Hello all,

I wanted to issue apologies to those who may have been in the chatroom when I have been.  I've been very frustrated about my writing (and feel basically anything I write right now is sub-par).  As a result I've been rather cranky and feel that my attitude has been inappropriate, especially given that most of you have tried to help.  For this I offer my humblest of apologies.  I will strive to do better in the future.

Much Love,

Gio

If your character had a tattoo (or has one), what would it be? 

All you atharim already carrying around the death-eater-mark, I mean, ouroboros, do you have another non-cult-identifying ink? 

Let's hear it.

The soft fur of the reindeer skin sat in Armande's lap. A small smile played on his lips. Last night had been far more successful than he had imagined. The news was still trickling out. The guests were powerful and rich. They could not be silenced or disappeared so easily. There were still only rumors, obviously grown through exaggeration, but chaos had reigned at the Ball.

And his seeds would find it fertile soil, weeds that would thrive in the cracks, spidering webs that would eventually  shatter Brandon's grip on the empire. They just needed water and time.

He still needed to travel to Rome, but that would be later. The map was what intrigued him. He needed a starting point, a way to sync it up with the real world. The language too was a mystery, though he suspected Valeriya would provide the key.

As if his thoughts had been a summons, she came into the room. His eyes drank her in. So lovely. So fiery. He had let her sleep, her hair a tangled mass that did nothing to diminish her beauty. He rose to greet her with a kiss. "Valeriya, my love."

@Valeriya

Continued from The Grand Ball



The fervor with which Jensen gripped his hands surprised even Jay. Who, lets face it, tended to be the most dramatic in whatever group he found himself.  "Alright. I guess we'll take that as a yes." He grinned, pat Jensen on the hand and looked at Natalie. She looked bright eyed enough for the looming 17 hour journey in three planes.

It was the first time outside the walls of the Kremlin in longer than Jay wanted to think about. The fresh air filled his lungs in a way he hadn't appreciated before. Some of the others from among the Nine were below ground far longer than himself. Jay learned to work the power faster than most, if not all of them, according to Karim. Some of the others were as strong as Jensen, and in the case of Michael, stronger. But the speed at which Jay learned was remarked upon. Julian and Dominick reminded him almost hourly. 

So no wonder they were going batshit crazy down there. Men just weren't meant to be locked away in the dark. It did fucked up things to the mind; six months down there? Longer? Jay shivered to think about it. He'd be crawling the walls. Literally. Probably end up having conversations with the blank patches of canvas, scrawling out anything and everything to cross his mind, until the scribbles were incomprehensible. 

The fresh air felt great. A Kremlin employee approached, offering to drive them to their destination. The car was welcome cover. Windows blacked out, as soon as they rolled through the gates, tourists lined the barricade to get a closer look at the inhabitants. Media and paparazzi flashed. Jay stared above the heads of them all, though. The new triumphant arch loomed like a fortress. The power with which it was built was unbelievable. So much power. Jensen was a kitten next to Ascendancy. It really was hard to believe the man .. wasn't something more than a man. He swallowed and turned his gaze upon the city instead. They had three stops to make. The nearest was the former French embassy that the Legion now occupied. Jay had no idea if his stuff was still there. Though he had to assume when Jacques and Ascendancy struck their arrangement about his .. service.. that his belongings were accounted for.

The sprawling mansion was lined with flags of the Legion, but no other markings designated it as occupied by foreign officers. "You should probably stay here. I'll only be a few minutes."  He swallowed, catching Natalie's eye. It's not that she would be uncomfortable there. The Legion headquarters was her temporary home, after all. 

Jay didn't want her to see what the others would say the second he walked in.

The security code flashed green, the door unlocked. He faced two Legionnaires posted at the front. He set his jaw, let them see him. "Henri, Vernier," he looked from one to the other until their disbelief turned to utter confusion. His intuition wasn't wrong.  

"Jay, you're not dead."  Henri relaxed the worried stance gripping him tight. 

Vern's gaze was fixed upon the uniform. Jay didn't blame him.

"I've been reassigned."  He turned an arm. Showed the winged demon and sword stitched upon one shoulder. The patch of DI was on the other.

