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  1. The Chideran world is composed mostly of Amazonian woman. [More to come] Midnight Ice: Black hair, deep, ice-blue eyes, pale skin Summer Shadow: Blond hair, dark eyes, tanned skin Emerald Fire: Red hair, green eyes, pale skin, often freckles Burning Embers: Fiery red hair, pale green eyes, ebony skin Sunset Sands: Auburn hair, dark eyes, dusky skin Russet Thunders: Brown hair, brown eyes, bronze skin
  2. Sean was woken by sheets getting yanked back from his body. The room had chilled overnight and it had been quite warm and cozy curled up with Swan in the bed. The sex had helped lull him into a deep sleep so it was all the more jarring when he’d actually been yanked out of sleep by the cold. “Up, Sean.” Vena’s voice was hard but not unkind; if she was bothered by seeing her naked daughter/son curled around another girl, she didn’t show it. “The time for fucking is done. The time for fighting has started.” “Mom!” Sean was a bright red flush – he wasn’t so much blushing as turning red everywhere. Swan on the other hand was only faintly tinged with indigo on her bare skin as she stretched luxuriously. The older Chideran threw Sean’s underclothes at him, shaking her head as he scrambled into the garments. “Sean, I know what you were doing in here. The whole hold knows what you were doing.” Vena was bemused as she added, “You weren’t shy when your Caramine was kissing your whiskered lips. We all heard you sing her skill.” “Please don’t say that!” “Bah.” Vena looked at Swan, who was casually dressing. “He gets it from his father. Human men are prudes.” “I’ve noticed a certain level of modesty from his father’s people.” Swan smiled at Sean. “Are human girls like that, too?” “Some.” Certainly enough of the ones I dated. “Vena, what’s the plan?” “Breakfast and then your Quickening begins. Savannah has packed your bag.” Vena’s smile softened. “Since she was your favorite sister, I didn’t think you’d mind.” “No, I don’t. What did she pack for me?” Vena shook her head. “I forget you don’t know. Some food, water, extra clothing. All that you’ll need for a Quickening. If you have questions, now’s the time.”
  3. [Late evening, 25 Jan 2012] I have got to be out of my mind. As she looked westward from the edge of her territory, a light and cool wind wafting inland from the coast, Sarah considered once more what she planned to do, how dangerous it was... and yet, how necessary. The land to the west of here belonged to someone else. And try as she may, nobody else came to mind for the advice she badly needed. Had this been territory back home, Sarah would have shifted to her wolf-form and let out a howl of greeting. But this was the middle of suburban Los Angeles, not a half-dozen blocks from UCLA. People noticed a wolf howling in their backyards. Nor should she leave a note on a tree or rock and hope it might be noticed. People took care of their yards here, and stray paper tacked up wouldn't last long. With one last look around, Sarah stepped out of her territory and into that of the werewolf she knew only as Owns-The-Night. Her neighbor. --- Half an hour of sniffing and scouting and furtive glances later, the Dead-Wolf stood before the door of an unassuming and tidy little house on a corner directly across the street from campus. The signs were unmistakable; the scent was strongest here, and there were tell-tale marks on the trees that were as loud a message of "Stay Away!" as anything man had ever made. Unfortunately, staying away would leave her no better off than she'd been these past several months. With no small amount of trepidation, she reached up with a cold, dead hand and knocked on the door of the wolf's den.
  4. Setting up a meeting for the magi of LA had been harder than Triessa had expected. They couldn't meet at any one of their houses or sanctums because that wasn't neutral ground, and they didn't know each other yet. And finding neutral ground in LA that wasn't too public to discuss mage matters, or too remote for folks to get to, or unappealing in its own special way (the dump would have been fine, except it was a dump), was a challenge worthy of Merlin. Then she had to call everyone, which was fine. But then she had to juggle everyone's schedules. And for mages, few of them really seemed to have their time well planned. There were several calls that came down to, "Wait, I can't do it that day after all, what about the week after?" And each of those meant calling everyone else to wrangle a new time. Finally consensus had been reached between the mages who'd come to Lucien and Oneca's party...which Triessa still felt had marked some kind of cosmic alignment. Six mages, though one was still just a fledgeling. Triessa. Lucien. Aradia. Astra. Thomas. Wakiki. The gathering was to begin at sunset in one of the conference rooms in the university student union building. As for how she got the key despite not being a student, well...it helped that Triessa was on good terms with the groundskeeper. The room was isolated, but was also a place where six people in their late teens and early twenties wouldn't be a comment-worthy sight. It wouldn't be suitable for full ritual, or vulgar magic, but Triessa didn't see a problem there. They weren't a coven yet. She started out by setting up the one thing vital for any get-together involving anything remotely human. Snacks. A tin of frosted brownies and 2 liter Coke along with a jug of green tea and some trail mix filled made sure sweet teeth and health nuts alike would be appeased. Then, with flocks of butterflies in her stomach...she waited.
  5. Word spread through certain groups in LA like fire. People that knew the right people got to hear the whispers of a get-together up on Copa de Oro Road. It was mostly people somehow associated with the UCLA campus, but a few others caught wind of it as well. People who made it their business to know where the good times were going to be happening were very aware of this party. They also knew that Lucian and Oneca, the host and hostess for this epic End of Summer bash, didn't mind what zip code you lived in, so long as you didn't drag down the party with anything that would rouse the interest of the cops. The winding road of Copa de Oro was one of the wealthiest in LA and the houses there were home to people with more money than things to spend it on – usually. In this case, the house housed the offspring of people with more money than things to spend it on and their broke friend. Tonight, the house was already thick with cars, with several parked on the U-drive and more in the yard. A line was building in the street as more and more people showed up, ready to have some fun. Most people were following the path around the outside of the building to get to the fun. The outdoor fireplace faced the patio; despite the summer heat, a fire burned merrily in the hearth. Massive speakers played music loudly enough that everyone at the party could hear it, even if they weren't close to the house. Entrances to the living room and dining room off the patio gave ready access to both air-conditioning and the kegs purchased for the party. The pool, just down the steps from the patio, was open as well, with a wet bar near the water to create more pool-worthy drinks on demand. An electric bull was not far from the pool, surrounded by hay bales and set in a sand box to mitigate the impact of a fall. Carefully maintained lawns were now host to a variety of games and groups mingling and chatting. Trees, set back from the lawn and house, gave convenient shadows for couples looking for a bit of privacy, if not comfort. Those inside found the luxurious house a delight to chill out and drink in. The floors were hardwood and tile in the public areas. The kitchen's granite counters were full of finger food and drinks both alcoholic and non-alcoholic. Spacious rooms had plenty of furnishings and places to sit; the numerous rooms allowed people to form groups and chat or play party games. There were a few locked doors but the party-goers had plenty of places to play. Cowboy hats and boots were the unifying apparel tonight. While the cowboy theme was there, it wasn't overstressed; country music wasn't the only music blaring out of the speakers on the patio. A mix of songs kept playing, though most people weren't here for the tunes. Most were here for the host and the fun. Even the 'charity case' as Saja had so eloquently put it, was here for the host. August had a final project to worry about, but she was going to party tonight. She'd had way too much stress this summer; this was her turning point. She was going to have fun tonight, damn it! August peered at herself in the mirror, inspecting herself from all angles. Her green bikini top was daring, as was her Daisy Dukes; she'd cut them earlier today and like most self-tailors, she got them a little shorter than she'd meant to. Buck up, she ordered herself, fighting a blush as she took a look at her backside in the mirror. You want Lucian or not? The answer was yes, so she put up with feeling nearly naked. Her boots were black with silver stitching, while her cowboy hat was a simple black one. She hesitated, her fingers on the cording, but she finally left her wolf's head pendant alone. It hung between her breasts, the silver glinting in the light. Satisfied wither appearance, August shut and locked her door; hard experience told her that if she didn't, she'd find her bed occupied when she wanted to use it. And if she finally snagged Lucian, she damn well wanted her bed free and clear. At the very least, if she wanted to sleep, she didn't want to have to kick people out of it, strip the sheets, deal with any wet spots and have that icky 'strangers had sex in my bed' feeling. If people wanted a bed, there was the guest room, or the guesthouse. Shoving the key into her back pocket, she wandered downstairs, fiddling with the camcorder as she came. Oneca would probably roll her eyes at August, but the pretty grad student didn't care. If something interested happened tonight, she'd catch it on film. People were already thick in the house; August scanned the crowd before plunging into it with a grin. This was the last hoorah before she had to start facing school again. August wanted to make it count. Click to reveal.. All and sundry are invited; feel free to assume that your character has heard of an epic party where Lucian Hunt will be attending. The main OOC rule is: if you join the party, you must leave the party - remember to write yourself out if you're done.
