After collapsing on a bed, Jay slept hard. Maybe they laced that last shot with something, but he slept like the dead. When he woke, his neck ached from not having moved all night. At least, he thought it had been night. Lacking a view of the outside world, it was hard to tell.

Speaking of lacking views, the only thing surrounding him were bunks. Each neatly made, he found himself tucking his own into good order out of sheer habit before going off in search of someone when a wave of darkness rushed his senses. It immediately cast his heart into a harder beat as he followed its origins.

When he came upon an open chamber that reminded him of a concrete gymnasium, he flat out gawked like an idiot at what he found.

Five men faced one another in line. Each wore athletic apparel as more than one brow was slicked with a sheen of moisture. Jay suddenly felt ridiculous shirtless in sweat pants and bared feet. But what really stole the show was the symphony of flows lashing around the room. He could barely follow the lights, though the sweep of each weave cast a shadow on his heart that made him want to retreat.

Instead, his fists opened and closed, itching with anticipation. The power rushed into his grasp and filled him to the brim. It was only a moment before one of the men spun on a heel and thrust a storm of power at him.

He threw up a shield of light, and his own arms in front of his face. A flash of light sparked like a beam across his eyes, but the attack never landed. The flows were cut by another. Jay didn't even know that was possible.

Blinking, panting, he looked up when a clap landed on his shoulder. One of the men, an Indian a few years older than himself helped him up.

"You must be the newbie. Welcome to the pit of doom, Carpenter."
He leered with a smile.

Jay blinked as each of the five came to appraise him.

"Uhh-- Thanks?"
He tried to smirk, but honestly, was too fucking shocked to do anything but stand there like a fool.

When she finally spoke to the consulate of channeling, it was not to discuss the ideas she had presented during her meeting with Brandon; those she left to fertilise in Evelyn's cupped hands. In fact it had not even been with Marcus DuBois himself she negotiated, but with his people. She had leaned a little too heavily on Brandon's authority and her position as a Patron's granddaughter to smooth an untroubled path; and how surprisingly easy to silver-tongue her way to the things she needed. Though it was not like she asked for anything untoward.

All she wanted was a room. A piano. And the space to practise and record her findings.

The room was one of hundreds of administrative spaces along the wide corridor, as grand and beautiful as everything she had seen since passing the Kremlin's threshold. A dark-stained bookcase lined the length of one wall. Beyond, the arching gilded windows hung with velvet drapes, stuffed chairs that had perhaps once bracketed the open fireplace now pushed to observe the view beyond. The rest of the furniture had been removed. The piano itself claimed the newly central space, its glistening grain catching gold in the streaming late afternoon light.

Such an indulgence. She could have done this from home; her apartment housed a stately Bösendorfer, utterly untouched but for a callous glance the night she had arrived in Moscow. A guilt-shadowed gift from her mother, most likely; Eleanor might resolutely funnel her towards this path, but she at least understood that for Natalie each step cut her feet to bloody ribbons. The new piano was far more expensive than her old Steinway, and yet she would have preferred to discover its bitter-sweet memory amongst her new possessions instead. Not that it was her only reason for avoiding the empty shell of the apartment. Demons danced in the silence spaces, and she was wary of the isolation. During her weeks of convalescence in Aubagne, Eleanor had insisted on a therapist; a standard part of the debrief, really, when a project went so terribly wrong, but Natalie was the sort to cling to her wounds; to feel their full wrath before she consented to let them heal. She needed the distraction of bodies moving in the hallway beyond.

It had been a long time since she had sought this kind of escape, but it was the closest earthly feeling she could align to the swelling joy the light blossomed when it lit in her veins. Though after the blood of Africa, neither feeling felt deserved. Her fingers swept the ivory keys like she touched the relic of an old life -- and it did feel that way, something distant and old; too pure to touch.

The instrument itself was beautiful.

