Oriena Rusayev

Her parents split when she was eight years old.

Oriena was brought up by her mother on the poor outskirts of the city, shadowed beneath the thumb of the CCD and struggling to make ends meet. There was little to no state care for someone with mental health needs, which aside from marring her divorce papers with “irreconcilable differences” also left her mother unable to hold down a steady job. They lived hand-to-mouth on what little they could earn, steal, beg or borrow, alongside the small package of money her father wired for “maintenance” of the child he had abandoned.

Ori learned to take care of herself young; oft times caring for her mother, too. She was a sarcastic and wilful child, often ostracised by the other children for her chaotic nature and disinclination to play nice - though she was utterly devoted to her mother. Those who ridiculed the illness that drove her to manic highs and oppressive lows learned not to do so within Ori’s hearing – and that’s as true now as it was then.

When things were good she attended state school – at least when she wasn’t on expulsion for her smart-ass attitude and stubborn aversion to following the rules. Her neighbourhood wasn’t the safest for a kid her age to hang around alone; amongst the tenanted apartment blocks, derelict buildings competed with half collapsed, abandoned demolitions, and there were as many squatters as rent-paying citizens. Squint your eyes and ignore the high city rises in the distance, and it almost looked like it had been ravaged by war. Still, it was home, and Ori was full of brash, childish confidence. She was never afraid of the shadows that scuttled in empty buildings; was even curious in a morbid way, to peer at those misfortunates worse off than herself. When they came too close she knew to keep away. Better, she knew how to keep them away.

The first time she got Sick her mother was on the tail end of a low, and Ori’s fever plunged her right back into it; convinced her that death had come to claim her only child because she was a terrible mother. Her tears were hot on sweat-soaked skin, but they didn’t burn as much as the anger in Ori’s gut. This was the CCDs fault. Medication would have aided her mother’s moods. Psychological treatment would have taught her to cope in a way a fourteen year old couldn’t teach her. With those two things, they could have earned enough to make a decent living. Oriena pulled herself up from bed out of sheer bloody obstinacy to wrap her arms around her mother’s heaving shoulders. The first time she got Sick was the last time she got Sick.

Life continued in a volatile stream of ups and downs that passed for normal.

When things were especially rough, they survived almost exclusively on her father’s monthly pay-outs, until the day Ori became a legal adult; then the burden of finance fell on her shoulders. She bounced between jobs, mostly bar-work in the city centre, and kipped on the floors of various acquaintances when it was too late to take the metro home. Her life had little structure, which she more or less thrived on, though she hated leaving her mother unattended at home. In her spare time she studied business through use of old textbooks and the internet, too poor to afford the tuition. It wasn’t ambition so much as general restlessness, particularly with the order of the world. The realm of business was so deeply systematic and regulated; she hated it. So she wanted to understand it.

It was while working in the prestigious Manifesto bar that she met [name omitted], a prominent CCD official with an errant grin and sly sense of humour. What started as a battle of charm and wit propelled headfirst into something else, and it was with foolhardy recklessness that she threw herself into an affair with a married man. Secrecy and lies weren’t difficult things for her; she slipped into the deception like old skin, and felt no guilt. The guy even had kids. And like most who rode the apex of the civilized world alongside Nikolai Brandon, he also had an obscene amount of wealth. His attempts to lavish gifts always ended poorly, though he persisted despite her quite blatant disinterest. For him, at least, it was the epithet of his affection. So she tolerated it. For that. Money, after all, is the key to so much in Moscow.

Nearly two years passed before things unravelled.

She made the mistake of falling in love.

Ironically enough, when the shit hit the fan, it was not discovery of the affair that ended it all, but Oriena’s discovery that she was not the only mistress. She was mortified by her own naivety; it had been foolishness of the highest calibre, and she was disgusted with herself. Not that she wasted time wallowing in self-pity; there’s little more fearsome than the wrath of a woman scorned, and Ori has never been the type to let an insult pass. Corruption among the upper echelons of the CCD was and is no real secret, but it has its limits. Discretion is paramount if a man wants to keep his reputation, and it’s surprising what a man will divulge in pillow-talk. She threatened to expose their sordid secret, and he did what most men in his position chose to do; he bought her silence. It cost him. It cost him a lot. Not the price of a broken heart, though it was broken, but the vicious extraction of retribution. Enough to set herself up, and to soothe the sting of her own stupidity. Enough to twist the knife in his stupidity.

