More details about bio are on the wiki

Karim Al’Shaidis was born in 2018, in Tehran, into a secular, cosmopolitan family for whom preparedness was a matter of routine rather than ideology. His father worked as a civil infrastructure engineer, specializing in seismic resilience and post-event structural assessment. His mother was a public health administrator, coordinating emergency medical logistics during regional crises. Dinner table conversations were rarely dramatic, but they were practical: load limits, evacuation timing, supply bottlenecks, what failed and why.

His early childhood unfolded during a decade in which earthquakes and aftershocks were no longer singular events but recurring disruptions. His parents taught him to keep his shoes by the door and his documents in order. Not out of fear, but practicality. Order was not a philosophy. It was how people slept through the night. Meanwhile, schools closed, reopened, and adapted. Buildings were rebuilt, then reinforced again. Karim learned early that safety was not assumed. It was maintained.

Quiet and observant by nature, Karim was socially at ease but disinclined toward attention. He listened more than he spoke, absorbed systems before questioning them, and showed a natural patience for slow, methodical work. When others reacted to instability with urgency or fear, Karim responded by narrowing his focus and doing what needed to be done next.

He completed formal education in civil and disaster systems engineering, but it was never the academic side that defined him. He gravitated quickly toward field deployment, working with international stabilization and humanitarian coordination groups operating in regions of prolonged unrest across sub-Saharan and coastal East Africa. His work placed him at the intersection of emergency response, infrastructure stabilization, and civilian coordination.

By his early twenties, Karim was already trusted with on-site authority during volatile operations. He understood how systems broke under stress, but more importantly, how people did. He learned that most disasters were survivable until poor decisions compounded them. That understanding, more than ambition or ideology, kept him in the field long after others rotated out.

It was during one of these deployments, already fully operational and experienced, that he first manifested the ability to channel.

Karim first sparked his ability to channel at age 22. The manifestation was powerful and disorienting, emerging during a protective act in the field that prevented large-scale loss of life. Untrained and wary of the power, he was careful with restraint. He developed a self-imposed block, requiring him to physically endure a sense of weight such as holding something heavy, pressing against an immovable surface, or carrying a heavy load. It was used sparingly, only when it served others, and never for personal gain.

For several years, Karim operated quietly, his anomalous actions folded into the chaos of disaster zones. Eventually, the scale and consistency of his interventions drew the attention of CCD intelligence. He was formally recruited through Michael Vellas, but it was the Ascendancy that secured his commitment, framing the Nine Rods of Dominion as guardians of global stability rather than instruments of domination.

Within the Nine Rods of Dominion, Karim quickly distinguished himself as one of the strongest channelers, surpassed only by Im Seung Jun and Michael Vellas. Yet it was not strength alone that elevated him. He absorbed responsibility when operations went wrong, mediated disputes without theatrics, and made difficult decisions without needing recognition. Michael relied on him to stabilize volatile situations. Others followed because he was fair, controlled, and unwavering under pressure. Despite the lack of formal hierarchy among the eight, Karim became their de facto leader.

Personality

Karim is lawful in the truest sense of the word. He believes conduct and morality exist to protect people, not to excuse harm. Collateral damage justified as “necessary” unsettles him deeply. When such harm occurs, he does not openly rebel or grandstand. He continues to function with precision and professionalism, but he remembers. Trust, once withdrawn, is not often restored.

His driving motivation is not power or legacy, but proof. Proof that the world is actually becoming safer. Proof that restraint, accountability, and protection matter. Proof that the structures he serves reduce harm rather than merely rationalize it.

Karim does not seek command. He does not posture. He stands where systems fail and holds them together long enough for others to survive.

Appearance

Karim stands at 6’1″, his build is lean and athletic in a way that suggests long hours of physical work rather than deliberate bodybuilding. He carries himself with an easy, grounded posture, shoulders relaxed but ready, as if balance and stability are habits he never quite sets aside. His features are sharp but calm: dark, expressive eyes set beneath strong brows, a straight nose, and a clean-shaven jaw that gives him an open, direct look. His hair is dark and worn short, usually slightly unruly, softening an otherwise serious presence. There is nothing flashy about his appearance, yet it draws attention all the same. He looks like someone accustomed to responsibility, fit from use rather than vanity, with a quiet intensity that reads as reliability long before it reads as power.