It was German designed, rich dark wood and decadently carved, gold capped feet. Tsar Nicolas II had favoured Blüthners, but Natalie had never had the pleasure of playing one. The lid was already propped open, baring the hammers and strings within, and the empty music stand above the keys swirled with inky lattice work, begging attendance even of the unworthy. Despite her own hesitations, she sat at the bench, placed the datapad and stylus beside her. On a whim she slipped the shoes from her aching feet, rested her bare toes on the pedals. Just breathed.

It was foolish to feel so at war with herself, but the battle stiffened her rigidly against relaxing. She ought to be picking up the pieces in Sierra Leone, not nestling in the lap of luxury indulging her passions. Yet despite the shade of guilt, her heart was singing. It only made her feel worse.

You're here for a reason.

One that didn't truly stem from frivolity, not that it helped ease her conscience. Her fingers hovered. She had tried this in a basement of the embassy, hunched over the stub of a candle she'd almost burst a blood vessel trying to snap to flame. She had vowed then to learn the complexities of the gift, but it had never worked. Now the light was not barred from her any longer, but it still did not always come easily. Instead of forcing it, she chose to lull it. The first rich note from the smallest pressure shivered through her soul. The tensions weakened their grip, burdens realised and unrealised snaking a looser hold as the notes blended to the first chord, resonating like a promise of peace.

The light unravelled as her fingers moved in a familiar rhythm, woven like the music itself. She had never seen it so clearly; the colours and textures only caught before in desperate snatches. Like any symphony there were component parts, explored for the first time.

As the music played, the threads danced.

[[Chopin's Requiem for a Dream]]

Guess it seems that myself, Asha (maybe?) and Soren are set to sail the ocean blue. Anyone interested in joining or doing an NPC? You’d be welcome!

Red shirts are likely to die in a horrible and dramatic fashion.

Should be fun!

Tony or any of his guys? Sailors? Captain? Gunners? Scientists? I’m game.

There is an article about the word count distribution . Lots of charts and statistics on the writing in the Wheel of Time. If anyone ins interested:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/sci-...heel-time/

Something crunched under Mara's foot. She curiously peered down at her bare feet and found the reason. A large vinyl banner, smeared with mud and trampled by dozens of feet, lay discarded. She kicked at one corner, flopping it open and read what once advertised a craft fair. A pair of knitting needles crossed on each corner. A basket and vase were outlined on the center. A big script read 2025. An old sign then. Or maybe it was new, and it was she who moved through time. She wasn't quite sure.

The darting of a black shadow pulled her gaze upward to the myriad booths and wooden stalls, their interiors all skewed and broken. Shards of pottery littered the paths. Signs dangled from their perches. Chairs upturned. Tables knocked over. Mara stalked to one such booth and picked up a necklace snapped in half. More pieces of metal glinted in the dirt nearby.

Something horrible happened here, she thought idly, and put a hand to her eyes to shade them as she scanned the scene. The sky was lit, despite the lack of sunshine, yet the gesture seemed to help her focus. A black shadow darted behind a booth. Momentarily, she thought it was a rabbit, but when the voice beckoned her to follow, a sly smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she padded off in suit. Quietly, she thought to herself. They were suppose to be quiet.

She rounded the back of a stall and came upon a pickup abandoned in the grass. Come mistress, the whisper touched her mind, and she padded carefully around the bed. The passenger side door was ajar.

Her eyes flared wide when she saw her pet squat low in front of the door, nuzzling at the fingers of a dangling arm. The black pet peered up, it's eyes glowing like bright moons within the svelte of its fur. She came close, knelt at its side and put a hand on its head, pushing it slightly aside. It complied with a grizzly nuzzle on her own hand, but she didn't fear it's jaw snapping down on her bones as it had been chewing on the hand. She pushed the door open farther, peering inside the cab. Only for the arm to land in a thud at her feet.The torn fringes of a blue sleeve was ripped at the shoulder.

Her pet pounced on the arm, snapping and snarling at the meat it devoured. She jumped from the way and deep lines dug into the edges of her mouth. A scream in the distance snapped her head upward. She left the pet behind to its meal and stalked in search of the owner.

