The First Age

Jax was the youngest kid in a modern, "mixed" Muscovite family. He had seven siblings. The oldest of which was the only full-blooded relative. The rest were the result of his mother's and father's various re-marriages, one adoption (a sister named Zoey), and one "accident" (the accident being him). It varies depending on who tells the story, but the deep roots of familiar passions between his parents warped sensibility long enough for one last romp together, and nine months later came into this world bouncing baby Jaxen.

Suffice to say, life in the Marveet estate was cramped. One would think twelve bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, two pools, and a twenty-car garage would be enough square footage. Think again. Jax was constantly out "getting fresh air" throughout his youth. To which he frequently rolled his eyes when it was pointed out that nightclubs were hardly refreshing. What can a guy say? One man's fog-lamps is another man's sunrise. Eventually, Jax gave up arguing, shrugged indifferently and went back to doing what he always did. Which was pretty much anything he wanted.

He was threatened with military school at sixteen. As appealing as life as a CCD henchman sounded, Jax talked his way into boarding school instead. Hardly the way he'd have things turned out, but still. Seriously. Mumbai? Stuck in the jungle? Monkeys? Shy women? But, there were worse places than the capital of DIII--he was almost stuck in London.

Like some of the other CCD capitals, Mumbai was a marvel for tourists. And where there were crowds, pickpockets circled like vultures. Eventually, everyone was a target for a pickpocket, Jaxen included. Though he was more annoyed with replacing the identity cards in his wallet than losing anything else--his bank accounts were too well encrypted to really clean them out. But the first time he actually saw a swift hand glide smoothly in and out of a jacket pocket, well, he blinked in awe. The bulbous old man who was robbed had no idea he'd been ripped off. After that, Jax started to pay more attention. Over the next few weeks he determined there were really three main ways to rob a man. The first was the most obvious. Stroll up somewhere isolated, threaten with a weapon, and demand valuables. Boring. Any crackhead can pull that off. The second way involved a team working together on some con. They distract and disorient the target, and the would-be good samaritans are in and out of a bag, purse, or pocket like nothing happened. Which took way too much coordination. And was also boring.

The most challenging was by far the famous sleight-of-hand. Practicing the art wasn't so hard: deceit, misdirection, distraction. Whatever. The real difficulty was working up the guts to do it for the first time. His whole life, society said stealing was wrong. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn't. Who can say? But mankind is strange, after all. Stick two guys in an elevator and they'll stand as far apart as possible. Shove ten guys in an elevator, and nobody pays attention to anything. Bump shoulders? A quick "sorry bro," and its shrugged off. Jax had a dozen such chances before he ever brought himself to go through with it for the first time.

He was at a rave. Nightclub of course. Halloween night. He'd drank less than his usual, and kept a sharp eye out for would-be targets. Would it be the glittering fairy? She had a small card-case tucked in her tights against her thigh. How about Dracula? He kept a cigarette lighter and a wallet inside his cape. That's when he spotted them. Turns out, the would-be target was a nerdy 'american' tourist. The man was actually Japanese, but was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt with an old-fashioned digital camera slung around his neck with a fanny-pack wrapped low on his lips. Pretty good dancer too. And he was surrounded by a group of friends who obviously all came together. It was too perfect.

Jaxen, himself dressed as a pilot, slid amongst the group pounding the dance floor. Nobody noticed the newcomer, except the girl he ended up alongside. Another fairy. Or maybe a Tinkerbell? Ah well they all looked the same. He made his way alongside the man with the fanny pack, which obviously had something valuable inside, but there was no way to tell what it was. Sat-phone? Maybe? Didn't matter.

Heart pounding, Jax accidentally bumped into the guy's hip. While one hand stabilized them both from staggering out of the way, his other deftly unzipped the fanny pack, retrieved the first thing he found, and shoved it in his pocket. The Japanese-Hawaiian tourist backed away, holding his hands up and Jax's heart leaped into his throat. Everything led up to this moment. Then the guy apologized for the run-in, turned and started dancing once more. Jaxen grinned a devilish grin, took the apology, and decided to take off in favor of finding a toilet.