A former citizen of DIX, Henri's eyes flashed wide. Vern's expression turned to disgust. He was born Moroccan. To the man's credit, he held Jay's gaze tight as tension. And he half worried they wouldn’t let him in. So he called the power to grasp just in case. He'd be polite, talk. But they weren't going to slow him up more than a minute. There wasn't time. They were barely going to make the airport as it was. And the next option for a flight was another four hours delayed from the current plan. He eyed their weapons. Vern was alert. It would be easy to neutralize him. Though Jay heould hate to do it.

Jay stepped easy around them. But he didn't release the man's gaze until he was across the foyer. "I'm just here to get my stuff. I'll be gone soon enough." 

Henri waved him through, but Vernier made a move to intercept. If he was no longer a Legionnaire, it meant he wasn't cleared to wander the mansion alone, but they Henri didn’t care. Vern on the other hand.. He reluctantly returned to his post.

Jay was halfway up the stairs when he overheard Vern's comment: "traitre*." 

He grit his teeth and hurried. Vernier didn't know how right he was.

When he returned to the car minutes later, he was changed into jeans, undershirt and a short-jacket. He wore the same boots from the Dominion's uniform but otherwise, there was no other sign of it. He dumped a bag in the trunk and slipped into the front seat, but Jensen would know that he didn't release the power. 

The power built walls. Walls were useful.

A few minutes later, he released it, but didn't say anything about what happened inside.

Age: 26

Origin: Unknown (Some midwest state in the middle of nowhere)

Occupation: Grifter/Con Man

Aliases: John Lee, Danny Murphy, Barry Rogers, David Smith, Alex Kennedy, Richard Martin, Tobias Johnsen, Noah Preston, Alexis Trottier

Description: Xander is 6 foot even. He is muscular but not overly so. He prefers running and boxing to weights but will lift to get stronger. He has ice blue eyes and inky black hair that he likes to style in a faux Mohawk. He likes to wear comfortable jeans and t-shirts with cool sayings. But he wears a suit well. Xander has several protection brands, the eye of horus on his left shoulder, the eye of rah on his right shoulder, a pentacle over his heart, a triquetra  on the inner side of his left hip

Personality: Xander has a hedonistic nature.  He believes in a pleasurable life at the cost of everything else.  He is a very good liar and exceptional con artist. He was raised with an us against the world mentality that when his parents died became me against the world. He's a hard worker and always gets the job done. Xander needs to be in control of everything.  He doesn't trust easily and once broken it's hard to earn the trust back.  He is a very passionate lover, but he doesn't take any relationship seriously.  He's got a mild exhibitionist streak that rears its head at times.  He believes in finding the truth even if it's ugly it's one reason he thrives in his chosen career path.  He likes to control which truths make it to the right ears.

Supernatural Powers: Xander can see images in a person’s aura (like Min) He doesn’t always understand what they mean. (Prophet)

History: Xander was born to a single mother. His father died shortly after his conception. His mother never told him of his demise, not really. But Xander saw it in his mother’s aura. The pain the tragedy and the hurt she was going through. Her death was not a surprise. He found her when he was 8 years old with her wrists bleeding into the bath he’d drawn for her.

But before that Xander and his mother lived a good life. She taught him everything she knew. School was boring but it was required - she said you gotta have book smarts as well as street smarts to make it in this here world. So Xander did as he was told. 

And when he first started seeing the colors, he was afraid. Xander couldn’t stop seeing them. And that was when he saw the darkness in her aura. The death and the pain. He saw images of a man bleeding out. He saw things he didn’t understand at the age of 5. When Xander told his mother what she saw she was afraid. Not of him, but for him. They searched for months to find someone who didn’t think he was crazy.

They found an old witch woman who said Xander could see the soul. See truths in it. She didn’t offer to teach Xander, but his mother left him anyway. It wasn’t until Xander told the witch woman what he saw when he looked at her did she offer to help him. But before she would teach him he had to survive. 

Xander was five, he’d survived so far and his mother wasn’t there to say no. The first brand upon his chest made Xander cry out in anguish. It burned. He cried. It was torture. But the witch didn’t stop there. She pressed three more into his skin, one at each shoulder and one on his hip. Then she told him her name, though Xander would never repeat it again. There was power in a name, and Xander never offered up his own. Xander Mitchel was a ghost. No one knew his name - no one but his mother and the witch who taught him about his gift.

