Amelia Kensington Blackthorn (deceased)

Victoria Blackthorn

Maxamilian Blackthorn (deceased)

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Age: 22
Talent: Siren

[[warning: this may be triggering, abusive relationships, mutilations, slavery and several other potential triggers]]

The Blackthorn Family

Personality:

Ashton exudes a certain charm without trying. All eyes are drawn to him even if he's trying to not stand out. He's been told he has a silvery aura that attracts people. He has a lyrical voice that sounds pleasant and alluring to whoever is listening, his voice tends to change based on the listener, no two people hear him exactly the same. Ashton is a good listener, and he appears trust worthy and inviting -- he is not a threat.

History:

Life had never been easy for Ashton.  Born to an alcoholic father who beat his wife and killed her only days after having their son, Ashton found himself in foster care for most of his life.  At first he bounced around between homes, which was unusual for a baby since adoption was high among those still too young to remember their past lives.  But Ashton was unique despite his blond curls and baby blues his cries were hypnotic and unnerving.  Nearly everyone who held him to calm his cries found their lives short lived.  It was as if angering the baby had cut their thread of fate short.

It wasn't until Amelia Kensington Blackthorn took him home that he found a place of permanence.  Not that he was looking for permanence at the tender age of 10, but he found it none-the-less.  He wanted a home, a family, people to care for him and love him.  But fortunes decided otherwise.

At first it was do the laundry, help with the cleaning, help the gardener and here are your lessons.  Most of which were given to him by an elder boy, Taylor.  He taught Ashton things no ten year old should ever know.  But if Taylor didn't teach him, and Ashton didn't learn, the consequences were dire -- dire as in potential death dire. 

The first night Ashton refused his lessons and Taylor ran to their mistress Ashton watched as Mistress Blackthorn carved a piece of flesh from his thigh and Taylor held him down. Olivia used some sort of magic to heal his major wounds but there was a mangled scare left in it's place -- a constant reminder of his refusal.  Ashton never refused again.

But that wasn't the last of the mutilations.  Nor the horror he watched as he grew up in the Blackthorn home.

When Ashton was 13 he was sent out into the world to bring home a tender boy or girl that none would miss.  It was harder than he thought, and failure to do so in a timely fashion resulted in the tip of his left pinky being severed from his hand and Mistress Blackthorn kept it in a box above the fireplace of their lavous home with all her other trophies from her children's failures.

Amelia Kensington Blackthorn was not the woman she pretended to be -- she was cruel evil woman whom all the fosters hated.  Hated more than the men who fed upon their flesh.

Taylor was a friend, he was a confidant.  And his loss was felt throughout the house.  On his eighteenth birthday the Blackthorn's threw him a farewell party.  They fed him steak and the finest wines.  They dotted on him.  They fattened him like a pig for weeks before that too.  He'd been on a rigorous work out schedule and feeding times.  And he was pampered and prepped until the day before he came of age.  And on that day the Blackthorns gathered in their shared basement abode and they made all of the Fosters, and servants and brothers and sisters -- they all watched as Ambrose Blackthorn slit the throat of Taylor -- who they all loved and then feasted on his heart right in front of all of them.

It was horrible.  The fosters all cried.  Only Olivia didn't she'd seen too many pass through the doors for death upon the same alter upon which Taylor had died.

As Ashton got older the more he feared the day he turned 18.  The month before Ashton prepared himself for the inevitable.  He'd watched other kids leave the house the same way Taylor had and he expected his lot to be called up.  The week before they did not fatten him.  They did not pamper him.  He slept in the same squalor as the other fosters.  They kept him underfed and sent him out to pull in others even on the day of his 18th birthday. 

He never questioned the reason, but Olivia squirreled him away and spoke in hushed whispers. "You are special.  They won't let you go ever.  We have to stick together."