Adrenaline pumping his veins, he slipped his hand in his pocket as he strode away. It was a wallet. He got away with it. Nobody was coming to kill him. He grinned at the prize in his hand, feeling flushed and ecstatic, and glanced over his shoulder. Hawaiian shirt was tearing it up, oblivious that anything had happened. A second later, Jax returned, tapped the guy on the back and offered the wallet.
"Uh, you dropped this brother!" He yelled over the music. The guy gasped and started thanking him with sloshed, but sincere, gratitude.

"No problem!" Jax replied and took off.

After that, he was hooked.

He suddenly took on a surprising interest in electronics, programming and surveillance--much to his family's surprise. But two years in Mumbai was bound to change anyone, even a rebel like Jaxen. Right?

Ten years later, Jaxen had quite the resume. Museum jewels were the first on his bucket-list. They were small and easily hidden away. Good things to practice on. He worked his way up to a Cezanne worth $5 million. Then getting into the Bank of Zurich. Emperor Maximilian's coronation sword came home after that. The Tower of London was a bit of a challenge, but absolutely worth it. By the time he touched-down back in Moscow, the call of the Kremlin was pounding in his ears: the Everest on his horizon.

---

Occupation : Uh, being the youngest in a Central Dominance billionaire family, Jax doesn't have much in the way of an official job. Just hobbies. The primary of which being a thief.

Psychological description: Jax is a light-hearted guy. Thrill, competition and challenge gets him going in the morning. That, and, strong coffee.

Physical description: About 5'11" - he doesn't stand out in a crowd; unless you count dashing good looks, of course. His "jobs" are pretty physically demanding, as he works alone rather than in a part of a team, therefore he's in good shape. He's the kind of guy who can repel and skydive, and is pretty proud of his fastest time rounding the Moscow Garden Ring in less than 6 minutes. In a $400,000 McLaren Spider.

Powers & supernatural powers: No supernatural powers. Just a normal-bloke. With a fast hand, quick eyes, charming tongue and as a few lady-friends have described, "magic fingers."


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Feb 3 2018, 10:01 PM.

<big>
The mid-6th Age
In the realms of the far northlands pantheon of the Norse

</big>

---

---

The sleight woman, Hjalmfinna, drew herself carefully across the wooded thicket. Her armor was light but her pauldrons scratched at pine needles loud enough that she cringed. She was lighter on her feet than this, and opted to untie and discard the awkward metal before proceeding further. She'd cleverly evaded injury thus far. Now was the time for stealth.

In honor of the All-father's Day of Acceptance, the anniversary of his acknowledgement of his birth, and thus acceptance into the family, the Æsir and Asynjur commissioned a series of games that drew competitors from far across the land. The victor of this final game was to be honored at the All-father's right hand at the following Feast of Courts in Valaskialf: the high seat of Odin himself.

Hjalmfinna intended to be such a victor. How she wanted to see the look on his face when she was presented before his court.

Beyond the ridge of trees were mounds of the Ancestors: burial tombs of a long forgotten family. Wight spirits protected the mounds from the passage of unwanted men, wards which Hjalmfinna studied carefully from her hidden outlook. Positioned deep within the protected ring of mounds was a spear mounted upright like a monumental trophy. She gleamed with mischief to simply look upon it. The spear could kill a man if ran clean through, but it was so much more than a weapon. With a deft hand, it rendered the user immune to light. Invisible: so claimed the runestone mounted in the shaft. Hjalmfinna licked her plush lips, practically tasting the prize already.

The wight spirits were not easily disabled, she knew. Then there were the guardians themselves. Some called them sorcerers, they were used for their effective methods, yet many viewed them with disdain. Hjalmfinna held a soft-spot for such outcasts. She knew what it was like to be judged for being what one was born to, but it did not mean she was incapable of manipulating them. They were men like any other, after all.

After evading the spirits and disarming the guardians there was the small matter of the laying hands upon the Runespear itself. It was an incredibly dangerous feat, more so than the journey that brought her to this point had been. Hjalmfinna valued victory, but not at the cost of her life. If only there was someone else-- yes. She saw something. There.

Opposite her position, across the mounds, a female figure sprinted. Her armor lacked the crest of Asynjur, thus likely why Hjalmfinna did not recognize her. A short blue cloak was mounted to golden shoulder rings and billowed on the wake of powerfully running legs. A helm covered her face, but golden braids flowed from beneath. She wielded a finely crafted short blade in one hand, and with a roar, met the defenses of two of the sorcerer guardians with flashes of light and pulses of wind before pushing through the first wall of defenses.

