Jaxen earned the day of sleep after the three days of work. Well, not that he called it work, but three days with barely a nap and he crashed as soon as he was home. But not before taking the moment to smirk at the pile of Oriena's discarded clothes. He even picked up the leather pants and held them up to himself in front of the mirror. The tapered legs were too skinny to fit much more than his calf, and despite a tight, narrow ass on himself, there was no way he was going to fit in them. Not that he wanted to, but now he thought about it, he hadn't purchased a new pair of leather pants in ages. Would need to remedy that soon.

Tossing them aside, he crashed in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what happened to the Narwahl tusk that his father's goons confiscated. There was nothing in the news about its return to the Museum, so he assumed it had been sold on the black market. Jaxen wasn't the only eccentric rich kid in the world. Whoever had Maximilian's sword was a lucky bastard too.

That only meant he needed new treasures to replace what he'd lost. Nuada's sword of light was something he needed. A lick your lips, fingers rubbing frantically, tap your chin with nefarious intent kind of need. He fell asleep imagining a glass sword glowing bright in his hands. And as dreams tended to do, he was a bloody master when he raised it against his enemies, laughing all the while at the power it gave him.

When he woke, the sword was first on his fresher mind. He began the internet searches while in the shower, but found nothing useful but folklore and myth. First he had to figure out who the hell Nuada was.

Nuada Airgetlám was the first king of the Tuatha de Danann in Ireland. When he arrived, he led the rebellion against the leader of the natives that inhabited there, but in battle lost a hand, one that was replaced with a magical silver prosthetic. The remnants of the defeated natives fled to Greece and the Tuatha de took up rule of the island. Nuada was eventually killed in battle against the Fomorian king, the Tuatha De's primary enemy, but was avenged by the great knight of his court. It was his great sword that Jaxen coveted, and he drank in every myth and legend that mentioned it. But there was little information on its destiny, other than it was buried in a safe place along with the other three treasures of the Tuatha de Danann.

Other than seeking where it was put to rest, perhaps the best trail was to seek its origins. The four treasures came each from four separate islands bearing great cities: Murias, Falias, Gorias and Findias. A book called "The Four Jewels" supposedly described the location of these origins: The Yellow Book of Lecan (Leabhar Buidhe Leacáin). Written on vellum, it was housed in Trinity College in Dublin. It would be easy enough to visit, and Jaxen made note to search the college's history next. in it, the four islands were described as being in the "great northern sea," which conjured images of ice, narwhal tusks, and warm mead in Jaxen. Each island was also home to separate branch of druids, teaching knowledge, prophecy, and magic. Well, Jaxen certainly believed that. Perhaps there were more treasures besides weapons to find on these islands.

The sword of Light originated on Findias, where ever the hell that was.

"Looks like I'm going to Dublin."


Now. Who to take along for the ride? Oriena? Manix? He'd have to think on it. Needed to be someone fun, that was for sure.


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Feb 3 2018, 09:56 PM.

The worst part was when her mind stretched to its limit, then snapped back like elastic. After that her pack was gone, too far away to sense, and Tenzin was truly alone -- with many more miles to travel. The scent of a trail look her east before south to Delhi, following curious rumours to a village in Uttarakhand. Shadows kissed the sky before she arrived, joining a group of weary women trekking home after a day spent collecting green-fodder for cattle. They made amiable company, and Tenzin was glad to bask in the murmur of their voices and the steady heartbeat of their footsteps. It was another hour before they finally pierced the heart of the village.

Elder Gokul welcomed her curious visit, and over chai and warm stew he spun a story, relieved to have it reach rākṣasa hatyārā ears. An Ancient Soul had visited -- one of the Spirit Possessed -- and they and a companion had awakened a beast that slumbered at Roopkund. Gokul had offered a great treasure to appease both man and beast; one that would allow stealthy passage to the tunnels below. He touched Tenzin's sleeve, where her tattoo nestled, when he admitted the talisman he'd given bore the mark of the saṃsāra. Her brows peeked in question, but he did not know what the amulet did: just that it had allowed the man to kill the beast, though at grave cost.

"Another man died,"
he told her. "Now more will come."


It was a four day trek to the lake. Roopkund was surrounded by glaciers and situated near the base of two of the three Himalayan peaks that made up the Trident, an area completely remote of civilisation. The lingering stench of burnt flesh seared her nostrils as she approached the ridge that once held a basin of thick, clear ice. But nothing of that remained. The water had drained entirely, baring the curve of an underground entrance amidst the hundreds of bones. On instinct Tenzin's senses sang out, seeking her pack's support -- and finding nothing. A frustrated snarl curled her lip, but she pressed on fearlessly across the carpet of bones.

Natural stone curled above her head. A staircase down into darkness. She recoiled at the faint tang in the air, the hairs on the back of her neck shivering. Death lingered, though the body had been removed. She padded on curious paws, stiff with caution, but scented nothing alive within. Discomfort prickled her skin at the hug of stone walls; she tried to align her thoughts with that of a den, but her surroundings were too alien to supply comfort. Water pooled at the bottom, thick and deep, overwhelmingly stagnant. Curious fingers touched the smooth walls, imagining the beast rising swift and sinuous to once break the ice overhead.

After a moment longer she found a door still cracked open, an inscription above it. She devoured the image hungrily, then pushed into the space within. A low hum of awe escaped the next breath to leave her lungs. Lights hung suspended in nothingness, casting watery shadows over the room within. The air was surprisingly clean for so deep underground, but overcast by a hint of salt that made her think of the coast - somewhere this place was far from. Treasures crammed the space, but her gaze was caught on the walls behind, where spidery inscriptions and faint images hung in shadows.