  6. The Seers came for him just before dawn. Wakiki was going to get his ass tumbled out of bed in just twenty minutes by Whisker anyway, so his body was preparing to cycle into wakefulness. When the covers where wiped back, Wakiki jerked fully awake, his fingers reflexively curling around the handle of the gun he kept under the pillow. Before he could react further, something grabbed his ankle and pulled him off the end of the bed. He hit the floor with a thud, only the sheets already strewn on the carpet saving him from friction burn. To his surprise as much as his attackers, when Wakiki rolled off his stomach, his Glock 9mm was still in his hand. He saw several shapes in the room and reactively fired at one of them. In the cramped quarters of his apartment, with no ear protection, the sound of the gun was an ear-killing roar. He saw the form spin away into the darkness but he was trying to focus on the next attacker. A hand closed over his hand, shoving the gun down and clawing it away from him. Wakiki twisted toward his new threat, trying an off-hand punch that barely connected – he could tell it was useless. With a roar of outrage, he tried to get his gun back, only to have a fist connect to his face. The blow jarred him to the bone, leaving his jaw aching from the attack. It also left his senses swirling like water down the drain. His vertigo wasn’t helped when the bag was thrust over his head. “No!” he shouted, but he might as well been speaking in Japanese for all it helped. In short order, he was tussled up into something; it felt like his living room rug. Whatever it was, it wrapped around him completely, pinning his arms, restraining his legs and making it hard to breathe. He felt someone pick him up and carry him; when he tried to shout for help, he felt like he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs anymore. How long he was in there, sucking in and out stale air that stank of his floor, the young mage wasn’t sure. All he knew was that after he was put on the floor, something shoved him the side. He went rolling, and when he stopped, he ripped the hood off. He was lying on the floor and gasping for air in a room he’d never seen before. It was well lit with white walls and a white tile floor; his black and red rug was a garish mark on the floor. He wasn’t alone; he was surrounded by six other people. His first question, who the fuck these people were, was answered when the blonde women just in front of him said, “Hello, Atlantian.” “Fuck you.” Only one group used that term with such scorn. “Your mother says hello,” the blonde said, smiling at him. “Fuck her, too.” “For someone with your Shadow name, you really need to choose better words,” she told him. “You aren’t worth better than ‘fuck you’,” Wakiki growled. He spat on the floor and suggested that she do something anatomically impossible in Japanese. “Eloquent enough for you?” “You’re such a charming, young man,” the woman said, smiling. “I see why your mother is leveraging favors to have you returned to her.”
  7. August 24th, evening The last arc of the sun lay simmering on the horizon, burning a deep blood red, and staining the city like some kind of profane prophecy. Long shadows stretched out into the crimson light like ghastly claws stretching through pools of blood. Sam sat in her car and fought against the raw nerves that were making her regret getting out of bed that morning. She was clad in black from head to toe, a conceit to stealth that did nothing to help cope with the late day heat. Black boots, leggings, tee-shirt under a black sweatshirt, and a black ball-cap with her hair pulled through the loop in the back. Her car was parked down the street from Brad's bloodsucking leech of a master's home, and she was waiting and watching. Once the sun fell below the horizon, which would be very soon by the way the ember was dripping down toward the sea, the creature would wake and then it and it's blood addled slaves would apparently leave apparently to rob the UCLA business school. Sam intended to shadow them, follow them to hopefully win an opportunity to free Brad from the monster's clutches, if that was even possible. The woman, Bonita, probably deserved it too, or maybe she had at one point; now she was as cruel and evil as her master, but she was at least human. The whole process wasn't an exact science. Hell, it's barely even a plan, Sam grumbled to herself. Night fell. Officially. That just meant that the last burning trace of the sun finally fell below the horizon. In actuality the dark merely took a stronger hold as the last long streamers of direct light evaporated into nothingness. Twilight now clad the city in in dim light that would wane for the next hour or two before full dark finally banished the last of the reflected natural light. In her car, Sam lurked like a living shadow until the barely glowing hands of her watch indicated half past ten. The garage door rolled up and a van backed out. Sam started her own car and followed the van, sparing to thought to the possibility that all three may not be within. Whichever of them drove they drove carefully, never going above the speed limit, never running a light or rolling through a stop sign. It was so conspicuously safe and legal that only somebody unaccustomed to crime would think to drive that way. The drive took nearly forty minutes but finally they breached the campus perimeter. The van stopped, the lights going out immediately. Sam quickly pulled into a spot further down the street and got out of her car. In all black she was a shadow walking in darkness, and she hoped that that would be enough. The three figures got out of the van and started walking, Sam wondered why they didn't drive directly to the business building, but then figured that it would be more conspicuous for a van than for three figures with fully laden backpacks. Whatever they were planning to steal would be small and valuable. That or there was more to the plan that Sam would learn in time. It didn't matter, she'd find out soon enough. She trailed along behind the three, her rubber sole boots making little noise, and her slim, black clad form darting from tree to shrub, to car. Up ahead the two ghouls plodded on with singular purpose, oblivious to their tail. Henrik was a hunter, and man with experience. He had made Sam long ago, almost as soon as they left the haven. He smiled; tonight's meal had come to him. Shadowing Sam [jameson] 9:20 pm: Dex 2 + Stealth (shadowing) 2(3) = 5 dice, just for giggles and drama jameson *rolls* 5d10: 6+4+2+1+3: 16 [jameson] 9:22 pm: Brad 5 dice jameson *rolls* 5d10: 6+5+1+7+3: 22 [jameson] 9:22 pm: Bonita 6 dice jameson *rolls* 6d10: 5+3+4+7+2+7: 28 [jameson] 9:23 pm: lulz [Jeremy] 9:23 pm: lol [jameson] 9:23 pm: Henrik 5 dice jameson *rolls* 5d10: 10+8+8+9+8: 43 jameson *rolls* 1d10: 2: 2 [Jeremy] 9:23 pm: ....your luck run out [jameson] 9:23 pm: ruh-roh [jameson] 9:24 pm: Sam's gonna need some help [Jeremy] 9:24 pm: hmm... [Owns-The-Night] 9:25 pm: The Yard Snake to the rescue!