The first thing she did was buy a motorbike. The second was to flip [name omitted] the finger in the most caustic way she could think of.

She used the money to set up a business. Specifically, she used it to set up a Burlesque House.

It had a pleasing sort of irony, since [name omitted] had relegated her to little more than a whore, and she’d been the idiot who let him. Taxation was too high to take the “fuck you” to the highest extreme of a more clandestine enterprise, and she’d be damned if she was going to funnel more cash than necessary into the heart of the “liberal” CCD. Viciousness sharpened her mind to the task; now a young woman, Oriena knew exactly how to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was for [name omitted] to never, ever be able to forget his mistake.

Kallisti House of Burlesque is a high-end establishment in downtown Moscow, and its grandiose begins right on the doorstep; it occupies an imposing stalinesque building that naturally draws the eye from its neighbours on the street, and keeps it there. During the day it is a building without marker; at night, lights flood its front so even shadows may not thieve its grandeur. It cannot be ignored. The interior within is lavish with nods to the wickedly decadent, its complementary mix of soft and severe differentiating it from the seediness of a strip joint. The main area comprises of a bar and small stage, with a separate room for the restricted performances (this is set up more like a theatre), and its motif is the seductive portrait of a burlesque dancer biting into a golden apple.

As a business model it shouldn’t really work. It operates a strict no-touch rule, but bends the tease to scandalous levels; it delights, titillates and seduces, then smiles and says no. Kallisti’s performers are untouchable, beyond the reach of the nouveau riche and CCD giants alike - despite every last dollar to their name. Strangely, this has made it more popular; it plays right into the current elitist conscious.

Since its opening three years ago, Kallisti has grown a solid reputation for offering the highest calibre entertainment in the most exclusive setting and is renowned for pushing the boundaries of risqué (and for its rather beautiful performers), but never tips into the territory of a strip-club. Among the city’s young billionaires it is a popular haunt; particularly to kick a night off. Given its prime reputation and offer of privacy, it’s not unheard of for important members of the CCD to visit either.

It cannot be ignored.

Thus it kind of served its purpose. Despite forming the entirety of her present income, Ori is not precious about her business. She pays someone to take care of the day-to-day running, and glances from time to time at the paperwork and accounts that come her way. Most would not even know she was the proprietor, unless they were privy to the name on the lease. Occasionally she works the bar and toys with the patrons. One thing she’s learned from years of bar-work is how easily people will talk when in their cups, particularly when soothed by the comfort of the non-disclosure contract Kallisti asks of its staff. As such, she has more than a few of them vised by the balls. Just in case.

Ori's of average height and slender build, with dark hair and blue eyes. There’s usually something quite sardonic to her expression, though she is capable of sincerity. Casual confidence marks her demeanour, pushing towards the boundaries of haughty arrogance at times. Despite the nature of business she’s in, her tastes in fashion and make-up usually err towards the understated classic.

Uncompromising, stubborn, and wedded to a front of apathy. Though still young, Ori’s a world-weary soul. She generally finds the company of other people lacking in both intelligence and interest, and views most of her relationships as a means to an end. As such, she’s free with money, though this should not be mistaken for generosity; she’s largely indifferent to its elitist value, and has an inherent understanding of using it to get what she wants; in the CCD, money means respect.

She’s charming when she wants to be, though her idea of banter occasionally cuts close to the quick, and particularly when bored or disinterested by her company she pushes to get a reaction. She’s the type to take risks just to see what will happen. Natural charisma gets her out of most scrapes, though when it doesn’t she’s hard pressed to step down from a challenge.

Difficult to read at the best of times, her sense of humour errs towards the satirical, and her temper is generally even. She has the façade of someone pretty difficult to ruffle, though in reality it’s just a slow burn; once sparked, her temper comes without warning, often disproportionate to the insult. Her trust, once earned, is usually pretty firm; there are plenty who think they have it, though, and don’t – they shouldn’t be surprised by her betrayal, but they generally are; she marks that down to being a good actress. Those who cross either her or someone she has a reason to look out for can expect retribution; forgiveness comes rarely, if at all.