At the centre, cleared by a ring swept clean, stood an altar. She knelt by it, gaze following the intricacies of its design. "You are very old,"
she told it reverently. Now that the beast was dead and the lake's secret flung to the wind, it would only be a matter of time before this cavern's treasures were despoiled. Tenzin adored the deeper mysteries, but it seemed a shame to disturb them in order to excavate their secrets. Her fingers shadowed the relief of a trishula amidst the waves, rising and falling with each of its prongs. Creation, maintenance, destruction. Past, present future. The three gunas.

"And you were guarded by something very powerful."


She stood from her crouch, contemplating the shortness of her time here as her eyes skipped over the glimmers of gold and pearl. She had no interest in plunder, but this was obviously an Ancient place -- the lights alone were clearly spirit-wrought. Its excavation should not be left to unknowing minds; something of great value had been kept here. But she had no Athari cousins to easily call upon, and no way of knowing what she sought. As Gokul feared, other men would come before long. Nothing could stop that.

Her jaw hardened against the desire to leave everything untouched. She did not look for items of value, but for those inscribed with written word. Things that might be of importance or of use to understand what was left behind. A few minutes intent search unfurled an animal skin that still smelled of the sea, its innards roped with letters. Within nestled a gleaming fragment of carved bone. Her brows pulled low at the strange revelation. She recognised the letters but could not read them. They were ancient Greek.

It was cold down here, and every second leeched more warmth from her skin. Tenzin itched to stay, but the wolf in her soul thrashed with the need to escape. She had four days trekking ahead in these frigid climes, and could not afford to weaken her body by lingering. Numbing fingers folded the skin and bone and tied it into her pack. She pulled back on her thick gloves, unsatisfied with her search, but forced herself to lope up back to the surface.

~*~
A week later
~*~
New Delhi teemed. Rickshaws and cars warred on the congested streets, the fumes sticking in her throat. A cacophony of scent assaulted her, enlivening her senses into a frenzy. Someone yelled as she wove a path through the traffic. A vehicle almost brushed her nose, but her gaze drew fixed ahead. A small crowd gathered about the news holo on the street corner, and Tenzin eased herself amongst them to watch. A great arch dominated the feed, flowing molten from the earth. The Ascendancy's severe face interspersed the commentary. Magic is real, read the ticker at the bottom of the screen. Whispers around her echoed her own slack-jawed shock.

But it didn't end there. BREAKING flashed a violent streak above the newest headlines; a burned body being loaded into the back of an ambulance, the Kremlin a glittering backdrop. An horrific still of the face. Tenzin blinked, dry-mouthed, through the press release that followed. A dark-haired Russian who spoke sombrely of a foiled nuclear attack. Her skin shivered as she pushed herself back and away from the press of people, heart rattling in the cage of her chest. Because among the bulletin images had been one she recognised. The serpent biting its own tail.

Name: Sun Li (Tan Li)
Age: 30 (Oct 1, 2015)
Supernatural Powers: Channeler/Atharim
Reborn God: The Monkey King (Sun Wukong)
30/41 Adept

Personality: Li has a personal fear of becoming angry - he has no desire to be like his father before him. In his effort to banish anger from his life Li learned the traditions and beliefs of Tao - The way of balance in all things. He is calm and collected and rarely shows any outward appearance of emotions except the joy and happiness that his love of martial arts brings him.

Description: Sun-kissed skin underneath a mop of dark hair. His dark eyes sparkle with mischievousness that he never wields. His clothes benefit his station though he does not have excess. He is 180cm (~5'11") with an athletic and well defined musculature but he is by no means bulky.

Tattoo: He chose his tattoo - a blue Chinese style dragon biting it's own tail encircling the yin and yang symbol. Outside the dragon Li continued the Taoist motif of balance and harmony with trees and water up the entire left side of his arm from wrist to shoulder.

History:

Born to Sun Ning and his wife Li had 1 older sibling. Ning was quick to anger and while Li was too young to completely understand the situation he saw the cuts and bruises on his mother and brother. He fled the violent rages his father was prone to and would hide in the closet until his mother or brother would come find him.

Li remembered the few times that his father found him in the closet. The moments were seared into his memories. He remembered the pulsing vein in his father's temple. Li remembered the exact shade of his father's skin. The smell of the sickly cologne mixing with the bit of stale alcohol and smoke from the local bar. The pain of a broken arm, the beatings that followed would be etched into his memory as well.

Li remembered the last time he saw his mother and incidentally his brother and father as well. He was four. The memories are tainted with the washed out colors of tears as Li found his mother lying in a pool of crimson blood. Her head with a large gash across the forehead. Li remembered tasting salt and copper that day. Tears and blood.

He was taken away that day. He and his brother were separated. Li barely remembers the look of on his brother's face as they tore the two apart forever. It was such a long time ago - the memory faded and blurred with tears and blood. But he remembered the love he had for his mother and brother. But life goes on and Li adjusted to his new family.

Tan Zhen and Tan Qi were loving parents. They taught Li "the way". Everything was a matter of balance - everything. There was no need to worry, or get angry - the world had a way of working things out given enough time. They were not pacifists by any means. They did not sit idly by - they worked hard and their results were returned ten fold.

As Li learned about the Taoist way - he learned how to feed his body, mind and soul so that he was in perfect harmony. The day he came to the Tans he started learning Tai Chi. It was a family tradition and Li was now part of their family.

As he progressed with in his own meditation he was also needing a stronger outlet for his energy the Tan's sent Li to a Tao Temple where he was set to a strict regiment. Discipline, work, rest and nourishment all scheduled to reflect the balance of his new life.

Li picked up various Martial Arts while staying with the monks in the temple.

As he grew older Li continued with Aikido, Kung Fu and Tai Chi. It was these practices that landed Li in an opportunity of a lifetime. Li was 10. He was competing in a Kung Fu competition in China. He was one of the top ranked students and took first place overall in his age group. In the crowd was a man looking for the perfect Aang. His studio was searching for boys with martial art skills to be the next iteration of Avatar: The Last Air Bender.