He wasn't special.  He didn't think.  Though Victoria Blackthorn and in fact most of the other Blackthorns all loved to hear him sing.  Everyone asked him to.  Even on the darkest of nights.  Olivia only smiled at him when he protested.  But she was right.  It was years since he turned 18, and he still went out swept men and women off their feet and brought them home to a horrific death.  Though for them it was painless -- a slip of a poison and they'd drift off into eternal slumber.  It was only horrifying for Ashton and the others as they had the responsibility of butchering the people for storage.

Kids came and went.  No one lived past 18 unless they could continue to help the Blackthorns keep their secrets.  Olivia could heal.  Ashton could sing for their supper.  Ethan -- poor Ethan, he had it the worst.  He was the play toy of the evil child Edmund.  Ethan had been 16 when Edmund began teething on poor Ethan.  And since that day he's been Edmund's sole caretaker.  Edmund was an evil child.  Worse than his grandmother.  And he wasn't even like the others -- he hadn't undergone the change as they called it.  He was just the essence of his mother rolled into one small package -- evil for evil's sake.

The only others older than eighteen were Ava and Isabella.  And no one spoke of the girls -- no one saw them much either.  But every so often -- every 9 months or so you might hear them screaming in pain.  They were nothing but breeding stock.  The boys were kept and pampered.  The girls --- the girls found their way into delicacies.  They were the best cuts of meat.  The favorites of the men of the Blackthorns.  A rare vintage they called it.  All except for Max -- Max kept his daughters -- he had no sons.  The women of the Blackthorn blood was growing.  Victoria was no longer the only natural born.  The house sounded like music when the girls played.  It was Ashton's favorite time.

Now that he was one of the oldest, it was his job to teach the others.  And he did his job dutifully -- teaching them the ways of their trade.  Not all of them were good at seduction, and not all of what they did required it.  Sometimes a precious one could be kidnapped.  Though Ashton did not prefer those methods.  The shadows were their home.  But they all wore faces of proud Blackthorn children fostered by the family for their own good.  No one knew the darkness that lived in the shadows of the slightly rich and famous -- and no one cared as long as it never tarnished their name.  And Amelia Kensington Blackthorn would insure the Blackthorn name would live on forevermore as an elite sophisticated family with a perfect life.

Spoilers below














I'll do a longer review/post later, but that was a fucking awesome episode. Best one of the show so far.

Sleeping had always been hard for Nox.  His first kill saw to that.  And every subsequent death only added to it.  They only got worse when he slept in his own bed on the regular without the comforting scent of his ex or the lull of his breathing.  Before that it had been Aurora when he was in need of comfort and now that was all gone and he struggled to find peace.

His nightmares were exponentially worse after seeing his grandfather's best friend again and the ignition of additional repressed memories horrified Nox. Every face in his dreams now had names -- except one, the random rapist he'd found on the street.  There was no name, only the feelings left behind by his slaughter.  If Nox had the horde then the man would not have been identifiable. 

His nightmares stoked by the horde's instinct obliterated any recognition of those scenes.  The faces were not randomly placed in a sequence of failures.  Nox relived the hunter he was in his nightmares.  They made his previous nightmares pale in comparison.

His mother being ripped to shreds, or ripping Raffe's heart out with his bare hands were nothing compared to the brutal murder of a child and his family.  Things exaggerated by the dream that had really happened.  Things Nox had chosen not to remember somewhere deep inside when he'd lost all memory of who he was.  He was not that person anymore.  He stopped -- he asked questions.  He didn't live by the strict credo of the Atharim any longer.  He was a monster but he wasn't that monster!  He wasn't a cold-blooded killer.

Nox woke every night before his alarm sweating and wheezing from the memories -- often afraid to go back to sleep or see the images floating in his mind.  But tonight was not one of those nights.  He'd taken something to sleep and it dragged him down deep into slumber unable to wake himself from his nightmares just so his body could try to rest.

