(closed rp)

Having Lucas to help had helped Aria cope a little better with the desires she longed for, that pulled at her nearly every time she went out of her apartment, sometimes being home didn't help either. It was only with Lucas that she felt like nothing could hurt her. Now alone and doing her Atharim duty the darkness was all that much closer. The hunger for pain hung just out of sight as Aria filled through her wallet looking for odd occurrences that would indicate monster. Going to Mass had helped, but still she didn't enjoy the thought that she'd not had her sins forgiven. The world was getting heavier, yet she had more control over her ability since meeting Dane, and even more after meeting Lucas, but it still weighed heavy.

The world was a horrid place. The news was dreary and dark and almost always filled with death. Aria would prefer not to read the news, go on living as if it didn't exist, but sadly it did and she had to scan it. Father Stone was pressing her for reports. She had none to give him that he was happy with. She'd reported on her research thus far into Ascendancy, but with no action taken, even though she'd sought out Michael Vellas and didn't find him, he still wasn't happy. Aria knew she'd have to make a more risky move, but she didn't exactly know what yet.

And meeting Nox had also made things a bit more complicated. He was a godling, a talented hunter, and he used his ability to further the cause, but if anyone knew, they'd probably both be dead.

A recent murder popped up on her wallet, Aria didn't see anything overly supernatural about it. But when she looked at the connected stories it was a mass string of missing girls found dead, beaten, raped and butchered, ironically the media called this serial killer "The Butcher". Her wallet was probably her most useful tool since coming to Moscow, she pulled out the general locations of each of the kills and mapped them. It was what the CCDP would do, and they'd probably have that area already watched, but what they didn't have was a Sentient, or Furia, who could follow the creature to its lair. It could be human, but it could be rougarou, or something even worse.

If she were at HQ she could pull up more detailed records, but she didn't want to step foot in the basement of the mansion tonight. She wanted to hunt. And this looked like a good place to hunt as any. It was on the outskirts of the city. Quiet and less likely to be found. It was likely they would be holed up in some run down building or something, but not every monster liked to the dark depths of things.

Aria took the metro to the area. She hated the metro even late at night, at night was worse than the crowds during the day, the creeps that thought they could come up to you smelled of alcohol or were just plain creeps. Tonight was no different. A creep came up to her and put his dirty arm around her shoulders. Aria wanted to put her dagger through his heart, but she took a deep breath and pushed his arm away trying very hard to not give in to the hunger. He resisted and he pulled her closer with some crude remark that Aria couldn't hear through the desire to hurt him, to make him stop touching her. Aria turned with her dagger in her hand the moment she did. She pressed it against his most prized body part and looked up at him. The violence clearly written on her face. "Get away, or you'll lose more than your hand."


He backed off with some guttural words, thankfully the metro stopped at Aria's final destination. Aria glanced around only on other person was in the car. He seemed surprised. And also angry. It was like he was filled with cold rage. Aria didn't like the way he felt any better than the creep. She hated the metro at night!

Aria put the dagger back under her coat, the sword on the opposite hip flashed into view before she hugged the opening closed again to get off the metro. Aria extended her sense to the extreme limits. It was difficult to maintain, but with the area less populated it was much easier, less people to deal with. Though it still was a challenge. It had been a long time since she'd hunted outside the city.

About me:

Lawrence Monday is an investigative journalist for the fringe news source, MondayMargin.net
.

Monday attended American University School of Journalism. Her first job was for a community events source in Washington, DC, but within a year, she was landing coveted news stories covering the White House. Following the 2040 Presidential election, Monday suddenly left DC in lieu of an online career for Vulpes Net. She left the carrier less than a year later to embark on her own brand of news.

Born in 2015, Monday is a native of Chicago. Her favorite food is deep dish pizza and she has a pet goldfish named Fred.


Biography:

"Everyone has a story, it's my job to tell it."

As a little girl she was accused of tattling, having a big mouth, and being too bossy. True, she did have a big voice, but while Lawrence was outspoken, she was also a champion of causes. She took care of other kids too shy to take care of themselves, but she took a sort of justice-delivered-thrill in bullying the bullies. It made her feel like a superhero shield from a movie. It was that same fulfillment that led her to journalism to start with.

