Music hummed softly to Thalia’s tuneless accompaniment. Her head tilted, and she squinted at the array of images tacked haphazardly in a great patchwork on the hotel wall. She’d had to perch on precarious tiptoe from the plastic desk chair in order to squish them all in, some sheets now torn into smaller pieces as she’d tried to group them in some semblance of… something. Her entire life these kinds of sketches had been nothing but an exorcism, forgotten as soon as they bled from her fingertips. She’d never even looked back at them until recently, when a break-in and that small glow of discovered power changed her life. Well, ruined it at the time.

Over the last few months a slow curiosity had begun to burn, though; wary to start, uncertain of what monsters might lurk in the hidden depths (because literal; actual, literal monsters lurked in the depths). Even back in Moscow she’d known there were truths here; faces that belonged to living breathing people, places she suspected were real places -- with enough whimsical conviction that she’d dropped all the threads of her life to begin a journey with no clear destination in order to find out.

She’d long suspected (and denied) something prescient when need ripped the images from her whether she wished it or not. But she’d never imagined there were stories buried in the rest, or at least had never admitted the possibility to herself. Nothing ever fled her pencil chronologically, or she did not think so anyway -- usually images were discarded the moment the picture felt finished, and she doodled in margins when she ran out of clean paper, or on receipts or napkins or her own skin. It happened frequently enough that a morning’s work might end up spread like a dandelion’s seeds blown in the wind, so it didn’t make the attempt at rearrangement now very easy. That, and she drew so much. 

Hence the currently strewn chaos.

For the last few minutes Thalia had reached to add annotations with the stub of a pencil, squeezing the cramped writing around the drawings wherever she may with what scant information she had.

Il Palazzo Apostolico di Castel Gandolfo. 
Noctua. 
River in Viljandi, Estonia. 
Tuuru. Of the outrageous spoken things. Awoken from slumber.
The guarded column.
The crystal shard, given and gone?

It left volumes of unknown, though. The black pillar that in some scenes twisted into the shadow of a scowling man, and the isolated cottage with the red door she had first drawn on the train; the ethereal woman perfected at Koit and Eha’s breakfast table before Koit plucked the pencil from the pinch of her throbbing hand. So much water; rivers and lakes and glaciers, the foamy crash of waves, the burble of a spring’s mouth. The mournful girl whom Aylin had claimed to be a patient before Thalia left Moscow, never investigated at the time. A man with bright golden eyes, and an old and grizzled wolf the size of a bear with his teeth bared in a snarl. Small sooty creatures that were sometimes curled like contented cats, and sometimes bristled into terrifying concoctions of teeth and claws and eyes. A man with a burning gaze, and a boy who cowered away terrified and shared the same features.

And it was all real?

A whole other life. Thalia stared up at the strange tapestry, and felt herself overwhelmed; not, this time, with fear -- but with wonder.

She flopped back on the bed with a sigh. Her nature was not solitary, though she was used to being alone. Fact was, she’d spent most of her adult life avoiding the sort of attachments that made new friends and acquaintances appear unbidden during the ritual of her morning sketches. There was just Aylin to spill her soul to, and Thalia did, for they’d always been close despite their (very) different natures. But she knew she couldn’t share any of this. Her sister wouldn’t understand, for one -- though she did always try her very best -- but worse than that it would only pierce her with the kind of worry that made Thalia feel a little shy of sane.

Nox was actually the first real friend she’d had in a long time, and she knew he would understand this strange and rather wonderful world she found herself perched on the threshold of (or at least he wouldn’t call her crazy), but he had his own worries and she’d already splurged all her anxieties on him once of late. And of course the person she wanted to speak to was his high holiness of the sharp smirk (Patricius I, originally born Philip Patrick Sullivan, though neither of those names really fit). Maybe he would not entertain the furious flurry of her curious nature, but he was the only one she knew who strode the same distant world -- and more, saw the things she saw.

Unfortunately, aside from the fact Mass had gone on quite forever -- and Father Ando, after that, a veritable eternity -- it was by now the twinkling early hours of the morning. Nor was it like she had any way to contact him.