A litany of scenes played in his minds eye.  On deck was his one and only god killing spree.  The boy at the top of the stairs, Nox's knife jutting into his back.  The blood spilling across his fingers making a sticky mess, looking past him as Uncle Jake smiled proudly at him.  Nox didn't want to see the pride on his face, feel the smile spread his lips.  He hadn't enjoyed the kill, but he had loved the look of pride on Jacob's face.  Someone was glad he existed in that moment. 

Nox shook in horror at his memories at the boy he was, the hunter he might have become.

[[ ooc: Nox doesn't remember his dreams so any dreamwalker is welcome to come play with Nox's nightmares and not affect any of his on going threads  ]]

[[ ooc: this happens afterConnections, Money and Secrets  Jacob will get Nox to talk to Sage and Nox and Sage will have talked off screen. ]]

It wasn't everyday Sage got unfetted access to hidden databases full of information.  It wasn't everyday he was asked to hack those same things from someone on the inside.  Nor was it everyday that his payment was unfetted access to the data so that he could recalibrate his changes he was tasked with doing.  It wasn't like people wanted to lie about things.  Usually they paid to keep him out.  This time, he was being paid to be kept inside.

He created back doors for himself, and for a few like mind individuals, and one Nox could sneak into without needing to hack the system at all -- no skill required.  Though he was starting to doubt his friends ineptitude when it came to technology.  A faint on his part?  Maybe?  Or maybe Sage just hadn't been paying attention.

This wasn't a favor for Nox.  It was a transaction, he was just relaying the message.  And Sage was giving Nox everything his friend desired and then some.  He needed some good news after the break up.  Sage wished he could help but his presence was not wanted.  At least not physically, Nox was suffering and the punishment was self inflicted denial.  Not pent up by any means, he was screwing every girl who wanted.  No attachments.  Sage didn't blame him, but at least the Atharim were keeping him busy -- both of them.  Aiden was busy with his spear and his books and god knows what else.  Sage didn't mind.  He had plenty of toys to play with.

And the Atharim database was just one of many now that his servers were finally cataloging everything.  Sortage and power he was so happy.  

But it was the nature of the deeds themselves that caught Sage's attention.  Remove and change records to hide channelers -- two specifically.  One that was mostly redacted information but enough that he knew exactly what he did.  They were gone from the Atharim database -- like they never existed.  And then there was the other.  Jaxen Marveet was framing his brother instead.  Whatever the intent he didn't know but he did the job.  Nox didn't want to be removed.  He wanted the Atharim to hunt him.  

Sage set algorithms in place to change all Jaxen to Maxim, all images were doctored and anything in the future would be curated to Maxim's files now.  It was a work of art truly.  Sage also flagged several other names to delete upon showing up in the Atharim database.  Nox wasn't with him still but Raffe's name was top of Sage's list with Aiden and Nox if he'd wanted it.  Sterling hit the list too.  Others might show up as he cared more about their persons but for now that was it.

And the data in the system was marvelous.  He siphoned off every last bit of it, coming and going.  It was glorious to witness the sheer power of the Atharim behind the scenes.  And now -- he had access to it all.

Sage didn't know if Jaxen knew, but he had a gift for Voxel.  Voxel could have done this himself -- though maybe not to the degree he could -- nor with the sheer quickness that Sage could preform the task and keep it running.  This is what he did for a living, Voxel well he was a Jack of all Trades -- mediocre at all of them, at least as far as hacking went.  

The Wicked Truth cast a net to snag his friend.  Your name real name floated across my desk.  And now I have a present for you.

Just a mile south of Tropikana Park a local resident snapped a picture of what could only be described as big foot -- except it had no hair and was grayish green in color.  The foot print left in the mud was all wrong too. 

Intrepid reports have gone on a renewed search for the infamous beast.  Wildlife management urge against it.