His hard work had paid off and Li went to the studio to film the movie. While the movie may have bombed in the theaters, Li's career took off. He played as one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the television show for two consecutive seasons before he out grew the part - literally out growing the needed costumes.

By 18 Li was consulting on martial arts films, even choreographing some of the famous fight scenes of the late 2020's. He never really left the screen for long.

Li was not an extravagant person, he donated portions of his well earned money to charities supporting abused women and children.

But the lime light and tournaments were not enough excitement or enough challenge for Li. He sought greater challenges and he found them in the underworld of every city. Deep in the shadows in nearly every city Li visited there were underground fighting clubs - some pitted you man against man. But it was the thrill of fighting the unknown that held Li's attention. Strange and exotic men with golden eyes, or long fingernails that were as sharp as knives, there were even women with teeth as pointed as a sharks in some cases the worse were the men with decayed skin, they nearly made Li wretch from the sight.

Li was in Moscow in 2033 seeking such a fight and he met a man after one fight. He spoke like a Russian in a deep voice thwarted with the cold. He spoke of monsters and secret organizations. But it was not the cause that called to him - it was the danger it presented. Li jumped at the occasion. It would be a pure pleasure to find himself among these so called monsters stripping them of their lives to save humanities.

Li went on hiatus from his acting career for three years while he spent time in Vatican City learning all about monsters and killing them. Li made friends there, but he was not one of the few chosen by his recruiter to take personally under his wing - mostly due to his proficiency in martial areas. He didn't like weapons though he did pick up the bo-staff to compensate for those particular monsters you didn't want to grapple with. He also learned the crossbow and firearms as every man and women did in the confines of his new side career path. Some monsters were just too dangerous to go one on one. Li hoped never to encounter one of these reborn gods.

Every man and woman in the order had a tattoo on their left forearm that indicated to others like them they were brethren - a serpent biting its own tail. It was one final step after Li's initiation that he finished before returning to the screen and his travels around the world. He chose his tattoo - a blue Chinese style dragon biting it's own tail encircling the yin and yang symbol. Outside the dragon Li continued the Taoist motif of balance and harmony with trees and water up the entire left side of his arm from wrist to shoulder.

For 8 years Li toured the world working in the movie industry as either actor or choreographer. In each city he stayed he continued to seek out the underground fighting pits and taking out their little toys after he'd fought them in the ring of course. The ring leaders never knew it was him, but many suspected that whenever he rolled into town and he showed up - something bad would happen to their monsters.

It was a rare occasion where Li would actually find a monster out in the wild, but it did happen. It was on one such hunt when Li was 29 that the most unexpected thing happened. There had been rumors among the denizens who frequented the fighting pits that Li first heard about a creature who was hunting women and children above ground. Li had abandoned his fight that night to seek out this predator. He had tracked the dreyken to an alleyway. But what he found was not the monster he hunted. It was just a man dressed like the monster. He was about to use his make-shift finger blades on the boy in front of him.

Li was too far away. He reached out as he yelled. "Stop!"
The man in the well-devised costume froze in place. He was clearly unable to move of his own violation. It was then that man started to panic. Li didn't pause a moment before he was ripping the boy from the monsters grasp and sending him away with a violent flair.

Li turned on the man and hit him square in the neck crushing his windpipe in Li's anger. The man gasped for breath as Li watched the light fade from his eyes. Anger colored his vision. Li dropped to the ground still unaware that the man was dead and standing still. It wasn't until Li had calmed his emotions and retrained his calm state of mind that he saw what had truly happened.

Li's clarity fled him the moment he saw the man's dead eyes and he fell to the ground in a heap. Li called the police as he sat in shock. Li was taken into custody, but was released once the man was connected to the previous murders of women and children. Li was donned a hero but he didn't feel like one - his anger had killed a man.

Li sought the mountains of his childhood home to find his own inner balance. In the mountains Li conquered his rage under the tutelage of the monks of his youth.

It was in the Tiantai meditation techniques that Li found the light. While Li was learning to control his anger through the teachings of the Four Doctrines and the Fourfold methods Li encountered a shimmering darkness of light. The concept seemed foreign to him at first how could darkness be light or light darkness but it was always there just out of sight like a shadow stalking him.

It was in the emptiness of the Shared teaching of the Four Doctrines that Li grasped the light. At first it struggled and it fought. Li let it go, let it drop from his grasp feeling lost and unfocused. It wasn't until a few days later when Li tried again that he took control of the light with no ill-ease that he understood the nature of the light. Once he felt the power he knew this was what had caused the man to freeze. But Li had no idea how he could actually preform such feats. And this new found power would need a balance - Li knew he had to find it.

The Light was broken up into five distinct elements much like his Tao teachings - earth, metal, fire, wood and water; but the elements didn't precisely match it. They had their own distinct flavors and colors but metal and wood were missing from the branches of light in flavor, but Li didn't know what else to call them so he used his teachings to bend the light to his will.

It was all about balance. Li never wanted to use his power as a destructive force. It was how he found the balance to using it. The light threads could be formed into patterns, woven like a tapestry.

While in meditation Li wove patterns to see the outcomes. He avoided fire feeling it most destructive element of nature - he didn't want to blow the monetary or himself up. After months and months of trial and error Li finally found the specific pattern of threads to replicate the immobilization of the man who was attacking the boy. It was a simple feat of air and spirit - the missing metal and wood of his Taoist teachings. It had taken him all those months to finally put a name to the light branches of the light.

More months passed and pattern after pattern Li found combinations that would work. The meditation allowed him to grasp the power, but it was neither immediate or at whim. But he'd master immobilization and the art of illusion. Li could hide small inanimate objects with weaves of light changing its appearance from one thing to another.

Li could create small whirlpools of water, and air, make earth and air walls. He had touched fire once to light a candle, but his fear of anger and the heat and the destruction it was capable of he avoided such things. Such was the nature of his study for a complete year.

