The problem with tracking Atharim was they were Atharim.  Their entire lives were living in the shadows.  From sun up to sun down they hid who they really were.  And trained field hunters left little paper trails to follow.

Following a traitor who knew he was being hunted was always going to be difficult.  And without the bank account to follow, or the wallets to track knowing where your agents were in the Atharim was hard pressed. Many fell through the cracks.  Nox Durante wasn't going to fall through the cracks.

There were many searches Jer created over the course of his following this boy god to put to question and execute for crimes against humanity (being a traitor was the least of his crimes in Jer's eyes.)  When one pinged on his system he almost dismissed it out of reflex until it came up as 'family'.

A girl, a young girl was looking for family.  And while the man in the photo resembled Durante, Jer knew the name.  He'd read everything he could on the boy and his family.  The public might be unaware of his association with the Atharim, but Jer was not.  This girl was born to a god  - a failed mission.  Again - falling through the cracks.  But she would prove to be useful.  If Durante were as lonely as he thought he was.  Everything in his life had just fallen apart - family was going to be a fly to candle.  Jer only had to wait.  And Jer was patient.

@"Elias Donovan" @"Ashavari"

Noah Preston was eccentric but he hadn't in prior scenes.  But that's okay pesonas were meant to evolve.  And Xander didn't actually even have to pull out the necessary costume for it.  Tobias worked for him, so he just took Noah's card and bought himself a boat.  And a crew.  Though that hadn't gone on the card.

The crew wasn't exactly the best he could afford, but they were discrete - smugglers by trade.  And the boat was theirs under a heafty price, but it was worth it in the end.  They'd not take a cut of whatever Elias found - that was why the Hefty price.

He did wonder once he got home why he was doing this.  There was no profit in it and the amount of money he just spent for nothing in return was very atypical of himself.  But Xander was 100% certain he had to do this.  The images were different - more steady as if something had flipped and as much as he hated the special folks that was the first time he'd seen it happen.  He wanted to see it play out.  

Tobias sent Asha the message with information on the boat, the dock and that Noah Preston sent his regards and wished them good hunting.  Now Tobias stood staring at his newly acquired crew and watched them load supplies.  It was a river not a sea voyage but you could never be unprepared.

Despite what he proposed to Evelyn, he had no intention of moving out of the Kremlin anytime soon. The fortress was more fortified than ever before. Dominions were always on the grounds. Marcus, Alric, and others were embedded within the government. Beyond channelers, his own task forces, the Zetas, ZARS, and others were on highest alerts. The Kremlin security service operated around the clock. They’d stand one at the foot of his bed if he allowed it. Suffice to say, the Kremlin was impenetrable.

Michael continued to oversee the development of a weapons’ program in the north. Domovoi was taking shape now that it was to be ushered into the Custody of Channeler security. Things were taking shape in the United States, Australia and Africa. China remained elusive, but his focus was yet to turn truly toward the east. However, following his conversation with the Regus, Nikolai knew there was one front that was left unattended. If it wasn’t contained, things could spiral quickly out of control.

He’d been too hard on Nox. He recognized that now. The defensiveness was justified, but Nikolai was capable of identifying talent when it showed itself. In Nox’s case, it was proved three times.

He ordered a message be delivered to the young Atharim channeler. It was not a command, nor was it a rebuke. It was an invitation, one he did not anticipate to be declined, but an invitation none the less. His arrival would be treated with respect, albeit welcome, which was probably an unexpected change of pace compared to his usual treatment at Nik’s hands.

Most unexpected was likely to location he’d requested to meet the Atharim. An off-site event carried him into the city for a highly-publicized appearance featuring the dazzling and powerful Ascendancy. Evening rolled, eventually, and call him superstitious, but he’d always wanted to stop at this graveyard. Twenty-five years in Moscow, and he’d never visited it before.

They were other-worldly places cloaked in grim auras. The oldest ones held the remains of tsarist princes and princesses. Great priests of orthodoxy churches occupied others. Nobility made up the necropolis of the most famous dead. He’d seen all of those before.