She has little respect for authority, and despite being Russian-born dislikes the totalitarianism of the CCD. Her record is littered with minor infractions, usually of the disorderly kind, but she has little interest in actual crime; she just bends the rules to either suit her purposes or in knee-jerk reaction to the idea of being ordered about. Her opinion of the nouveau riche, despite forming a proportionate number of her clientele, is very low; most of them are the sort of imbeciles who’ve never done an honest day’s hard work in their lives. And yes, she revels in the hypocrisy of that judgement, since she didn’t exactly do much to earn the basis of her own wealth. Likewise, her view of CCD officials is poor, though since these people have generally earned their positions via merit, she treats this on a case by case basis.

She does love her cat, though.

• <li style="display:none">
  
• Kings of the Castle (Jaxen, Jon Little Bird)
  
  
  
• A Blind Eye (Jaxen, Hood, Spectra, Silas, Yuri, Drayson, Ascendancy)
  
  
  
• Amends (Alone/Luka NPC)
  
  
  
• Promises (Alone)
  
  
  
• Calling in Favours (Claire, Takeo, various NPCS)
  
  
  
• Choices (Giovanni, Nox)
  
  
  
• Blood Sport (Giovanni, Marcus, Hood)
  
  
  
• The Spoils (Alone/Kasun NPC)
  
  
  
• A Wicked Game (Alone)
  
  
  
• Pawns in the Game (Jaxen, Manix)
  
  
  
• Triumphant Return (Jaxen)
  
  
  
• Glass Houses (Claire, Raffe, Ilesha)
  
  
  Edited by Oriena, Jan 20 2018, 03:52 PM.
  
  

From Laying Low

For being tied to a wall with an iron chain and metal lock, Jaxen was in surprising good health--and he doesn't even swim. That is, if he ignored the splitting headache and tender ribs currently reminding him of how much he disliked getting the shit kicked out of him, then yeah, pretty good health. Pretty shocking, actually. Considering he was sure he was on the verge of death--last he could remember.

A bulb from a fluorescent lamp hummed and flickered in the center of this -- room -- he was in. The other bulb was burnt out, but taking a look around, he wasn’t particularly interested in seeing any more details of the place. The harsh light alone already drenched every surface with a sort of mildew-colored black and green cast. It was probably twenty steps to the wall opposite him, and another twenty to cross from left to right. The floor was cement, and nothing filled the open space. Not so much as a chair. Though, if he squinted, it seemed it sloped toward a dark, round disk at the center. A drain, probably. And he thought again of that constant dripping in the distance. The dampness to the place explained the mildew-like musk on the air.

For being in this sort of horror-flick gone terribly cheesy situation, Jaxen was almost as curious as he was alarmed. For this reason, he stretched to gather exactly how much freedom he had, but was careful to do so quietly in case anyone was around to hear his stirring.

His arms were held straight over his head high enough that his elbows were stretched dead straight and his wrists were gathered together in two shackles. First he went about feeling the metal as carefully as he could, twisting and curling his fingers along their edges, trying to feel for joints, hinges, locks -- pretty much anything he could to get an idea of how to break out.

Then he pulled his feet beneath him and made to stand. The chain itself rustled with the noise, and Jaxen froze half way up, heart pounding, and listened carefully for sounds of acknowledgement.

It was then he heard it. A quiet groan followed by a dry, throaty question. “Is someone there?”


His eyes went straight to her, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed her before. She was similarly restrained as himself but in a corner across the room. Her chains scraped lightly across the cement and next a sunken face leaned forward into the light enough to make her out. Jaxen cringed.

She was sickly pale, with a gaunt face and scraggly, greasy hair. One side of her head was completely patched with the thick matting of dried blood. It was impossible to tell if she was ever once beautiful, or anything else about her really. Then she sunk back into shadow, and Jaxen breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to see any more of her.

“Yeah. Where are we?”
He asked, careful to not throw his voice too far. Whatever was out there, he wasn’t too interested in it coming back anytime soon.

“I don’t know.”
She answered so weak Jaxen strained to hear.

“Who are they?”
He asked, hoping this broad could give him something useful.

There was a long pause. Then finally, she answered, “monsters.”