  8. Okay, so this came up in chat today as a funny conversation, just one of those things that gets brought up. We were talking about Ferals and their generally aggressive instinctual reactions to being poked, prodded or pushed around, and I mentioned that thus far in Dalton, no-one's triggered Ravi off amongst the PCs. I'm not so much talking about berserk fury and the eating of the offending person as I am a snarl and a 'casual' swipe of claws, the equivalent of 'Fuck off.' or 'Know your place'. Carver suggested we open a book on the odds of who's likely to trigger that reaction first, so without further ado, here is the rundown. (Note, this is for fun, shits and giggles only.) 100-1 Outsider is Frida. Quiet and generally likes Ravi, and he likes her: unlikely to provoke an attack. 50-1 Mari. Though she's sweet and perfect, her own convictions and willingness to push for the best in people could have an unfortunate backlash from Ravi if he gets frustrated. 25-1 Ryan. He and Ravi are pals, and Ravi will take normal Ryan-banter in his stride and wait for the payback opportunity. Carver noted that Ryan would really have to step over the line to provoke that reaction. 25-1 Autumn. Based on interaction so far, Autumn has a certain level of patience and a head full of tales of the yee naaldalooshi. She really doesn't want to find out if they're true. 25-1 Sean. Without boobs. 20-1 Sean, with Ravi making a boob joke. 15-1 Seanette, with Ravi making a joke about his/her sweater puppies, transgenderism, or Amazon mating habits. Seanette seems to be a little over sensitive (and jiggly too). A smartass remark is likely to be met with a punch, which would escalate things. 10-1 Sylvia. Ms Dorn has bonded a little with Ravi as of 'Underwear', and has first-hand knowledge of what is considered a button for werepanthers. But she's still the den-mother, which means if she pushes, and depending how she pushes, there might be a snap and snarl. 5-1 Lucia. As has been amply demonstrated, Lucia doesn't like to back down from anything. Including big cats that can eat her ass whole. If she feels she has cause, she might well push Ravi into a flash of demonstrative anger. 3-1 Renata. Ascerbic rival for Mari's affections. Simply based on interactions so far and her manner of treating Ravi either hostilely or dismissively, Renata currently holds the title as 'Most Likely to be Mauled Offhandedly'. Especially if Mari isn't in the way. 2-1 (Special case) Sean again, if he/she sees Ravi pimp-clawing any of the girls. Sean(ette)'s chivalric instincts are well-documented, and it's likely (s)he'd get up in Ravi's face. Ray and Micah I am uncertain of, simply because there hasn't been enough interaction to establish the chemistry yet.
  9. June, 1992. Somewhere in Montana "He was always striving to attain it. The life that was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one way out, the way he was predestined to tread." He didn't like the truck. His uncle had explained that it was necessary. That the machine was no different in essence than a rifle or a stove. But Declan didn't like the truck. It smelled funny, made too much noise, and for a six year-old boy who hadn't even seen or heard of an automobile before his uncle had retrieved it from the old shed and spent yesterday repairing it, the contraption was terrifying. "Don't fret, boy." His uncle told him without real impatience as he glanced sideways to where the dark-haired boy was moodily kicking at the underside of the dash. "You got to get used to riding these things. They make life's journeys a little faster and easier." "Why can't we walk?" Declan didn't quite whine: his uncle was a kind enough man in a rough-hewn way, but didn't tolerate whining. The odd cuff around the back of the head had quickly cured the boy of that. But his question was definitely accusatory. "I don't care how far it is. I want to walk to Livvy. I can walk to any place." "It's Libby, Dec. And yeah, you're a good strong walker. And yeah, we would get there... by evening." His uncle grinned through a short dark beard streaked with grey, pale blue eyes twinkling. "All the shops would have shut, and you and me would be stuck in Libby for the night." He reached over and ruffled the child's hair, prompting a mutinous glower from his nephew's silver eyes. Bob Perault was a little taken aback. Damn, last time I saw anyone with that look, his dad kicked my ass. "Don't you look at me like that, boy." he said, forcing a growl into his voice. "You got to get a lot bigger and whole lot meaner before you can throw looks like that one around, goddamnit." The tone worked, and Declan dropped his gaze and mumbled an apology under his breath. Bob reached out and laid a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Is it that bad, Dec? Look outta the window, kiddo. Ever go this fast before?" His question roused the boy from his sulk, and Declan clambered up on the bench seat and watched the world go past, face pressed to the window as he forgot his gripe in the way children do. The rest of the trip was more harmonious. The kid was a quiet sort anyway. Apart from the occasional question about something he saw, he would just watch the landscape blur past. Bob privately wondered what he'd do on the day that he couldn't face down his nephew. It was coming, sure as snow in winter. Pulling the truck into a parking space outside the store, Bob got out. "You stay with the truck, Dec. It needs watching." Declan's disappointment at being left behind was softened by being given something important to do. He started to get out, but his uncle shook his head. "Stay inside the truck, Dec. Folks around here aren't always friendly. If anyone causes trouble honk the horn, okay?" The large man indicated the horn button, and Declan nodded. "It'll make a big noise, and I'll come running out." Declan nodded again, then watched his uncle walk into the general store. He spent some time watching the street, but Libby was a small town and there was not much to see. After a few minutes, however, a small knot of local children gathered to stare at the beat-up old truck and the pale-eyed boy staring out at them from inside it. Eventually, a group consensus achieved, they approached the truck behind a chubby ten year old wearing an orange t-shirt and faded jeans. "Hey!" The leader, a kid called Joe, said, looking up at the open window that Declan was currently staring out of. He knew how this was supposed to go: harass the new kid, see how they fitted into the pecking order. But this weird-eyed kid didn't answer, he just stared at Joe like some kind of creepy dummy. "Are you a retard or something?" Joe asked, not entirely unkindly. It wasn't nice to pick on retards, after all. "He looks like one." giggled Steve, one of Joe's friends. The strange kid just tilted his head to one side as if considering Steve, then answered in a soft voice. "What's a retard?" Joe blinked and glanced at his friends as though seeking some sort of advice, then looked back at Declan. "Wow. You must be real young to not know that." He said patronisingly. The weirdo frowned at that, looking defiant. "I'm six!" He said with some heat, falling for one of the oldest pieces of bait in the schoolyard fishing compendium. "Oooh! Siiiiix!" Steve giggled again. "Are you a big boy now?" The other kids laughed. Declan felt his teeth clench at that sound, shrill mockery and humor at his expense causing his hands to grip the window's edge harder. "I'm plenty big enough to do lots of things I bet you can't! I can track, and hunt, and one day my uncle will teach me to shoot!" Declan said with anger in his voice now at their continued laughter. "Which is more than you all can do. You stink so bad that you'd scare the game away!" "I don't stink!" Joe stepped up to the truck door, clenching pudgy fists as he looked up into Declan's silver eyes. "You come down here and say that to my face, or are ya chicken?" Declan was torn now; on the one hand, his uncle had told him to stay with the truck and honk the horn in case of trouble. On the other hand this fat boy, with his soft features and smelly breath, was calling him chicken. The inner conflict didn't last long. It couldn't. Something inside him whispered that a challenge had been made, and something in Declan's soul rose to it, teeth bared. He jumped out of the truck window with a little growl, landing on Joe's upturned face and sending them both crashing to the floor. The yelp of pained surprise from Joe stifled the noise of the other kids as Declan rolled and came to his feet in a crouch, not even concerned about the grazes and cuts on his arms and bare legs under the shorts. The older boy struggled to his feet less gracefully, touching one finger gingerly to a bloody lip. He looked at the blood and glared daggers at the unflinching boy crouched before him. "You're DEAD!" With that shrill battlecry ringing in the sleepy main street air, Joe rushed at the wiry kid with his arms outstretched. Growling under his breath, Declan swayed to one side before launching himself at Joe's ample midsection. They went down in a tangle, punching and grappling with each other. Size and experience was on Joe's side, however, and despite the wiry strength and ferocity of his opponent, the older boy gained the upper hand and was soon kneeling on Declan's chest. "Give in?" Joe was sweating and breathing hard from the effort of the fight. Declan's answer to the civilised question was as simple as it was primal. A fist-sized stone, held in a small hand, came up and smacked the larger boy on the side of the head. Crying out in pain, Joe rolled off Declan and tried to get back to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. The watching kids saw the strange boy roll to his feet in one smooth motion, a killing light in his silver eyes as he stalked towards the still-kneeling Joe, taking a firmer grip on his rock. He raised it high, teeth bared in a snarl... Only to have it snatched from him by a large hand. Growling, he whirled on the interloper, only to receive a cuff that sent him sprawling as Bob Perault tossed the rock to one side. "Stay down there, Dec." Though he didn't sound angry there was steel in his uncle's voice, and the boy heeded it and stayed put as Bob helped Joe to his feet and examined the lump on the boy's skull. "You're alright, kid. Get some ice on that and you'll be fine." He told the other kids to get Joe home, then turned and moved over to the prone Declan. Squatting down next to him, he reached out and ruffled the boy's hair. "Let's get you home, boy. You need some lessons on handling your temper in a fight so's you don't kill folks." Declan took the offered hand and was pulled to his feet. "You also need lessons on what "Stay in the truck" means, dammit all ta hell!" His uncle growled at him before walking away. Scuffing his shoes on the ground, Declan followed. Sure as snow in winter, Bob thought as he opened the truck door, a chill running down his spine as he remembered the look in Declan's eyes. I just hope it ain't the death of me.