She fiddled with her phone for a while, tried to slip into the realm of a book, but found herself drawn back to watching the display of sketches. Shadows curled their edges, smudging them into something otherworldly, and for the first time she was compelled to the heart of such a mystery. To want to understand. In some places her eye wandered like the contours of a map -- or a timeline, akin to the flickering pages of a flip book. But it was all theoretical. From the things he had said, Noctua clearly remembered this other world and its happenings when he awoke, but nothing stirred for Thalia. Feelings, maybe; a sense of familiarity that she had always assumed was because the art originated from within her. In some places, the more she stared the more she had a sense of some intangible connection, but like deja vu it slipped to nothing but the remnant of stirred emotions. 

Strangely, it mostly filled her with a sense of loss.

It was too late (early) to call anyone, even Aylin just to hear her sister’s voice, but she could not settle either. In the end she did summon up Nox’s contact, but only fired off a message to sate the pang of disconnect sitting in her chest.

@"Nox"  You will NEVER guess who I met today

Then, on a whim.

@"Sage"  Hi :) 

She let the wallet fall away, and sat up cross-legged amongst the blankets of the bed, restless. A faint breeze stirred through the window, and soft music continued to fill the loud silence. Thalia leaned to pluck the burn box from the nightstand, where it had been perched alongside the twig Noctua had given her at the church. He probably had not meant it as a gift, yet she was unable to let it go. “And you,” she said, twisting the ornament lifted from inside the box into her grip. It sparked dull in the moonlight, but only in a natural way; it did not shine as she knew it could. “What on earth are you?”

She did not think of the symbol burnt into her hand, or the warnings Noctua issued; that she meddled in things she ought not. That the theft would have consequences.

Her eyes were beginning to burn tired, yet she felt strange about sleeping, knowing now that her soul would fly somewhere unknown; that the images likely to spill forth tomorrow were not the workings of an idle mind, or simple dreams she never remembered nor cared to, but evidence of an entire other existence.

My newest thread is open for joining to anyone pc or npc.

Kemala stretched. For so many months, her arm was not quite long enough to grasp this branch that would carry her to the top of the tree. Finally, after days of trying, she told herself today would be the day of victory.

Her spindly legs gripped the trunk. Sweat trickled her cheeks. Her hands burned with the bite of a branch and she was pretty sure that a spider had crawled onto her shoulder. As though through sheer willpower, her body spanned the distance, and she pushed away, high enough that to fall would surely break her bones.

But her hands gripped tight and her body swung in mid-air. Not one to celebrate early, she kicked and pulled hard. Her barefooted ankle hooked the branch and she was up. She howled with victory, finally feeling the beat of her heart and the ache in her body. The branch bowed under her meager weight, fragile as it was, she was always thin and petite. The great-mothers said she was a hatchling, but as the only child of parents who tried for many years to conceive, she was probably a miracle to be born at all. For most of her life, those around her worried and fretted over her health. But Kemala was perfectly fine. She was strong of mind and what others saw as lean of body, she carved into muscle and will-power to conquer whatever she put her mind to.

Like climbing this tree. She ate three-times the amount of her daily meals for months. So much her stomach bulged and ached, but she would not be a hatchling forever. She wanted to be a great woman, lithe and capable. More than capable. She wanted to prove herself.

Today was the first step. Literally.

She peered over the tree-tops. The fresh air above the canopy soothed the sweat from her temples. Her dark eyes peered sharp as eagles into the distance. Behind her, Mount Agung, the highest peak of Bali and an active volcano, coiled a calm smoke. In front, the crystal waters of the ocean stretched and the shadowy outlines of nearby islands painted a beautiful canvas of color. Mother and father continued to pray to the gods for their blessing, asking for forgiveness for what sins that they thought deserved destruction of unprecedented fury, but that was years ago. Kemala saw hope behind those islands. Where they turned to the past, she would face the future. By her will alone, if necessary, she would see the island she loved, the places she loved, restored.

It took another decade of hard work and gritty determination, but she did just that.

*wink*

https://www.wotseries.com/2020/06/16/mee...DWPuT8xGhs

I hope they don't get the GoT Ghost treatment, though >_<

She woke in darkness; just the flickering of a yellow light overhead, like the winking of an eye. Something was missing, but she could not fathom what.

It went like that for a while. In and out like moon tides, with no dreaming.