The witch taught Xander what the colors meant the surrounded people. She taught him to translate most of the images he saw. They always came true, if they were the future, and if the past it was such a strong emotion it was usually all Xander could see. She also taught him how to ignore it, turn it off so it wasn’t blinding.

Xander’s mother came back a little more than a year later and yelled at the witch woman. She scared her son. His mother was about to strike the woman when Xander stepped between them and spoke softly. “Mommy, it’s okay, it’s to protect me. To protect her. To protect you.”

His mother had asked to protected her from what, Xander never told her to protect her from the evil within. The witch hadn’t considered his viewings to be a gift, they were a curse sent from the to torment me. She only taught Xander because he saw her death. There was nothing she could do about it except teach me. She didn’t have long to live.

But the images around his mother were worse now that he understood. Xander lived with the lights off most of the time, he couldn’t bear to see the images around her. But once his mother found out that his images came true, they used it to find the best payouts and the most lucrative payouts. And that’s how they lived for another three years. And then she commited suicide with a bath he’d drawn for her. He still saw the image of her lying in the water. It was a nightmare he saw anytime he saw death in the auras. 

Xander was a child when he became a man. He couldn’t own anything. But there were ways around that. With Xander’s gift he knew what strings to pull and how to manipulate a person so that they would do exactly what he wanted. He never hurt anyone, and he only took what someone else didn’t need. He never took from the poor, in fact he gave some to them whenever he had a chance.

But Xander wasn’t alone for long he fell into a group of people who all worked the same thing doing various things. Anita was the oldest, she was almost an adult at 18. She was like their mother. And she acted like it most of the time. They weren’t homeless, though they did bounce from one location to the next to keep the authorities off their cases. 

Junior was next he was 17 but no one knew why anyone called him Junior, he said that was all anyone had ever called him. Trevor was 15 when Xander joined them, and he was the first one to introduce Xander to the fine art of using sex as a tool. Trevor was with Lillian she was some rich girl they all stayed with from time to time. Xander thought she was a slut even at that age and when he was 14 he got the full experience. Xander was second youngest, Diana was the baby, she was five and she was Trevor’s little sister. They had just a tragic story as Xander did, both parents dying, no living relatives and when you run away from your foster home continuously they soon forget about you.

Xander wouldn’t know about that he never stayed around long enough for anyone to find him till he found this group.  They taught each other things and helped each other out. They were sort of a family, but none of them were really close. A few of them were considered friends, but Xander didn’t tell anyone his true name. Knowing his name was against his own rules. They all played their own games. And helped each other out, but they were still alone in this world. No one fully trusted anyone else. But they needed each other to get through growing up. 

No one ever really questioned him growing up, and by the time he was a teenager he had enough connections to fake whatever identity he wanted. Criminal masterminds always wanted his talents. Even the low level scum who couldn’t afford his prices wanted what he had to offer. Xander’s visions always came true and they all knew if he said something was good, it was good.

By the time Xander was 16 he’d made a name for himself in the midwest. He moved east and spent a few years making scores on the east coast before he decided to try his hand at the precious CCD. America wasn’t what it once was. So with his newly minted CCD ID Xander made his way across the ocean. He was 18 when he first set foot in the CCD.

There he didn’t have connections, the challenge was new and through his gift and his acquired wealth from his former life in American, Xander grifted his way through what was once England, and then France. He hit Spain for a few months. The Ukraine was next, and he eventually moved into what was once Italy and the City of Rome where he learned through his visions to avoid the men with the ouroboros tattoos. These men and women were deadly snakes, and the visions surrounding them were awful. Their deaths were always gruesome and that’s all he saw for them. Just death - lots and lots of death - theirs and others.

Xander moved on quickly from Italy finally into the center of the world - Moscow. He was there when the big announcement about Ascendants and channelers was made, and the giant monument the Ascendancy created it. He wished he’d have been there when he did it. Xander had seen strange things around men and women with the sickness. He always saw their deaths and Xander wondered what images he would see around those who had survived. Where they any different.

Moscow was ripe for the pickings. Xander only had to find his next mark but who would it be?

I hate you guys. You've given me insomnia from laying in bed mind spinning with stories. 

*sips coffee.