Jax rolled his eyes, “awesome,”
he said flatly and went back to testing out the chain itself.

There was a rustling sound of an old time key shoved into a door knob. Jaxen’s jaw clenched with challenge. He recognized the man that came in. It was the very same one from the alley. He was pretty sure anyway.

The man wore a standard t-shirt and jeans, but with hard-soled boots covered with muck, giving Jaxen a small clue as to where they were. He had scraggly hair which he shoved behind his ears like he hadn’t had it cut in years, but at least it was clean. He probably didn’t earn a second glance from anyone in the red light district.

He came to stand in front of Jaxen, who quickly found he was too well restrained to kick any more usefully than a whiny infant throwing a tantrum, so he kept his cool and stared the sicko down. Across the way, he heard the girl withdraw like she wanted to sink into the wall behind her.

“Look, I’ll play ball.”
Jaxen started, but the man ignored him, peering upward to check the integrity of the restraints. “I can get my hands on a lot of cash. Anything you want. I am more than happy to deal my way out of here. No questions asked,”
he urged.

The man finally looked him in the eye, blinking briefly, like he were considering what Jaxen just said. Or maybe like he wasn’t quite up with his English. Instead, he smiled a hungry, amused smile and pulled an old swiss-army knife from his pocket. Jaxen swallowed nervously, and felt the tension drain somewhat when the man turned away, but then he walked to the woman, who started pleading incoherencies, and Jaxen frowned, deep and solemn.

He knelt to the girl and grabbed at her greasy hair and held her head still. The rest was blocked from his view, both by shadow and by his menacing shape, but her kicking and squealing was obvious. He yelled, “Hey! Stop!”
And to his amazement, a moment later, the man stopped, and turned around. That sickly greenish-yellow light drenching him. The girl was sobbing in the distance, too exhausted to do much more than simper and groan.

“Just stay away from her!”
Jaxen ordered, then he realized the glisten on that rusted old knife in the man’s one hand and a chunk of something else in his other. The man folded the knife against his thigh and slipped it back in his pocket, smiled, then suckled on the fleshy bend of a ear, bloody in clear demonstration for his next meal to observe. An earring still dangled from the lobe.

“The ears are my favorite part.”
He said, chewing, then left.

Jax sank against the wall behind him, jaw dropped open in utter shock. Fuck me.


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Aug 1 2013, 01:44 PM.

Giovanni smiled as he entered the large open air market. He liked open markets. There were vendors everywhere, a lot of food, and, most importantly, a lot of people he could hide around. It was a lot easier to steal your next meal if there were people you could bump into.

The question foremost in Giovanni's mind was should he pickpocket some cash, steal from a vendor, or cause a little chaos. Giovanni never really understood why he liked seeing all the structure in a particular place fall apart, but he did. He often found himself looking for opportunities to cause chaos. Given his history, however, he had to be careful not to draw attention to himself.

Giovanni looked around at the shops in the market, and decided food was more important at this time. He had been traveling for a long time before eventually arriving in Moscow and was very hungry.

What brought me here
, thought Giovanni. To the center of CCD power.


Giovanni approached a fruit stand surrounded by several people and suddenly stopped.

Am I being watched? Did they find me? Did HE find me?
, he thought looking behind him.

Giovanni sighed. He didn't see an ouroboros following him anywhere. Calmly he approached the fruit stand, working his way through the crowd of people. He waited with a practiced patience, staying far enough away from the stand not to draw the attention of the man selling fruit. As the man, turned away, Giovanni drew closer to the stand slowly. As he reached the front, he looked at the fruit as if examining them to determine which ones were worthy of purchase. He kept in the crowd, blending in as much as possible. Taking another glance at the shopkeeper, Giovanni grabbed a couple of fruits and put them in his pocket. He slowly worked his back through the crowd and continued through the market.


Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, Jul 31 2013, 11:41 PM.

So, you created your character and he or she has been approved. The world is your oyster! But where to start? For those who aren’t sure, here's a quick run-down of the advice often offered new members! (It’s in no particular order)

Check out the biographies of other characters; sometimes you’ll find someone your character is likely to interact with by virtue of their job or location. Send that person a PM. For example, if you’re Atharim, go bug people who write Atharim. Etc. (well, not bug, but ask nicely  - they’re Atharim, after all). A full list of characters can be found here (but keep in mind this includes active and inactive characters, past and present).