When her consciousness finally returned in full, she realised the thing that was missing was pain.

Ori’s fingers threaded against her neck, but the carcanet of bruises was gone. Her lips twitched into a scowl as she pushed herself up. The walls were bare brick, creaking pipes running along the ceiling, a rusted metal grate slashed across the door leaking light from the tunnel beyond. She knew where she was, then. Idle inspection traced the webbing of new scars on her skin as she fought for the energy to move. Her thigh was twisted where it had burned against the pavement, and still covered with the dried black smear of copious amounts of blood.

Probably Ryker had bequeathed other gifts. She didn’t care enough to look.

The Almaz’s fighting halls were quiet, and she saw no one as she made her stumbling way from the holding cell to the line of showers. The slap of her palm sprayed needled daggers of water against her shoulders, curling her lip against the shock. For a while she watched the dark swirl of water pooling beneath her feet, until her arms braced the wall, head pressed atop.

She needed to get out of here, but she was fucking tired. Bone-chilled, soul-deep tired.

Her hair clung dripping down her back, soaking into a stolen tshirt when she later emerged into the silent club. The tee was tucked into an equally pilfered pair of gym shorts strung about her hips, her feet still bare. The tracery of scars spanned the entire outside length of her left leg, mottled white like they were already years healed. A few other puckers burned pale against her porcelain skin, but nothing else quite like that. The hard won legacy of bruising was gone, though; the swelling of her cheek, the burst fountain of her lips, the slit of an eye. Only shadows clung to the hollows in her face; pale and worn, and very young looking.

Sheets hung across ongoing maintenance work to repair the lights Ivan hauled to ruin, but the place was abandoned. Perhaps it was night; in the bowels of this place, she had no way of knowing. Her gaze searched the shadows for Ilya’s gaunt skull of a face, but he must be down below with the cages. Vaguely she considered seeking for evidence of Kasun, but it was more effort than she was willing to expend right now, and the fact she thought of him at all only reminded her of the ijiraq’s infection spreading through her emotions. 

This was the third strike, and Ilya would want to exact the price for his services soon.

Ori pulled herself up on the bar, intending to slide herself over and snag one of the bottles from the optics, when she finally caught movement. She paused instead, the stems of her pale legs crossed, arms braced either side of her like the claim of a throne. It was not who she expected, though the surprise did not flicker across her expression. They said the Angel of the Undercity smelled misfortune like a shark nosing at blood in the water.

She caught the coin he flicked out to her, but did not look at it. She knew what it was.

“I don’t need another favour.”

Ekeziel’s brow rose, the white slash of his smile a flash then gone as he oozed free of the shadows. Laughter churned like a giggle, just as short lived, as he came closer. His skin was strangely sun-touched for one who called the tunnels home, like the warmth of desert sands. One arm sank to lean his weight on the bar, his other hand boldly cradling over the cap of her knee, its surface inked dark with the curling tendrils of a rose from wrist to knuckles. The palm slid up, brushing up the hem of her shorts. His gaze lit molten fascination as his fingers curled against the burns.

Heat tingled under the tease, flushing upwards, but Ori’s gaze was glittering dark. “Are you asking,” she purred, tone pendulously caught between seduction and bald threat, “to see how far the scars go, Ezekiel?”

His brown eyes flicked up. He offered a jack o'lantern smile. “What would be the point when I’ve heard you scream so sweetly already?” He laughed again, and moved to instead grasp her arm, urging it around and running his thumb over a puncture against the vein inside her forearm. He pressed until dull pain throbbed the wound, like the needle slid in anew, and leaned in close to stir hot breath at her ear. “Even after Ilya’s girls were done, you would not stop, Oriena.”

She turned her face to watch him flatly. If there was a hunger in him, it was not a carnal one. He let her arm go.

Memories scraped the surface, ignored. The agony Ezekiel envisioned had less to do with the bubbling melt of her skin than he clearly supposed, though she remembered it well enough in flashes. Searing pain. The demon leer of a face that was sometimes Ryker’s and sometimes a stranger’s. The Healing was nothing like the sweet rivers of Jensen’s embrace, but something of excruciating cold, cording her muscles like they were cast into a shell of ice. The ache of it hadn’t left yet.

