This was his twenty-fifth Christmas in the Kremlin.

The first one was clear as yesterday in his mind. At the time, he was the newly elected president of the Russian Federation. What struck him at the time was the scale of the scenery. The tree in the Red Square was a perfect cone that dominated the foreground of St. Basil's Cathedral. Every ornate corner of GUM was illuminated by a miles and miles of lights. He recalled the sound of his footsteps muffled as he strode the red carpets of the Grand Palace and trying not to gawk at the decor. The Russians bathed him in luxury at first, trying to win the heart of their new president like he was a Tsar reborn.

Twenty-five years later, the Ascendancy stood in the same Grand Palace hours before his twenty-fifth state Christmas dinner, although it was still days before Christmas. December twenty-fifth; his twenty-fifth state-dinner; twenty-five years in the Kremlin. Forty-three years after Bologna; after the car park and the Dreyken, after the Atharim and Rome, after Garret tried to kill him for saving their lives in a way Nik knew not how.

He closed his eyes and swallowed the sting of emotion. The hurt was an old wound now but fresh as his memory of that first Christmas in Moscow... and Rome.

He absently rubbed his arm. The scars were covered by the pristine sleeve of a white dress shirt but he could feel five ridges beneath his fingertips. He would be wearing a tuxedo tonight. The affair was white-tie, opulent and gaudy, but Nik tolerated it for the necessity it was. People needed to see the CCD celebrate their power, to see the Ascendancy calm and collected; confidence in his authority kept him in authority. There were many an instance of men coming into power who knew not how to keep their power. That's what the dinner was about: Christmas happened to be the excuse.

A quiet ding drew his attention to a glass workstation suspended from the ceiling. When powered down, the glass glittered like a crystalline work of art. Everything in the god-awful room was art. The Grand Palace itself was a show of force, but the Royal Apartments were built for Tsars, for the gods of the Russian empire.

Alek Brandon, Nikolai's father, was of Russian descent, but when Nik swept his gaze across the wider room to reach for the tuxedo jacket, he felt little connection to the suite. Mosaics of jade, topaz and gems adorned the walls like jewelry. A panel in the reception room contained thousands of precious stones dripping forever in a waterfall of riches. Antique Parisian clocks ticked on marble mantles. Fireplaces of alabastar or malachite blazed with fires large enough to stave the chill off the harsh Russian winters. A swirling sky of chandeliers scattered drops of light like the beams themselves were bent to the will of the empire. A box stamped with the gold leaf of the Imperial Treasury waited on a table. He had yet to decide if he could bring himself to wear what was within.

The glass workstation brought up the image of a staffer. "Commander Vellas has arrived, sir."


"Let him in."


"Yes, Ascendancy."


Why bring Michael to the Royal Apartments rather than the executive offices in the Armory building?

Nik settled his tuxedo jacket on a suit rack and muted the work station of all its screens. With the glass quiet, they might as well have been plunged into the middle ages. It was a fitting place for the greats to convene.

<small>((Continued from No Rest for the Wicked))</small>


Zoya just drove. She was still trembling in her car. Her hands gripped the wheel tightly and her muscles remained tense. Despite the fact that she’d raced away from the factory for close to twenty minutes, the woman continued to look hesitantly behind her over the rear view mirror. Part of her feared there were more of whatever that thing had been. Maybe it wasn’t dead. Maybe it would get up and find her.

She didn’t know where she was, or where she was going. Zoya had simply started the vehicle and gone. The street she found herself in didn’t seem the most welcoming or reassuring, but at least, ahead of her was the neon flashing light of a bar. A drink sounded good. She needed to steady her nerves and the young woman seriously doubted a book and a cup of tea would do the trick.

Pulling over, she parked her car along the street and stared out her windshield as people went in and out of the door. A few stood outside, smoking to their hearts content. They looked rough. Not the sort of men she’d usually find herself sharing a beer with, but after the night she’d had, they might as well have been kittens; gruff, cancer stick smoking, kittens.

Feeling hot, she rid herself of her scarf and tossed it on the passenger sit next to her before getting out. She was wasting too much time sitting in the car, thinking, when all she really wanted to do was control her nerves and forget the sound and smell of the grotesque creature. She wanted to forget the way its body had moved across the floor behind her… ignore the image of the shining orbs as its neck tilted a few degrees too much…

The door slammed as she closed it. A visible shudder took over her body, but it had nothing to do with the chill in the air. After locking the car for good measure, Zoya pocketed her keys and headed straight for the establishment. She wasn’t dolled up. She still wore the minimal makeup from earlier in the day, and aside from her jacket, she had on a black tank top, and jeans. Her clothes fit her well, however, and some of the men outside watched her as she made her way past them.