Likewise, have a browse through current threads. Most of the time it’s fine to jump straight into these, particularly if it’s taking place in a public place. A thread that’s closed to others should state so either in its title or OOCly in the first post. If you’re not sure or want to be extra polite (or just to earn brownie points) PM the people involved. If you have an explosive entrance in mind, it’s probably best to ask first, otherwise have fun!

Jump into chat, plead the newbie, and ask for help. Usually someone will come to your rescue, or will at least offer ideas. There's a Who's Who guide here which lets you know who writes who and their usual chat handle. If you click on someone's profile, you can also easily see all attached accounts.

Too shy to barge into chat?  (I promise we’re all nice and don’t bite) Shout out for “help!” on the OOC boards, and pretty much the same thing will happen.

Took the plunge, started a thread - and no-one’s joined? It’s always possible other writers aren’t sure how to hop in, or are wondering if the thread is open to other players yet (particularly if the post ends in a way that’s ambiguous or doesn't easily give an opening for someone to write their character in). It's very unlikely you're being ignored, but you can always post something on the OOC board asking for others to join in.

Likewise, if you have an awesome idea for a plot but need other writers to get it off the ground, have a look through the current biographies and make unashamed use of the OOC board and PM system!

--------------------

Aaaaand, that's just about all I can remember/think of. Anyone else have suggestions?

Everyone's life gets hectic once in a while. If you know you're going to be away for a bit, or just haven't got the time to write at the moment, let your fellow writers know here. ^__^

(this is just for general; it's probably a good idea to also PM anybody you're in an actual thread/plot with!)

The Interview Went Well
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

The interview with the Ascendancy went about as well as could be expected. There were a couple tense moments, but overall I found it enlightening. If you read between the lines, we effectively have confirmation that this guy's the biggest enemy the free world's ever faced.

I'm on my way back home from Dayton, but I figured it'd be best to get this out there as soon as possible. I'm sure you were all looking forward to reading it, after all. By the way, sorry Ms. Richardson but he didn't give me any answers on how he looks so young aside from a love of swimming.

Age: 26
Country of Origin: Italy
Current Location: Moscow
Occupation: Vagabond and Petty Thief (Thievery used for survival purposes and occasionally to create some chaos)

Psychological Description:
Giovanni is quiet and reserved, but often enjoys creating chaos in situations - usually to assist with drawing attention away from himself while he is stealing. Due to his past, he is cautious (often paranoid), and slightly mentally unstable. Seeing an ouroboros often causes paranoia and triggers a twitch in his left eye.

Physical Description:
Giovanni stands at 5'11" tall and thin. He dresses in clothing that was made for functionality rather than comfort or style. He prefers darker clothing, because it helps him blend in at night. His hair is short and blonde, although the original color is brown, and blue eyes.

Powers: He is a channeler and a god reborn (Set)
Current Strength Level: 15
Potential Strength Level: 18
Channeler Experience: New

Biography:

Born October 3, 2019, in Rome, Italy

Real Name: Francesco Moretti

Giovanni's parents were members of the Atharim, and as a result he and his brothers were taught about the Atharim from a young age and were expected to join their ranks eventually. Giovanni, back then was named Francesco Moretti, was in training to become an assassin. Primarily, he learned how to stay hidden in the shadows and how to kill without being seen. He worked primarily with blades, although he did have some knowledge of firearms.

One day when he was 23, Giovanni was doing work on the roof of his parents house. He fell off the roof and unknowingly channeled for the first time. He was able to wrap himself in a shield of air, protecting himself. He was unhurt, but ten days later, he acquired the channeling sickness.

He struggled with the sickness for a few months before finally being hospitalized. When he realized what had happened, he knew the Atharim would be looking for him. Upon release from the hospital, he attempted to flee, but was met with resistance. The Atharim had sent his older brother and his nephew to retrieve him. Giovanni was backed into a corner and knew that capture would lead to his eventual death. Afraid he would be killed, Giovanni channeled, but for the first time, he was aware of his channeling. He channeled lightning that struck his brother, killing him. Stray bolts hit his nephew knocking him unconscious. Giovanni took the opportunity to flee, eventually making his way to Venice.