  10. Sunday morning, 5:45 a.m. Frida’s mural was still on the wall, offering a haunting reminder to anyone who cared to see that something unusual was going on here. It was a well-done mural, at the least. That wasn’t why Isaac Rotterdown was in the room examining it. His interest was in the supernatural. He’d heard the stories about the painting and had come to see for himself. He’d meant to wait until later today to see it, but he couldn’t sleep. Figuring that he’d take a walk, he decided to swing by the building. To his surprise, it was unlocked and he took advantage of the lapse in security. Slipping into the room, he left off the lights and used his small LED light on the keychain to illuminate the mural in six-inch circles. More than once, he thought about turning on the light but knew that would draw security. Instead, he forced patience and hoped his light would be sufficient. The mural was everything he’d been told it was, and Isaac didn’t have a clue about what half of it meant. There was a whisper of sound behind him; the man turned to see a man with gray skin and wrong eyes – white pupils and irises, black sclera – standing there. He was lean but gave off an aura of power that went beyond the physical. He wore finely-made clothing straight from a Ren-Faire. “This is most unfortunate,” he said, tilting his head. “I believe the current Daltonites say ‘awkward’?” “Uh,” Isaac said, not sure if he was going to demand that to know what he was doing here or compliment him on the outstanding makeup and contacts. Then something touched the crown of his head and the urge to sleep was overwhelming. He dropped into slumber as a female voice spoke softly: “He’s one of them, too. This is-” He had some very odd dreams. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-Brihn and Brahn were both waiting for the students and teacher to arrive the next morning. The two looked different today; perhaps they were merely tired. Being early was certainly a contrast to their usual habits of lurking in a dark shadow and then stepping out to scare the crap out of everyone, or at least out of Ryan. One of the students, Isaac Rotterdown, lay sprawled on one of the tables. “We were not sure what to do with him,” Brihn said apologetically. “He had already seen me,” Brahn said, his mouth twitching. Click to reveal.. You arrive in order of posting, please – no posting and saying “But I’m the last there.” If you want to be first-first or last, please say so in the OOC thread and we’ll work it out. The special guest stars will be along soon. Oh, and say hi to Collider! He’ll be joining us.
  11. December 22, 2011 August was not in a good mood. Despite the festive nature around her, she had no desire to participate. She was alone in this mood; the other film TAs were excited to be shutting down for the semester. All their cheer made her feel even sorrier for herself. This wasn’t entirely unusual for her; she usually dreaded the upcoming mandatory family-time. Thanksgiving was bad enough but Georgie would be home for Christmas. It was always harder seeing her black-haired, green-eyed cousin. Georgie was the same age as August, and they could pass for sisters. It was like seeing what should have been. And there was Declan. Two days ago, he’d dropped her off at her house after their workout, chipper and eager for his trip into the mountains. August doubted he’d even noticed that she’d been brooding and silent, already missing him. He’d given her an odd look when she’d hugged him, but said nothing as he climbed in his truck and headed northeast. Sighing in disgust, August tried not to think about the handsome, brooding werewolf anymore. Sadly, he was like the elephant in the room, albeit much sexier: the harder she tried not to think about him, the more she found herself daydreaming. She missed him a lot, there was no doubt, and she’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was the missing being an actual ache in her heart. The depth of her unexpected emotions were scaring the crap out of her. Do not fall in love with him! she ordered her mind, pretty sure she wasn’t there. Yet. And it could also be somewhat innocent: she could love him non-romantically. August was sure that was possible, assuming they could ever get past all the lust that tangled up her head. So in truth, all she really knew was that she was definitely very fond of him, enough that his absence was noticeable. Her phone rang and she checked, a wild hope that it was him calling to ask for a tow or saying something had come up and he was coming back. It wasn’t him; it was Aunt Molly. “And so it begins,” she muttered before thumbing the call to active. “Hey,” she said with more warmth than she was feeling. “What’s up?” “I just wanted to know when you were coming over, honey.” Aunt Molly’s voice was slightly too high pitched for a woman of her age, making her sound like a teen when she was over fifty. “Mom is already here, and Tracy and her brood are due at six.” August glanced at the clock; it was just after three. Less than three hours to hell. “Uh… between five and six.” She heard the disappointment without Molly saying a word and added, “I have work at the lab that I have to finish first.” “Sure sweetie,” Aunt Molly said and had August not known the woman, she’d have never heard her unhappiness. “Just be sure you bring a side dish, ok?” She’d planned to make roasted veggies but now remembered she hadn’t bought any of the groceries. Fuck! I am the worst niece ever. “I will,” August promised, resolving to get something on her way over. A nice veggie tray from the store should be sufficient.
  12. August 27, 2011 Enough was enough. August was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She had been assessing her life for the last few weeks, and she’d come to one inescapable conclusion: she couldn’t take care of herself. She’d always thought of herself as a survivor. She had survived things that would make others crumble. But honestly, instead of surviving stuff, why didn’t she try to stop it? It was a new concept for her. But it had a certain allure to it. Of course, the question was how. August was pretty sure that she didn’t want to learn this the hard way, by picking fights until she was proficient enough to win them. And learning cost lessons. She’d had free self-defense classes provided by the UCLA cops, but having done that once didn’t infer the ability to kick ass. No, she needed something more, especially since the weirdness that was her life wasn’t slowing down. So where could she get some tips on self defense that wouldn’t actually cost any money? August thought about it for a moment, then rolled over onto her stomach. Her fingers dug into her purse, fishing out her phone. Once she had recovered it from the purse-ian depths, she selected a number and hit talk. “Hey, Dec,” she said in greeting at the hello. “Whatcha doin’ tonight?” Her voice was hopeful, but also a bit shy. She didn’t know if he’d be interested in this; the only way to know was to ask, and she didn’t really what his reaction would be. The uncertainty left her feeling a bit vulnerable and it was clear in her tone.