The one in which he stood, marveling at tombstones and mausoleums that were themselves works of art, was itself an eternal, gothic monument. The Infidel’s Cemetery was its name. A fitting place for a rogue Atharim to conspire with Apollyon.

from Rich Lives: A Blog on the Lives of The Wealthy and Famous

A new announcement comes from the life of Shale International CEO, Emily Shale.  Miss Shale has announced her engagement to a Jared Vanders - apparently a soldier in the Légion Première.  The year has been a hectic one for Miss Shale.  After losing her parents in a plane accident, she was thrust into running her parents business.  Since that time, she has kept up her efforts as a philanthropist, donating to causes such as the incident in Sierra Leone.  Given the Légion Première's involvement, it is the opinion of this blogger that is how she met Mr. Vanders (his rank is not known to me).  She also facilitated the move of Shale International (then, Shale Industries) headquarters to Moscow.  

Jared Vanders is unknown in the world of the Wealthy and Famous, so what drew Miss Shale to him is not known, but we wish the happy couple good fortune in their new lives together.

[[Continued from Sanctuary]]

He offered no argument and asked no questions, though the pause did suggest some internal deliberation measured the decision first. Natalie made no guesses as to the colour of his conscience. Whatever meagre ties remained between he and Jay, and whatever Jensen had said to convince him, Axel certainly owed nothing to her. He proved indifference time and again with the world shifted perilous for those around him. Bringing him was a risk, but a calculated one, and not necessarily because she expected a favourable outcome. Desperation had that effect, and she was fatalistic with such things when the need arose. Her father cautioned her to choose allies with care. He did not caution her to wise decisions.

Natalie sent a brief message to Jensen before she slid into the driver’s seat. The Carpenters have been granted asylum by the Custody. Take the chance if you get it. An unlikely salvage now, but better that he knew of the lifeline anyway. Frustration simmered, stamped down before the panic took root. The engine purred. She checked the rearview as they set off, but no one appeared to follow. Maybe the agents had never picked up the trail from the casino. She supposed it didn’t matter now.

The journey wasn't long. Laurie hadn’t exactly picked the most discreet place to meet. After parking up, the street Natalie led to was touristy and busy, teeming with flashy bars and restaurants. The dichotomy tightened her stomach, like the mere witness of something so blithe and careless was a betrayal. She felt herself slipping but forced her step into the restaurant instead. A Mexican place. Within, a brief glance at the bar revealed a familiar flash of red.

--------
@"Jensen James" for the text message
@"Lawrence Monday" for the thread

There weren’t a lot of brothers in Moscow.

Andre never had a problem with confidence. Chicago was his town. He knew every gutter, alley, platform and stoplight like the back of his hand. Journeying across the world where he was lost half the time and stared at the rest was getting old real fast.

He didn’t tell Marcus he was coming, but somehow it was like his baby brother sensed a disturbance in the Force anyway. Images of Consul DuBois rotated on a video screen in the subway car. His arms were folded and he wore a fine cut suit. Andre might have shivered if it weren’t for wrapping himself in the serenity of the Force. He swore those digital eyes followed him off the train.

A duffel bag was slung over his shoulders as he checked into a hotel. The skyline hovered across the river, gleaming with gold fucking streets (practically), but the neighborhood he walked felt more like Brooklyn than anything else. The serpentine river cut the two areas in twain. Might as well have been railroad tracks. At least he wasn’t stared at so much here.

He was nervous, he realized finally. He’d not spoken with Marcus in a while, and he worried the sudden visit was going to be taken suspiciously. Then again, Andre should be used to such treatment by now. It was like moving mountains to get the time off to travel anyway. There were no charges brought against him, but the c/o disapproved of the impromptu vacation yet there was no legal reason to forbid it either. Frankly, Andre was lucky to get out while he could. That shit stunk and it was a matter of time before he stepped in it real good.

He vowed to call Marcus, but not till tonight. First, he needed to look around. Get a sense of his surroundings. For a cop, that meant he had to put boots on the ground and walk the streets. For this cop, it was in an orange shirt cut with purple and blue zebra-stripes and jeans. An earring gleamed from one ear, ring and necklace glinted gold at the thumb and throat.  

Hours later he ended up in the Red Square. How could anyone not? It wasn’t really a square, he thought to himself, frowning from the edge of it. Nor was it red, which was kinda disappointing, but maybe the brick fortress walls made up for that. He wasn’t the only tourist around. Hundreds gawked at the Stalinisque architecture around them. Others posed in front of the black Archway. 

Shit. Andre did too. The horses on top were fucking outstanding.