The ride from the Kremlin was a mere five or so minutes. The vehicle pulled to the front unhindered just as it had rolled unimpeded by traffic from the adjoining Kremlin district. Such diversions were a common sight in the government district. When central police barricaded a road, it only meant one thing: that the black limousine bearing the flags of the Double Crescent was soon to pass.

The restaurant Turandot was opened on Tverskaya Boulevard in December 2031, immediately becoming fashionable as one of the main gastronomic and architectural attractions of Moscow. Turandot was as culturally popular as the Kremlin, the Bolshoi Theatre and St. Basil’s Cathedral. 

The large, two-storied building, hiding behind the walls of a mansion was constructed over six years to a cost of 20 million dollars. It was built on the fantasy of the luxurious dining hall of medieval European palaces and upon its opening, became one of the most gorgeous restaurants in Moscow, and by extension, the world.

Turandot was a feather in the cap of the prestigious and powerful Stoya family, one of Moscow’s great mafia families. Their ownership never hindered the restaurant’s popularity, but in fact might have bolstered its infamy. It was a common place to glimpse oligarchs and bureaucrats, for instance.

Nikolai emerged with Barrier Preator Agents already waiting for his arrival. He trusted others were inside and more surrounded unseen. He hadn’t actually glimpsed Alric today, but the man was always close when Nikolai left the confines of his fortress home. As soon as he did, he paused to greet the pedestrians held back from his passage. There were gasps and excited angling of Wallets. Video rolled and people waved him over. He stopped for a few selfies under the watchful eyes of the Barriers, shook hands and smiled.

Soon he entered Turandot, mood lifted as sure as if the people hefted him upon their shoulders. This was Myshelov’s favorite restaurant, and from time to time, Nikolai agreed to meet the Patron of Moscow there. Not only was it good to be seen out and about, but the Stoya’s benefited as well. Sure to that, Mr. Stoya himself greeted him with a handshake and shared words of appreciation for his return. Nikolai’s presence only extended his favoring of the family, which quietly suggested that they remained in his, and the government’s, good graces. They would continue to exert their power and keep their domain under control in the city, and so round and around the relationship went. As it did with all the families of the new aristocracy.

The main hall was two stories high, and there were round tables in the lower atrium surrounded by several luxury booths for privacy. It was beautifully furnished with magnificent crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of the dome, making the environment even more romantic and otherworldly.

He passed through the restaurant to many a turning head, nodding face, or smiling woman. Myshelov was already waiting at his preferred table: second level beneath the rotunda, center to the back. The entire floor was vacant of restauranteurs, for respect of the privacy of their conversation but also for reasons of practicality. Barrier Preator agents took up guardianship at the exits. More were in the kitchen, overseeing the preparation of the meal to come.

“Myshelov.” He greeted the aging man with a handshake.

“Ascendancy. You look well. Then again, you always do.” He bowed his head with a smirk as they both sat.

A server poured their drinks and presented menus, which were given proper attention. Myshelov ordered the same thing as always. Nikolai rarely indulged in alcohol, but Myshelov was one of the special few with whom he imbibed. He never acquired the taste for straight vodka, having at least preferred to mix it with tonic, but there was an unspoken understanding between him and the people of the world he came to dominate. The first time he met the man was over vodka in Minsk, and the tradition was maintained these decades later. He sipped the drink out of respect for that tradition but was grateful that behind the scenes the high-proof was secretly been diluted.

They toasted to the clinking sound of crystal glasses and got to business.

“How fares Moscow?” He asked as he folded the napkin across his lap.

“Your city is well, Nikolai.” Myshelov began. He always called it that, a description that Nikolai long endorsed, and they both understood. “How fares the world?” He asked in sly response. 

Nik suppressed what he truly thought but shared as much in a glance. Myshelov was aware of more than most, and he could read between the headlines.