Inside, the place was like any other bar. It had music playing in the background and a fair amount of people, none of which looked all too friendly. She walked around some guy that was just turning away from the bar, and sat herself down on a stool. “Give me a shot of tequila… and a beer… whatever is on tap.”

It was late morning when the Légion Première jet touched down at Lungi International Airport. The facility was still closed to international travel, but the remnants of the Sierra Leonean government were able to strong-arm General Wallace-Johnson, whom had overseen the liberation of Freetown from the Temne rebels the day before.

The flight from Mecca to Freetown had been without rest for Jacques. Throughout the night he had been speaking with investors, contract holders, the Chinese, the Moroccan government, and the remnants of the Sierra Leonean government. Representatives of countries neighbouring Sierra Leone had refused to speak.

By the time they had landed, Jacques had managed no more then a few hours of sleep, before being roused by field reports from his teams in the northern portion of the country. The picture was rapidly solidifying into a horror story all too common to Africa. Ethnic cleansings, mass rapes, torture. The Temne hatred burned brightly, it seemed.

They were met at the airport by five of the Légion Première armoured SUVs, all of which showed varying forms of scars from the previous day. Mr Trano was left aboard the jet and was joined by two of the Legion's medics and various supplies, and after the jet was refueled, it would press on to Casablanca where he would receive proper medical treatment, and then would be carried onward to the United States for long-term care.

The Lungi airport was a sister image of the one they had abandoned in Dominance V. Bodies still lay scattered about, as did burned out vehicles and damaged planes. The brunt of the fighting had been aimed at the military base, however, and not the terminals and facilities of the airport itself, and so the airport was still mostly functional, and already swarming with foreign-born refugees or those of dual citizenship, eager to escape.

Jacques stood within the protective laager of SUVs with Capitaine Antic as the medics' gear was transferred to the plane, where he had left Reed and Trano. He assumed she would fly to the United States with him; after all, she was a member of his crew. And American.

"The bureaucracy has proven very slow going, Capitaine. Third Company is mobilizing now, but considering how hard it was for myself to land here, they will likely be arriving by the sea. Expect it to be a fortnight before they can arrive."
Jacques held a cup of coffee fresh brewed from the kitchenette aboard the jet, and one of his junior officers was tasked the honour of pouring small cups for each of the Legionnaires that were present in the motorcade that would escort him to their new HQ in the city.

Casualty reports for the Sierra Leone action were blessedly low; the Legion had not been a target, and most of their teams had been at locations that were of low priority to the Temne offensive's first day goals. That would change in the coming weeks, unless the government-loyal forces were able to get back on their feet quickly.

And from what Jacques had pieced together, that had seemed unlikely. The forces that had liberated Freetown now patrolled the streets and the national park to the south seeking stragglers of the Temne attack, and were digging in along the north-south run of the Peninsula Highway, cutting Freetown and the park off from the rest of the country.

It seemed likely that General Wallace-Johnson sought to stabilize his base of operations before entertaining the idea of bringing order to the rest of the country. It did not sit well with Jacques. The man was planning something.

"We had trouble reaching the airport, Sar. The Sierra Leonean military controls the ferries and the crossings. We were able to secure passage only by order of the President's wife, and that ruffled more then a few feathers. Getting back may be a challenge."
Capitaine Antic forwarded a recording of the strongly-worded command the woman had issued; the morning had seen the bruising of her injuries fully swollen. She was in for a rough few days of recovery.

Jacques nodded quietly and downed the dregs of his coffee before handing off the cup to one of his men who was already gathering the others to return to the jet. "We shall make do, Capitaine. I will speak with whomever is commanding the detail at the crossing."


The Capitaine smiled and nodded; none could doubt how persuasive the CEO could be. There was a reason why the previous CEO had chosen the young battle Capitaine to be his successor.

The men began to load back up into the SUVs, with Jacques left alone in the private compartment of the center-most vehicle. With how bad the roads were between the airport and the Tagrin Ferry Terminal, it would take near to an hour to reach. An hour of rest the CEO clearly needed.