She was popular in high school. Her larger than life smile cheered for the football team and her dynamic personality made it hard to dislike her. She still stuck up for others, even those outside their clique. But Lawrence didn't care. She did what she wanted and never let opinions hold sway over her. She wasn't entirely noble, however. There was a fearless, wild streak in her that couldn't turn down a dare, allow curfews to hedge her social life, or let reality shake her dreams.

Chicago was a city of disreputable past. Even in the 2030's, People still told stories of the golden era of power, mystery, and crime otherwise known as the decades of the mob. Their descendants still ran things: drugs and porn mostly. But they were sad shadows of their former, fascinating selves. Lawrence dreamed of a film noir kind of life, and Chicago only gave her a taste of it. Washington, DC was her calling.

Her first semester at American University took place during the tense 2036 Presidential Election. The country was rife with misinformation and the campus buzzed with gossip. More importantly, she saw the potential for telling the real story for the first time in her life. She knew then and there, that mainstream media was not in her future. She wanted to tell the stories off the visible edge; those lingering in the margins that nobody else knew unless they were directly involved.

DC was the big leagues, and Lawrence knew exactly what she wanted. The problem was execution. She drooled over opportunities to make a name for herself, but in their world, street-cred was everything. They said she had to earn her chance, but she wasn't satisfied; her first job was lame, but it paid the bills and kept her close to the Hill.

She soon got her wish.

She'd graduated college only a few months before, and while the leaves were turning in autumn, the political climate was near boiling point in the district. In a coincidental turn of events, she met the unspoken leader of the democratic party, Congressman Perry Caldera. She recognized him, of course, the handsome, curly haired Senator from Pennsylvania. She also recognized a second Senator, Luna Castro's car dropping him off on the side of the road. Interesting, given that the former was the Senate Majority Leader and latter the most recent Vice-President.

Lawrence, fresh from a boring work party, hid in the shadows, shocked out of her mind to discover the scandalous affair between the republican (married) Senator and her (also married) political rival. Oh how the tides had turned. Lawrence had the goods for blackmail on her hands, but as she also valued her life, she decided to not use it but only in desperate need. A few anonymous contacts later, and she was gladly exchanging damning evidence for the chance to field a few, inconspicuous-seeming stories for the democratic party. Her community event reports highlighted individuals in the wrong place at the wrong time, PAC contributors attempting to fly under the radar, and company executives engaging nontraditional "charities". She laid the strings and the kittens gave chase, but they were all a means to an end. Once she had the cred to cover the White House, her strategies took on a whole new target. Soon, her ally in the Senate became her enemy, and naively, she underestimated his vengeance.

Given the stakes she'd been manipulating during the campaign, she wasn't surprised when strange things started happening, but they still frightened her. Her email account freaked out. Her home computer was hacked and wiped. Her Wallet short-circuited. A few too many unwelcome faces showed up on the subway, her coffee shop, her mailbox. Lawrence grew desperate. She used the blackmail she should have destroyed six months before, panicked. Rather than turning the two Senators against each other, they came for her head. She gambled and they called her bluff. She fled DC with only one suitcase of her belongings. A short time later, she took a position at Vulpes Net, but when her baggage revealed itself, she was asked to leave on less than friendly terms.

Feeling the US was too uncertain, she turned to the wider world stage. The president was dead and Senators Castro and Caldera lost re-election. Dawson seemed to have a cool head on his shoulders, but the DC landscape was shifting. Lawrence was ready to build her own brand for the rest of the world, and she set out to make her mark abroad.


Rebirth:

Lawrence (Laurie) is an old soul. As a channeler, her soul shifts from Wilder to Learner. Her surname, Monday, is a derivative of Mundi, from the Old Norse Mundr, meaning protector. Fitting, when given the opportunity, she always chooses the Green Ajah.