  13. [september 19th, 2011] "I don't believe it." "I told you. Didn't I tell you? The guy's a fucking animal. Eighty minutes on the heavy bag and he ain't slowed down. And he isn't love-tapping it neither, look at the momentum he's putting on it." "No gloves." said a third voice heavy with grudging admiration. "Not even wraps." "Fast, heavy hands." a woman said in a soft Gaelic brogue, as though evaluating a car. "Balanced mass, too. Look how he dips his right shoulder and raises his left to bring it down into the cross. That's old-school barroom bareknuckle. Whoever taught him to fight didn't do it with gloves on. What did you say he was called, Kieran?" The woman speaking had dark blonde hair and a beach-tan. Currently in a halter-top and shorts, her arms, legs and exposed midriff were all taut with hard muscle. She stood against a far wall, idly talking with her three friends, all of whom bore the same logo on their t-shirts as she did on her halter-top: a green neon hawk's head, beak open in a silent scream, with 'Raptor MMAS' written around the central design. "Perault. First name's Declan, I asked around. Most call him 'Crazy Perault', but not when he can hear 'em. Word is that he's some vet got sectioned out two years back and he's been here ever since, and the guy's like the proverbial fucking honey badger - he just don't care. Rumor has it a dealer pulled a gun on ol' Perault there one month after the V.A. released him, and the man just took the gun off the druggie and beat the everloving shit out of him. Put him in hospital, and a bunch of his pals when they came round a week later looking for payback." The current speaker was the youngest of the four, a freshman at UCLA and obviously the junior of the group. He looked at the woman eagerly. "What do you think, Mary? Was I right, or was I right? This guy's got 'bank' written all over him." "Big deal." said the third speaker, a towering, bulky man with a crooked nose, scars and a bunch of biker tattoos. "So he beat up some crackheads. That shit's different from being in a cage with a real fighter. He's got potential, though." he added as though grudging the words. "Yeah? Well pretty much every Chuck Norris joke told around UCLA has Crazy Perault's name swapped in." Kieran said defensively. "He's a scary son of a bitch. Caused a jock to piss himself with a look. Didn't lay a finger on him, and the tough-guy just folded. So if you think he's no big deal, why don't you go up there and tell him, Rack? I double-dog dare your ass." "I reckon I will, then." Rack said, straightening away from the wall with a smirk. An outstretched hand stopped him as it slapped against his chest, and the big man looked down at Mary. The woman had a speculative look in her eye as she watched the burly, dark-haired figure, sweat soaking his hair to his head, continue to pound on the body bag. "Uh oh. I know that look." said the first speaker, who'd remained quiet till now, in an amused tone. Mary flicked a glance his way and shrugged, her lips curling in a smile as she looked back Perault's way. The man who'd spoken looked at Rack. "Looks like Mad Mary's got her sights locked in." The others chuckled. "Hush, you blatherin' girls." Mary said irritably as she unloaded a short jab into the ribs of the one that'd called her Mad Mary. He 'oofed' and moved away, rubbing at his bruised ribcage. "And I told ye what would happen if you kept on with the 'Mad' monicker, now didn't I?" "Now waitaminute." Rack said, scowling. "You ain't allowed to sleep with a member of the team, Mary. We all discussed that shit. It causes nothin' but ill feeling." "Relax, Rack." Mary reached up and patted his cheek, smiling with a mischievous twinkle in her light brown eyes. "I'm just going to feel him out. And besides..." she added as she started to move away from the others, winking over her shoulder. "He's not a member of the team yet."
  14. {December 9th, 2011} They gathered in the old dorm common area and they waited. Every thirty seconds (or so it seemed), Monica called someone at site administration to see if the grades were posted. Abigail had returned to the Study Group a few sessions ago. Seems she caught her line backer boyfriend getting too friendly ... with another guy. It wasn't the homosexuality that bothered her. It was the fact that she had been used as window dressing for his lie. Relationships are founded on truths, but it's the lies that hold them together. Boyfriend lied at the foundation part. Mikio was a nervous wreck. She had the highest GPA of the lot of us, but she was driven to not just succeed, but to come out on top. Randy was ambivalent about her discomfort, but she had carried the rest of them through to Finals. Shadow looked at her. "You'll do fine. You always do." Mikio stared at Shadow, half way between rage and tears. "Mikio, Chandler and Kong have nothing on you. You skunked them on the practice exam, and that's with Kong cheating," Randy interjected. Kong was half-Chinese and half the people in his house spoke it. He had barely failed being automatically credited with this class on the entrance exam. Chandler was a different monkey. He was just freaking brilliant. This assholes goal had nothing to do with Mikio. He planned to have the best GPA in UCLA's history. Mikio's competition didn't even register with him. Randy's comment seemed to mollify her somewhat. Shadow gave him a look and a shrug of the shoulders. "Man, I think I screwed up," said Laura, who was dealing with the stress by being face down in her laptop. "I totally lost in doing verb tense and my essay was a mess." "Well," said Randy, "let's go over your answers. We can see what went wrong." Laura looked up and glared at him. "I already did." "Let's do it again." Randy pulled out his tablet and began going over the words he had on the test. Laura didn't come on board until the third word, but after that, she was on a roll. When finished, he had Abigail, Laura, and Shadow distracted enough that Mikio's pressure level was allowed to fall as well. Monica was still hopeless. Finally her call came through. Monica immediately downloaded the image of the message board to the group. Everyone began scrolling down the page, looking for their grades. Monica and Mikio found theirs the fastest. Mikio began jumping up and down in the air. "I did it!" she screamed, "I did it! I did it!" Monica's response was a bit different. She fell back into one of the overstuffed chairs and let out a burst of breath. Randy looked over to her. "How well did you do, M?" he asked. Hyper-Bunny looked over at him, first confused as if she didn't know him and then with a wicked grin. "I passed it!" she squealed. She jumped up and did her best Mikio-Just-Aced-the-Exam impersonation. A little late, Randy saw her leaping at him. She landed in his lap and began kissing him - with tongue. With an internal sigh, the Magus went along with it. He could feel Shadow seething at them both. Then Monica began dancing in his lap, butt wiggling all around and breasts in his face.
  15. Paul Krintzki was dead. It was neither surprising, or alarming. Paul had not been a popular guy. He had been a low-down, swindling, dirty, lying scumbag of a human being. He was the kind of Private Investigator that gave the entire profession a bad name. He had been to engrossed in a baseball game going into extra innings to attend his own Son's funeral. He got paid in cash so he didn't have to pay his wife alimony (or taxes). It was widely suspected that he had a hand in the death of two of his 'clients' who he blackmailed until they committed suicide. What was surprising was how much care and brutality had led up to his death. There were pieces of him found a half mile from the main crime scene. His gun was missing, but the police determined that he had fired it. They had to test his palm and sleeve because they couldn't find (initially) any of the fingers on his right hand. The scariest part of all, though, was that Paul hadn't died of any of his numerous wounds. Paul had died of fright. He had a massive coronary, brought on by decades of chili dogs, greasy fries, booze, and bad coffee. What had finally kicked him over the cliff though was the terror that had him running the last mile of his life. Someone joked that they didn't know he could run that fast. The response was that no one knew he could run at all. Yes, he was unloved. The two detectives who drew the case groaned over the graveside humor. They groaned inwardly as well. Paul had way too many enemies. He was an easy guy to hate. That made the list of possible suspects in the hundreds. Their key limiting factor was that whomever had run Paul to death was that they ... hell, there were no limiting factors. The attacker, or attackers, could have had a gun. It was likely that they probably had an instrument of terror - maybe a blowtorch the guessed. When the beat cops finally found what seemed to be the crime scene, the detectives moved in to investigate. The site was a loft apartment that was unoccupied, though it looked like more than one person had inhabited the place. It was cramped quarters. There was Krintzki's gun, empty. They found the seven bullet holes brought about by Paul most likely emptying his gun - a seven round clip without one up the barrel. No doubt Krintzki feared blowing off his dick. What he had shot at, they didn't know. CSI was looking over the site, but suspected that none of the bullets had passed through a living body. The cops had to think about that one. Seven shots at someone who couldn't have been more than twenty feet away. Was he really that bad a shot? Had he been drunk? What the hell had he been shooting at? One thing was for sure, the shots had been clustered by the mattress near the window. It look like two people had lived, or still lived, there. Had they been involved. Well, hopefully some DNA evidence, or fingerprints, would give them a suspect. Until then, they might as well take a look at the bastard's office and see who he had been working for.