Three steps and it seemed she had paced three hundred. She walked beneath the limbs of a great tree in the center of the fair grounds. The vehicles of food trucks flickered in and out of view. Her dark, tilted eyes studied the logo of one aqua-colored food truck bearing the image of a squid before it disappeared from sight.

The scream did not return. So Mara stalked the area, ears tuned for any noise. At her feet the black fuzz of a pet appeared half a step behind. Then another joined its brother. Then a third. They followed her, all listening for the noise, all eager for another meal.

A creak pulled her ears toward a booth with a sign of a squid on high. Her eyes narrowed to slits as she crouched low in the hunt. The hunger twisted her stomach now. She salivated and padded softly forward. Together with her three black pets, they were a fog of death slowly rolling into the stall.

Soft. So soft. They padded with all the stalking of a wolf on the hunt. Though something about thinking of wolves made her want to snarl, she kept the growl within. Then, she froze. There. They heard it. Panting. The deep, rapid breathing of a terrified soul.

Her lips parted in a wide smile. Her pets broke from her feet, rounding the flaps of the canvas-walled tent. Their screamer huddled behind the tablecloth of the table. Handmade chopsticks were lined across the top. The claw of Mara's hand slowly reached for the nearest one and pulled it into her grasp and held it against her ear like a knife.

The panting drew in a sharp breath and went silent. Their screamer held their breath, but it was too late. They knew where she was.

Mara's lids slid low as she crouched. Every sense surrounding her enveloped her mind, even as it stretched out. Smells of rancid oil and blood mixed with dirt swirled her nose. The absolute absence of noise, of being utterly alone in this sunless world prickled her ears to every single decibel. Her blood ran cold. Her mouth watered. She was hungry and something nearby would feed her.

In fact, it already was. Fear, she hungered for fear. Delectable, filling. She lapped up the fear of the one behind the table like a leech sucking out blood. Her pets sensed it too.

Then, the screamer could hold their breath no longer. They took a barely audible breath in, but the shaking in their lungs was deafening.

Mara and her three pets lept and devoured it until there was nothing left.

***

Daiyu opened her eyes and peered at the empty ceiling over her bed. She smiled at the shadows, turned over in her bed and nuzzled the blankets high to her chin. When she fell into a peaceful sleep, she knew she felt the best she had in years. She couldn't wait to tell her doctor tomorrow. Meanwhile, the idea for her next novel was born, a horror thriller taking place far in the future: 2100, in a world where monsters erupted from the darkness 75 years previously, ones that fed on fear.


Edited by Daiyu, Feb 18 2018, 08:31 PM.

The room was dimly lit, soft music played in the background, and a hint of stale incense hung on the air, overpowered by the scent of sweat.

“It’s okay. Just breathe like we practiced. You’ll get through this.”
A woman sat on the edge of the bed, smiling down at a young woman propped against a wall of colorful pillows. Her pink and pretty face was screwed up, her eyes shut, and she was very obviously holding her breath. Her stomach protruded in front of her and her heals dug into the bedding, pushing her back into the pillows. In her pain, the young woman held both of the other woman’s hands so tightly in hers, the fingers were white with lack of circulation. No complaint escaped Melany Torrones’ lips. This was what she was here for.

Perspiration made the short black curls stick around the face of the midwife, the central air having been turned off in the birthing room and the southern night had stubbornly retained the heat of the day. She blew in her charge’s face to remind her to breathe, her own breath minty and pleasant.

“Keep breathing.”
she reminded and the patient dutifully took breaths in little puffs, her concentration distracting her from the contraction, if not actually doing anything to really reduce the pain.

A soft chime sounded, and Melany extricated one of her hands with a reassuring smile as the contraction waned. She tapped an intercom button hidden under the edge of the bedside table. It must be pretty important if Anabel was interrupting her during a birth.

“My lady, there is … someone here that needs your immediate attention.”
Melany’s lips came together and thinned. She would have to remind Anabel to lay off the honorifics. It was one thing to feed the press the Lady Moon persona, it was another to actually start believing it.