Nikolai redirected. “Your son? Well I hope. I see he makes as many headlines as ever.” He liked to keep abreast of the personal lives of those in his employ, whether they be the staffers of the Executive Office of the Ascendancy or the offspring of the Custody’s patrons. It wasn’t with overwhelming warmth that he inquired, but he knew such things were important to those around him. It was with such personal touches that his benevolence grew to near cult-like allegiance by nearly all who met him.

They spent the first course discussing much of the administrative updates that Myshelov would have otherwise shared more traditionally, but what Nikolai could not discern from official reports, he gleaned from the man’s opinion via the animated expressions with which he shared them. Finally, by the time the main course was served, Myshelov had some disappointing news to share.

“There was an incident you should know about.” Myshelov was rarely grim, but there was weight to his words. Nikolai nodded that he continue, knowing their surroundings were secure. “Mr. James revealed himself.”

“To whom?” Nikolai asked, calmly taking a sip of his coffee.

“Two of Konstantin Vasilev’s children and Scion Marveet’s oldest.”

He wasn’t sure which was the more disappointing. Konstantin, who had no marks against him, was loyal and effective, or Scion, whose offspring already proved to be the opposite. Regardless, Myshelov would know the score. It was the Patron who brokered Jensen's dalliance with the city's powerful. “Wasn’t there a man assigned to Mr. James? Tasked to make sure that did not happen? To keep him safe?”

“He’s been handled.” The explanation was enough, Nik waved away details he didn't care to hear.

“And what is your recommendation? Can we trust them to discretion?” Nikolai leaned back in his seat, contemplating the situation.

“With the right leverage, but there are some things only the Ascendancy can manage.” Myshelov wiped his mouth down, holding his gaze as courageously as ever. He was astonishingly effective at what he did, including the oversight of the oligarchs and crime lords of the Dominance, but he was right.

There was a time when Nikolai first won the Presidency that it took a great deal more effort than simply walking around to effect leverage. Many years of dedicated work led to this day. “When?”

“Konstantin and Edita are throwing their anniversary party. Your attendance will shore up the family a great deal, and with all your efforts focused on claiming new Dominances, walking among your own people will be a good reminder of who exactly rules in Moscow.” Myshelov fixed him with a sly look that Nikolai was never quite sure if it was humor or pride.

“It’s advice I will take, Myshelov. We’ll make sure Mr. James attends as well. We don’t know if the children revealed this secret to their parents, but I’ll speak with Scion and Konstantin if I must. I’d rather it not come to that, but I want them to know that they are being watched, and that my eye can be a blessing or a curse. I think they will agree which is the better for us all. You’ll be there as well, I assume? Please make sure to bring your son, also.”

Their dinner concluded soon after, but Nikolai, with Myshelov at his back, tarried a while to meander through the restaurant, shaking hands and greeting familiar faces as they passed.

Zixin set up his offices in a legitimate building, but he truly worked when and where ever he wanted. And what work it was. He heard from all five of the Russian mafia families to date, and each owed him a debt of some kind. Halting humiliation. Restoring strength. Unveiling truth. Revealing secrets. Unmasking enemies.

But out of all the thrilling high-wire acts he performed, tugging at the strings of the Vasilev family was the ultimate thrill. It was like walking a tightrope suspended over a pit of rabid wolves, but Zixin wouldn't have it any other way. He played his cards just right, leaving wedges so deep that you could practically hear the fiery snaps as he asserted his dominance. He practically pressed his polished shoe on the self-righteous Pavel Vasilev's neck, but he held back from crushing it. Why? Because he could. And Pavel knew it.

Zixin lived for the danger, although not so much that he wanted to experience the full-scale smiting of the Russian retaliation. So, he walked the fine line, keeping his wits sharp at all times. His work in this world was far from finished.

Just then, a message blinked to life on one of his screens.
“He’s here.” It read.

Zixin ordered the man himself to be sent in, and meanwhile went about the process of minimizing all his open screens. There was no way in hell he was going to allow this kid to glimpse a single google search, let alone the myriad profiles and accounts on view.