Li returned to the world to continue his work as both an actor and with the Atharim finding himself once again in Moscow. He was between professional jobs at the moment and he knew Moscow was teaming with creatures to kill - and The Almaz was the club in which he found himself once again.

It had been a good 15 years since he'd shown his face in these rings again. Tonight he was scoping out the scene. The club was littered with people of wealth and those of much darker natures. Sometimes they were one and the same. It was not a club Li liked to frequent but the fights were always good and sometimes even exotic. Tonight's entertainment was a mixed bag.

The бак fought a relative unknown in most circles, but Li recognized him from his research into who's who of the Atharim contacts. This was the man you contacted if you needed a safe haven, or special equipment or both. Li had no such needs, it was not strange to see an acquaintance of the Atharim in the ring - they were mostly all adrenaline junkies anyway.

In the end Li was not surprised the man won despite his smaller size - no one ever said that you had to fight fair. The бак would likely never show his face in the Almaz again.

The matches finally shifted to the cage and Li watched as the crowd took in the wolfkin and rougarou. They of course knew nothing of these creatures. The golden eyes appraised things and the rougarou was near glazed over in hunger. Li wondered if they'd feed the beasts anything.

Li watched the beasts fight. Strange things abound the whole night, small chills ran the course of his spine, threatening postures seemed to come out of no where and yet when he looked he saw nothing. The world spun in chaos as the creatures broke free of their cage.

One man didn't run when the creatures took them in with their gaze. A strange power leapt into view as the man smote the beast with lightning. It didn't come down from the heavens as in the movies but came from the man himself. The power - the fear. The anger...

Li would seek out the people at the table looking for answers.


Edited by Tan Li, Sep 29 2016, 05:30 PM.

The ride to the Pub was quiet, bot lost in thought. Once they got there SynJyn gave Manix a dubious look. Walking in SynJyn made a quick study of the area and followed Manix to a booth.

It had Been 2 days since he struck the deal with Carmen for protection and he saw the 2 Marines casually blending in. After ordering SynJyn looked directly at Manix not quite happy: "Why are there 2 Marines in here pretending to drink?"
Manix laughed: "I am helping a friend with security until they get professionals in here, and that is where you come in. I need Vikings to take their place. 2-3 hour rotations, they need experience blending in, and the ability to appear to drink without drinking. While in the pub they are under the orders of Carmen"


"A friend named Carmen? first name basis, let me guess, red hair?"
SynJyn chuckled: "Easy enough to make happen, so do I get to meet this Carmen?
Manix looked down at his drink, he couldn't fool SynJyn and didn't even offer a defense: "She may or may not come by as I sometime will sit here watching over her, this place. I am hoping she will so you can meet her"


Both sat quiet for awhile, by tomorrow it would be Vikings in here so the Marines could go back to normal duties. SynJyn was not sure he liked so casually letting an unknown be "in charge" but saw the need. If Manix trusted her then until it proved a problem he was cooperate.

The cold desert winds were cutting, especially in December. Nicholas stood alone, on a lonely lookout above a battlefield. But he wasn't alone. The sound of gunfire and the smell of smoke was overpowering. Al-Hasan's men were closing in from all sides, and as they appeared they died. With flows of fire and air, Nicholas cut and burned. Where he looked, they died. The smell of burned meat hung heavy in the air, and corpses turned to mush littered the airstrip. He was too tired. Too tired.

Nicholas blinked, and Reed was standing next to him. Ninacska.
She said something, he said something. She smiled. He couldn't hear the words. But he could see the men appear behind her. He felt every bullet hit the ground around him and -

The only thing Nicholas could hear was his heart beating, drowning out everything else. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba - In another world, a glass dropped to the ground, shattering across the floor. Nicholas clawed his way to his feet, he needed to get outside. He was in a townhouse, in Washington. Jeddah was more than two thousand miles away.

The balcony. Why did the walk to the doors look so far? Stumbling across the room, Nicholas reached it after what felt like an eternity. He clawed for the handle. He tried to reach for the power but it was gone. He had to get outside. The drum in his chest started banging louder, why wouldn't the damn door open? He found the deadbolt and turned. Fresh air blew across his face. He had to see it, it was just a summer day in Virginia. A bird chirped in a tree sprouting from the sidewalk, somewhere in the distance he heard a car alarm going off.

It was still minutes, agonizing minutes, before the ringing in his ears died down and he was able to catch his breath. Jon Little Bird was supposed to arrive in an hour. Why was Nicholas so weak? He'd spent long enough talking to people to know that his story was nothing. So he'd been shot, so he'd killed a few people. In the South China Sea people lost more than a couple weeks spent in a hospital ward. Arms were blown off, legs severed. Why couldn't he get over a few hours in a war zone? Because he was finally a participant and not an observer?

How was a hyperventilating wreck supposed to help the world's rightful superpower stand up to the most powerful tyrant in human history? Nicholas needed a drink. He sighed, and turned back inside.


Edited by Nick Trano, Sep 29 2016, 12:23 AM.

In this part of the world they call us rākṣasa hatyārā, the light that keeps the darkness at bay. We come in two sorts; those that baulk at ending the demons with human faces, and those that don't. I never knew on which side I would fall until I became one of those demons with a human face.
~*~
There is a school in Leh that houses strange and unwanted children. The villagers abandon them sometimes, or call upon the rākṣasa hatyārā to mediate. Contrary to popular superstition, most of us cannot scent evil, and even the most hardened of our kind do not like to kill younglings without good reason. It is rare to find tiyanak or any other creatures that cloak themselves in innocent flesh when we are called to this job. Nearly always the children are just children, and yet the people look upon us to help them: it is what we do. We cannot leave them, and if we cannot kill them, we must take them somewhere else.

You could call them unlucky, but it is not a bad life. I would know.