The screaming, though. That was for something else. Grief hurled into the void as it siphoned through her soul like a trespass; scars deeper and uglier than the ones on her skin. She touched her damp neck, tracing a line that should have flared tender pain. There was nothing quite like staring into the promise of the abyss to spark new yearning for the thrill of living, though the rumour was that Jaxen Marveet was dead. Ori had not cared to dig for the truth, but she doubted its veracity anyway; he had every reason to be laying low right now. And she wasn’t going to look for him, even if it was the slide of his hands she was thinking of then.

Ekeziel nodded towards the rows of glittering bottles behind her, smirking. “You’re looking for something to take the edge off?”

A smile finally hooked. She wondered how long she had been down here, and how long he had been loitering around the Almaz, waiting for her to rejoin the world of the living. “No,” she said. “I’m looking for something stronger.”

Awww, I just saw a cast list for a live action Hercules which turns out to be fake and I have never been so disappointed because I need Jeff Goldblum as Hades in my life.

The whole date went sideways.  The mist monsters, the fight.  The searing pain. But it had its good points - or good point.  Nhysa was a great companion.  And after dropping the wounded girl off at Li was certain was a black market doctor.  He'd visited a few of them over the years.  And he felt like he needed one though there was nothing visibly wrong with him - except maybe a little bruising where Nhysa had saved his life.  But a little makeup and a high collar would fix that, And for now, he didn't really care anyway.

It was dark. The quiet of the streets wasn't really quiet but it gave them much time to be alone. The darkness seemed to bring Nhysa out more.  Not that she had been shy or timid before she just seemed to have different energy now than before.  

There was a point after leaving the treacherous one at the hospital and they were alone that Li wanted to take her hand and be the childish giddy fool he was feeling.  It wasn't everyday that an everyday walk with a normal person didn't turn into a gawkfest. Being famous had it's drawbacks.  A few looked, most didn't care.  And it was dark so it could just be the trick of the eye.  Sometimes Li used his power to trick them more, but he didn't dare draw upon the gift the memories still too painful.

The dojo drew near and Li finally took her hand.  "This is me."  He led her down the alley to the side entrance.  When he bought the dojo he also bought the whole building creating his permanent living space in Moscow above the dojo - he could be near and still have the lifestyle he was accustom too.   "You will see me inside? I owe you a drink for saving my life."  He gave her a sly smile.  He was tired.  His head hurt but he enjoyed her company and didn't want the night to end.

Liv compressed her lips in anticipation as she checked herself one last time on her wallet. The butterflies in her stomach were horses now.

But at least she wasn’t in work clothes or reeking of coffee. Her dark hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail. Not one for much makeup, she mostly had touched up her eyes with eyeliner and a bit of coloring to her lips.

A thin black choker wrapped her neck. She wasn't girly. Not much anyway. Getting dolled up only made her uncomfortable. She instead wore a dark floral, baby-doll dress covered with an over-sized, leather biker jacket. The garments clashed, yet complimented each other. Satin maroon tights were layered with high striped socks,  dark purple Doc Martin boots adorning her feet.

   
Dorky. Stupid. Warm enough. Liv felt like herself


She waited at the entrance, the occasional swirl of cold up her dress a welcome distraction. Krutitsky Monestary wasn't a church. That would be the lamest date in the history of lame dates. She would know. 

No, it was just a gorgeous place to explore. Now, anyway.

She wasn't sure why she chose it. It was peaceful. And she felt maybe a bit...stronger here. More sure of herself. She wasn't sure why.

Name: Allan Rykovi

Age: 26

Born in Great Britain to Russian diplomats stationed there before the annexation of Europe to the ASU/CCD.

Occupation: Before he became one of the Nine Rods of Dominion Allan was a secretary at a law firm while he continued at University.

Skill: Expert

Current: 25

Potential: 33

Reborn God: Janus (Roman)

Personality: Allan has a knack for picking things up easily. He hates politics because of his parents. Allan rebelled against everything his parents stood. Allan’s parents were never happy with his choices especially with those men or women he brought home - they were never good enough for him. He hated the fact that they were always right. While in University he studied philosophy where he took up yoga and became a vegan again much to his parents displeasure. In addition to his degree in philosophy Allan was earning degrees in law and economics. Allan is also deathly allergic to hazelnuts and is an alcoholic.