“Send Lacey in to spell me, please. I will meet the … guest in my study. Please offer refreshment.”


Melany had a good idea who it was and why he was there.

When Lacey entered the room, the young woman was quiet and taking advantage between contractions to close her eyes and catch her breath. Melany leaned over and whispered something in her ear that made her smile slightly.

“Lacey, this is Cyan. And her baby will be here pretty soon.”
Lacey moved past Melany to sit on the edge of the bed and picked up a washcloth sitting in a bowl of ice water, and squeezing the excess water from it, began to wipe the exhausted young woman’s face.

Melany squeezed Cyan’s hand and said she would be back before the baby came. Melany looked meaningfully at her replacement and Lacey nodded. She would call Melany should birth look immanent. She made it a point to be present at every single birth of the many women who came to her for help.

Melany stopped in her rooms on the way to her study. She quickly washed the sweat from her face and ran water through her curls. She pulled off her sweat drenched t-shirt and put on a fresh one. The rest of the manor was not as warm as the birthing rooms were by necessity, but trying to keep costs down, they didn’t keep it very cool, either. Just enough to take the humidity out of the air.

Entering her study she smiled. Her guess had been right. The young man that stood looking out the window behind her desk had light brown hair, neatly trimmed and was clean shaven. Her turned as she entered and the smile on his face was answered in her own. She moved to give him a chaste hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Joshua. So nice to see you. Won’t you sit down?”
Joshua returned the platitudes and took the seat she offered him. They exchanged heartfelt niceties for a few minutes and inquired about each other’s lives since last they’d met, but Melany knew that Jet’s PA was here on his business, not to catch up with a high school sweetheart.

“So Josh, why don’t you tell me why you’re here. I have a young pregnant woman in one of the birthing rooms ready to pop – I’ll need to get back to her shortly."
Josh smiled, glad she understood the purpose of his visit and got straight to the point.

“Jet is going to Moscow. With Beto. He wanted me to show you this.”
Josh pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it across the desk. Melany took it from him eagerly. She appreciated the fact that Jet never compromised her position by maintaining the farce that they were at odds, and craved the few personal communications they were able to send to each other via people like Josh Ledger. Mutual friends from their youth, the press could conjecture, but never prove that the wild young musician and the spiritual leader of the Luna Evangelical Church of the Goddess actually still spoke and still loved each other. Melany knew it had stung Jet when she had expressed a need to distance herself from him when she chose this route and he chose his. She couldn’t afford for the sins of the brother to rub off on her.

Melany unfolded the paper and frowned. It took her a minute to realize what she held was a copy of a letter from … yet another woman in need. She sighed and took a breath, looking up at Josh before reading the short missive. As she read, her beautiful dark eyes opened to their full potential and this time there was a question as she glanced at Josh.

“Jet wants you to make your way to Moscow. He wants to help this girl, but isn’t sure how.”


Melany looked back down at the note. Jet knew exactly how to get her to do what he wanted. He knew she would be hard put to say no to a woman in need. Especially if the woman was family. And someone Melany had cared for a great deal in their youth. Leaving that child behind in China was probably one of the reasons she had started this church. A church to help young women in need.

But before she even had time to think about the implications or the logistics, the intercom chimed and she hit the button. “Yes?”
Lacey’s voice came over the intercom, sounding calm to the casual observer, but Melany sensed the stress she was feeling.

“Mel, this baby is coming quick. You’d better get back right now.”


“I’ll be right there.”
and tossed back over her shoulder, "This conversation is not over."
. Without looking back, she folded the paper up and tucked it in her back pocket as she left the room at a trot.
Edited by Jet, Feb 16 2018, 12:05 AM.

I was told I should do a send off post for Aria...

I rather liked her head rolling to the ground being a final moment but here ya go.

Aria had a good run, but it was time to end. Dane always was going to be the death of her!