  16. Randy waited at the airport nervously. It was a sensation he thought had faded from his life. It was fear. He wasn't afraid of his visitor, but of the memories she would bring back. He would see her, his Sister, in her face. He would remember his last words to her. He would remember the emptiness he had felt at her graveside. They were phantoms he had buried for ten years. In a way he hoped they would stay buried forever, despite the cost. Then he saw her coming through security. She looked like her. She was his half-sister, but she bore a very close resemblance to his dead Sister. Maybe that was because his father had married a woman that was the closest replacement to the wife he'd lost. She saw him and waved. 'Too late to run now,' he thought. He didn't know what to do. How did he break the ice? She pre-empted him. She ran up and swung her arms around his neck and pulled him close. She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him tight. "I know you would look like this," she whispered to him. Randy stroked her hair, "You're a lot different than I remember you, Autumn. You're not a kid anymore." Autumn stepped back and gave him a play-slug in the upper arm. "Well, yeah. Ten years will do that to a girl." She stared up at him and a tear began forming in her eye. "Come on," Randy said calmly. "Let's get your bags. I have a car. Are you sure your stuff will arrive in the mail?" "Don't you trust the government agencies to do the right thing?" Randy stared at his sister with mock shock. "Having been in the government's pay, I can attest to the fact that there is nothing the government can't screw up," he said. Autumn grinned, her eyes still watery. "I'll take your word for it." "So, how many bags are we getting?" "Three," she grinned. "Big ones." "Great. Did you pack for deployment." "Kind of, yes. I'm not going back under my own power, that's for sure." "We probably will end up broke and on the street you realize." "Gar, it so beats the alternative. It really does." Autumn wrapped her arm in his and they walked toward carousal.
  17. Learning the Magical Arts are like building a building. The Major Arcana are the four walls. Your Ruling Major Arcana is the foundation. As you build upon the Ruling Arcana, your house grows. You want to do this unless you prize the idea of using your wardrobe as your water closet. Build up the walls and your house gains extra stories. What of your roof, you ask? Your roof is your Ruling Minor Arcana. Without it, you don't have a house, but a box that collects whatever blows its way. The greater your understanding of this arcana, the more room you will have in your house to move around. The other minor arcana are the doors (you need two unless bunker life appeals to you), a chimney, and a window. The window is your Inferior Arcana. You can have a house without it, if you so choose. Rotes are the mortar and patch that holds things together and plugs the holes. You can build a house without them, but it isn't strong. The higher the walls, the deeper the foundation, and the greater the dimension, the more those holes are felt. You can't fill in the structure you don't have, but you are wasting a house you can't utilize. -excerpts from Mystical Arts for the Magically Challenged Edison set down the book and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The process was three-fold. First he had to figure out what Rotes he needed to learn, then he needed to prove he could learn them, and finally, he had to actually request/earn them. The problem was that if the search was too broad it was totally useless. If it was too narrow, why didn't you already know the rote? Randy's focus thought was easier than impossible. He needed to know about the Shadow World and its denizens. For that, he had to research the non-arcane tomes for insights into Death Magic. Arcane tomes were not allowed, as they might actually teach him the God-damned things he actually needed to know. In the abstract, Randy understood that he had to have the fundamentals around which the rotes were created. That didn't help his current headache though. What would help that would be a break in the logjam his mind found itself in. What he needed was a break. The tired Magus rubbed his eyes then closed the book that currently was failing to answer his questions. He needed a drink. He even considered going to a crime scene, or the morgue to gather some real world insight the written word was failing to provide. In his experience, you learned from books and lectures, but you understood by taking things into the field. Strangely, it was this belief that drove him into the Mysterium. He loved learning. He loved pushing his mind until his mind felt like it would explode. Even more than that, he loved taking knowledge and putting it to the test. You tossed out what failed the reality test, and passed the real knowledge to anyone who wanted to learn. Life was too short to let other poor, dumb bastards make the exact same mistakes you've made, or so he thought.
  18. Inits are due by November 3rd. Those who don't reply are sleeping through the fight, with all the ridicule inherent to the situation. Renata - 17 Yithaja - 16 Swan - 16 Sylvia - 14 Ahvia - 12 Sean - 10 Lucia/Ryan - 9 Ray - 8 Monster - 8
  19. The Mysterium was founded on a dichotomy. Its purpose was to find, gather, and hoard knowledge. It was also supposed to trade that knowledge for power and prestige. A secret isn't a secret if you share it. Knowledge isn't power if it is kept under a bushel. Randy Edison had come to the Mysterium to gain knowledge and all he had to trade was his time and brain. That translated over to studying and updating all kinds of old tomes and journals into the Mysterium databases. "Maeror," said his contact within the Order using his Shadow Name, "here is a text you may find interesting." He lay down a leather-bound book onto Randy's desk. It was reddish brown in color, bordered in lead, and a five starred symbol in what might have been bone. Randy rubbed his hands along its surface. "Is this a tome of Rotes?" he asked the Archivist. He was rewarded with a look reserved for favored idiot children. "No," he said curtly. "We reserved the transcription of magical tomes for those of ... superior standing. Nice try though. A correct amount of hunger is to be cultivated." With that, the senior Magus left Randy and returned to his own stockpile of backlogged material. Randy was left to ponder the book, and ponder it he did for about two seconds. The cover of a book were nice, but unless it gave a clue to what lay within, it was about as useful as your wife telling you she wasn't a virgin on your wedding night. The book didn't make much of a creaking sound as he opened it. That pointed to a book of modern design. Randy had already learned that older books had a cracking sound that leather treated in more modern time didn't have. The advantages of a more modern tome was twofold. First, you rarely had to worry about it falling apart in your hands and thus getting your ass chewed out. Second, it might just have an actual relevance. Learning that one Mage sent love letters to a Mage who didn't return his affections didn't matter too much if they were both dead. The book's first page clarified things immediately. It was the journal of a Moros Mage named Cyrus Macmillan. The second page indicated that the journal was one of a set, as this one was up and running May of 1974. Randy was thankful that it didn't read like a diary. It was a note book detailing things he had encountered and actions he had taken to deal with them. It described rotes and their effects, though not the fundamentals of the rotes themselves. Randy gave a slight sigh. This was going to be another long trudge, with the only benefit being that he could take his work home with him. The Mysterium's primary concern was the data within, with the books being a close second. Randy waved to the Archivist as he left, Journal in his backpack. The man waved a stylus at the Moros as he walked to the door. "I'm taking the Journal with me for the weekend." That earned him another wave. Randy had every reason to believe that the Magus made a personal and detailed note of the books exit too. The guy was the Archivist because he knew where things were, not where they might be. If the book didn't come back, it would be paid for in Randy's hide. Randy had been a private in the Marines. He could stomach being the bottom man again. He would rise above it soon enough.