-----

The situation in the Embassy district of Freetown had quieted down quickly after the government loyal forces had arrived. They had bypassed the embassy's for the most part, asides from a small detail of troops that held the only road into the area, but even that post had been abandoned after a few hours when the throngs of foreign-nationals began to swarm them, seeking access to their embassies and the perceived safety there.

Sierra Leone had never been an important country, at least not until recently. The discovery of rare minerals in abundance had made it a point of great interest for many countries, but few held embassies on it's soil. The Chinese had the largest presence amongst those that did, and their people swarmed to the embassy in the dozens, with rumours of hundreds more on their way in the next few days, fleeing from all corners of the country to the only place they thought they were assured to escape.

Already, the Chinese were collapsing their embassy, packing up equipment and furniture, burning documents. Three helicopters had arrived from 'civilian' ships in the South Antlantic Ocean to carry away non-vital personnel.

The Moroccan embassy had already been filled to capacity by the Legionnaires and the government personnel they had rescued. Wounded government-loyal troops that had been taken in for triage had been relocated that morning, and civilian wounded were being moved to clinics and field-hospitals around the city.

As for the government VIPs, they had demanded to return to the administrative district, and were seen off with the remnants of the Presidential Guard and General Wallace-Johnson's troops. But the embassy was small, and simply hadn't the space for the throngs of Moroccan citizens eager to find shelter in it's walls.

So the Legion was forced to appropriate space. This came in the form of a series of now abandoned, expensive estates to the south and west of the Embassy, forcing the already thread-bare Legionnaires even thinner as they garrisoned three adjacent small mansions and knocked holes in their concrete fences to link the three together, and to secure a corridor between them and the new Legion headquarters.

Volunteers were sought among the refugees and embassy staff to help administrate the situation. The names of the refugees were needed to be taken, a stock taking of food and medical supplies. The Legionnaires were even willing to accept volunteers to bolster their security, although by all accounts, Freetown was safe. There was hardly any sounds of weapons fire in the city since very early that morning when the last large pocket of Temne fighters had been finishsed off.

Natalie had been found a room within the embassy for the night; an office with a couch, and had been provided a fireblanket. The office had it's own restroom, one of the few, marking her as a high priority VIP in the Legion's eyes. They had been payed quite a bit of money to see her safe, after all, but her private washroom would likely not be hers alone for long.

Hollywood had been seen to as best as the beleaguered Embassy doctor and Legion medics could, and once they had completed their surgery, he had been relocated to another boardroom with his kitten.

Unsure of what to do with Ekene, the boy was left under the supervision of Natalie. The fact that he was just a boy had spared him much of the Legion's wrath. Of course, Jay would receive no shortage of ribbing later for having been downed by a kid with a broken hand of all things.

It had been a few days since she'd given up her old life. Two days of anxiety and curiosity. Ayden had wandered the streets of Moscow under a new light. Everything was worth exploring. Never before had she had that luxury to just sit in the park and stare at the birds. Not that she'd done that yet, the weather was far to cold.

The world was her oyster. Ayden was happy, it was stressful that first day leaving the apartment. But to her luck a few streets down from the apartments a bar, Cherserfield, had a 'hiring now' sign out. It would be good to work with people. Stressful, but a new experience for Ayden.

It was open twenty-four hours, which meant that Ayden could work at any time, which wasn't bad, but it made for scheduling things difficult. The man who owned the bar interviewed her, Ayden thought his name was, Mayor Yegorov, but she could have misheard him with his overly Russian accent. He insisted on his employee's speaking English, CCD law or something like that, not a problem. Ayden could speak and understand Russian, as with a few other languages, but she'd prefer to speak her native tongue. It was just easier that way.

The interview had been short. He saw her attire, saw her face, asked her her credentials, Ayden didn't lie, but he hired her anyway. Something about a pretty face bringing in the customers.

She'd start the next morning while it wasn't quite so busy. Ayden had never bartended, but she could learn quickly. And pulling a draft or a bottle was easy. And she was really just a server anyway, so no bar tending needed really. Though it looked an interesting skill, one Ayden might take up.

The second or third night Ayden came home, she'd seen Connor heading towards the elevator. She missed him a lot. He looked nervous, and really she couldn't blame him. Ayden smiled brightly at him and said hi, there was no reason not to, they were going to run into one another on occasion anyway, they lived on the same floor, in the same building. Ayden hoped she'd see him more. But he really seemed nervous. She watched him leave. She really missed him, watching him walk away was disheartening, but at least it was a good view. She kept on smiling, glad to see him. Shutting her door had been hard, but she managed to not try to go after him. It was his choice, he'd do what's best for him, and for Ayden that made her happy. He'd be happy, but he didn't look it right now.