Having word spread among the Accepted ahead of time, Lythia found herself taking corridors she'd not seen in years. Many years. The farther she diverted from the main hallways traversing the first floor of the Tower the farther back in time Lythia felt she went. She didn't glide, not like the floating visions of noble beauties poufed and coiled for court. Yet compared to the gangly, awkward pale version of herself Lythia was at sixteen, she was the Aes Sedai of her dreams. Good-fitting soft wools, gleaming waves of hair streaming down her back, sturdy boots. Lythia would change nothing to her appearance riding to battle as she would attending a summons to the Amyrlin Seat. Although, she would trade the small knife at her belt for her shawl for Mother; and perhaps secure her hair for war.

There was a time early in her years in the Shawl, when the color of rainbow hems still swirled her daily thoughts, that Lythia scoffed at the idea of a Sister too busy to pass her valuable knowledge onto the Accepted. The kiss of death. Long years later, the start of her path in the Shawl was a point far out of sight.

By the time she crossed into the common court within the Accepted tower she was greeted by almost as many gawks as she was curtsies. She'd not taught novices since before she'd bonded Blake, a man who'd shared her duty to the Light for over ten years. She'd taught aspirants to the Green here and there, however. But those impactful lessons were short and swift. Addressing as many eager faces as which turned to her now...? Well, she nodded her acknowledgement of a few greetings before simply taking her place in the center of them all when the white dresses parted.

A quiet descended as Lythia Sedai began to provide some answers. "I will not soften the blow. We all know the Last Battle comes."
Her hands clasped lightly before her, she raised her voice without the use of the Power, even as she scanned unfamiliar faces peering down from the levels of galleries extended upward. However she was curious to know the reception of her forceful proclamation of the obvious. One of the few aspirants declaring allegiance to the Green Ajah that she actually recognized nodded in agreement, but for every nod, she saw frowns and in one case, a girl actually shook her head sadly and looked at her feet.

"As Accepted you have some freedom to direct your own studies. But what can you do to prepare for the Last Battle? Really do? This is the White Tower, and you women striving to be Aes Sedai, not the Borderlands and you plate and mail infantry. Every Ajah will have its role,"
she spoke as a true believer of that statement, moreso than the confidence of the Three Oaths gave her speech, but a passion glinted, like a shot in the dark, across her eyes and Lythia raised her voice proudly, "but I am a Green. If you wish to prepare in the way I will lead you to prepare, submit your name."


Without taking questions and without providing further details, she scanned the responses - the gaped mouths, the confused expressions, the rise of whispers winging about - then, pleased, Lythia departed. She was a busy woman, after all, and as such arranged for another Ajah-Sister, Delanna, delegated to take her place.

It was the stout, but surprisingly soft spoken Cairhienin Delanna that explained to the many questions that this was not an aspirancy but an opportunity for some extreme-sort of lessons. She would not entertain the idea of giving details except that once begun, and short of life-threatening injury, loss of limb, or burning out, the Accepted must see her commitment through to the end.

The "Games" as Delanna called them with a haunted sort of smirk, would begin immediately.

Ivan stayed with ma and pop and things seemed to settle down a bit. Not that the lead ball in his stomach would go away any time soon. Not by a long shot. That bitch had him by the short hairs. And had his pops, too. And so many others.

And yet strangely, for all of that, for the magnitude of what was before him....well, just being home had settled him. Made him scared, sure. The stakes were real- serious.

But they were worth fighting for. He remembered that bitch, the casual way she spoke of shooting his dad. Just to teach him a lesson. That....the normal way she spoke of it- almost orphaning his kids, widowing his wife- and the complete lack of care....more than anything else, Ivan understood now the reality of evil. The complete and utter lack of concern and empathy.

She was a dog. And somehow he would put her down.

But he needed help. He was at the bottom. Chained. But he would not give up. He couldn't afford to.

It was the lifeline he held on to. The branch that kept him afloat as he was drowning. But he wouldn't let go. The feel of his father's arms around him, the strength of his mother's hugs, the little ones.

It was on his shoulders.

But he wouldn't do it alone.

He trusted two people.

