Pyotr sat at the bar. He could feel the intoxication getting to him his head swam from the alcohol he had consumed. He had come to the Red Light District because he sought solitude. This bar offered it. He avoided the bars with strippers or anyone that would bother him. It was him and the vodka tonight.

Coming to a run down bar had its downsides though. The vodka wasn't the greastet tasting liquor. He also wasn't used to drinking hard liquor, so feeling the effects didn't take long. He and Michelle had broken off whatever they had. He couldn't give her what she wanted. They were "friends" but there was still an awkwardness between them. Pyotr felt empty and alone

He wondered what it was about loneliness that made him seek solitude.Maybe he didn't want others to see him like this. Pyotr drained his glass and ordered another. The bartender asked something but Pyotr didn't answer. He only began sipping again as he thought about things.

New found confidence. He still had it, but still there was an unhappiness there. He was a waiter and he wondered if he wanted to continue in that or move on. He had served Ascendancy - he really couldn't go any higher than that. Maybe it was time for a change - something new.

Pyotr's inner self shrugged and Pyotr continued to nurse his vodka. A new start would be good, but he had no idea what he would do. He wasn't good at much. He rubbed his forehead in frustration. Maybe having these thoughts while intoxicated wasn't a good idea.

The room was still and silent save for the tick of the clock, its soft sound like the echo of feet on winding stone stairs, ascending an infinite tower. Each beat, each step, slowed his heart until it too beat in time, as he ascended the Bhutanese meditation tower of the Chong Ran discipline. Each step shaved off layers to his awareness. He ceased being aware of the weight of his clothes or even where his body ended and the air began.

His body was gone now. Only his spirit remained, an infinite void before him. He stretched out like a god and gave it form. Everything in the void began to coalesce into shelves of books and tables, artifacts and tablets. The soft leather chair took form as did the odors of old manuscripts and aged wood. His offices beneath the Vatican sprung into being, though more cavernous and filled than even his literal one. It was here that he kept his true library, here where he went to study and commune.

He gave himself form and sat down in his chair, the soft leather the work of an artisan. It was here that he came to meditate, the Platonic reality beyond the cave walls.

Another chair sprung into being, and on it the form of Regus Wijngaard. Regus did not allow him to speak. Instead a catalog of the man's actions ran through his mind, his softness. One by one, he summoned the next Regus, analyzed his course, sifted through the successes and failures until came the Regus Joseph of Alexandria. It had been in his reign that Pope Sylvester and he had become allies, the Atharim and the Holy Church two hands of God to carry out his will. But that had come at a price. Atharim scattered into cells and enclaves, autonomous in so many ways. He did not judge the Regus. At that time, for the good of the 'Remnant' it had been necessary. It had saved them. But just as the Regus Joseph has changed the Atharim to save them, it was up to him, the current Regus, to chart a new course.

Finally, came Iscariot himself. The Regus peered into his long dead eyes. A man who loved mankind so much that he gave up what he loved to save them. The betrayal of Jesus of Nazareth had torn at him, even as his writings in his personal Gospel testified. But Apollyon was coming. The world would break. The Age would stop. It had to be done.

The man smiled at him and nodded, one brother to another across the centuries and millenia. Apollyon was here. The Abomination of Daniel walked the earth. The ending approached. The Remnant had to be strong.

It began today. Deliberately, he allowed his study to begin to mist until the infinite void returned. He summoned stairs and began descending. Soon he became aware of the sound of his heartbeat, then that of his steps on the stone. He became aware of where his body ended and the air began, the feel of the cloth on his skin. The sound of the clock ticking. He opened his eyes, refreshed. Light pierce the curtains of his room. Morning had come.

Quietly, he readied himself, until he stood in front of his mirror, his long black robe over his tunic. He draped the red sash down his right shoulder. then slipped the silken cord into the folds. It was complete. He was The Regus Armande Nicodemus.

Stepping out into the hallway, he made his way to the large chamber far beneath Baccarat Mansion. Once a secret ballroom bathed in expensive earthy woods, it would now serve the Atharim's new purpose. Entering an ornate side room, he waited as the Atharim gathered in the main hall. Martin would join him soon, letting him know everyone had come.

It would begin.

(OOC: All attending Atharim are free to post their attendance for the soon to start convocation.)


Edited by Regus, Jan 11 2015, 05:48 PM.