Alignment:

Chaotic good

Maghreb Arabe Press, Morocco national news agency
Author: Yasmine Chastain

In a shocking and unexpected release, the private security company known as Legion Premiere has released footage of the fighting on the outskirts of Mecca, considered the birth place of the violent fighting that has rocked Dominance V in recent weeks.

Over ten hours of video feed assembled from the Landwarrior cameras of some of the nearly two hundred private security operators that died during the daring rescue operation that saw hundreds of CCD civilians and soldiers escape the chaotic fighting in the city of Jedah was released at 8 AM, Morocco time.

The CEO of Legion Premiere, Jacques Danjou, is the youngest CEO of any private security company currently in operation, and has held the position with the full backing of the company's myriad investors for only five years. The company has until recently entertained contracts solely in Africa, and in light of the recent losses in Dominance V and the ongoing strife in Sierra Leone, will not be seen setting foot outside the continent any time soon. Until the incident in DV, Mr Danjou was seen as a business savvy and charismatic leader who, in the minds of many, could do no wrong, but it is yet to be seen what sort of difficulty the company will face in his recent bold decisions.

A statement by Mr Danjou was released alongside the graphic footage, a portion of which is quoted here;

"Too often do the horrors and injustices of the world get ignored by those of more 'enlightened' societies. Far removed from events seen on the evening news, reports of the deaths of dozens, even hundreds, are briefly lamented then forgotten by the end of the commercial break. It is time for this to end.

"I have chosen to make the final recordings of my men open to the public. The sanitized images and stories told on the news rarely scratch the surface of what truly transpires, or more often only tells one side, to achieve a political agenda, or to make the most money possible.

"Few sitting in their homes, at work, in their favorite coffee shop, that hear my words truly know what it is that I sent my men to their deaths for, or why they were willing to go. It was not for money, or foolish pride. All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing. A quote many of you have likely heard throughout your lives, thrown out by those seeking to motivate their listeners to vote against their rivals in elections, or to donate money to a cause.

"No man, who is not inflamed by vain-glory into enthusiasm, can flatter himself that his single, unsupported, desultory, unsystematic endeavours are of power to defeat the subtle designs and united Cabals of ambitious citizens. When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle. Edmund Burke, an Anglo-Irish author and statesman of the mid-18th century.

"Until such time as the member-states of the African Union step forward. Until such time that the citizens of the countless failed-states of Africa seek to act in their own common interests. The men of Legion Premiere shall do all in our power to hold the line. That children may go to school and not fear the rifle. That families may attend church or temple or mosque or synagogue without fear of violence or reprisal. That families may live without knowing the loss of loved ones to needless conflict and hate.

"Many of you already assume I speak towards some unseen political goal. And to you, I have nothing to say. I need not prove myself or the motivations of the men under my command. Past and future action shall speak for that. My men are of strong spirit and stronger resolve, and I trust every last one of them with my life, that they share my dream of a day that no child of Africa need carry a gun. A day when men such as myself and my men are no longer needed.

"This is a dream that cannot be achieved alone. Organizations such as Médecins Sans Frontières, the Red Cross/Red Crescent, and many other NGOs are in desperate need of qualified volunteers and donations, such as the generous and prompt financial support by organizations such as Shale Industries, in the name of the recently passed parents of current CEO, Emily Shale. And for those of you who are bold enough, the Legion's doors are always open."


Copies of Mr Danjou's statement and the combat footage from Dominance V were released simultaneously on dozens of news feeds and public forums world wide, and have already garnished thousands of views and much buzz-feed. Some countries have already banned any viewing of the footage, often siting it as 'too graphic' in nature, although much debate on various forums seem to argue against that reasoning, as the footage is heavily edited by the Legion Premiere public relations department.

Highlights of the footage include the apparent rescue of hostages and CCD civilians that were caught in the fighting, including a daring raid on an all-boys post-secondary education center in Jedah, and a mall and hospital near the city's center. Footage also shows the little understood final stand on the outskirts of the city's main airport, where most of the civilian and CCD soldiers were airlifted to safety.