She got her first day off and proceed to the University. She wanted to check out the curriculum offered and the campus. Not that it mattered either way. It was a good school, she'd find something, but what she didn't know.

Ayden went into the admissions building and got the application and the course book. If she'd hurried she'd make the spring semester in January. If she hurried. Ayden wondered if she could get into the library. It would be good to see the options. Ayden had always liked books - real books. She headed towards the library in hopes they'd let her in.

Continued from A Fine Line

Connor looked up at the sign and then at the card in his wallet. Gracie’s Gym. The words looked faded, the sign cracked and dirty. The door was propped open and he could her the slaps of fists on punching bags, the echoing grunts of people, and the background noise of music coming from a crappy speaker, high and tinny.

It fit his mood. The last week or so had seriously sucked. He just went through the motions of life. After that first day, that first run, he hadn’t felt any better. He didn’t see Ayden again that night but he wanted to. He missed her. He barely knew her but he missed her, wanted to go to her. But he just couldn’t. Every time he thought about walking to her door and knocking, he just felt tired. Whenever he thought he heard activity out in the hallway- talking or a door closing- he would feel a stab of anxiety. Work helped a little. Being busy- having the help coworkers, track down bugs, or find answers to questions occupied his mind. But he didn’t joke with the guys really. At lunch he just ate and sat around, while Vlad and the other guys talked and laughed. He went out a couple nights but it was meh. Didn’t stay out late either. Came home, had a drink or 5 and then went to bed. Next day, start all over again.

He did see her once one evening 4 days later as he was walking down the hall. The elevator doors opened and there she was in waitress uniform, grocery bag in one hand while the other fumbled getting a ribbon from around her neck. She looked tired but when she looked up and saw him she smiled a beautiful warm smile, eyes bright. His heart leapt in his chest and started racing. He kept walking but his eyes were on her only, on her face. Almost, almost he ran to her, almost threw his arms around her to pick her up and hold her close to him and kiss her. But fear paralyzed him.

As they got closer together- his heart pounding- she said “Hi”
in a quiet and tender voice. Her smile stayed on her face as she just looked at him.

“Hi,”
was all he could say, a weak smile on his face. He swallowed. “Well…uhh. I have to go.”
He walked past her to the elevator and pressed the button. It opened immediately and he went in. When he turned around and pressed “Lobby” he saw her watching him from in front of her door. Mercifully, the doors closed. He was shaking inside. Maybe he would move. But a part of him rebelled at that thought. He just couldn’t do that. He was caught. Scared to go to her. Scared to get away from her.

After a week, he knew this couldn’t continue. He’d promised Hayden. He needed something to do with his time. He needed to get out of his head. He needed to feel something again.

He walked into the gym and was met by the smell of sweat and rubber and leather. There area was open, with light streaming in from a propped open back door. There were 2 rings, one of which had a couple guys boxing in protective gear. A couple punching bags hung from the ceiling along one wall and were tied to the floor. On one of them a girl in a sports bra and black shorts was repeatedly kicking one of the bags with her shins, sharp grunt each time her leg connected, while a man in a tank top held it firm. Connor’s gaze continued taking in the room, seeing a couple tables and folding chairs, some old weights and benches in a corner, mirror along one wall. Posters of various fights, some old and faded, adorned the walls. A few screens scattered around the room showed some fights, though the sound was off. He saw a guy with close cropped dark hair and a pretty good build walking toward him. He had an odd look on his face with an inquisitive smile. Must not have a lot of walk-ins I guess. “Can I help you?”


The man stopped in front of him. They were about the same height but thought the main was probably in his late 20s. “Yeah, uh, a guy I met told me about this place. Said I might get to do some fighting or something.”
He shrugged a bit. He wasn’t nervous, just ready to do something new. It would be nice to do something, move and feel something other than lethargy.

The guy was still looking at him, smirk on his face. What’s so funny? he wondered. “You ever do any boxing or MMA? Martial arts?”


“Uhh….did some boxing when I was younger. Never really got into it. Wrestling in high school. And you know, occasional fights and stuff growing up. Nothing big though.”


The guy kind of smiled. “Heh….so you wanna pop your cherry here, then? Yeah, I think I can help you out.”
Odd way to put it, Connor thought. The guy pointed to one of the signs that showed the rates. Daily, weekly, monthly and annual. It was a bit steep, given the look of the place. But what the hell. He decided on the weekly, along with trainer sessions. See how it went at least for a while.