<table><tr>
<td></td>
<td>"Baron" Declan Darius Ashlan Cooper Gregory
PPC
</td>
</tr></table>




+++



Before Declan's career as a museum curator began, he'd worked on projects around the world. In Indonesia, he studied traditional fight-choreography as part of religious festivals of Hari Idul Ad'ha, Hari Idul Ftri, and Muharram. In Northern Sudan, he spent 18 months at a cemetery excavation side by side with a hundred of his peers from the British Museum. But his doctoral work, during the five years he met Soren, was conducted on the Dannish island of Samsø. The island was featured prominently in ballads, known as the site of a famous battle of the berserks, and said to have been the place where Óðinn learned a special form of magic.

Only in his wildest dreams did Declan imagine himself traveling to the Himalayas. Nepal and the Himalayas were in the middle of the world's largest landmass, yet they were the most difficult to access. There were even portions of the mountain ranges unclaimed by any country in the world due to their sheer inaccessibility by humans.

India was familiar to Declan as beloved folklore to any child. The history of the British Raj left boys like him with a mixed sense of pride and shame. All of it was in the past, however. Gone were the days of colonial invasions and the paramountcy of the British Crown. When Declan deboarded in New Delhi, he was glad to be out of the confines of a nine hour flight from London. First class was never fine enough for nine continuous hours.

He was to meet Soren at the Leela Palace Hotel to finalize arrangements. When Declan arrived, he was known to the front desk and greeted with the best in customer service. A faint smile touched his lips when the worker addressed him as Baron Gregory. He paid for the hotel with his own funds, as nothing like this could be afforded by the museum, but the price of the flight cost more than a night in a two-bedroom suite.

"When my colleague arrives, you may send him up."
He signed for Soren and went to shower.

[[In response to Off Course]]

Snow fell silently. Moscow was a city that never truly slept, which - for a man who found such release difficult to come by himself - should have made for a welcome habitat. Instead, tonight at least, it only made for a gaudy prison. Sören stood not far from the street he had stalked the girl, blowing smoke into the neon lights of raucous night life. He didn't smoke, at least not usually, but it was a decent excuse for what might otherwise be seen as loitering. If the cigarettes rotted his lungs from the inside out, he was certain it would not be the thing to kill him, thus it was only one more way he diced with the destiny the runes had dealt him, and dared it to prove him wrong.

He had plenty of money to procure decent accommodation, and he visited Moscow frequently enough to know where to find it, but the idea of sleep was distant. His episode with the police officer rankled; or, more succinctly, his loss of the ring that should be his by right. It took every fibre of self-control not to slip to the hospital the girl lay in, but with Sarkozy knowing what he was the risk was too great, and he had no-one to send in his place. Instead Sören swallowed the poison of defeat -- or scowled over it anyway -- and waited for rational thought to calm the indignation. To conjecture a way to rectify this mess.

His Wallet buzzed in his pocket, something he was initially tempted to ignore, but business was business. He could do with something new to sharpen his mind upon, before past failures began to gnaw away at his patience. Declan Gregory, a man he knew through his connections with the British Museum, flashed up on the screen. A finger swiped to answer, the cigarette dropped and crushed to sizzle briefly in a bed of ice. Banal pleasantries proceeded the meat of the conversation. They'd been friends a long time; turned out this was the perfect of example of how such things could be useful. It might be a good idea to get out of Moscow anyhow.


Edited by Soren, Jan 11 2015, 08:02 AM.

It was her turn to pick what they were going to do, and Zoya had very pointedly decided that Ivan would engage in basket weaving. Her decision was mostly based on the endless teasing she’d received from in the past weeks. She wasn’t opposed to the activity, but this was payback. Best case scenario, she would get under his skin, smile sweetly, and he would know the entire time exactly why she had dragged him there. Or, at least, she’d get to see just how dexterous those hands of his could be.

Looking down at her wallet Zo scrolled through the names on her contact list. Ayden’s name was the first on the list, and she’d paused to stare at it for a moment. She needed to call her. Since the incident at the river, Zo had put off calling the other woman for far too long. The warning in Ayden’s words still rang loudly in her ears, but part of her was still too nervous to bring herself to make the call. Soon, though, she had to do it soon.

Finding Ivan’s number, she quickly set to sending him a message.

Beat you here, Supercop. Meet you outside the shop.

Putting the wallet away, she slipped her hands in her pockets. The day was a little chilly, but it wasn’t something she couldn’t tolerate. Outside of the shops, people made their way without so much as a glance in her direction. It was a busy day, but that wasn’t strange for the marketplace.

Every now and then, Zoya looked through the crowd for Ivan’s tall figure. In the past few weeks the two of them had managed to spend some time together. As far as she was concerned, they were still just getting to know each other, but she still couldn’t shake the sense of familiarity he gave her whenever he drew close. When she stopped to think about it after putting some distance between them, the whole situation made her restless. Yet, she had no desire to stop seeing him just yet.