  20. From the Journal of Icarus.. Knowledge is Power, so I have chosen to record a measure of understanding of the mysteries, their practices and the power found within them here, for my own edification and that of others, perhaps in time, this primer might be useful to other awakened, there is much I wish to know, and to understand, but if nothing else, it is useful to me to record my thoughts. I am by nature, a teacher and student, I see almost everything though that particular lens of focus, all beings are students of reality, but the awakened know reality is more then what it seems. So, I begin my studies in the mysteries, I will cover each of the various arcana first, though I have yet to fully begin to understand all of them, within each is the hints of enlightenment, I have begun asking the various masters available from my order to better understand the secrets hidden within. We begin with a basic study of magic itself, manipulating the essence of the universe, we call this spell casting and it can be found within the 13 practices within the 10 arcana. There may be more beyond that, but that is the realm of archmastery, and the Archmasters are good at keeping their secrets, until the day I stand among that dizzying height, I suppose that level of understanding shall have to wait. The first step of magic, is understanding mana, the measure of your mana depends on the strength of your mystical will sometimes called gnosis, it's in essence, the strength of your connection to the supernal and your path's watchtower, this is your ability to work with magic, but mana is the essence of magic itself, in the raw, the things that one of the awakened can do with enough mana is in essence, miraculous, but that is in essence part of what magic is, the ability to do things that would otherwise be impossible..mana is the fuel which fires our magic, it can be found in many places, not the least, within the mage himself, but generally we draw mana from hollows, or with use of the sphere of Prime.. something I'm actually very good at. Mana has many uses, one can even use it to quickly heal wounds, even without knowledge of the life arcana, but the most important and common uses of mana for the awakened is in the essence of spellcasting, sense it must be used to cast improved spells outside of the ruling arcana of one's path, to work magic at great distances, to increase the force of damaging spells, and certain aspects of spellcasting take more energy, or mana then others.
  21. Concept: A seeking of mysteries and magic, of deeper enlightenment and understanding of the essence and nature of magic, a professor of history, literature and mythology. Personality & Beliefs: Thomas is perhaps, one of the most intelligent minds of his generation, perhaps not the absolute most intelligent, but very nearly so, and he has a good measure of pride in that fact. He is also one of the most calm and self-controlled individuals, and his resolve has been increased by his awakening to being above the norm, but he lacks somewhat in charm and charisma due to being so cerebral, but makes up for it with considerable empathy and persuasive capability, and even now often attempts to find ways to get folks to work together when they are unwilling. He believes strongly that everything in the universe has a place and a purpose, that there is a powerful divine will behind everything, and his experience with awakening has only strengthened this believe, though he now believes he sees the building blocks, the essence of the divine will, in the arcana, that within the essence of the arcana is the very mind of god. History Thomas was born approximately 28 years ago, in the city of LA, and he grew up in a fairly normal home, his parents were both teachers, at the elementary school level, and he learned to love knowledge while growing up in that house. As a child he learned quickly, and was well behaved, and he was their first child, but the arrival of a sister, and later another brother changed his life in some interesting ways. His childhood was fairly normal, though his intelligence and such actually had him skipping a grade or two, and by the time he was 12 he was actually a sophomore in high school, by the time he was 15, he had enrolled in collage and begun to study literature as his major. It was about at this time, the disappearance of his sister and brother was to change his life significantly, though they tried to find her, they couldn’t, and after a time they were sure she was dead. It broke his parent’s heart, and within the next few years his family dissolved, but even so, he managed to complete his major and begin studying for his doctorate by the time he was 18.. Continuing to aggressively focus on his studies, he kept coming back to his sibling’s disappearance, and began to study the nature of occult and science to see if there wasn’t anything more he could find out, with a steady and direct manner that was actually to serve him well in the years to come.. It was when he was 25 when he managed to confirm one thing in his own mind, if not find actual proof, the world was filled with dark supernatural creatures, and that meant he’d only found the tip of the iceberg, and Thomas slow and direct investigation at last, he found his way to the watchtowers.. It was while at a anthropological during heavy rains when he saw something outside in the lightning from his tent, and curiosity, and need to know compelled him to investigate.. Heavy winds and storms blew in his face, and he felt as though he was fighting against the world itself, but he found his way to a golden tower, and going inside, was almost compelled to write his name on the pages of the golden book he found there… when he woke, he had awakened and found that he was drenched and in an old building that they had uncovered in the dig, one with nothing all that remarkable about it, except it overlooked the rest of the dig. [This was a little more then year ago] A thirst for knowledge and understanding of the mysteries lead him to the mysterium, and he began to take the first step in the deeper mysteries of his order in this last year, and he has spent a measure of resources on building a private sanctum near a personal hallow he found, that has allowed him a place to carry out some of his more private researches and begin building his knowledge base. He also took the first steps onto the legacy, The Eyes of Ain Soph, the seekers, seeking to know more of the nature of magic itself Today, Thomas has entered the LA university as a teacher of Anthropology, Literature and History, though he’s only begun teaching there this year. Goals: Among Thomas’ many goals in life are the following - Find/Join/Start a Cable of Mages in his area, Oppose the Sears and Banishers, Deepen his understanding of the Mysteries (deeper status with the Mysterium & Mystery Initiation), Build an Athenaeum, Master the Prime Arcana (before others), Further his steps along the Seeker’s path (Expand Legacy), Find out what really happened to his Brother and Sister (he's certain it was something supernatural, he's simply unsure what) Capabilities: Thomas has degrees of anthropology and mythology, not to mention history and literature, he's also a capable scientist, and as a student of human nature, he knows the basis of persuasion and empathy, and due in part to the years spending time on different digs in many parts of the world knows a bit about survival. On the arcane front, however, his first steps along the path's of his legacy have allowed him to gain the ability to see and interpret magical phenomenon without much trouble, and look across the gauntlet into the spirit world.. as natural capabilities. His considerable ability with the prime sphere allows him considerable control over what sort of magic he allows to affect him, and should he need to, one of his more powerful rotes even allows him some offensive capability when necessary. He often has the rotes of magic shield and aura perception up, with the vision his legacy attainment gives him, and sometimes includes second sight when dealing with spirit beings.
  22. She sat above him, nearly spent. Her elbows were locked so that her arms could keep her elevated above him, bodies joined only at the hips. He lay beneath her, breathing slow and regularly. His eyes fluttered, his lashes thick and long. She had once mistaken this for sleeping. He wasn't. Randy was lost in his thoughts. He was always this way after sex. He went off to this other place he would never talk about. Shadow looked down at him and wondered. Balancing her weight on one arm, she slid the other one under the pillow. He stirred slightly so she stopped. When he returned to his musing, her hand crept forward again. She could feel the cold steel and rubber of the handle as she eased her fingers and palm around it. She had the knife. It was now or never. The pillow tipped, covering half of his face as she brought it up. Her balancing arm rose up from the mattress, her weight falling fully onto her back muscles. First the move rocked her back. She now held the knife in both hands. The blade rocketed forward and down. Randy moved now, his arms, laying outside her legs swung up, but too late. She drove the knife into his chest. Blood sprayed everywhere. Some shot into her mouth as she realized she was screaming. She yanked the knife up. It caught on a rib. Randy's hands closed in on her wrists, but already the strength was rushing from them. Shadow brought the knife down again. Again she found the heart. There was less of a spray now. She left the blade in. There was another spasm of the fatally wounded organ. The next barely pushed blood up from the wound. There was no third. There was a lot of blood already out though. She was covered in it, from the top of her head to her crotch. It felt warm initially, but as the room cooled it, the blood became sticky. Shadow got off of him. His eyes had not opened during the attack. Now they never would. That was too bad, she wanted him to see his death coming. She staggered into the bathroom. Her whole body shook from exhaustion. The combination of love-making and murder had been a high all its own, but now she was crashing. She knew she had to get out. Shadow turned on the shower and got in. She cleaned up quickly, because she wasn't sure who had heard her screaming as she had done the deed. In some nebulous way though, it didn't matter. He was finally dead.