Giovanni knew the Atharim, and most likely his nephew, would come seeking him, so he had to blend in. What little money he had, he used to dye his hair and buy clothing that fit in with local customs. To get food and money, he used his talents of stealth to steal. He stole only little amounts, careful not to draw any attention. Eventually, he stole enough to bribe a civil worker to create a false identity. If you look in the records of Venice, Italy, you will find that on March, 10, 2019, Giovanni Cavelli was born.

With that, Giovanni started a new life. He kept his hair dyed and kept on the move most of the time. The encounter with his brother had unhinged him a bit, and as a result he often tried to create chaos to amuse himself or help with thieving. He primarily stole at night, but had also become more brave and would pickpocket during the day as he got farther away from Rome. The most prevalent part of his mental instability was paranoia that he was being followed. It would usually manifest itself if he saw an ouroboros.

As a child, it was ingrained in him that channeling was an abomination, as a result, he never tried to channel or seek anyone to train him or to remove his block (he must be afraid to channel). He just kept traveling, always worried that his vengeful nephew and the Atharim would find him.

By chance or by fate, in the year 2045, Giovanni arrived in Moscow.

Aeva was not sure that it could be called a 'good' thing, but there were some of the ragged remnants of the North-West British population who had managed to find a way of making themselves useful. In the case of Terry Hinchcliffe, it had been to find the hull of an old wooden ship near-beached at low tide after the Great Wave had claimed nearly everything along the western coastline. Nobody seemed to own the vessel and he had made something of a hobby of fixing her up, having floated it to the bottom of his back garden once the tide came in again.
It was mostly sound; it floated and only leaked a little in rough weather - not enough to make it a real risk of sinking. But the best was that rich people thought an actual wooden ship with actual canvas sails and a real anchor as tall as a person was quite charming. And they liked to hire it to hold receptions, listen to singers, make speeches and do other things that rich people could afford to do on an unusual, floating venue.
And having learned his trade mostly from books and stumbling around in shallower waters and coastal regions, Terry wasn't especially fussy about the legitimacy of any crew who cared to sign aboard. He had a few permanents who didn't really get paid, except in food and board, and others who did because they knew something about old wooden ships and taught him something new about his adopted trade.
But Aeva had learned her own skills mostly from a book and extrapolation. Sailmaking - or rather repairing - was not so far removed from the business of a seamstress, and so in return for help with his worse-for-wear canvas and some tutoring of himself and his crew, Terry overlooked the fact that Aeva's passport was a fake, that she came aboard with one small bag in which were the precious tools of her trade and that passage, her food and her accommodation were all that she asked in return for everything she was willing to do and teach.
It had been a good plan which worked like a charm, and when she arrived in Moscow, it gave her confidence that the next stage of her plan would also work.
Aeva had been denied a passport by the CCD authorities. She had actually found herself angry and wondered whether it was the activities of her late father, or her oldest brother Karl who she could blame for that. There was the possibility it was Taren, but... well - if the CCD had any idea what he was doing, then she would have been hauled in to answer questions. And if she didn't know where he was or what he was doing, then it was very unlikely that the CCD did, either. Getting a phony passport was more expensive and only a little less difficult than getting a real one!
Eventually she had left word at home that she would be taking a tour with Terry Hinchcliffe, and had decided to trust Terry himself with her destination - after all, it had technically been his decision! If Taren came out of hiding and needed her, that was the only trail she had dared leave.
Aeva also knew that her passport was never going to pass muster with the people at the border control. Illegal immigrants tried to get over the border all the time, were taken to detention and then returned to wherever it was they came from. At least that was the official line, but Aeva couldn't trust that. She was sure some did make it back home... well - she knew they did, but 'some' was not 'all'. She hoped that whoever assisted her in getting into Moscow made it back home - and wished him or her a better life there when they got back.
She was helped by a little teenage goth who reminded her of Karl when he was that age. He made such a fuss about his passport being refused, that Aeva was able to slip unnoticed into another queue, and while the guard looked across to the ruckus, wondering whether he was going to be needed to help put the problem away, she showed her fake ID, which was duly stamped and she was waved along with the rest of the crowd, anxiously looking back to see the boy being restrained and taken away. The man who had let her go was shaking his head and frowning, paying heed to the next woman in the queue.
So Aeva walked out onto the streets of Moscow, heading for the only place an illegal immigrant could go... the Underground City.
Edited by Aeva, Jul 31 2013, 09:45 AM.