Description: Allan is 5’9” with a toned flexible build. He had dark hair and eyes. He has three tattoos - all meant to piss his parents off. The first one he obtained at 16 after his parents found him lying in bed with another boy he went to school with. They decided to ship him off to boarding school where such fraternization was forbidden. He rebelled by getting the tattoo while in town. The tattoo was a series of three birds in various stages of flight that followed the his hair line flying in the direction of his left ear.

The second was more personal - a small broken red heart above his heart in remembrance of the girl he was about to marry who died in a car accident. Allan doesn’t like to talk about her or the accident.

The last tattoo was random. Allan was drunk with his much younger college friends right before he came to Moscow. On his right shoulder is an orange and blue flaming portal. The image called to him in the tattoo parlor.

History:

Allan was born to Sawa and Tatiana Rykovi, Russian diplomats stationed in Great Britain before the annexation of the country. Allan was born in the country and until recently had never stepped foot in the Mother land though he had heard all about the great city of Moscow from his father. But Sawa did not like the Ascendancy and was moderately vocal about his dislike of the man’s regime. Not to the point of contention or rally, but he was a disgruntled employee so to speak.

Sawa was a strict man. He insisted that his family follow proper etiquette at all times and Allan come to hate the restrictions his father set on him early on. He rebelled at every turn. This included openly expressing praise for the Ascendancy’s actions. Tatiana was much more loving, but she was a busy woman - her job was everything and too precedence ever over her adoring son.

Allan was an only child - an accident to begin with that neither of his parents really wanted and only grudgingly took interest in as he grew into his own person. He was raised by various care takers over the years until he out grew them - or he slept with them and his father found out. Sex didn’t matter his father soon found out.

After having been caught fooling around on the couch with his much older male babysitter his father sent him to a boarding school with even stricter guidelines than Allan had at home. Their no fraternization policy should have been the reason Allan was expelled but who knew getting a tattoo at the tender age of 16 was also a rule breaker.

With less than three months at the boarding school Allan was back home under what his father liked to call house arrest. He wasn’t allowed out - at all. Until Allan was accepted to attend University early. His parents were ecstatic at the prospect of him studying. They allowed him to enroll in as many classes as Allan wanted and it did in the beginning keep Allan from going crazy. School was always too easy, but now that was different.

Ten years later and Allan was still going to school because he couldn’t decide what he should major in. His parents allowed him to continue this way as long as he continued in an appropriate degree program. Allan choose law, and was working as a secretary at a local law firm. His parents were most pleased. Allan however only did that to keep his parents off his back. He was studying economics to appease them, but his passion was philosophy and was the reason he continued his education ad nauseum.

Allan studied every philosophy he could from Buddhism to the Zen philosophy. Allan became a certified Yoga instructor in his spare time, and picked up the Vegan practice along the way.

A year ago (2044, 24/25 years old) Allan met Bethany Foster a British girl in one of his philosophy classes - many of his classes. She was the one who introduced Allan to Veganism. At first it had started with trying to impress her, but as time grew and they grew together it became a natural part of his life. A difficult aspect to be truly Vegan.

The night Allan proposed to Bethany, they walked home. Bethany was gushing over the ring he’d bought her and a mugger wanted to take it. Bethany fought with their attacker and in his anguish and fear Allan was frozen. Terror coursed through his body. A huge gust of wind threw both Bethany and their attacker against building like a bug on a windshield. The sound still echos in Allan’s mind.

The incident was ruled a freak accident as no one knew what had caused the unprecedented weather phenomenon.

Three weeks later Allan feel deathly ill but even in his fever stricken state of delirium his parents thought he was still in anguish over losing Bethany.

It wasn’t until several months later that Allan realized what had truly happened the night Bethany died. Another moment occurred, he was drunk, walking home after a night alone in a bar. He was walking across the street and a drunk driver came barreling down the street while Allan was crossing. With a horn blaring, and the streetlights blinding him in his drunken state Allan quickly sobered to the sound of crushing metal as the car collided into an invisible post. The car wrapped around nothing and Allan stood immobilized in the same terror he’d felt the night Bethany died.

The next morning after speaking with the police who could not explain what had happened anymore than Allan had he realized that he was the only common denominator. He had killed Bethany.