Andre sat on the floor, chin on his hands, legs crossed. A heavy sigh rumbled his chest almost as loud as the grumbling in his stomach. A ball bumbled toward his knee, and Andre picked up the soggy, sad little toy and tossed it back across the room. Toddling feet chased after the toy, but Andre returned his forehead to the bars lining the window. Far below, grown-ups stood in a circle. He recognized them, the ones with purple and black clothes. More grown-ups wandered into the basketball court; clothes blue and gold.

The ball rolled to his feet this time. Andre picked it up and tossed it without looking away from the window. The purples realized the blues were there; the basketballs were tossed aside as the two circles merged into one. Pattering feet chased the ball again. Andre rose to his knees, hands gripping the bars to pull him upward. The ball was ignored, now. Tiny hands joined his at the bars, nose tip-toeing high to watch with him.

Pop! Pop! Pop! went the gunshots. Purples and blues fell down into red lakes. From their window on the sixth floor, Andre and Marcus watched the fight unfold. A rock sunk low in Andres’ stomach. When Marcus picked up the ball, Andre turned away from the scary scene with little more than a shrug, and they went back to playing without watching the rest. Someday, when they were bigger, he’d take Marcus to play basketball for real. They’d have fun. Someday…

“Can I have a snack?” Marcus asked, tugging on his shirt. Andre cast an uncertain look toward the kitchen. The little door knobs were easy to pick open, but they weren’t allowed to have anything yet. He bit his lip, remembering the last time he stole food too early.
“Not yet, Marcus,” he said and pat his little brother on the top of his fuzzy head. He always rubbed Marcus’ head to make him feel better about the bad things.
“Come on, let’s go see the stairs,” he giggled devilishly, and they hurried to the hallway.

The front door was easy to escape. All the locks, latches, bolts and slats were on the inside. It just took one little chair to reach the top…. there! The door swung open as Marcus returned, pockets bulging. He had to hold his shorts up with one hand as they hurried down the hall. All their clothes were hand-me-downs, a couple sizes big. Using a rope, Andre cinched the loops snug around Marcus’ belly one day to keep them up like a belt. It was lucky he found that broken jump-rope in the trash.

The stairs were at the end of the hall beyond an elevator that was boarded up before they were born. The other kids said that the gears were pissed on too many times by homeless bums so that they rusted through. One day, the elevator plummeted to the basement and everyone in it died a smooshy death. Or so the kids said.  Andre thought it was a stupid story.

Marcus ran past him to the stairwell, plopped on the floor and dangled his legs between the poles, kicking happily. Andre joined him a moment later, smiling as they both emptied their pockets. A little pile of bullet casings formed mounds at their sides.
3…2…1 go! The gold ‘rocks’, as Marcus called them, dinged every time they hit the glass bottles strewn about below. Dings were one point. But if you hit Eddie, who lived in the corner of the staircase, it was two points. If you hit Eddie on the head and he woke up, it was five points. Andre always won; he had great aim.

Life wasn’t always so innocent. The horrors surrounding the Robert Taylor homes were not as bad as what sometimes lurked within. On their way to school, Andre and Marcus heard screaming from an apartment two doors down. The girl that lived there was going to have a baby – there were always babies around – but just as they hurried past, the screaming stopped. They huddled in the corner, trying to make themselves as small as possible, when a man stormed out, his face as thunder. Andre learned early on to not poke into other peoples’ business, but that rock settled in his stomach again. He peered in carefully, even as Marcus pulled on his hand to get him to leave it alone; Marcus was inherently smarter than him, something Andre would not truly appreciate until later in life. The pregnant lady of all 16 years old laid in a pool of her own blood: stabbed to death. The rock lumped to ice; numbness flooded his limbs as he stared.

That’s probably how their mom died.

That day something shifted inside. Andre refused, for the first time, to let himself cry. The tears sizzled on the heat of his own eyes, then he clenched his jaw and raced after the killer. Outside, the murderer pulled the soiled shirt overhead and dropped it in a gutter. Nobody was afraid of being caught for murder. Police avoided their streets.

The killer leaned on the hood of a car, laughing with some other men that Andre recognized. Rippling with muscles, tattoos covered his chest and neck, he looked like a giant. The rest paid no attention to a snarling kid on the sidewalk. The gangs were all killers. Every kid knew it. By ten years old everyone was sucked into one group or another. It started easy: stealing, begging, running or spying. By fifteen, kids had their own guns. There was a reason they weren’t allowed to look out the windows at home: stray bullets flew wild when fights broke out. Three holes already punched the walls of Mr. Pratt’s apartment before they moved in, and cardboard was stuffed into broken, neighboring windows. By seventeen, kill or be killed. Survive. Fuck the world and survive. That was the big game.