“Alright,”
when the waiver was signed and the fee paid, the guy went on. “I’m Charlie. One of the trainers. So, what do ya wanna learn?”
, he asked, nodding to another sign mentioning the different styles of fighting. One caught his eye.

“I guess that Brazilian Jiu Jitsu one.”
He thought he’d seen it once before. The guys were dancing around like crazy, landing painful blows. Looked kinda fun. A small part of him kind of liked the idea of hitting. And strangely, he found the idea of getting hit not bad either. Weird.

The man smiled at him. “Hah! That’s one of mine. Alright.”
He appraised Connor pretty quickly. “Good build on you . Good shape. Bit older, but that’s ok. You will feel it tomorrow, though. Just gotta warn ya.”


Connor laughed. “I don’t mind. That’s kinda why I’m here.”


“All right. Well, get changed I’ll see you out back out here,”
he said, nodding to a hallway that must have led to the locker rooms. When he went back there, he saw that they were in the same older state as the front area. But he wasn’t interested in a meat-market gym. He wanted to fight.

He came back out and Charlie looked him up and down again. “So, let’s do some warm-ups to get the blood flowing. Then we can spar a bit and I can assess your skill level.”
They ran through a few sets of pushups and jacks and stretches and standing jumps. By the end of 10 minutes, he was already covered in sweat, heart racing. But he didn’t say anything. It felt good to have his mind on nothing but the workout. “Ok, let’s go the ring,”
Charlie said, pulling out some gloves. He wondered about the head-safety but didn’t ask. Don’t want him to think I’ma pussy, he thought. He sort of laughed at himself for thinking that.

“So try to block me. I’ll go slow, but I wanna see how you move.”
Charlie moved slowly all right. By a very strange definition of the word ‘slow’. Connor wasn’t sure if the man was trying to show off his skill or scare him but he was successful in both. He barely fended off most of the blows, though in truth they didn’t hurt that much. Strangely, though, the exhilaration and rush of adrenaline was amazing. He didn’t have time to think about anything but keeping the man’s hands and feet away from him. He was not successful a lot of the time. He lost focus for one moment and then next thing he knew he was on the mat, head spinning, a painful throbbing beginning in the side of his head.

He looked up to see Charlie over him, giving him his hand, big smirk on his face. “Heh….I thought your friend was the one interested in me.”
Then he laughed. “Shouldn’t’a called me ma’am buddy.”
His laugh wasn’t malicious though and he helped him up.

Connor just stared at the guy blankly and then a name floated up to his addled mind. “Charlene?”

Edited by Connor Kent, Jun 20 2014, 08:36 AM.

I haven't seen this posted yet. Nick's got an address on his Facebook for his unit while he's at Navy boot camp. Speaking from one who's gone through it, letters from friends and family make all the difference in those months

She’d been busy the last few days. It had been about a week since she’d been caught breaking into Oslov Corp and she had yet to call Sarkozy back. Not for the first time in the last couple of days, Zoya eyed her wallet. The item was currently resting on her desk, facing upwards brightly displaying the date and time. It was a Friday afternoon, and she should have already left the CNC. Instead, she remained at her desk sorting through emails and articles concerning the city’s new reclamation project.

An old Soviet era factory in the outskirts of the industrial side of town was being cleared out and torn down in favor a more modern facility. Supposedly, after shutting down, the building had served as a storage area for toxic chemicals until they could be properly disposed. Now, the city was trying to clean it up, but something didn’t sit well with her. She’d spoken to some of the people that worked there and heard alarm bells go off in the back of her mind.

Some of the men had been getting sick. A couple mentioned having had to clean up a spill that was dismissed by the higher ups. Apparently, they also hadn’t been issued proper equipment to work with. It seemed as if the contractor hired for the job was cutting corners, and in the process, risking the health of the public and their workers.

One of them mentioned to her that some of the stuff was being transported to the Moscow underground. If something happened, there was no telling how much harm that could cause. It was no secret that some of the poor and immigrant population hid there, along with a long list of the city’s undesirables. Should something go wrong, then large amounts of people would be at risk exposure.

She at the time displayed on her wallet yet again. It was 6:30 in the evening. Likely, the factory was empty by now. Most people would have gone off to enjoy their weekend. If she went alone, the chances of getting discovered due to someone else's mistakes were minimal. The night of her arrest wasn’t the first time she’d picked a lock or two, but it had been the first getting caught.