Many conspiracy theorists and those in support of the ongoing debate over recent declarations of 'magic' by United States news icon Nicholas Trano, site what appears to be some sort of sustained artillery barrage, as proof of Mr Trano's announcement as a modern-day magician.

Edited by Jacques, Nov 8 2014, 04:52 PM.

The Kremlin was cold at this early hour but it was the middle of winter and could not be helped. As much as he wished to be home in bed Michael was sat at a sparsely decorated desk draped in layers of warm black cloth. The fine cut coat that was the outermost layer was fresh and crisp as befitted an officer of the Custody.

It was a perk along with the temporary office of his new found position. He even had his own receptionist. The old Russian man had a sharp eye for detail and formality among a list of credentials Michael would discover in due time.

Today however, was not time time. These were only the first steps in a long and dangerous journey. Valdir's demise was an unpleasant reminder of the pitfalls but it was not a lesson that passed unheeded.

At a quick tap on the door Michael raised his head from the datapad in his hand.

"Ahh, Sir,"
the slender, grey haired man poked his head through the door. "I happened to notice you have scheduled a meeting."
The surprise in his voice was well concealed but not hidden.

"Yes, it is almost time."


"I did observe that, sir."
A pause.

"Yes?"


"Well, as I am sure you know one of my tasks is managing your schedule. If I may offer a word of advice, such...abrupt meetings are often received poorly."


"Thank you for the advice, Leon."
Michael said. It was hard to dislike the man even if his words were of reproach. "Unfortunately, time does not stand still for me."


Leon nodded in grave understanding. One would think he had known Michael since birth. "Very well, sir. Is there anything you would like me to do?"


"No, that will be all. Send Dr. Weston in as soon as she arrives."



Edited by Michael Vellas, Nov 6 2014, 04:25 PM.

After the meeting with his Atharim daughter Giordano had taken time to figure out his next move. She was Atharim, and she was Sentient, he wondered how much like him she was, but she was to be put down, regardless of what the Atharim beleived now. He wouldn't tolerate another like him. It was his own arragoance he knew that, but he shouldn't have lived either, not as powerful as he was.

Giordano had gone home, he also brought Luka this time, though Luka was hesitant on the whole thing and had spent a good deal of their time hiding in the hotel he'd booked for them. Luka was Giordano's back up plan and someone to keep Alessandra in check if necessary. She'd become increasingly wary of him, for good reason, her job had a good deal to do with it.

At first he followed the girl around hiding in plain sight. She never noticed him in his warm fur coats and hats. It was easy to hide in Moscow's weather, Aria never indicated he was there, never gave him an ounce to worry over. He was not worried, not even when he had followed her to the same tattoo shop she'd been frequenting for some time now. The man inside was a friend, but he knew it was so very much more. The darkness in her had passed, but she was still evil, still a child of creation that needed to go. His arrogance insistent upon it.

When the girl left Giordano walked around the block a few times before he stepped inside. The little bell above the door chimed. He had a plan, and this man would be part of it even if he didn't want to be. In his pocket, Giordano held a drawing from a book he'd taken from one of those old books underneath Aria's apartment. The orobourous was simple and all black.

Giordano took off his hat and laid the paper on the counter. The man smiled at him and Giordano smiled back, no point in letting him know he had ill intentions, but first things first. "I'd like this on my left forearm. Can you help me?"

Nikolai was not in the best of moods when he returned to Moscow. He hated the clandestine nature of the past day. He understood the need for it. The Ascendancy was not an executioner and he certainly didn't jet around Europe acting as one. He'd contemplated the situation even as he ducked beneath the whirling blades of his helicopter. After everything he'd accomplished, he could not yet be who he was in the open. Perhaps that was the wrongness crimping the corners of his mind. The world deserved to know who he really was. He deserved to show them. It had been a long time since his patience had thinned so.

He'd returned to one of his private residences outside Moscow. This particular estate was once the home to the famous presidents of Russia - himself included - until his official address was exchanged for the towers of the Kremlin. Living souls that were not of his government were so much as permitted to breathe within a mile of the gates. Yet the privacy he often yearned for was not as comforting as he'd hoped.