As the door creaked open, Zixin gave the newcomer a nod of approval. The ‘man’ before him was more like a boy, really.

With a sly grin, Zixin tossed him an envelope filled with cash. "Well done, Haruto."

Caught off guard by the unexpected toss, Haruto quickly regained his composure and checked the envelope's contents.

"Thanks, Mr. Kao," he replied, tucking it into his jacket pocket. He then stood at attention, ready for his next marching orders.

To which Zixin happily obliged.

Daniil Myshelovich Tarasovich, the offspring of the inscrutable Myshelov Tarasovich, Patron of Dominance I, was born into a world of intricacies and cunning. Inheriting his father’s sharp intellect and charm, Daniil embarked on a path that, while distinct from his father’s, held the same undercurrent of calculated and cutthroat determination.

From an early age, Daniil, or Danya for short, exhibited a remarkable aptitude for understanding the complexities of human nature. Observing his father’s shrewd dealings with both allies and adversaries, he absorbed the lessons of diplomacy and persuasion with a discerning eye. Unlike Myshelov’s unyielding pursuit of power and order, Daniil possessed a different kind of ambition – one that thrived in the shadows of Moscow’s legal labyrinth.

From a young age, Daniil displayed an insatiable thirst for the spotlight, an unquenchable desire for prestige, and a penchant for controlling narratives. Observing his father’s shrewd dealings with allies and adversaries alike, he understood that true power lay not only in acquiring it but also in the artful wielding of influence. In contrast to his father’s political disposition, Daniil chose the path of a criminal defense lawyer. He saw the legal system as an intricate web, where manipulation and persuasion were the keys to success. With a penchant for exploiting legal loopholes and an uncanny ability to read people, Daniil became a formidable advocate.

Unlike Myshelov, whose pursuit of power and order was unyielding, Daniil craved the adulation that came with acquittals and the control he could exert over public perception. He saw the courtroom as a stage where he could manipulate emotions, bend the truth, and orchestrate legal symphonies to his own advantage.

Daniil understood that the courts were a stage where decorum and strategy played vital roles and where charisma and strategy reigned supreme. He approached each case with the same meticulous attention to detail that Myshelov applied to his political maneuvers.

Beneath Daniil’s affable facade lay a mind that never missed a beat and a heart devoid of empathy for those who stood in his way. He understood that to win, he needed to be both the puppeteer and the puppet master. He wove intricate webs of deceit with ease, pulling strings behind the scenes to control outcomes and manipulate perceptions. He was a master at shaping narratives and bending the truth to his advantage, ensuring that acquittals were not just legal victories but also public spectacles featuring himself at the forefront.

His reputation as a charming yet ruthless advocate earned him both admiration and fear in equal measure. Daniil’s clients included organized crime members, corrupt politicians, government accusations, and violent criminals alike. It was he who was responsible for the imprisonment of Alistair Grey, terrorist and traitor.

As the Tarasoviches had once held power in pre-ASU Belarus, Daniil’s journey echoed his family’s legacy in a different way. He wielded the power of the law and all the prestige and attention he commands. His father’s alliance with the Ascendancy had shaped their family’s destiny, and Daniil, in his own way, continues to navigate the intricate dance of power and influence in Moscow’s legal realm.

Appearance

Daniil mesmerizes with high-fashion cheekbones, dolphin pools for eyes, the petals of the mouth, and the sculpted neck. The accumulative vibe is faux-infantile alien, soothingly sinister, tough and ethereal with a technical exactitude as sharp as his physique.

That is Daniil on the floor; he checkmates every opponent he faces. Daniil is a beautiful bird, a fine-featured horrorshow, a plutonic skeleton with bones of wind. His midnight sun, having no alternative, dazzles.

Other lives

2nd Age – Durrick Ladei Chamora, Forsaken

3rd Age – Bel’rik, Caster of Nets, Forsaken

6th Age – Thanatos, Greek God of Death