It didn’t take long for her to slip on her jacket, and wrap her scarf around her neck. Picking up her gloves and wallet, Zoya made her way out of the main office; ensuring, of course, to turn off the lights and lock up.

To all fathers here, I wish you a Happy Father's Day!!!


*hugs all the daddies*

Pyotr Grigory

Age 21
Birthday: December 15, 2024

Origin: Moscow

Occupation: Waiter

Psychological Description – He is young and naive. He is easily manipulated and can be accident prone.

Physical Description: He stands 5'11. He has short blonde hair and sapphire blue eyes. He usually wears black and white waiter clothing, and sticks with plain clothing when not working.

Supernatural Abilities – Channeler

Current Strength: 2
Potential Strength: 10

Biography
Pyotr was born into a family that had served the Kremlin for generations. Naturally, he was expected to join in this familial tradition when he became of age. As a result, he was home-schooled. He didn’t have many friends growing up; the only people he saw on a regular basis were the higher ups in society who had no desire to spend time with the son of the servants. As the result of a rather sheltered life, Pyotr is very naïve and can easily be manipulated if someone offers him a chance at friendship. At 18, his schooling ended and he joined the workforce as a waiter in the Kremlin as expected of him. His life continued much that way for three years, nothing really changing until he turned 21. He was serving a table and on the way towards the table, he tripped over his feet, dropping the pitcher of water he was carrying. Not wanting to upset any guests, he brought the pitcher close to his body, preventing the water from spilling out onto guests. Most of the water ended up on him and there was a puddle on the floor. Some of the guests laughed while a few asked if he was alright. Pyotr nodded that he was ok before moving to go change his clothes. Another waiter got a sign to warn walkers of the hazardous floor. Pyotr would need to clean it up, but it wouldn’t really help unless he stopped dripping first. He went to the locker room to get out another outfit, thinking of how much of a pain this whole situation was when he felt the wetness in his shirt beginning to descend. A puddle was forming under his shoes and to Pyotr’s surprise; his clothes were no longer wet. Pyotr was curious about this, but didn’t have time to worry about it now. He cleaned up the mess and continued with his shift. About a week later, he began to have headaches and nausea. These periods of sickness would occur sometime after a lucky situation happened. Pyotr would fall down the stairs, but would stand with no pain or bruises. He would react faster if someone would bump into him preventing spills. To Pyotr, it seemed like he had some sort of ability to deal with these things. He named this ability his “Luck.” The effects of the sickness would appear after every time he used his Luck, and Pyotr began to notice. Not only were they coming more often, but often, they were more severe. His Luck and the sickness were linked, but he didn’t know how. Pyotr would have to find out soon before it was too late.
Edited by Pyotr Grigory, Aug 1 2014, 03:20 PM.

The hedgehog had proven to be not worth the effort. Snow had tipped it over quickly before being able to dive into the soft underbelly of the friendly creature. The sounds were pitiful as it died and Sierra regretted buying the creature. Snow was disappointed as well. He sent images of hunting and then a sad wolf howling at the moon. Sierra rolled her eyes as she pat the big wolf on the top of his head "We'll go hunting tomorrow. I promise."


****

Sierra was up early, it's hard not to be when you've a wolf who's sending you messages of the rooster crowing and images of a glorious hunt. He was eager to get out of the city.

Sierra returned images back from her bleary morning haze. She asked Snow if he wanted to stay out there, with out her.

His reply was sad. Sierra reassured him she'd visit often and that it was safer for him. But he returned a firm negative on that. She had never felt such an image from him, Snow was usually soft and comforting. It had been danger he was afraid of. Sierra couldn't decipher the exact danger, but Snow knew something she did not. And that worried her.

The sun was just peaking over the horizon. The weather was very cold and blustery as they left the city. Sierra was wrapped from head to toe in animal skins. It was an exotic look in the city, but she was thankful for it when they reached the open terrain.

Both she and Snow sent messages to any of the packs near by - letting them know they weren't staying long, only enough to get some food and be on their merry way. Neither of them wanted to hunt with out permission. It was bad form. Sierra wondered what it would be like to have a pack they could call home. They'd wandered everywhere in the world, and her and Snow had never stayed in any one place long enough to be more than a cursory acceptance.

Snow sent back his version of the same wish. She hadn't realized she'd been sending at all. It was becoming very easy to speak with the wolves, it was almost easier than talking to her own kind.