[[OOC note: Vena is a PPC, however has her own account due to being a reborn god]]

Bio: Born of a wealthy business magnate in Mumbai, India, Vena has lived a privileged life, accustomed to a large and multigenerational family. She has always been more interested in people than business, and as such her interests have always erred on the side of the arts, dance being at the foremost of her passions. Growing up she was especially close to her cousin, Ishya, who was something of the wild child to Vena's conservatism (and probably a terrible influence). It was Ishya's persuasions that pushed Vena to spread her wings beyond India, prompting her to study dance and performance art at the prestigious Julliard School in New York (father was not pleased).

Three years later she dropped out, when halfway through a routine her nostrils filled with the acrid stench of blood. Her stomach dropped, her balanced wavered, knees skinned on the hard floor. She remembers cupping her hands to her face, surprised to find that her nose was not in fact bleeding. That day Ishya stopped returning her calls.

By now Vena already knew her brain was wired differently, its senses muddled, and was aware too of her uncanny perceptions. So she did not doubt the dread she felt when the phone just kept ringing.

She returned home to her family, only to discover Ishya long gone on worldly travels, her trail cold. The flash of brief glimpses -- smells, sounds -- urged her toward to a path she didn't know how to follow, so Vena searched on blind instinct, but always found her head pointed back to the same place.

Moscow.

She moved to the city on vague assurances to her father that she would look to find a husband. Though she knows she is now in the right place, nothing yet has sparked a further epiphany. In the meanwhile she graces Moscow's socialite scene, networking amongst them for a hint of Ishya's whereabouts. She has made a life for herself, and is currently the girlfriend of Scion Marveet.

Reborn God: Lachesis/Lakhesis, Greek fate

Abilities: Vena will only channel if she is taught, and thus has no idea of her capabilities. 

As Lachesis reborn, Vena has an uncanny connection to the Pattern. She's gifted with an innate perception of people's threads, lending her intuitiveness in her interactions with others. In the main this ability is woken by touch, or at least enhanced by it. Sometimes, though rarer, it may work also with objects -- particularly when they are closely connected with a person.

She can direct the ability to a degree but has not discovered how to control the information relayed or its relevance or importance. The feedback blends with her synasthesia and so often requires translation. Past, present and future all fall under her remit, though she cannot distinguish between them. Most often what she discerns comes in relation to another -- that is to say she mostly picks up on connections between people.

She can generally sense where people she knows are in a room without having to look, and can usually intuit where to find others on a larger scale. This is most reliable when she has a direct connection with them.

Though technically a prophet, she has not formalised this skill beyond her talents listed above, and thus far has made no fortellings.

Description: Diminutive in height. Thick black hair, and chocolate dark eyes. Vena is beautiful, and knows it. She is attracted to power, likes to feel looked after, and enjoys the finer things in life. Her mannerisms are warm, sultry, and invite confidence. The interest is genuine; she enjoys getting to know people. Though what she chooses to do with the information is entirely discretionary.

She hadn't seen the nice lady doctor in a few weeks. At first, Mara thought it was some sort of holiday until the whispers began. Then the daily charge nurse disappeared. Finally, her favorite cook, the one that slipped her honey-swirled-butter for her bread rolls, stopped coming to work.

She was playing chess with an older man named Slamet when excitement rippled through the wing. 

The patients with-it enough to notice the disturbance moved across the floor, slippers padding swiftly, to huddle around the window in the door. A woman was screaming in the hallway. Hysterical new patients weren't uncommon.

But this was different. This was the cook. 

Daiyu's eyes flared wide.

A bigger crowd had gathered than Rowan had anticipated. Her reputation from New Orleans did not follow her across the pond, so, really, she was only expecting three or four people; if any. Voodoo didn’t have much of a scene in this part of the world, despite the Ascendancy and his promise of refuge for those that could wield magic. She had been sure she’d find someone here that knew the secrets of the Loa, of root working, of secret swamp magics. There wasn’t anyone like that in the First Dominance and if there was, they had to be hiding.

                Rowan had flown out here about a year ago, searching in vain for her twin brother, Aiden. It should have been way easier to find him. Punk-rock author movie stars weren’t exactly common and Aiden was the loudest one of them all. At least he had been. Everything changed since he had fallen into that coma; and not just for him. Rowan had changed and so had the rest of the family. Mother insisted that Father knew more than he had been letting on, but the crazy old coot refused to speak on the subject. Oh, he had hinted plenty of times that he knew exactly where Aiden had run off to. Mother had spent countless nights fighting with him about it, but eventually, he just started working late, not coming home until Mother was passed out on the couch with an empty bottle of Grey Goose nestled under her arms.