<table><tr>
<td></td>
<td>"Baron" Declan Darius Ashlan Cooper Gregory
PPC
</td>
</tr></table>



+++


Dusk. London.

Dying sunlight streamed through old window panes and diffused on the dusty air of Declan's office. Winter cast its white blanket on the grounds outside, and as reminder, cold air seeped beneath his wool sweater. He frowned at the crackling fire without getting up to stir the logs. Instead, he swiveled in his chair and yanked the curtains over the window. Immediately, the stream of icy air ceased. Perhaps finally the fire would do its duty.

With the book beneath his left hand, he scrolled through pictures of a jagged mountain wasteland with his right. Black slate rocks cut through weaves of snow and scrubby brush. His colleagues, a team sent to explore ruins and holy sites of the northern Indian Continent, sent him beautiful, but unremarkable pictures. Remarkable except that they were not where the team was sent to explore.

"This scene is familiar to me,"
Declan spoke to the voice on the other end of the connection. "And all the more so because you are 15 kilometers away from where you said you were going."
Declan's eyes flickered to a map of Noah's location. The entire area was filled with interesting finds denied to the British empire a century ago. The permits for their return was granted five years ago. Noah had been on his way to Hemkund, a remote site in the Himalayan mountains, 275 kilometers from the nearest town.

A howling wind almost drowned Noah's reply. "The British Museum hasn't returned to Roopkund in 70 years. Our instruments have a chance to explore--"


Declan cut him off after having studied a weather forecast for the region. "Noah, return to Hemkund where there is shelter and safety. You are in the wilderness. It is not safe. Two-hundred and fifty skeletons were discovered at Roopkund a 100 years ago, preserved so perfectly that DNA was extracted from hair and nail. Their party was killed in a freak hail storm in the 9th century AD. There is nothing else to find."


"But the lake-"
Noah replied. Declan felt his impatience grow.
"The lake is no more than 3 meters deep and 30 meters across. It's frozen for most of the year."


Noah waited until Declan was concluded, knowing the difficulties of convincing him to swerve from the path planned.

"Yes, sir. The lake is completely frozen right now. And yes, I can see the remains lying still beneath the clearest ice I've ever seen. But sir, there's something in the lake. More precisely. There's something under the lake."
Noah grew quiet, like he was afraid the wind would steal his whispers away.

Declan looked more closely at the pictures sent by Noah. "What do you mean, something, 'in' the lake? Like what?"


"I have an idea-- wait."
Noah's voice was drowned by a shriek of wind.

"What is it, Noah?"


The wind howled suddenly sharp, like the screams of a furious hell. Declan plugged his pained ear, jerking away from the speakers. Noah yelled. Then all fell quiet as snowfall.

Heart pounding, Declan scrambled for the volume control on his speakers, but they were normally set. "What in the world, Noah?"


But Noah didn't respond. Declan licked his lips, and with shaking hands, raised the screen with Noah's video feed. An arm draped across a rocky slope.

Declan stared at it in disbelief. Then, eyes stinging, he looked at the map of his friend's location.

"Skeleton Lake,"
he whispered. The pit in his stomach feared the worst.


Edited by Dane Gregory, Jan 9 2015, 11:17 PM.

Calvin's boss's son, Kristoff, dropped Calvin off at the AA Meeting that Dr. Pirozzi had mentioned to him at their meeting the night before. That had gone better than expected - at least he felt like he had a plan. Despite that, he felt nervous being here. Kristoff broke the silence. "Here we are. Do you want me to walk in with you?"


"No...I think I need to do this part on my own."
Calvin fumbled with the door handle, his shaking hands making opening the door difficult.

"Alright...call me when you're done, and I'll come get you. We're rooting for you, Cal."


Calvin nodded at him, and walked to the building. The trip to the hospital had taken some time and they were just about to begin when Calvin entered. There was one empty chair so Calvin sat down, slumping in the chair and trying to make himself as small as possible. He was already embarrassed about being almost late. He gripped the arms of the chair hard to prevent the shaking, but his hands still tremored with nervousness, despite his knuckles turning white.

"Alright we have some new faces here tonight, so lets go around and introduce ourselves and tell each other why we're here."
the facilitator said.

Calvin awaited his turn and said, "I'm Calvin and that's all I'm comfortable sharing right now."


The facilitator gave Calvin an encouraging smile and nodded. He wouldn't force him; Calvin had to make the leap on his own, but he would be there to help when he was ready. Calvin had to admit that he was scared. He was in a room full of strangers and his only thoughts were on whiskey.