The monks are kind. They give the children names, teach them to read and write, and to meditate. Many have difficulties and disabilities - the reasons they find themselves orphans. Others are able-bodied and sound of mind. There is a superstition among some that offering a child to the rākṣasa hatyārā brings good luck. I'm not sure, but sometimes I speculate that it was something we started. We train them, after all, and the best are allowed to wear the saṃsāra. Schools like the one in Leh are our foundation.

I was of the latter, a girl-child offering. My parents were poor, and perhaps I was but one extra mouth to feed. I don't remember the family I came from, but I bear them no ill will. This life has suited me, and perhaps saved me in later years, when the changes came.

As a girl I loved to read, and devoured the histories they gave me. The myths and legend and lore. They fed us these tales early; still stories when we were children and knew no better. We meditated thrice a day, and exercised in the dusty courtyard. Our bodies grew lean and strong following the graceful forms of kalaripayattu. I remember these years fondly, but the memories fade under the weight of all that I have seen since. It is a strange nostalgia to cling to; Leh Town is bleak; an array of mud-brick buildings stretching in a great canvas of desert brown. Nothing green grows. But this is where I grew up, and it is a home I miss at times.

At twelve, those with aptitude are moved to a monastery, and upon that anniversary I numbered among them.

My monastery stands in Alchi, a small village by the Indus. The road to it ribbons steeply into the Himalayan Range, following the brown waters of the river into the sweep of the valley. It is a very small village, little frequented by tourists - and we get few enough of those in Ladakh anyway. The people who call Alchi home are rustic and live to old ways. But the monastery itself is very important to us. The monks are still kind, or so I found them, but the regime becomes stricter. At twelve, we are no longer children.

I began to learn the history of my people; the Athari, or so they are called in other parts of the world. We follow the teachings of Buddha here, in Alchi, and our paths have diverged - we are very far from Rome. But still we learn and respect our roots, and so too we learn of the other schools within DIII, and how Ladakh is unique. It was my first introduction to the understanding that not all demons wore obvious masks, and that one day it might be expected of me to kill what looked to be a normal person. I remember finding it confusing; an antithesis to the things Buddha taught, but even when the lama explained I was too young to understand it then. We do not advocate it in Alchi - for which I am eternally grateful. Our hand is cautious; we kill sparingly, and not without thought, for every life taken is a chip against our own souls.

But in those beliefs, we are of the minority. I learned it first back then, but understand it much more acutely now.

I delved wholeheartedly into my new studies. The deeper histories have always fascinated me; the digging out and dusting off of truths in the myths and superstitions of different peoples. I have always made an effort to make myself scholarly, and I know now that we harbour many ancient texts and artefacts in Leh. It has been my honour to study some, and it continues to be among my passions despite its incongruity with my other talents. As often as I trained my body I grew my mind. I revelled in them both. I still do.

Some years passed in Alchi before the changes first began. It started with voices. Whispers really, a gentle tugging, like waking dreams. At first I was able to ignore them, though I could think of no rational explanation for their presence. They began to disturb my meditations, itching into my calm with an urge to run that training did not satiate. I admit I became difficult with my teachers, my usual focus fraying at its edges, my temperament suddenly unpredictable. I fought it, afraid of what I was becoming, and yet unable to stop it. But where my composure suffered, my martial prowess excelled. Grace had always favoured me and I enjoyed the drill exercises. Now there was a viciousness in me, like an animal clawed its way out of my skin.

Our education was swift; by fifteen our learning extended to the field. Jammu and Kashmir is sparsely populated, and Ladakh in particular seems a barren place to foreigners. I have heard the craggy landscape likened to the moon or the planet Mars; it is very bleak and grows very cold. Lynx and snow leopard stalk the mountains, though it is very rare to see them. Ibex and bharal wander too, and many many varieties of bird. Sand foxes. Marmosets. And wolves.

Surviving our inhospitable climes is a necessary skill. We are vulnerable out here, and have only ourselves to rely on. Our tech is limited, and perhaps counts among the least of our assets because of its unreliability. Nature is a wonderful teacher, but also a harsh one. To become rākṣasa hatyārā she is the first obstacle we must conquer, though to make an ally of her is even better. We have few enough of those when hunting down the creatures of myth and shadow.

My first time alone in the mountains I had chosen a spot sheltered from the bite of the cold desert wind. My fire had failed, my fingers numbed by my efforts to reignite it, frustration hailing shame hard upon my shoulders. The breaths I tried to take for calm needled ice in my chest and I could feel my temper bubbling, even as I knew it was foolish. In such an unbalanced state, the whispers found me unguarded - but not so much that I missed the flicker of a shadow in my peripheral.

"Man-child, man-child."

I only saw the one at first, but after a moment realised they fanned all around me, eyes glinting in the failing light. The Ladakhis do not love wolves; they harry and attack our livestock when food is scarce, and must be driven off. But they are rarely so bold. I blinked, still connecting the images in my mind with the creature stood before me. I felt no fear, but do remember an unravelling. I needed warmth and shelter to ward off the night, but such necessities blanked from my mind. The wolf made a gesture I can only translate as an invitation.

"Run with us."

So I ran.

I am not sure what eventually called me back. It is my belief that my human soul is too rooted in my body to shuck entirely. I had a life in Alchi, and responsibilities I already took seriously. At first I considered that I had simply been a wolf in a previous incarnation - and maybe this is true - but it does not fully explain my capabilities. The monks had believed me dead. When I returned they took me by the arm and locked me in a room deep under the ground. Only later did I discover how my eyes had become golden. That I had been missing three whole days.

Another school of rākṣasa hatyārā might have slit my throat there and then; I was clearly human no longer. I raged in my prison, clawing my fingernails to bloody stumps in my efforts to escape. I am not sure what stayed their hand. The lamas visited me daily despite my howling temper - and I regret to admit I was not kind to them. They read to me. All my favourite texts. Perhaps they only meant to study me, to learn from my transformation before they completed their duty. I'll never know. I tried to listen, but the wolves plucked incessantly at my mind, curious as to what I was. Their memories far outdistance ours - I misunderstood that at first, and did not ask questions. I thought they were as clueless as I.