But not them. They would be different! Not them… Andre clenched his little fists and stepped off the curb. The killer looked up. Fear gobbled the rock in his stomach.
“You—” he said, voice breaking, then gasped.

Marcus grabbed his collar and yanked harder than ever before. He stumbled backward. The gang men laughed, but before they could get closer, the boys scampered to their feet and ran away.
“That was stupid, Andre!” Marcus said. Andre snorted. They fought their way to school but didn’t say anything else about it the rest of the day.

Nightmares lurked inside and out, but they were locked in a cage. The walls changed, but horror followed them to each new prison.  After the first half-dozen foster changes, Andre’s hope was razor thin, but every time the case workers showed up, he held Marcus’ hand and whispered that the next house would be better. They would go someplace better… someday.

By the time they were transferred to Mamma Lawson’s care, Andre was big enough to stick up for Marcus for real. He took a few cues from his wiser little brother and started to keep his head down. The only thing he wanted to do was make it to school and back without being shot, coerced, or attacked.

Those were dark times. Even Andre admitted their somber reality. Foster-siblings crowded the apartment. Babies were often left to his care; Andre always ended up in charge. He spanked one once for getting into the knife-drawer, but the crying ripped crags throughout his soul. He hated being the bad guy, but he knew no other way to protect them from themselves. He vowed to never hit a child again, no matter how bad they were, but shit!, he was only twelve. He had no idea how to raise a kid. Except Marcus, but Marcus never got into trouble. Besides, he didn’t exactly remember Marcus at one year old. Andre was only three, himself, at the time.

They were definitely dark times. Something happened under that roof that changed Marcus, but Andre never knew exactly what it was, but he had suspicions. A few months later, they were removed, again, and placed with a family that lived in an actual house with grass. The perfect picture of the place conjured bad memories of the religious, sickening Swerlin family, but like always, Andre said things would be better here. Silently, he braced himself for more of the same shit. Maybe he was numb to it all…

A year later, he allowed himself to believe that things were truly better. Maybe this was the family that was really going to look out for them for all the right reasons. Not only did they not beat or scream at them, but they always had food. They gave them real school clothes from real stores. There were no other kids in the house: just them. For Marcus’ birthday, their foster parents put up a basketball goal above the garage just for Andre and Marcus to use all by themselves. Finally, Andre relaxed enough to sleep well at night. Their high school wasn’t scary. He even played on the basketball team.

Those were the best years of his life. They had internet. Andre got a tablet as a present pre-filled with dozens of books. By the time he came out to his parents, and he actually began to think of them as his parents, he wasn’t afraid of repercussions. ”We just want you to be happy, Andre. You deserve a little happiness,” they said. Andre wept alone that night in his room. They were so lucky, but he was terrified of losing it all.

Marcus was brilliant and made the kinds of grades that only made Andre want to match them. Rather than math books, Andre devoured everything else; a mind that was desperate to be filled. Maybe someday he dreamed of being a lawyer, but nah, no, he held no interest for defending the broken laws of corrupt governments. He wanted to help real people. Go back to the place he began. Walk the streets boldly, show all those people that not everyone was a coward. He was accepted into police academy after high school. He was a street officer by the time Marcus got his scholarship to college.  

Channeling changed everything.

It made sense, the analogy to Star Wars; they didn’t know what to call the power anyway. At the minimum, Force meditation made Monday morning Yoga sessions even better.  At its best, it made chasing criminals a hell of a lot easier.

Street cop was a thrilling life, but he wasn’t naïve. All the daily dangers a patrol cop faced in the streets of southside Chicago made no serious difference to the lives of the people living there. It wasn’t long before Andre dreamed of being a detective. He aced the qualifying exam on the first attempt, and although interviews took months, and he had to finish his degree along the way, Andre walked the precinct with new swagger. He did look fine as shit in the uniform, too.

Meanwhile, the Force gave him a sense of peace, with that, clarity. He studied constantly, and he shrewdly completed all the case simulations training demanded. Life was good; he worked hard and studied harder. Then, at 24 years old, he happily agreed to his foster parents adopting him as their formal son. He was in a long-term relationship and had a stylish (although small) loft apartment. The day the Bureau of Detectives approved his transfer to homicide division was the proudest day of his life.