                Aiden had to have come to Russia. There was no other option for him. Rowan had spent a year and a half trying to convince him to leave the states with her and make a new life out here in the new heart of the World. He gave her the cold shoulder. He didn’t want to open up to her anymore. Did he actually blame her for how things went down with Kyle? Fucking bullshit that was. She didn’t tell Aiden to cheat. She didn’t tell him to stick with Kyle just to keep the band together! But no. He just had to go thinking with his dick. Men. All of them were the same… Well, most of them were… Her late husband had been different. The Saints had crafted him especially for her… And they also decided she wasn’t worthy of him… Fate was so fickle.

                With a huff, Rowan brought her thoughts to the present and looked around at the crowd assembled. There was a light whisper here and there. She wasn’t stupid. There were no true believers here. That wasn’t a bad thing. She wasn’t a believer when she attended her first ritual, but it only took one to convince her. That was partially the point behind tonight. If she couldn’t find anyone out there that ‘Rode with the Loas,’ then she would make believers out of the entire city if need be!

                It was time.

                Rowan threw both arms in the air, gesturing for silence. A hush fell over the crowd. Every eye turned to her as the band behind her struck their drums. Ten men beat out a steady tribal rhythm, four women accompanying them with rattles and tambourines. Rowan would have liked to have had more authentic instruments, but these would have to do. The band was hired, they weren’t practitioners as was tradition, but Rowan thought a few might be coming around. They had been on her payroll for the last six months if anything they wouldn’t be leaving her anytime soon.

                The vibrations from the drums seemed to amplify as Rowan lost herself to the rhythm. Her body began moving of its own accord with the music and that familiar light sprung up behind her shoulder. Papa Legba ready and waiting, as always. With a flick of her wrist, seventy-seven candles in varying colors sprung to life around the perimeter of her circle. A thick chalk line marked the boundaries of the large circle and no one was allowed to cross it’s threshold, lest Rowan command a Loa into the body of another, in which case the Loa would take control and enter the circle, adding to the magic being worked tonight.

                Rowan’s body dipped and writhed with the beats of the drums, somewhere a trumpet started playing. She didn’t hire a trumpet player, but she welcomed it. The sound seemed odd in contrast to the tribal beats that her band played, but it worked, and that was what Voodoo was about, using what worked. For instance, the herbs and powders that Rowan was now tossing about the circle. It seemed half hazard at first, but eventually, a symbol appeared in the herbs. It looked like a cross with other crosses, circles, and stars all mixed into its design. Rowan pulled a Cuban cigar from somewhere inside her bodice and lit the thing. She took five long puffs while dancing; then she pulled a flask out from her sleeve. Dark rum sloshed about the inside of the aluminum flash, Rowan taking a long swig and then spitting it out into the air. She spun in place, scattering the rum from the flask in all directions.

                Then she stopped, arms outstretched towards the heavens once more, and she yelled out in a loud and commanding voice, “Papa Legba! Papa Legba open the gate for me! Atibon Legba, louvre port-la pou mwen! Papa Legba! Now!”As the words left her mouth, the flames of the candles shot five feet into the air as if they were each a mini flame thrower. Rowan took five more puffs of the cigar, blowing it all out in a circle around her. The candles died back down to their normal, steady flickers. The crowd gasped and sank back a little, but no one left.

                Rowan felt the energy coursing through her, like a proud river, carrying her down into the womb of Erzulie Dantor. It was the most delectable feeling in existence, better than sex even! Rowan spun round and round, chanting loudly, “La Fanmi semble, eneo; la fanmi semble, non! E agoueto, ca hinde; na’pe hin’de o! La fanmi semble, eneo; na’pe hin’de Papa Loko Ati-sou!”

                She kept chanting those same lines over and over until a strong gust of wind picked up and rushed through the silent crowd. Voices seemed to be carried by the wind, voices most of these people hadn’t heard in years. The voices of their ancestors. Looks of shock passed on many faces of Rowan, but she didn’t notice. Papa Legba was inside of her, riding her soul so that he may touch the physical plane once more, and it was marvelous. The light coursed through her and she just kept dancing and chanting.