I have a question. I know some of you have some 4th age past lives. I was wondering what criteria they fall under.  Other than the dark one isn't there.  It's thriving after Rand saves things, tech and magic are starting to make a resurrgance. 

I'm just curious.

I'm considering adding another life to Nox's past lives.  One in the 4th age that is a spun out Hero of the Horn.  (Though I don't know if it's necessary as Geb might possibly qualify as a hero for the actual things he did before the god wars.)  Which I don't actually know if he participated on what side lol.

”Detective Guerro,” Captain Dolohov’s voice grabbed Marisol’s attention. She entered his office as he gestured for her to do so. ”Get the files together for the case you’ve been working on. The dead man - pale with the burnt eyes. Domovoi is taking it over.”

Marisol sighed in frustration. ”Sir, I’ve been..”

The Captain raised his hand to silence her. ”I know, detective, but you know the regulations. Someone from Domovoi will be here to get the file and evidence. And get ready for a long night. Weather isn’t letting up, we might be stuck here for awhile.”

Marisol was dismissed and she left feeling the frustration deep in her bones. It was a frustration all detectives had at one point or another. You do the work and as things are coming together and then another unit steps in and says they’re taking over. She had worked hard on this case. It had started with a welfare check call. Someone called because their friend had been acting strange - reporting increasing paranoia that he was being stalked. When the friend had lost contact, he’d called for a welfare check. The fire department showed up and had found a corpse. 

Marisol had come to the scene. The body had been pale. Almost like it had been drained of blood. The eyes were burnt, but it looked like it had come from the inside. There were other burn marks too, incompatible with the eye burns. There were burn marks around the room in the apartment as well as water stains. Papers were swept around like a wind had blown through it. The smoke detector hadn’t gone off - it had appeared damaged. Marisol had found journals there. The victim had written them. They gave credence to the witness’s story. There were repeated entries that stated the victim had multiple times seen something out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked there was nothing there. 

Marisol’s reports had been meticulous. Other detectives gave her a hard time for it sometimes, but DAs loved it. Her cases never got thrown out of court for something as mundane as the evidence was mislabeled. She documented everything: pictures, witness statements, the journals, and the toxicology and coroner’s reports. Some had thought maybe drugs - but the toxicology report was clean. The coroner had been stumped as well, labeling the cause of death as “inconclusive”. Everything was there. The more she dug into the case, the more she felt that the victim hadn’t been paranoid. Something had been following him. Her report didn’t state that yet. It was a gut feeling at this point. 

Marisol took the paperwork to the evidence lock up to collect it for the Domovoi people. She’d get everything together for them and have it in order. Some cops didn’t organize it. A small little jab that they were pissed that their case was being taken. Marisol was a team player, and even if she was frustrated, she wasn’t angry. She understood it. She had been a minute away from calling them herself. But even if she wasn’t angry, she couldn’t keep the frustration out of her posture as unbuttoned her suit coat to take a seat and begin to make sure she had everything in order. [/b]

Mitsuki Hayashi (林 光月)

Full bio on her wiki

Mitsuki Hayashi is Yuta Hayashi’s only acknowledged child. That alone makes her dangerous: irreplaceable, leveraged, potentially breakable. Yuta built his life on patience, opportunism, and a ruthless understanding that tradition only matters when it serves power. He did not raise Mitsuki to inherit; he raised her to endure.

Born in Japan in the early 2020s, Mitsuki spent her childhood moving between Tokyo and Kyoto, always adjacent to Edenokōji-gumi life but never inside it. Her homes were immaculate, curated by invisible hands, while her father’s presence was intermittent. She learned early the difference between respect and fear, which rooms were forbidden, and which conversations died upon her entrance. Questions went unanswered. Observation proved more reliable. Power does not explain itself – Mitsuki learned to watch.

Her body was trained before her mind was trusted. Etiquette and hosting were functional: read rooms, recognise insecurity, note behaviour. Nihon buyō and later Kagura taught discipline, precision, and the language of stillness. Every movement – a tilt, a sweep, a pause – conveyed intent. Mistakes were corrected relentlessly; praise was irrelevant. Dance trained her to assert or dissolve control, to survive under observation.

When the gumi probed Russia in the 2030s, Yuta sent her abroad. Education was the official reason; preparation, the true one. Displacement taught her to be foreign everywhere, to read cultural fault lines, and to survive without belonging. Japanese, English, and Russian became tools of inheritance, survival, and preparation. Observation remained her skill: her value grew not from secrets but from understanding how people behaved when no one important was watching.