They finished introductions, and Calvin had unfortunately forgotten most of their names; his mind was elsewhere. A courage he hadn't felt before came up though and he spoke. "Ummm...can I say something."
The facilitator smiled at him and nodded; Calvin was ready. "Ummm...I'm Calvin and I'm here because I'm depressed and have a drinking problem and I want to get better..."
Calvin's breath began to quicken. "But all I can think about is that I want a drink right now so bad....I'm sorry...I don't know what to do anymore."
Calvin was only partially aware of the tears that had begun to fall.

Name: Martin Borovský
Origin: Prague, Czech Republic, DII
Birth Date: August 27, 1998 (48 in 2046)

Description: 1.85m(6'1"), athletic build in a thin frame, takes alot of work to put on the muscle that is clearly defined, brown hair cut extremely close and brown eyes, well kept beard and mustache forming a near perfect circle around his mouth. Martin wears whatever is functional and timeless. He dresses to impress when in house, but he's typically dressed to blend in outside of headquarters. Martin's vanity keeps everything in just do order. The ouroboros on his left arm is a black dragon biting its own tail sourounding a stylized triangle.

Personality: Martin is ambitious, he rise high as a youth in training in the military, and then when things happened to change his career path, he rose to a pinical with in the Atharim very quickly, thanks to his talents. Martin is confident and loyal, almost to a fault. But if you can get past the exterior, he can be generous and encouraging. He has been known to take worthy men and women under his wing to guide and nurture to be the best they can be. He is also pretentious and melodramatic. Two things that tend to work for him, but can be his downfall if he's not careful. He is a control freak as well as stubborn. Martin rarely changes his point of view on anything. His greatest flaw is his vainity. Martin rises to every challenge and accomplishs everything he does or he'd die trying. There is no risk too great when it comes to accomplishing his goals. He is a solitary soul, bent of being the best.

Occupation: Atharim High Inquisitor in the Holy Order of Saint Torquemada

Weapon Proficiencies: Hand-to-hand, Sword, Handguns, Semi-automatics
Knowledge (not inclusive): Torture, Interrogation, Reconnaissance, Negotiations

Biography:

Martin's youth was like a fairy tale. He grew up in a loving home, his parents pushing him to be the best he could be. Insuring that he maintained their notablitly in his actions. A family with wealth was always making sure their name stood above the others. Their name meant that much to them.

He was the prince in the high tower, though the castle could be seen from his bedroom window, he did not reside in said castle of fairy tale, it only felt that way. He was guided through ritualistic sports in boarding school, but his displeasure at the school lead him to rebel, forcing his family to send him into miltary school. Here Martin thrived. Anything and everything Martin attempted he succeeded at.

From military school he joined the Czech Republic Land Forces. Martin had the nack of ferretting out information and was quickly assigned in low ranking facilities of the Reconnaissance and Electronic Warfare Department. There he learned many of the skills he utilizes today.

However an incident occurred when Martin was only 23, just barely starting his military career in full swing. His unit was out collecting information in some classified region of the world. No one knew they were there, well at least that's what they claimed in the end. Martin's team was attacked, they really had no information on what attacked them. All Martin knew was that it had been massive in size and it devestated the building he was in, quickly and almost quietly. He'd have said it was like a dragon, or an ogre, or something from myth and legend, but he knew that had to be his imagination.

At least that was what he thought at the time. He'd not come face to face with it. But he'd managed to be the sole survivor of the devestation, the men who found him, claimed the rpg he'd fired into whatever it was had brought the building down on top of it, rendering it dead. Martin never got to see the thing that attacked him and his unit. The building was quickly on fire and there was nothing left but ash by the time the fire finished consuming whatever it was.

But that had all be hearsay, Martin woke up in a dimily lit hospital room inside some place that smelled of must and dust and disuse, despite the sterililty of the room. Martin knew he had not been where he had fallen.

Martin found himself in Vatican City, more specifically under the Vatican. He had been treated and the men who had found him had brought him there to question. The interrogation lasted for weeks. They never treated him ill. But the questions barely stopped. What did you see? What do you know? How did you kill the creature? Do you know what it was? The questions drove on and on and repeated themselves when new men and women came to question him. Everyone trying a new tactic on him.

By the second week he laughed in their faces. He told them his answers weren't going to change. And then Martin rattled off better ways to yield information with peaceful intent and a few that weren't quite so nice. It must have impressed someone behind the screens and hidden cameras.

