Her feet trailed in the water, pooling ripples where she floated them through the surface. Decapitated flowers crowded her lap and the grass hollow of the tree she nestled against, deft fingers weaving them into a crown. The dress still hung damp against her skin, its discomfort unnoticed through will. Wild hair frizzed a halo, leaking droplets down her bare arms, while bright grey eyes fell to the work; idle work, its origin unknown, now that she thought about it. The unexpected crest of some ancient recollection perhaps. It happened from time to time, and Nimeda was content to let it.

Her eyes half lidded to the faint wave of a memory; of fingers ruffling through her hair, the peaceful sensation of someone tugging it into coiling braids. And a song. It faded quickly, leaving only the remnant of a tune; one she began to sing beneath her breath as she threaded the flowers. Her voice was not beautiful, but charming in its earnest simplicity, murmuring over the words forgotten like the river rushed over stones.

A presence sat at the opposite bank eventually captured her attention. Nimeda knew no fear in this world, at least not yet. The reach of her senses was blithely unwary, the shift of her focus slow, but once snared her curiosity burned bright, and contrary to the very old thing that she was, much tugged at her interest. This visitor was not new; he haunted her banks from time to time, gaze cast down to the waters like he might pierce their murk to the things she had hidden there for him. A gesture of friendship that never quite reflected back in his mirthless expression -- but therein lie the kernel of curiosity tugging at her time and again.

One day she would learn the secret to easing the line grooved between his eyes.

Most times Nimeda was content to leave him to his thoughts. Today she slipped beneath the surface, leaving only the bob of petals fallen from her lap, and reared out in front of him. Water slicked the planes of her face and the lines of her body, drowning the sleek fall of her hair darker. A smile lit her expression, unafraid and playful despite the notable pinch of his lips as she folded her arms against the bank by his folded knee.

“You cannot sing,” he said.

“The Grimnir does not like my singing. I am wounded.” She laughed. The insult slid like the water against her skin, pooling unnoticed on the grass beneath her arms. “So what would please you?”

He sighed, short and sharp, like the unwelcome question punctured the sanctity of his thoughts. But he knew well enough how to manipulate the dream; he chose to remain, despite bristles sharp as a pufferfish. Head canted, she perceived him like driftwood stuck in her currents; a problem to untangle and soothe, to nudge on its gentle way.

“Enough pieces of the puzzle to discern an answer,” he said eventually.

“Games should be pleasurable, Grim.” One hand lifted to cup her chin. Her brows rose in a tease. “I can think of a better one.”

The slate of his gaze finally arrowed down, eyes a colour that suggested warmth he did not emanate. His fists eased out, palms pooling over his knees. For a moment the resonance of him, of sky and earth and secrets, dislodged the weight of her thoughts. She floundered in the darkness of too many memories to count, speeding past like bubbles of air escaped a drowning breath. Until a voice pinned like a harpoon.

“What do you know of sea monsters?”

“A strange question.” She let go of the bank. Warm waters rushed against her shoulders, her hair fanned dark against its surface. The distance soothed. Little Bird Little Bird. Jon Little Bird. The calming mantra reeled her in.

My name is Nimeda.

“A strange question for a strange creature,” he agreed.

“I suppose I am.” She laughed again; let herself float further into the river’s embrace. “And today I know naught of sea monsters.” Her gaze bounced upwards, caught on the whim of one dark cloud, like an inky smudge against a cloth of blue. Or a stubborn stone against a rush of water. Her lip caught between her teeth, but the memory -- and the intent -- fountained up too slow. A favour! She had a favour to ask.

But when her gaze snapped down, lips parted to speak, the bank was empty; he had gone.

“Ask me tomorrow!” Her voice leapt high with the wind. She did not know if he heard.

An uneasy feeling seemed to settle permanently in her gut, the kind that told her she was up against a brick wall with no way to see to the other side. Laurie hated this feeling. Frustration drove her to discovery even as a kid. From puzzles in preschool to finding out who started a rumor in high school, she'd dig and dig until the brick wall was full of holes. Typically, it was her own fists that punched through if only by sheer determination. 

DC honed her abilities to dig without drawing too much attention. Until one unlucky night, she was pretty damned good at it until the story broke on her site, of course. Moscow was exponentially more dangerous, though. Between a limitless government, channelers around every corner, and a terrorist group populating cells all over the place, Laurie's steps were careful. 