  23. 10/03/2011 FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Hey, I'm looking for someone. GREdi@UCLA.net - Good for you. I'm not. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - I'm looking for someone who was in the service. GREdi@UCLA.net - There's a bit of that going around. Try a bar. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Haha. He's an ex-marine. GREdi@UCLA.net - Two things. It is Marine with a capital M. Second, there is no such thing as an ex-Marine. Semper-Fi. Now get lost. I've got work to do. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - You a marine? GREdi@UCLA.net - :mean: FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Sorry, Marine. GREdi@UCLA.net - Yes. I was in the Corp. So are a lot of guys. Whatever you are selling, I'm not interested. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - My brother was in the Corp. He served for a long time. His name was Garfield. GREdi@UCLA.net - WTF? GREdi@UCLA.net - Scratch that. Go away. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Did you serve with him? I want to know if he's okay. GREdi@UCLA.net - What makes you think he's here? FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - on campus? I hacked my Father's computer. GREdi@UCLA.net - OFM! Autumn? FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Gar? It is you, isn't it? What happened? I mean, when you left service and all, I sorta kinda thought you would ... show up. GREdi@UCLA.net - I never forgot about you kiddo. It's complicated. I'm working myself into a position that I can get you. I haven't forgotten my promise. Never will. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - I believe you. GREdi@UCLA.net - Thanks. That means a lot. So, how have you been? I guess you are in Harvard now. The Old Man must be proud. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net- beyond me having the whole boob thing and nothing dangling between my legs -yes, he's happy. GREdi@UCLA.net - How bad has it been? FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Mostly he ignores me. He's kept up with you though. He's had people spying on you. He's keeping track of 'His Boy'. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - you still there? GREdi@UCLA.net - Angry at the Bastard is all. I don't want anything from him. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - He's dying. I'm pretty sure of it. GREdi@UCLA.net - Not soon enough by ten years, Sis. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - I won't defend him, but he is our Father. Don't you feel anything? GREdi@UCLA.net - Not really. He damn near broke me. He was half responsible for April's death. I hate the SOB. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Half? GREdi@UCLA.net - It should have been me in that car. If I had been, April would still be alive. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Bro, let it go. Please. GREdi@UCLA.net - Listen, I have to go. I'll drop you a line later. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Okay. Contact me later? Remember the time differential. GREdi@UCLA.net - I'll contact you. It's a promise. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - Night Gar. GREdi@UCLA.net - Night Sis. No one calls me Gar. I'm Randy. FellAutumn @HvrdU.net - I know Gar. Night.
  24. "What's on the agenda tonight boss?" Adrian looked over to Jordan. She was actually using the Nordic he'd gotten her, giving her more staying power than the average bear, or average Bel Air wife for that matter. "I need to pay homage to my boss tonight. Every month or so we get together and hash the shit, see what needs to get done, or who needs to take care of something. The usual mobbed-up stuff," he responded. "Well, watch your back, okay?" He nodded to her. Personally, he owed no more favors and even had a tiny bit of cred right now, but he understood that all of that could change at a moment's notice. Being on top of the situation had its advantages, but it also meant no one had a vested interest in seeing him remain in existence. "I'll keep three eyes open, Jordan. I promise." Two eyes forward and one in the back of the head. That had become one of their inside jokes. "Should I stay up?" her voice tinged with hope. It would have been easy to say 'No'. It would be just as likely for her to ignore him. Adrian compromised. "How about you stay up until two? I should be back by then, but if I'm not, I'm likely to be coming in real late." Jordan gave a playful shrug of the shoulders, "Wheel in the Sky." Adrian nodded. "Understood." He walked to the door, hand outstretched behind him. Though he couldn't see it, he could hear the keys jangle as Jordan set herself up and took her shot. He felt out the passage of the keys through the air, and with only minimal effort, caught them in his hand. It was a portion of their parting ritual that he really liked. He walked out the door and took a look at the cars. It looked like a Jaguar night. "Night Adrian. Wake the Dead." "Night Jordan. Lock the door." She stood in the doorway watching Adrian walk to the Jag. She always waited for him to pull out of the drive before shutting the door. Already, the glass storm door separated them, but every time she felt that desire to run to him and hide somewhere in his care - to not let him too far out of her sight. In a way she knew it was silly. Jordan knew what had happened to his previous servitor, Gwen. She knew that he was keeping her away from others of his kind for that very reason. Still ... as the engine noise faded into the night, she shut and locked the door.
  25. "The test is simple, but hard, Slave Adrian." Adrian was chained in the basement. His hands were chained to opposite corners so that he had enough movement to touch his mouth, but barely. His feet had much less room. It was impossible for him to bring his ankles together. He wore a nice white dress shirt, nice slacks, and little else. His bare feet felt cold against the concrete floor. Virginia stood some distance away to one side. His Master, Thomas, Initiate of the Void, was talking to him. "You will be drained of all your blood. When I am satisfied that you are dry, you will be given only enough blood to fight off the frenzy. You will not frenzy. If you do frenzy, you have failed the test and can't try again for a half-year. If you succeed, you will be released and monitored. You will only feed once a night, every other night, of the next six nights. Your victims must be capable of leaving you under their own power. If you resist the frenzy for the entire week, you will have passed and I will confirm you as Supplicant of Hunger. Adrian had already faced the Chrysalis, but only barely survived it. It was the ultimate transformation of the vampiric form. That wasn't the important test for him right now. Now was the 'draining all the blood' part, and that was his first concern. "Master, how will I be drained?" "I will administer ten cuts across your body. You will heal each cut. Any other questions?" Adrian shook his head in the negative. He was too afraid to ask any serious questions anyway. Thomas stepped forward and opened Adrian's shirt. The knife was presented before Adrian's eyes with a flourish. The Master looked into the Slave's eyes. He slashed down with an economy of motion. Adrian winced. Thomas waited for a moment then Adrian remembered his part of the ritual. The wound healed. Nine more times the blade came down, digging into his flesh and causing him to flinch in pain. At the time of the fifth wound, he began feeling the hunger building up in him. On the sixth, the Beast was at the gates. On the seventh, it rattled the cage and stretched the gate, but the lock held. The Eighth wound began the real struggle. Adrian hadn't felt this way since his First Night, when the Beast had raged out of control. It was another fear layered upon the fears of pain and failure. The Ninth wound's healing brought a growl to his lips and a clawing in his guts. The Tenth was almost anti-climatic. There was a dusty emptiness inside him. It was something he had not felt before. It was the sensation of a truly dead body. He could hear voices around him, but they were unclear. The Beast stalked instead of raged. The cage was not of flesh, but solely of will now.
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