Dance evolved alongside her. Away from Japan, nihon buyō became a tool of control; Kagura, internal grounding. She added contemporary, butoh, ballet, and physical theatre, mastering weight, balance, release, and presence. Her movement defied categorisation: precise but fluid, disciplined yet unpredictable. To observe Mitsuki was to confront both grace and intent; her dances became a language of influence.

As she matured, Yuta allowed the gumi to notice her — not as a negotiator, enforcer, or heir, but as a presence. She attended dinners, seasonal observances, and cultural events without explanation. Initially dismissed as ornamental, she became a silent measure of accuracy: careless remarks resurfaced inconveniently, tone shifted subtly in her presence, and those who underestimated her learned that nothing spoken near her vanished. Her influence was informal, deniable, and therefore untouchable.

Within the Edenokōji-gumi, Mitsuki’s position is ambiguous but potent. She holds no formal authority, yet her proximity to Yuta confers immediate weight. Senior members respect or resent her subtle influence; younger members mythologise her. She is underestimated at first – ornamental, inconsequential – and then unavoidably relevant. She is both inside and outside the gumi hierarchy: too close to ignore, too distant to confront, a living gauge of truth and consequence. Her presence alone shifts dynamics; her composure communicates more than rank ever could.

Her dance – later known as Tsuki no Mai – became central to her mythos. Rare, restrained, deliberate, it rearranged rooms without spectacle. Rumours spread: that when she danced, someone’s fate was already decided; that her movements marked the condemned; that violence or correction followed in her wake. Observers debated the meaning. Outcomes – collapsed deals, realigned alliances, tempered rivalries – followed patterns they could not trace. Some feared her, others revered her; all treated her presence differently. Mitsuki did not decide fate; she revealed it. Each performance was tuned to the room, oscillating between playful irreverence and cold precision. Arrogance softened; tension dissolved; hierarchy subtly shifted. Tsuki no Mai existed at the edge of control, a living negotiation rendered in movement.

She performs only when stakes justify it: to unsettle, recalibrate, or remind others that the Oyabun’s blood is present. Rarity preserves potency. Freedom, she learned, is not given; it is allowed if one remains useful without inconveniencing power. Her dances are both shield and instrument, her body her armour and language.

Yuta brought Mitsuki to Moscow in 2047, after the first Companion Clubs opened. In Tokyo, she might have been married off by now, preserved as a symbol. In Moscow, where tradition is optional and the rules are flexible, she has become something else entirely: a strategic asset. Her presence signals that Yuta believes in the project enough to put blood near it.

The weather had been getting worse. She was grateful for the day off -- not that she had intended to be home, but having a stuffy nose and the cold ass weather didn't seem like a good mix so she had stayed home. 

And as the snow fell Ilesha remembered the last blizard she'd been through with her parents, how the ground was white -- and the city was dead silent. Moscow had slowed to a crawl but it was still trying. It wasn't that dead yet -- yet being the keyword. It was only going to get worse.

Ilesha hunkered down in her own apartment but she had to check on the garage below first. Last thing she needed was for the doors to cave in because of the snow.  Buring all the equipment inside would be bad. And cost too much money for both her semi-employeer and herself. She didn't want to have to replace things when she could make sure everything was shored up nice and tight -- a little magic here -- a little there and it would all be good.

She might have to undo some of it later -- like the tiny hinges might get sealed shut but that was the price you paid for strength -- the tiny little movments might be impared.  That was the biggest problem she was finding in making her armor.  That strength and movement seemed counter intuitive. She needed to find a better way.

But she was down stairs in the garage -- well outside it.  Her hands on the walls filling the cracks with the power.  She wasn't going to let her home fall because of the storm or poor maintenance.

As the snow reaches the third-story windows of the Arbat District, a secondary crisis is emerging within the freezing, darkened apartment blocks. While the Ministry of Emergency Situations struggles with the structural collapse of older buildings under the 20-meter snowpack, a terrifying medical phenomenon is targeting Moscow’s female population—specifically those registered as "Sensitive" or "Channelers".

What was initially dismissed as "cabin fever" or hypothermia-induced delirium has taken a darker, more uniform turn. Witnesses trapped in the Presnensky District describe a "shifting mist" that appears to move against the wind, slipping through ventilation shafts and crushed window seals.