Hjalmfinna sat straighter, a sly smile on her face as her competitor streaked through the Guardians, cutting them down like wheat in a field. Immaculate to behold. As she reached the Runespear, Halmfinna's breath caught in her lungs. Would she survive stealing it?

The warrioress jumped from the highest mound, reached for the Runespear, and the moment her hand curled on the shaft, immediately disappeared. Hjalmfinna smiled broad. "Bravo, my lady,"
she whispered to herself. In response, the wight spirits coalesced, guided by the forces of the Guardians, and the lady warrior had only one path she might take to escape. And Hjalmfinna waited to greet her.

In the intervening moments, she casually went about the process of rearranging her own appearance. The round breasts of her armor became scuffed and scorched. Her helm now dented and her cloak freshly ripped. She touched her face and found the sticky tangle of injury. She was, by all appearances, the opposite of a threat.

When she laid herself aside, she made ready to clutch her side and wince in pain at the nearest sound of approach. There was no fooling an expert in clandestine mischief like her. When the woman with the Runespear passed, she would hear it, visual confirmation or not.

Sure as the sun, panting breath cautiously approached. The maelstrom on the mounds had scattered, seeking the thief in their midst for the game was not won until the victor presented the Runespear to the All-Father.

"Is someone there?"
Hjalmfinna called out. The sounds of breathing were immediately smothered, but there were no sounds of flight. The lady warrior was still there. Likely watching Hjalmfinna even as she spoke. "Please?"


From a few steps away, a chilled feminine voice broke the silence of the leaves. "Go to the Guardians if you are injured, warrioress. They are honor bound to call the Healers."


Hjalmfinna struggled to sit up, but fell aside even as she tried. When a strong, but invisible grip, wrapped itself around her arm, the seemingly wounded competitor struck out with a roar of conquest. Suddenly, the warrioress dropped the Runespear in the clash, falling backward, tricked by her own honor to aid the fallen. Curses ensued.

She and Hjalmfinna threw themselves toward the displaced Runespear, and when each clasped hands on it at the same time, the universe attempted to tear them apart. Two female gods should be able to share its power.

But one of them was not female.

Loki clamped both hands on the spear, literally trying to wrestle it away from the mighty warrioress. Both of them flickered in and out of this world as flashes of light phased the two dueling gods.

When the goddess combatant's elbow struck, Loki yelled his surprise, and found himself falling backward, clutching his face. The force of the ground knocked the wind from his lungs, and he coughed. In his truer appearance, trying to catch his breath, a weight straddled his chest, pinning him down, and the point of the Runespear pricked the flesh of his throat.

Grinning, panting, and impressed, he splayed his arms in defeat. "I yield to the mighty goddess of the Asynjur."
The speartip pressed firmer, but the sparkle of his gaze only grew when the goddess drew the helm from her head.

A crown of golden braids fell free. The sight of the woman behind the armor gripped his heart wild while his eyes slid up and down her form.
"I am no Asynjur."
She declared proudly. "My name is Sigyn of the Halls of Alfheim."


Of the mysterious and legendary Land of the Light, as they were called in the east! She was one of the Álfar, considered the most beautiful people of all the realms.

Loki balked but certainly without attempting to free himself. "Will you be taking one of the Aesir prisoner, my lady Sigyn?"


She leaned forward, twisting the spear tip against his throat, voice humming with the promise of powerful convictions. "I know who you are. And you are no more Aesir than I am Asynjur. But I would be proud to present the All-Father the Runespear and the one who stole it in the first place, Loptr of jötnar."


She even knew his parentage. How he felt himself grin. "I see my reputation proceeds me."


Sigyn lifted her head, barking a victorious laugh. "Only the reputation of your doom, Loki."


Loki didn't even resist when she bound him. To be Sigyn's prisoner? There were worse fates for a man. And she was a worthy trade for the Runespear. Besides, he could always steal it from her later. It would mean a good reason to travel to the lands of the light. He looked forward to the prospect of beholding her people for the first time.

And if he enacted her wrath again? Such better fortune could not be had by a man.