Until recently, that was. Patience wasn't one of her virtues. She was walking the streets of Old Nikolskyaya, otherwise known as the Place of Enlightenment, with a plan. A bell dinged when she entered a bookshop and ascended some creaky old wood steps to the main shop level, stomping the moisture from her boots as she did. It'd been raining in the night, and this morning the streets were rather soggy. The warmth was welcome on her cheeks, and she smiled at the sole worker organizing a stack of books at the counter.

"Hi," she said far more enthusiastically than was received.

The boat drifted on an aimless path at the centre of the lake.

Closer to shore people swam in the shallows or laid out on the summer grass. Thick forest surrounded Meshcherskaya, an oasis in western Moscow; blotting out the skyscrapers of the city and the belching of traffic. She thought Aylin might appreciate the idyll, though admittedly of the two of them it was Thalia who had always been the one more inclined to outdoor pursuits.

Still, it got them both out of the stuffy apartment, and more importantly away from the scratchy memories of caged nightmares clawing through peaceful sleep. They shared a bed most nights now, curled like kittens in the maw of the dark, and in those small hours when her sister woke sweat-soaked and wailing, she was there. For though it was Calvin who guided her through the bleakest time of her life, it was for Aylin she found a reason.

Dappled light spotted her page. Sketches of glittering scales filled the page, though today they were nothing but whimsy. The crash of fierce and foaming waves around the scythe of fins adorned another. Then the still glass of a pond broken by the ripples of a lazy hand. She sang a tuneless accompaniment as she drew, a song she could not quite place a finger to. Perhaps because the snippets of words she remembered didn’t seem to be English.

Aylin sat opposite, old sketchbooks splayed across her lap. The crescents beneath her eyes seemed lighter these past few days, and already she was murmuring about returning to her work at the Guardian. A little loneliness hovered at the edges of that eventuality, though Thalia was accustomed to her often solitary existence. Strange hours and stranger work necessitated a certain absence from the world. It wasn’t like she minded.

Every now and then she glanced up from her pencil to peer curiously at the page capturing Aylin’s attention. Not so long ago she would have blanched at the idea of allowing her sister free reign to paw through her sketchbooks; it was rather like allowing someone to rummage amongst the contents of her mind, including the kind of recessess sisters really ought not share. Especially when said sister was a psychologist.

But life changed, and Thalia changed with it. Locked up secrets shared willingly now with the key of an open smile. Trust came easy to her. And as to life’s other odd blips, the ijiraq had not yet returned. Her concern had mostly evaporated; not because the threat had faded (she was optimistic, not naive), but because she had a knack for existing in the moment. Normality had a way of realigning her expectations, so that even if it was a skewed reality to everyone else, Thalia was perfectly content. And today the sun shone and her sister smiled.

“--Thal.”

She flicked a coil of hair from the edge of her page, bent low for detail. Made a vague murmur of acknowledgement as she swept up with the distraction. The world’s volume turned low.

“Thal, I said have you been to my work?”

“Geez, not since. Well, you know. Why would I?” Her gaze blinked up, brows low at that strange note of accusation. Aylin’s hands grazed her face, brushed back against the short cap of her hair. A muscle twitched in her cheek, eyes cast down. An uncomfortable beat tremored in Thalia’s chest, and the boat rocked as she abandoned her work to inch forwards. Oh, something was wrong. But Aylin held the image up. It was a portrait of a girl’s face; blank faced, hair running like spilled ink down the sides of her face.

Nothing stirred. No intent, no memory of blood spilled to force the picture from her hand. It was just a drawing.

But Aylin was white-faced.

“This is one of my patients.”

Thalia blinked surprise.

Oh.

It was happening again.

Ivan was in a good place. Nah. He was in a great place. Excited even. Yeah, he wanted to start practicing. Like big time. For the first time in he didn't know how long, he had hope. Like real hope.

His heart twisted, not in pain. More like..he didn't know. Happiness. He could almost feel Zara falling asleep next to him as he read to her. He imagined feeling Danya's back against his chest, him holding her close.

Like he'd been waiting all this time for his real life to begin. Freedom was out there.

