue of her context.

Thalia was not stupid, but she was not a focussed child either; much to the chagrin of parents who valued a tight regimen of schooling, were both successful in their respective fields, and had already been blessed with older daughter, Aylin. Perfect Aylin. Oddly enough, despite their very polar differences, Thalia adored her older sister; her quiet diligence, her precision and care. Her cleverness.

Thalia liked to draw, and to read – though books were not so sacred as to escape the markings of her pencil. She was an idler, a daydreamer; queen of childhood castles and purveyor of fantastical stories. Her parents did not discourage her, exactly, but they did try to impress upon her the importance of education, of hard work, and of success. It wasn’t until years later that Thalia understood why they had been concerned. It isn't something she admits to herself these days.

By the time she reached school, her interests grew to encompass both literature and history, which were academic enough subjects to satisfy her parents. Plus, she quickly found that being  discovered with her nose in a textbook left her less likely be disturbed than if she was found drawing. She did not grow out of it, exactly, so much as she learnt to slide herself within the ideals of her parents expectations. Study first, idle later. She kept reams of sketchbooks, but by the time she entered adolescence had stopped trying to garner approval for her scribblings anyway. Truthfully she was not interested in the attention – she did not do it to please an audience; it was a compulsion, an obsession. A necessity.

At university, much to her parents diligently concealed disappointment, she chose to study history. It was something of a compromise, since she didn’t actually want to study for a degree at all. By then Aylin was studying to become a psychiatrist at Moscow State, so it was natural for Thalia to fly the nest in that direction. It seemed a grand adventure, and by the time the plane landed she’d half convinced herself it was what she wanted. Moscow awed her; the mix of new and old, the endless clash of ancient and stark beauty. She supposed she’d been sheltered up to then; not that her parents had been the coddling sort, but there had still been carefully wrought parameters to her freedoms. The sudden breadth of independence barely phased her, even when she became quite lost and almost didn’t make it to the university.    

The fairy-tale she painted in her mind didn't end well. Despite a sometimes sharp mind, Thalia was too lacking in discipline to excel in her studies. She would spend hours in libraries, only to emerge without so much as a single written note. Then, when the time came to compose essays, she would instead find herself doodling in the margins of the pages, or staring vacuously at windows. Or walls. The reading interested her, the learning interested her -   but only in the way of a collector. She hoarded the knowledge but lacked the motivation to do anything with it. Well, nothing relevant to her degree, anyway, and though she persevered for the sake of her parents (for the money they had plied into her fees, and the strings they had pulled to get her a place) it was no time at all before her grades slipped. Mere months.          

And then she got sick.

Well, truth told, it had come and gone over the months since she left DVII, only to  culminate severly during her first semester. Four days of absence and ignored phonecalls passed before Aylin banged on the door to Thalia’s dorm room, and found her sweating drowsily in bed, surrounded by dozens of scrumpled up pieces of paper. Flu, Thalia insisted. But Aylin was pale. Especially when she smoothed out a few of those crumpled pages.

Thalia never knew what Aylin told their parents. Drink, maybe. Drugs. Her parents wanted her home, of course, but they trusted their reliable, eternally sensible eldest daughter. It was just as well they did, for Thalia’s sake; because even she realised, somewhere amid her fevered brain, that girls died from the Sickness. And not just some of them; most of them. That or they disappeared. Aylin knew, because she had seen it, and without her intervention Thalia would have numbered among one or other of those fatal statistics – she knew that without even knowing how she knew it.

She survived. Thanks to Aylin, thanks to the screwed up drawings scattered about her bed that day – thanks to a lineage of screwed up drawings, in truth –  and thanks to a Russian called Yana who had been coolly convinced Thalia was a demon. Months of fugue followed.  Thalia never went back to her course, and used the remaining of her parent’s funding to rent a small studio apartment. She went to great pains to forget the clutches of the Sickness, and to forget the psychiatric unit where Aylin interned. But most of all she forgot the face she had been sketching for years; forgot that, as it turned out, the face belonged to a real woman.    

There were worse places to recover than the heart of the new world, and Thalia adapted. With no job and no qualification, it was natural to turn to the one thing she was good at. Her first major sale was the portrait of a woman surrounded by the ethereal glow of sunrise; except, in Thalia’s mind, it was not the sun at all, but the woman. It was bought by a religious zealot, who for obvious reasons believed it a religious painting, and from there her reputation trickled steadily upwards. Six years later her apartment is bigger and she rents a small studio. Thalia’s art sells well and she is rarely without commission, but her income can be erratic. The majority of her sold work consists of paintings, though she still keeps piles of sketchbooks and sometimes does portrait commissions. She specialises in realism, at least in style. Plenty of her work features the abstract and fantastical, and much of it has an ethereal quality that has become her signature.

-*-

Her temperament is full of jagged edges and contradictions, like a thousand souls stuffed in one body. She’s sensory, compelled by beauty and typically indulgent to her own whims. Intuition forms a greater part of her rationale, not that she’s incapable of logical thought so much as she’s learnt the value of trusting her instincts. For the most part she’s laid-back and adapts easily; quite content to watch things unfold naturally and to be swept alongside for the ride. In fact her sense of calm is infectious, or at least the way she is self-assured without the overbearing of arrogance. She’s the kind of person who gives the distinct impression they know what they’re doing, even when out of their depth,  though composure should not be confused with being sensible, especially if pushed beyond the bounds of her integrity; a point at which she is often misjudged (despite the similarities in appearance, she is not her level-headed sister).

There are times when cracks mar the surface of the Thalia she recognises as herself; when it feels like a great big thumb presses down on her mind, and the pressure of it is crushing. In these moods she’s either unfathomably distant or grievously short-tempered, hardly like herself at all. Usually it’s the prelude to a project, to clear her head. Even in her best moods it isn’t unusual for Thalia to spend great gaping breaches of time alone, lost in work or study, though she’s not a loner by nature. She doesn’t spend much time socialising with other artists, perhaps because – although it’s an intrinsic part of her life – she does not define herself by it. Otherwise her haunts are as varied as her fleeting interests, and she isn’t especially selective of her company – depending on the whim of the day. Her obsessions sometimes include people, though she tends to form no lasting attachments. It’s a big city, after all.

She's grown to have little true fear – at least for her safety. When her survival depends on it, Thalia finds a way to defend herself. A way that makes her feel like a burning sun, so sweet and alive and dangerous. She side-steps the memory of these moments, just as she side-steps the other anomalies in her life. Thalia hears lots of things; she might be classed as eccentric, but she knows not to advertise  some forms of peculiarities.  

Desc: Brown hair worn long to the waist, wavy and haloed with frizz. 5'2''. Porcelain pale and on the delicate side of plain. Naturally expressive with wide grey eyes. Fond of jewellery – fond of anything beautiful, really – though she tends to dress simply. A mural of tattoos decorate her back, the main feature of which is a woman in the art nouveau style, surrounded by poppies.