Allan sank into depression and failed the semester of classes entirely. His parents cut off his education funds, and what he made as secretary barely covered his bills. The depression grew until Allan was at his end. He climbed to the top of the tallest building in the middle of the night.

Allan jumped. As the ground hurled towards him the terror came again and so did regret and the desire to live. Allan swore he saw lights and everything came clear as the ground softened and the air thickened. He didn’t really understand as he barreled towards the ground only to land softly.

Sirens were blaring, and a crowd had formed despite the hour. Before Allan knew it he was being taken away from the scene of his attempted suicide in an ambulance.

But Allan didn’t find himself at an ordinary hospital when he woke up the next morning. Yes there were monitors and IVs but the room was locked down and he felt sleepier than he should have.

For three weeks he lay in bed seeing only a handful of people. At least he thought it was three weeks, but there was no sunlight, no way to really tell how much time passed. He would have had the worse hangover of his life except whatever they had him on he felt numb to everything.

Until one day he was walked into a room with a chair that wasn’t a chair. He was attached to leads and machines and he was asked to do what he did. Allan blinked back at the doctor and technicians. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Another man came into the room, “When you jumped, what did you do?”

Allan shook his head. “I…” The terror… The light shone just out of the corner of his eye. It flickered and fluttered. And Allan grabbed at the flickering hope and the world felt clear and right, and it was amazing.

“Fear? Terror?” the man nodded. And that was the last he saw of the man until later when they discussed the reasons for jumping. Therapy. Something he now had to endure for as long as he remained in the Facility and After. Especially after. The Ascendancy could not afford to have any liabilities.

Allan hadn’t had a drink since he got to the facility. Through all of his testing, and all of the training Michael Vellas put them through. Everything came easily once Allan realized what it was he was doing. But it wasn’t as if there was drink available in the Facility anyway.

It came so easily that Allan tried to explain it several times to people but he kept getting tongue tied and wanting to find a bottle. So instead he sat down with pen and paper and started writing it out. After hours and hours of writing and revising over the course of weeks Allan wrote down what he was calling “The Void”. It was a method of various meditative philosophy techniques he had learned in his own studies that allowed him to obtain the power inside to channel with ease. The concept boiled down to pushing all emotion into a flame leaving a void and the power. Once mastering the flame and void seizing the power was just a matter of grabbing the source and use it.

Jullian found the paper and Allan took to the void and had Jullian pinned to the ground before he could escape and ruin the paper he had meticulously worked. The unauthorized use of the power had caused him a few days in solitary as punishment - as well as extra time talking with his therapist for anger management.

But while he was in solitary he had a visitor. Apparently the paper had made it to the desk of the Ascendancy and he came to visit. Meeting the man himself was not something he’d ever thought would happen. He was in the facility to be studied he understood that. And as he grew in strength and power and knowledge the herd thinned. But he never imagined he’d be sitting having one conversation with Nikolai Brandon himself, much less the several he had. He was interested in the paper and talking about philosophy.

Meeting the Ascendancy made Allan a little bit of a target with some of the other guys. He tried not to mention it at all, but when he was called away from the group to talk it was well known. But it was sticking it to his parents he wished he could show. Talking to the Ascendancy like a man would piss his parents off. Allan had told the Ascendancy of his parents in their first meeting - mostly to tell him he did not believe their words. He was not like his father and he hadn’t wanted his parents to get in the way of what was happening here.

The big gala was the first time Allan had any access to any alcohol, the months of training and captivity had done Allan some good. But he had a purpose now. He didn’t talk much to anyone in the facility. He wasn’t there to make friends. And he had been paired of with Im Sueng during the gala. He had no reason to reach for a bottle, and he was honored to protect the Ascendancy and his guests.

The whole thing ended in a shit show, but Allan had learned a few new tricks - as had all of the Nine if they cared to pay any attention at all to what the Ascendancy, the consul and the other man had done to dissuade the mist creature.

There was a whole world of things he didn’t know about. He had another purpose - his need to learn more in both the power and of other things grew. He was grateful he hadn’t been assigned the Africa tour. He didn’t want to be a military man. He wasn’t cut out for it. And war probably was not good for his mental state either.