Another man had come in, it was the last man he would see in his interrogation cell, and the last man to whom he would answer questions for. The man introduced himself as Armande Nicodemus. He was senior something or other, he was behind the screen, watching the cameras. He told him of a man, the man whom Martin would speak to soon. The Regus. A title of some world renown as head of the Vatican Historical Society. But it was not the whole of it. He informed Martin of the their organization. He'd some light on the reasons for his interrogation. That he'd shown promise. And he was to be introduced immediately.

The entire concept of the Atharim had boggled Martin's mind the day he met Stephano Wijngaard. The Regus was a kind hearted Dutch man with little sensibilities in the ways of interrogation, or much of anything really Martin soon learned. He was leader, but he was not A leader.

Martin soon found himself with in the Vatican walls training to slay monsters. Swords, guns, any weapon imaginable to kill a creature. And the creatures they could come up seemed unfathomable - men made of mist, gods, and people who could manipulate a man's emotions. He'd heard rumors of some being harnessed - these furia. Creatures who could smell emotion. The only reason they survive in the mist of the Atharim is because they are harmless and completely useful. Martin disagreed with using the monsters, but the Furia had a place, a choice, here with them, or death. He'd seen few not choose to work with them.

The world turned on in this so-called wheel and the Atharim fought monsters. Martin rose in ranks and was soon close to the heart of the society when the hands of the office of Regus changed. It was just before that change that he was named High Inquisitor. Martin had only held the position a year before he would answer to the new Regus. The new man was strong, Martin liked him. He was scholar and warrior all wrapped up into one. Martin was young to hold such a key place among the Atharim. But he was good at his job, some even claimed the best. While Martin knew his own vanity, he still knew he could be better, he could always be better, stronger, more knowledgeable. There was always more!

Calvin sat in the chair waiting for Dr. Pirozzi to arrive. He had arrived before her - mostly because he had been working up the courage to actually show up. When he found that courage he left before he couldn't second guess it. Mr. Volachov had scared him. He said he couldn't fire him if he didn't get help, but anymore trouble and Calvin would be gone. Calvin knew if he didn't, he wouldn't get better. The alcohol and sex weren't helping anymore. The fights were only a temporary relief as well.

Without these things though, Calvin had been forced to face his issues, and was having a hard time with it as he sat waiting. Even with Jensen's help, he was having trouble focusing. The result was terrifying. He seemed to feel so many emotions at once - sadness, anger, fear, anxiety, and regret cycled through his mind so quickly that it felt like they were all there at the same time. He felt overwhelmed and confused. He couldn't latch on to one - he didn't know why, but it somehow felt important that he knew what he was feeling. On top of that, he could feel the depression scratching at the back of his thoughts and begging him to go get alcohol. Tears started to fall as he felt more overwhelmed and he buried his face in his hands as he cried.

Calvin tried to rein in the tears. He didn't want to go in like that. He was sure that when he hadn't made a good impression when he set up the appointment. He had been drunk when he did it. He felt more shame at that. Regardless, the appointment had been scheduled and he was here to be treated for depression and substance abuse. He just didn't know if it would help or if this Alex even wanted to help him. He still didn't think he deserved it.

The tears went away and Calvin wiped his eyes. They were probably still red, but he didn't care. He was trying to fight this demon inside of him that wouldn't leave him alone, so he sat and waited for Dr. Pirozzi.

The Regus steepled his fingers in contemplation, the whisper of Father Bosheven’s report still in his ears. He saw nothing of his office. Only the members of their Holy Order passed through his mind. His eyes narrowed. A cancer infected them. Infected his oversight. He’d been busy with the Vatican, making frequent trips. The Atharim spanned the world and needed his attention. But here in the heart of the beast, the home of the abomination that styled itself the Ascendancy, corruption was spreading. His teeth ground for a moment before he stopped them, willing himself to peace.

It was time to root it out. First Father Dimitri. The snap of the man’s neck had been satisfying. The price for hiding a sentient in their midst. Aria had her uses, for now. Clearly, she was losing her edge, with people asking after her as they had in the bookshop. Not just people. Another sentient. He stifled the bile that tried to rise in his stomach. All in good time. He didn’t expect her to succeed against Brandon. But her failure and death would give them valuable information. An economical and elegant solution.

The antique clock in his office ticked away the time. Beautifully ornate, it was six hundred years old, yet accurate to with three minutes a day. A marvel of engineering. As long as one was vigilant, the error could be accounted for, minimized. Humans were inherently fallen. From the first pair down to today, they consistently chose foolishly. They decided based on their weaknesses and desires. On familial bonds.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Father Stone. The Regus let him stew for a moment, before announcing ”Come!” It was beginning.