"I owe you Nox. More than you can imagine."

The poor man looked broken. Even as he had channeled and taught, there was little fire. And Ivan felt for the guy. He knew the look.

They didn't say much until they were sitting against the wall of Cafe MIO in the plush chairs. Back to the wall, right? Always paranoid. But maybe cuz it was also nice to check out the local talent. Well, before, anyway. And he did have eyes.

Nox needed a drink. He could tell. Hopefully, one of the servers would take their order soon. Let Nox open up.

I want to wish all of you a wonderful holiday season and best wishes for the new year to come. 

It was on a Christmas holiday vacation while I was in grad-school that I "came up with" the idea for a RP forums set in the age before the age of legends. I soon became obsessed with reading everything (canon, theory, fan-opinions, etc) that had to do with WoT in the 1st age. Then I started reading about all the old pantheons and knew immediately that I wanted to write a reborn Hades whose name would be Nikolai. Of course I knew nothing else about the site or setting at the time, only that I didn't want it to be primarily in the USA, futuristic but not sci-fi, and have "monsters" for all of us to fight. 

So every time around this year, I sit and think about how grateful I am for all of you who've contributed to the richness of this world. All of us together make this game fun, and I hope it continues for a long time to come. 

Cheers,
~A

The last of the items hosted off of our new server has been migrated over.

The chatroom can now be found at: http://thefirstage.org:9000

If you previously bookmarked it please change it to the above url.  I will be killing that server once I move everything off of it the new one I just spun up.

From The Voodoo Queen (@"Ashavari")

Asha trusted his instincts.  That wasn't a first, but for some reason that felt warm and comforting.  He hadn't come here with a con in mind and certainly Rowan Finnegan had been interesting, but there was nothing here worth getting in on as either Tobias and certainly not Alexis.  The french man saw nothing to profit from in there, and the dutch junkie well he wanted to no part of the crazy witch.  

But Xander had found a woman who could read emotions and he had been a mess and she trusted him.  That was new.  He smiled as she left the building all together, still holding his hand.  Xander followed and walked unsure where they were going or if they even had a destination other than to get away.  Each step felt better, than the one before unit he was breathing easier.

"I should walk you home.  Make sure no one is following us."  Xander said cautiously.  Not that he could do much beyond call the police or try to fight the offender, but still he felt chivalrous around Asha, like she needed to be protected.  Very uncharacteristic.  To change the subject, "Are you really going to send your 'good' snake friend to the voodoo queen?"  Xander smirked, "I think she is getting more than she bargained for now."

The boat rocked and rose, swayed and slipped. Tristan barely kept his feet under him as the water sloshed his rubber shoes slippery. It was only a steel will that pushed through the rain and snag the bars. Rain pelted his scalp when the hood fell away. Rushes of air flushed his cheeks, and he wretched from the seat of his soul.

Or so it felt; and it had felt every single time the vessel heaved on high waves. For the hundredth time, Tristan marveled at his weak stomach even as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He grew up fishing with his Uncle Ulfar. As a man he reeled in great catches from skiffs he managed alone, Siggi pawing at the edge in excitement.

But the great fishing vessels that his friend arranged for his new work in Norway were an entirely new experience. The fishermen told him his stomach would learn the new wavy world, but a month passed and Tristan was less than useful.

His career on the seaboarding vessel came to an end, and Tristan was not saddened by the outcome. He was still in need of work, but Tristan was hardly without skillsets. The small house he occupied was situated at the edge of a coastal town; not expensive compared to the tiny abodes of the inner town squares. Each afternoon, Tristan prowled the area as the light leaned to coming night. Iceland’s nights lasted months, but here, the thin sun persisted a few hours each day. It was an odd change to drench himself in sunshine this time of year.

By the time the earliest signs of spring crept through the wilderness, Tristan was working as hired-hands at whatever odd jobs around the town he could find. His brute strength and easy-going nature earned him a sort of reputation with the town folk despite the heavy accent that thickened his tongue. Nobody commented on his golden eyes, though sometimes the fishermen whispered that an animal like him belonged on land.

He was walking around an empty house carrying a ladder when a scent turned his nose aside. Ears prickled, he halted. Imagine his surprise as he turned to look under the remains of a wood pile and a pair of eyes peered back at him.