The dreams eased my passage back to sanity. The old grey who first visited me was a complex mix of scents and images and sounds, padding on silent paws, his bushy tail swishing in the dust. When I think of him even now it is of a pup plunging into the rippling reflection of the moon in a lake, and the smell of night. Moonchaser. Mirth and youth, but also a sense of what was but no longer is. The moon remains a part of his identity, but as a symbol of his wisdom - that which exists always, the constant companion, the undeniable truth. As he has always been to me. The colour is a part of him too, a testament to the white and silver in his ruff, and a far easier moniker for a human like me to comprehend. Which was how I came to think of him simply as Silver.

'Some two-legs run with us always,' he told me. But the words pulsed as feeling, as images; things hard to describe, for they are simply visceral. Acceptance, brotherhood, whole. 'But the desert is not kind to two-legs' – flashes of starvation, madness, injuries from harsh terrain – 'and their bodies wear down.' A sad inevitability, but short-lived joy. 'Some find balance, and remain brothers and sisters for longer. We miss them when they roam with the two-legs, in the many-big dens of two-legs, but they always return.' Longer joy, acceptance if not complete understanding.

The epiphany did not sink in straight away. Locked in that tiny room, I warred with instinct a long time before I finally scented compromise. It did not have to be all or nothing. I did not have to choose.

With my humanity came my freedom. I spent many long days in meditation before I was allowed to return to my training. It turned out there was precedence; a monk across the border in China, named Tai Djin, who had lived and died many years before I had even been born: the werewolf of Shaolin was what they called him. He might have been a myth entirely, as is so much of the lore we study and extrapolate, but I inhaled every scrap of information about him nonetheless. If the wolves knew of him, they did not know him by such a name, as they do not know me as Tenzin. Still, I find the stories a comfort.

I grew slowly accustom to the wolves in my head. They roamed many many miles away, but treated me as pack and kin and often intruded upon my thoughts - at least until, with the blossoming of familiarity, we agreed boundaries. To combat the loss of their distance - a sentiment I fear I will always struggle with in this urban world - I thrust myself into my training. We are expected to dedicate long hours to our art, but the question hanging over my suitability for the saṃsāra fuelled my efforts and kept me busy. I felt I had more to prove, and certainly my tests were more rigorous than they were for others.

I have since discovered there was much discussion over my fate. Historically the Athari have always hunted my kind because we are so often driven mad by the transformation. We are rare, far rarer than the rougarou we are often confused with, thus we usually die young. In both surviving and recovering my wits I presented a quandary that would only grow as the years passed; the fever-deaths of the 30s were finally surmounting, and the first godlings were emerging from their own transformations.

Perhaps we have always known that the spirit force would return, for we have always had a tradition of oracles and healers, and those people are always tied to the monasteries and thus fall to the watch of the rākṣasa hatyārā. We accept that the possession of spirits is not always a benevolent experience, that the outcome is unpredictable, and yet we seem to have had fewer deaths in this part of the world. I believe it is the meditations. The spirits are powerful, but meditation makes the vessel of the body and mind stronger.

In Ladakh it is important to understand we are isolated; not quite a part of India. Some surmise that the rākṣasa hatyārā here have fallen from the true path, and in the years I have travelled since I have indeed, at times, witnessed a scathing edge to the inspection of my tattoo, once it is recognised where I am from. The truth is that we do not kill the spirit-possessed unless our hand is forced. But we don't know what to do with them either; a debate that has been ardently raging for the past decade. Like with those abandoned children, though, we must do something, for in the meantime the spirits only grow in strength.

Thankfully, the spirit-possessed number few.

Even more thankfully, it is not my decision what is to be done with them.

I think I am watched as closely as the spirit-possessed - or I was back then, at least. I would hope by now I have proven both my loyalty and my prowess, but even the tattoo does not keep me wholly safe; I am acutely aware of my vulnerabilities, even among my brethren, and thus keep my secret close to my chest. I wish I could share more freely how valuable an ally the wolves have become; they have an acute sense of evil, and understand far more readily than us the fine balance between those creatures that are a threat and those that aren't. My own senses are greatly enhanced - my sense of smell especially. But there are penalties, too. I miss my pack, and it keens a great aching loss when I allow myself to dwell on it. My mannerisms have changed. I see things differently. My smile has a wolfish cast. And sometimes I still battle the urge to run.

I was seventeen when I took the vows and ink, and it is my proudest moment. Our saṃsāra are always serpents, the design and colours distinct to the monastery in which we learned. My arm has become something of a tapestry since then, and I have roamed far across Asia. Silver lives only in the dream now, but I am often drawn home. The rākṣasa hatyārā are revered in Ladakh. The lamas are the vital intermediaries between the human and spirit words, and we are its protectors. We are mediators and guardians, our presence venerated, for though we are trained for war we smooth ruffled feathers as often as we spill blood. We are an integral part of society; a secret kept in the open, unspoken but understood in the myths and stories that surround us.

Even in the villages of southern India we are respected. Our people rove great distances, favouring a nomadic lifestyle in order to travel where needed. In the cities our influence is less grand, and our hunting takes on more secrecy. Still, many people will gladly open their homes to those who bear the mark, particularly when it is a home where the elders remember. We are few enough that we usually travel alone, unless need dictates a coordinated effort. So it has been for an age. But news of late begins to trouble us, and word from the CCD's heart sinks like claws in my chest. Silver is unsettled and his brief visits raise my hackles. He speaks of the Destroyer, an image I struggle to unpick in my desperation. I am left with only fear and determination.

My pack urges me to go where they can not. They nose and growl at the trail, agitated by their limitations. I am reluctant to leave them, as much as they wish I could stay, but duty binds us all. They tell me I am not the only one of my kind urged to Moscow; that all the wolves feel it, and they draw us towards the danger in the hope we can contain it. Apprehension tinges my confidence in my abilities. I do not relish meeting my Athari cousins or acclimating to their strange ways. But I trust my wolves.