He dialed as he drove. "Hey, Alex. This is Ivan. Listen, I was wondering if we could get together tonight. Been a rough day. Looking to spend some time with a friend."
Not quite the words for a booty call. They had never agreed on anything. Never even talked about it, the friends with benefits thing that they had. But if he was being listened to, he wanted them to think he was doing just that.

"I'm finishing up with last bit of notes at the clinic. You can pick me up here, we can grab coffee or a drink if it's been that kinda day."


He frowned. "Drinks sound good. Any place you recommend?"


"Pick me up. I know a discrete place with decent food too."


He smiled. He let his voice get a little husky, as if it were clear what he wanted. In truth, he could have used that intimacy right now too. That kind of thing sometimes really helped a person clear their head. But that wasn't his priority. "Awesome. Be there soon."


He drove the streets, not really paying attention. Occasionally he'd pass a squad car. Always before he felt a feeling of camaraderie when he saw that. His brothers out, keeping things safe. Sure there were the thugs- the ones with power trip issues he knew of- but those were the exceptions, he thought, not the rule.

Now, it was all different. As he passed, if he saw one of them turn their head, he imagined they were making a report of him. They couldn't see him through the dark windows, he knew it. And not like his ride was all that special.

Not like paranoia was logical. Or maybe it was. For this thing to be that big, they had to be a lot- either oblivious and idealistic (like him.) Dirty or power hungry. Or forced (him again.) And how many of what type? He found himself rethinking all the people he worked with. The way they handled interrogations. Questions. Perps. Witnesses. The way they joked about a busted head. Or seemed callous. Number of tickets they wrote. Jay walkers busted. Was that a glance out of the corner of their eye when they saw him? Had what they had been about to say changed?

All of it, all of it was suspect now. Maybe the majority were bad. Or enough.

And Brandon. Sitting at the top. No. Don't go there. Not now. He would get too angry.

He pulled up and waited for her, texting here he was outside. When she came out, he honked and got out, not minding the cold. Her clothes were nothing fancy. Professional. Didn't really emphasize her assets, which made sense. Don't want some guy who's detoxing to have his eyes fall down her blouse.

He smiled, though he was sure she sensed (and heard in his voice) his sense of...whatever it was. He was trying though, if for nothing else than they might be watching. He gave her a brief hug and a peck on the cheek."Hey, thanks for coming. Hop in,"
and went around to help her in.

Back in the car, "Just tell me where to go."


She gave directions. But he knew she knew. "You feel off, Ivan. What's wrong?"


He sighed. Now that the moment of truth was here, he wasn't sure where to start.

"Just stressed. Let's get to the bar. Have a couple shots."
He smiled, tried to be the usual Ivan.

When they got there- Chesterfields- he opened his door. He looked at his wallet. "Ahh damnit. Battery is dying."
and then left his wallet under the front seat. He had cash. He touched his lips and nodded to her to do the same. Maybe they could monitor. Maybe. Prolly not but he didn't want to take the chance.

[[with Alex]]
Edited by Ivan Sarkozy, Feb 13 2018, 02:21 PM.

Walking the streets of Moscow had been a past time. Now she used her knowledge walking with a purpose. She missed the maps and the software, but she didn't need it. She could avoid people better without the technology of it all anyway.

The Red Light district was the home of a great many things. It brought on memories of happier times which brought on crushing pain that Aria holed away in the emptiness of the void she'd made home so long ago and now took up once again. Feeling nothing was better than the crushing pain of losing Dane. Lucas hadn't hit her as hard.

And Aria didn't take a look at the reason. She didn't care. She was done letting the Atharim and monsters take things from her. But first she had to test the weapon on a god. She had a plethora of gods on her list but she needed an isolated one - the red district had several likely targets, Aria chose a sickly kid who was friends with Mia. It seemed that the camps held a few of them. But they would be easy to take out. Aria wasn't sure why these gods still lived - yet they did.

Aria made her way to one of these camps where she had found Stone's daughter. Mia had lost her life much the same way despite her inability to wield the power of the gods. Aria was about to do the same thing.