He felt little better the next day despite the night of good sleep. Power danced on his fingertips while he prepared for the day. Every little gesture he carried out with it as he had not done in twenty years. Before inauguration into the presidency, he'd tied his own tie with not but the will of sheer thought alone and smiled smug into the mirror when it was perfectly set. He'd gone on to carry out far greater tasks since, but the symbolism in its simplicity remained.

The memory led him to believe that the trigger for his mood was Valdir himself. Not the man's death. That wasn't so much as regrettable. But the presence of the power itself wielded through another vessel. And Valdir had been a massive conduit.

Such, from midair on his way to the Kremlin, Nikolai sent the order to his staff to call for Marcus DuBois. it was time to deal with yet another notable tool at his disposal. Hopefully, the meeting would end better for Marcus than it had for Valdir.

In an unprecedented public appearance, the mysterious figure at the heart of the battle between the Government forces and Cartel mobsters Mr. Oakland has spoken about the recent terrorist attacks that have hit Mexico City that began with the bombing of the United States Embassy.

Despite the controversy surrounding Mr. Oakland’s past, he has been quite candid about his involvement in the ongoing battle, professing he was unconcerned about the appearance of the notorious ‘Mockingbird’ call-sign.

Mr. Oakland has expressed his sympathies to towards the victims and their families of these attacks but is confident in a swift resolution and dismissed fears that Mexico City was the target of the famous Custody serial killer, the self-proclaimed ‘Mockingbird’.

“After a thorough investigation into the Mockingbird cases, the police have found that these attacks are the work of copy-cats riding on the coattails of a notorious killer’
Mr. Oakland addressed the media outside the Estande manse. “These attacks have been clumsy and amateur in execution far more befitting Cartel thugs than a meticulous killer.”


When asked about the lack of suspects Mr. Oakland sent a grave message.

“Mexico City is in a state of chaos. A child could commit these crimes. Until peace is restored, these barbaric acts will continue.”


When asked about the fact that Cartel members were involved in one of the blasts, Mr. Oakland said it was not unusual.

“We must not think of the gang members as a cohesive group. There are many different factions with conflicting goals. They would not only tear Mexico apart, but kill each other in the process.”


Written by Anna Merces,

Reuters.

The massive shipwreck excavation in the Gulf Of Mexico has yielded numerous artifacts of dubious origin and age. The real oddity here is that the artifacts all come from a wide variety of cultures.

This leads us to believe that many of these items were stolen and therefore calls into question the legitimacy of salvage rights in this case. After all, how else could Greek, Hebrew, Egyptian, AND Sumerian artifacts be located on the same vessel? Especially considering that there are no known records of any ships carrying such a valuable cargo. Then recall how all four of these cultures existed at different times in history with minimal overlap and contact.

We can only surmise that the head of the Smith Foundation, John Smith, is aware of the inconsistent and questionable reports that are being handed to the press. Why else would the Smith Foundation donate so many priceless artifacts to the Vatican Historical Society? It isn't like he is Catholic. Let's not forget the enormous expense of such an undertaking. What is really going on here?

It appears to the press that Mr. Smith has ties to Texas (The Smith Foundation), Moscow (teaching at the MSU), and now the Vatican? So what is really going on?

Medina-Dula, the failed state of Guinea, Shakespear Fabron's compound

The original town of Medina-Dula, some thirty years ago, sat square against the border between Guinea and Sierra Leone. That town had been burned to the ground during the Ebola outbreak of the early 21st century. The Medina-Dula of 2045 had been rebuilt a kilometer back from the border on the other side of the hills and out of sight of the Sierra Leonean military checkpoint that guarded the highway crossing.

The town was owned in all senses of the word by one of dozens of warlords that claimed to control various bits and pieces of the country that had once been Guinea. Shakespear Fabron was one such warlord, and certainly far from the most powerful in the region, but he was young, and youth often came with a dangerous lack of caution.