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• First Stop
  
  
  
• Time to Breathe (Jacinda)
  
  
  

As soon as she was able, Natalie made the journey to Masiaka, seeking the catharsis of closure. Compared to Freetown's crumbling devastation, the town itself had fared well; it stood, whole and mostly unblemished, but for the fact that it was half empty. The school and garrison had suffered the worst of the damage, but Masiaka's citizens had fled in all directions that night, many escorted by the legionnaires to the refinery that marked their grave. A trickle returned now the conflict had passed, armed with the tenacity to re-dig their roots and start over. The call went out for lost family, and with it the deepening anguish of grief for so many lives lost.

The school was utterly empty, its walls pocked by machete marks and blood stains not yet scrubbed clean. Natalie's heart tightened in her chest, a small and constricted thing that refused to acknowledge the waves of emotion such a sight engendered. Her jaw remained tight, pale gaze cold to all that she saw. Azu's dreams eddied in dust.

Still, she walked those halls and absorbed it all, internalising each reaction and locking it away. The last time she had strolled this very path, she had been with Azu. Dawn spread gold fingers from the horizon then, shimmering the bloody sight that had confronted them round the next corner. The chipped mug still lay where she had abandoned it, half buried in sand. She toed it with her boot, recirculating the memories like she could encourage a new ending.

The children had been arriving in early drips and drabs when the soldiers stormed the school. While Natalie navigated the hospital in Freetown with two small boys, Azubuike had protected them and fled with the legionnaires. They were all gone now, all but Ayo and Ekene and any others who'd managed to seek safety with their families. That was the hardest reconciliation, how dozens of faces had been swept clean like a god grew bored with the game and simply cleared the pieces.

There had been a ceremony in the town's church, and a rallying from neighbouring villages and towns. She was not the only one seeking closure. For a while Natalie stood motionless, processing the loss and its magnitude. Two saved from so many. She lifted her melancholic gaze, and forced herself to focus on the positive.

Separated from their children, Ayo's parents ran south. Fortune had favoured a blessedly quick reunion with the daughter Jay had plucked from death's arms, but such joy was tempered by news that their son was gone. Natalie was not the one to deliver the news, a prickle of shame on her conscience considering she had been the last one to see the boy. But Laurene had shielded her from the duty.

Ekene's future hung in a more uncertain balance. His older brother had presumably perished in the failed coup, else he was laying low somewhere. Given the legion's presence in Masiaka during the initial fighting, the former was more likely. Ekene took the news with mixed emotions, drawing into himself and jabbing at his broken hand. Rosters marked his father as having been among those executed at the refinery. His mother and sister so far remained unaccounted for, but had perhaps fled north. For now he remained under the care of the Cross.

Azubuike's small cottage attached to the school building, and it was in this untouched sanctuary that Natalie eventually found herself. He'd lived sparsely and there was little that truly reflected the man in his decorations or possessions. A few well thumbed books piled on shelves, among them a small bible she had often seen on his person peeking from a jacket pocket. She pulled it onto the small kitchen table, and idled through its tissue thin pages. She wasn't religious, and there was little comfort to be found in its words, just the memory of the man who had carried it close.

"There you are."
Olabisi shoved a hip against the door and slipped through with two coffee mugs. Her dark eyes held a reproachful air, lips pursed to find Natalie here. Red lined her eyes, the whites swelled pink. Still, she smiled and placed the drinks down, joining Natalie at the table. She was older than Azubuike by some years and Natalie had never really known much but her name. She lived the next town over, but like many had made the journey to mourn those lost, and stayed to help family, friends and neighbours rebuild.

Natalie cradled the coffee in both palms, grateful. Though it ought to be her doing the consoling. Olabisi had lost her brother. "I remember taking the children to Tokeh once,"
she said to fill the silence. "The sand is so white there, and the ocean so incredibly blue. Most of them had never seen the sea, and the lesson disintegrated quickly. But I remember his face when he watched those kids squealing through the surf. He loved what he did, and he believed so passionately in this country. He wanted to show them something beautiful."


The pain tightened in her chest, but she eased the sharp grip away and placed it aside.

Olabisi smiled, a wistful and sad expression, but she seemed comforted by the offered memory. It was the purest way in which she would remember him; the benevolence with which he viewed the world, and she thought perhaps Olabisi understood the rare thing that had been lost. Natalie hid a grimace, pressing the coffee to her lips, trying not to dwell on the violent manner in which he had died. Passion fired the need for revenge, but there was no one to take it out on. "He was a good man, my brother. He lived and died for his convictions. No one can fault him for that."


"He was. Among the best I've ever known. But not everyone here loved him for his ideas."
It was how he'd come to work with the Red Cross, offering scholarships to girls still so often denied the opportunity of education in this part of the world. Their father had been a child-soldier the last time peace shattered in Sierra Leone, and the school had been his originally, but it was Azu that blossomed those humble beginnings to something worth fighting for. "They're rebuilding the town - will they rebuild the school?"


"So many lost children. Those wounds need to heal first. New ideas take fertile soil."


Natalie nodded. Swallowed back the bite of frustration. "He won't be forgotten, Olabisi, I promise you."


The older woman placed her hand over Natalie's, squeezed it lightly. "I know."
A moment of sad silence descended. Olabisi's eyes glassed and she blinked. "But it won't be done by lingering amongst ghosts. You must have family? Go home to them for a time, girl. It's important to look after the things that mean the most to us while we still have them."


They spoke a time longer, reminiscing, until shadows touched the windows and Natalie finally stood. Olabisi pressed the bible into her hands before she left.

I'd like to say welcome. We've been curious about your character since we saw your name pop up on the new member list.

Ascendancy has said she approved your bio so we are glad to have you jump on in.