I better not be the only one surprised.
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

As you should already know if you've been keeping track of my articles, Nikolai Brandon, dictator of the Central Custody of Dominion (now there's a proper title) is coming to the United States to attempt to woo the American people. Darth Brandon never gives up trying to turn us to the dark side, after all. None of that's new news, but what I've got to tell you now better surprise you all more than it surprised me.

When I got in to work this morning, my secretary told me that the Ascendancy, yes that Ascendancy, has requested for me to interview him at the power summit next week. Now, I'm sure you're all expecting me to disappear after entering the room, never to be seen again. Fear not, I'm... pretty sure that won't happen. But if my next article is broadcast from a gulag, don't tell me "I told you so."

I can only wonder at why Brandon would request that I of all people interview him. The most obvious reasons are to attempt to discredit me somehow, or to improve his image on Vulpesnet which I'm proud to say has a near-unanimous negative opinion of him. Or hey, maybe the continent-conquering dictator just has a sense of humor and wants to see what will happen if he's in the same room as his biggest enemy in the media. Don't worry, most likely there won't be any fist fights breaking out.

Brandon has been something of an enigma since gaining power in Russia some 20 years ago. Reporters were able to trace his origins back to America, but aside from that next to nothing is known. Assuming that the questions pass his censors, I'm hoping to get a bit more information on where he's from and how he's managed to conquer half the world. Him being from Massachusetts sure would explain a lot, at least on the policy side of things.

Of course, the censors are going to be fairly strict, as they always are with dictators. Remember the last time someone asked Kim Jong Un  about how he plans to deal with the corruption and starvation in his country? Of course you don't, because it didn't happen. Incidentally, Kim's unwillingness to field questions of that nature may have been part of the reason his people revolted. Not that anything of the sort could occur within the CCD.

Nevertheless, I'll try to get as much of the good stuff as I can. Alongside the release of the interview, I'll be publishing a list of questions that were denied by the censors. There's usually just as much to read in what's not said as in what is.

In any case, there are a lot of questions that I and by extension the American people want answered. In support of Democracy, leave a comment with a question; maybe it will make it onto the list I bring to interview the dictator.

<em>Published by Vulpesnet, 2045. U.S.A</em>

Comments are: <strong>OPEN</strong>

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((From: Scoping for Ink

Rune said goodbye to Thalia after making contact arrangements. The tattoo was going to be amazing, she thought. Thalia's style was right up her alley, and she couldn't wait to see what it was going to look like. But there was time to daydream about the image and what her mom would think of it and what the symbol meant, all of that stuff later. Right now, Rune was walking alongside someone she was willing to bet was an Atharim, and not a newly official Atharim like Rune was. She may have been born into the life, but it wasn't official until visiting an elder and going through the rites, at least that's what Uncle Seth said. But there was one thing that always bugged Rune about that. Oh well, it wasn't Rune's place to figure stuff like that out. She had a job to do.

"Let's take the metro," she suggested and pointed out a set of stairs leading underground. "Have you been on the metro here yet? It's pretty incredible actually."

The blue line was three levels down, which meant a lot of stairs. But it wasn't dingy and dank. The Moscow metro system was like walking through a museum. There were enormous pillars holding up the lofty tiled ceilings. There was marble and gilding. Yet there was something about being underground that made Rune feel confined. Like there was nowhere to run if something went wrong, but she chalked it up to being used to big skies and open road. She certainly wasn't claustrophobic, and it was hard to be homesick when you really didn't have a single place you called home. Just Uncle Seth.

She swiped a metro fare card and passed through the X-ray scanner without incident. She pistol in her bag registered, but carrying was perfectly legal in the CCD, so she was cleared without incident. She handed the card back through to Aria to use and follow. They drew a lot of annoyed looks, almost as many as there were curious looks. Seriously, between Rune's pink fuzzed scalp and Aria's swords, they must look like a couple of conventioneers.


((I kind of moded us along, I hope that's cool!))