Hardly into his seventeenth year of life, Shakespear sat with his feet propped up on an old shipping crate stenciled in faded Russian and still sporting a half dozen AK-74s. Weapons so damnably common in the region these six had never even been fired, but served well as a foot rest.

Three girls, triplets, hardly into their teens, sat at his side. Two were giggling in a drugged daze as they played with dolls, but the third lay behind the other two, sickly and breathing shallowly, the faint smell of infection and rot hanging about her; her sisters had weathered the storm, but she was likely going to die of female circumcision. All three wore ill-fitting clothes and their bare arms showed the scars of routine heroin use.

"So the soldiers have left?"
Shakespear sat forward on his chair, a stained and moldering old La-Z-Boy, and fixed his men with an eager expression, a moment of clarity that burned through the drug-fueled haze that usually tainted his expression.

"Fled to their homes, I think. The checkpoint is empty, and the gate ain't even locked boss."
A fourteen year old boy clearly labouring under the weight of the AK with grenade launcher he held in his arms, a rusted metal helmet sitting askew on his head.

Shakespear slapped his hands on his knees and stood, the sudden gesture causing both the girls beside his chair to flinch and shrink in on themselves for a moment before realizing that he wasn't even looking at them, and then both started clapping their hands eagerly; whatever made Shakespear happy made them happy, after all.

"Excellent! Get the trucks."
Shakespear grabbed a silver rod from where it was stabbed into the arm of his chair, wrenching it free to reveal that it was indeed a small spear, and shook it over his head. His name was less inspired by the long-dead British author and more just a stupid play on words. "We're goin' to war boys!"


-----

There were dozens of tiny villages in the north-east regions of Sierra Leone. Predominantly Temne, and so far withdrawn from the larger population centers that the conflict raging across the country was a distant thing. Women, children, and the elderly remained, the men and older boys having left already to join the fighting against their Mende oppressors.

The distant sound of trucks on the road was met with interested, and the villagers quickly started to gather in the streets, eager to see their husbands and brothers and sons returning home for a visit.

The vehicles drew closer, but they realized too late who they carried. The sounds of weapons fire and screams filled the jungle air. Shakespear's 'soldiers' killed indiscriminately. Women and children ran for their homes, to their fields or the tree line. Some escaped, many didn't.

Those that didn't escape or die were raped. Children were taken, homes burned, the elderly mutilated. The town was pillaged, and what couldn't be carried away was burned. Bodies wrapped in garbage bags were pulled from one of the trucks, the men carrying them wearing painters masks and rubber gloves. The bodies were dumped into the town well, rocks tied to them that they would sink into the deep waters and go unseen. Ebola was still a problem in Guinea, and would soon be one again in Sierra Leone.

All along the borders with what was once the country of Guinea, similar stories were beginning to become common place; the Sierra Leonian military had been charged with the duty of securing the country's borders, and had done so through stiffly manned checkpoints and roaming patrols. With the coup, those outposts sat empty, leaving the roads to Guinea wide open.

It was a Saturday afternoon and the typical Saturday night crowd hadn't arrived yet. There were a few patrons around Enrique's bar, called "Las Rompecabezas", and Enrique spent his time cleaning glasses and tables. Occasionally one of the patrons would ask for another drink and he'd comply, and then take some time to chat with those at the bar.

The big news around the city was the bombings and killings that had been happening around the city as well as Damien Oakland. There were rumors that he had "special powers" and it made Enrique wary to check the Atharim hit lists. The guy was doing good around here. The drug cartels were shaking in their boots. Enrique would do what he had always done - focus on the monsters.

He had a tip off about a rougarou nest outside of the city that he was going to check out, but it would be a good idea to go with back up. He had no idea how many he would run into. He had tried getting a hold of Eduardo, but had been unable to for quite some time. Enrique was beginning to worry.

The conversation in the bar shifted to football - real football, not that United States stuff - and who they thought was looking good this year. Enrique and the other patrons all pretty much agreed that Argentina had a great line up this year.

Enrique checked his stock and all was set up for the Saturday evening crowd. He hoped it would be a busy night. He was feeling in a social mood.