Since I remember what's it's like to be new around here even tho it was a long while ago. I wanted to offer any help we can. Any of us would be willing to help.

Just let us know.

There are several open threads you can jump into. And there are several free characters we can pull out of their homes to join you as well. Since we've not seen your bio yet, if you are starting outside of Moscow several of us (myself included) are always willing to play NPCs to get you to Moscow.

Can't wait to see your bio and have you running around in character with the rest of us.

- Aria (yeah I know I'm posting as Nox ), Nox/Dorian/Ayden/Sierra/Sage - I'm sure I've forgotten a few of my characters *sighs*

((Continued from Glass house)) http://w11.zetaboards.com/TheFirstAge/topic/30001617/))

Manix dress in casual pants and a nice button up enters his "pub". Finding a booth in a corner he sat down and ordered a scotch on the rocks from the blond waitress. He had no doubt Carmen would be there to chew on his ass some more, why did he always like the feisty ones.

Humming a sea shanty he waited. He knew Carmen would have to blow off fer steam before she would listen to Manix.

It was late when Beto arrived home. Washington was cooler, despite the summer humidity, than New Mexico and he was glad to be back. At least he could breath normally again. The return trip had been uneventful. That is not to say that it was not helpful. He and Ms. Makawee had been able to converse at length, though in his mind it was mostly to complete his picture of her.

Rather than press her, he'd let her speak freely and only prompted with questions to keep the conversation growing. Trust. This was how it was built. With time and interest.

He'd arranged for her to stay at the Embassy Suites in Georgetown, their standard choice for high profile witnesses and experts. She counted as one, if not the other.

This morning he was meeting the Assistant Attorney General John Donaghy, head of the Office of Legal Policy and his boss. It had been him who'd approved of Beto's trip to New Mexico since he did not have a district. Beto had had his own reasons for going. Still, he also wanted what John wanted. Information. There were recommendations that needed to be made. All existing Federal statutes needed to be reconsidered in the light of the channeler revelation. They had to determine which statutes and provisions would cover these newly revealed channelers and what new recommendations Justice need able to make to the Executive. Ms. Makawee's contributions would be crucial to that.

This morning he walked with her to John's office and gestured to have a seat while he went to John's secretary, Elsa. She was an older woman, 64, hair silver blue now. The tattoo on the side of her neck, just barely visible above the collar of her light blue jacket hinted at a wild streak in her youth. He gave her a warm smile, eyes shining, and pulled out a jar out of his bag to set on her desk. It might seem ironic, of course, given where they worked and what they enforced. But it was what it was, these games. And it was useful. "Hey gorgeous. I saw this and thought of you."
The label on the jar said 'Cannon's Sweet Hots Sweet Green Chile'. Feigning innocence, he said, "It fits,"
and then winked.

At her laugh, he smiled broadly before asking, "Good to go in?"


She nodded, "Ahh Beto. Always the charmer. I do wish you'd let me set you up with my daughter."

He tilted his head. "Oh come on now, Elsa. You know you will always be my girl,"
and then walked to the door and went in. The rituals were important, however alien they felt. The playful banter and flirtation preserved the illusion and gave him a bit of protection from people and their endless efforts to entangle him in personal affairs. He dated occasionally, though only to keep anyone from looking further into his life. It fascinated- perhaps even amused- him that the more distance and coolness he let himself display, the more interest he attracted. But maintaining the facade, while fairly easy, could be tiring. He enjoyed his alone time, able to shed the mask and just be himself. There was no trying necessary there. It was a sanctuary where he could breathe.

John looked up as he walked in. He was a tall imposing man in his early 50s, a little heavier then he once was, wearing a very sharp blue suit that set off his piercing blue eyes, a bit of grey at the temples streaking his brown manicured hair. Beto knew he got his hair cut every two days to maintain his look. He smiled as he came in and sat down.

"Welcome back. I got your email. Good work."
He chuckled wryly. "Course I got one from Harding too. He wasn't happy you were in his backyard. Panties in twist."


Beto smiled, mostly to himself. "Harding is a small man. He enjoys his little fiefdom without seeing the bigger picture. I got a message from him too. Thank you for smoothing things over with the New Mexico prosecutor."


"So...the girl."
His voice got low. "Did you see? Did she...do things?"
Beto didn't show the amusement he felt. He...'liked' John. The man was an effective leader and did his job well. He even respected him. But he was also amused at the awe his voice betrayed.

But it was a reminder. He leaned forward, letting his eyes widen a little, his voice a bit breathy. "Yes, John. I did. It was...something. Different from seeing it on a screen. Like night and day different."


John's eyes sparkled as he shook his head in wonder. Beto knew he was going to ask the girl for a demonstration. "It's just hard to believe...When I was a kid, superhero movies were all the rage. But it was fake. This, though...."
The awe left his voice and was replaced by concern. "The danger they pose, with these abilities of their's, is real. Bilson Iron Cloud is pushing for a registration like they're doing in the CCD. He's rabid on the subject. He's even trying to drum up some interest from a few senators."


Beto's eyebrow shot up. "Dangerous, that. Not sure how the President would feel about one of his prosecutors at Tribal Justice taking such a stand. It might be perceived as a conflict of interests down the line. Does he say why?"


John waved his hand. "The usual reasons. Threat. Protection. And he has a point. If these people can do a tenth of what Brandon can do, then how do we stop them? Still, not something a prosecutor should be pushing for."


Beto said nothing. He understood the point. And there were things to think about. People like Ms. Makawee could make bad decisions whose effects were far reaching. They would need to be held to account. Prosecuted. And if convicted, held. But none of that was registration. Registration was a PR move to placate the fear some people felt. And it was never good to act on fear. Too easy for people to make mistakes. "Perhaps registration might be the answer, given time. But it's too early for that, I think. In any event, Ms. Makawee is outside. Would you like me to bring her in now?"