That gleaming badge lost its luster pretty quick. He was assigned to twenty cases the first day. By the weekend, hundreds of unsolved murders piled his desk. Some of them went back decades.

Throughout it all, the Force was his ally. He had no issues wielding that allegiance whenever it was needed. He did earn himself a reputation; a man who got things done, who dug out answers others were incapable of discovering. It was a gray line to walk, but he clung to his morals; walked the job according to a code.

We have a little rearranging going on.  We have a new category - Alternate Timelines, I've moved Past Lives and created a new board called Mirror worlds - mostly cause Asc didn't think the sharing of the possible route fit with the past lives board.  

You can post things that don't affect the game here but are still 'in character'  Like I posted the fluff piece I wrote because my muse couldn't shake Raffe from his head and I needed to get it out.

Also.

I created an Image resizer tool.  It takes any image url, and can tell you what the dimensions of it if you want to maintain the ratio so it doesn't squish, you give it a height or width and it tells you what the new dimensions are.

Fairly simple.  (to me - so if its not you need to let me know)

Enjoy

Nox gets in a mood some days and can't shake things so I end up writing them.

This was written shortly after Nox met Raffe and the other girls in A little head clearing  It actually ties in quite well after post #24

Thal liked it and we were torn between using it and playing it out.  Opting to play it out I'm sharing it here.

It felt strange to wake up in the old apartment after so much time away, and even stranger to wake alone. Early morning shadows seemed just the wrong side of familiar, settling like dust on a life she had all but abandoned after the break-in. Thalia was not fond of self-reflection; at least not the sort that forced confrontation with the obstacles jutting like rocks from the smooth bed of a river. But things had changed. Calvin’s kindness made them seem less like obstacles and more like curiosities glinting like half buried treasure, and for the first time she was beginning to consider them without the deep-set fear tight in her gut.

She remembered to message Nox to find out how his meeting went, but sank into the oblivion of her sketchbooks for a long time before she remembered to send a reply. Thalia rarely looked back as she chose to now. The books lay splayed in piles, innards bared, pages torn loose when whim caught on the images within. She didn’t question the instinct that sorted piles from the tapestry of old work. Words jumbled around in her head like stories spun from the disparate scraps gathered from years worth of scribblings, and she sat amongst the debris, arms and legs smudged by graphite. Hair spun wild about her face. She stared at the mess she had made.

How do you see my nightmares?

She had brushed off the accusation without choosing to acknowledge the truth. But there had been other glimmers of what lay beyond that thinning veil. Seeing the man on the subway risen like a spectre from the pages of her sketches had terrified her beyond comprehension at the time. She knew every mark on his face; the stroke of every eyelash, the slope of his nose and cheeks; the exact hue of his skin, and the colours that made up his irises. A name haunted on her periphery, uttered from both his lips and Calvin’s the day they’d met in the market. Nox called her a dream walker, but Thalia never remembered dreaming. The images came from somewhere, though, and believing the impossible was surprisingly easy, even if she remained wary of what that might mean.

But she had still not told Nox of the drawings that drew bloody and dripping from her very soul; compulsion enough to blunt her fingers to stubs should the need ever be denied an outlet. 

Thalia had destroyed the painting that scared her most, months before -- the same day Kat had died in her arms. But traces of it drifted like scattered ash through the work heaped around her now, unnoticed until the images had been drawn together. She wasn’t sure she wanted to root around for understanding. Even blinking down at it now, trepidation dug claws in her stomach, and so she eased herself into the questions of kinder currents. She plucked a single page and rested it in her lap; a simple spring landscape, if one did not look too closely.

Aylin wouldn’t understand, and though she knew with certainty that she could rely on Nox to help her, she also knew it would be a reliance. Nobody will help us except ourselves. She checked her phone, seeking the time, and promptly discovered and answered his message:

@Nox Talk to you later then. Let me know when your first show is. I’ll be there :) 

Then she carefully folded her drawing. Her thoughts rippled in strange waves, reaching new shores; the rush of a crazy idea, though Thalia rarely bothered with such labels. She stood, head tilted as she contemplated the sea of paper at her feet one last time, then picked her way through to pack a rucksack. The last thing she remembered to do was change out of her pajamas before the door locked softly behind her.