Whispers among the displaced suggest that a creature of myth and curse—is roaming the buried city.

"It wasn't a seizure," says Dmitri S., a survivor from a partially collapsed block on Tverskaya Street. "My sister was trying to use a small weave to keep the pipes from freezing. Suddenly, she went rigid. Her eyes rolled back, but she kept holding the Power. She started speaking in a voice that sounded like grinding ice—talking about 'Ages of Bronze' and 'Tablets of Stone.' She nearly burned the room down before she collapsed with a massive hemorrhage from her nose."

As the eldest Vas child, Dominik always carried responsibilities that extended far beyond the Carnival stage. Renáta watched him closely, teaching him not just illusion, but the burdens of command. She expected him to understand the balance of the carnival as a living entity: the schedules, the tensions, the rivalries, and the fragile loyalties that kept families together and the carnival moving.

His mother's lessons were subtle. She rarely issued direct orders; instead, she presented situations and let Dominik navigate them, correcting missteps later with quiet guidance or a pointed glance. Sometimes she tested him publicly, letting him mediate disputes in front of performers or visitors, watching how he handled tension without revealing frustration or indecision. Each success earned her a nod, each failure a silent weighing in her mind.

Dominik understood that being the eldest meant he would one day inherit more than an act — it was the future of the carnival itself. He learned to negotiate with suppliers, balance the needs of families, and anticipate logistical crises before they arose. Every mistake could ripple outward; every decision had consequence. In this way, Dominik became more than a performer. He became the anchor, the steadying hand behind the music, the illusions, and the spectacle.

Despite the weight, Dominik never resented Renáta. He respected her mind, admired her authority, and recognised the sacrifices she made to maintain the Vas legacy. But their relationship was a delicate dance. She could be exacting, critical, and unyielding, and he had to learn to take instruction without letting it harden him. The lessons of restraint, discipline, and foresight were intertwined with his deepest fears: that he could fail those who relied on him, that the wildness of his soul might one day overwhelm his careful balance — and cost others the safety he had promised them.

Renáta’s influence shaped both the man and the performer. Onstage, Dominik learned precision and control; offstage, he learned strategy, foresight, and patience. His natural charisma and quiet authority made others trust him instinctively, but the trust was earned through diligence, care, and adherence to responsibility. Even as he danced on the edge of latent power and untamed instinct, he understood that his life had always been larger than his desires.

Entrance into the CCD has been functionally restricted for anyone trying to enter from the USA. 

This is in effort to protect CCD border from potential threats. Access through other regions (e.g. Africa, China) is unaffected. Anyone who is a CCD citizen who attempts to enter into the CCD from the USA will be given additional review, but there will be significant delay. Therefore, any CCD citizen who wants to return home before the functional closure should make haste. 

This restriction is enacted at 6 am EST / 11 am UTC on January 1, 2047. It is unknown how long this restriction will last. 

Notes for players: there are likely ways to get around these issues for someone with connections, but for the general person, this will be a problem.

Zizi’s little gathering didn’t turn out to be terrible, though it had been filled mostly with old men. But much like her brother, Jia Xin was effortlessly adaptable, and whatever she might have truly thought of the company she was all grace and laughter for the duration. The Covenant and its clubs did not immediately interest her – the Kaos already ran numerous entertainment venues across East Asia, and Moscow was a cold and grim city. Aside from the business she was decidedly coy about, she had little intention of staying longer than necessary. At least until Zixin let slip a particular name, and Jia Xin’s brow arched coolly. A look between siblings if ever there was one. Her opinion changed after that, and she made her intention clear to him immediately. If Ozy was involved, Jia Xin wanted one of the clubs for her own. Zixin rarely denied her anything; he never had. The moment his amusement at her demands was both magnanimous and indulgent, her tact changed to suit. She was a sly creature, and she realised immediately that it was not him she must convince, but this Covenant itself.

It wasn’t hard, of course. A little healthy wagering and boasting: that a club under the Kao’s design and purview would be the most successful of the lot. Not that Jia Xin actually intended to do anything so base as run it herself. Before the conversation had even gotten cold her diamond tipped nails had tapped a message to Connie on her wallet. He’d not refuse. And by the time she called him directly, in the early hours after the party had finally wound down, she knew he’d be on the first flight to Moscow. Jia Xin’s own plans adjusted seamlessly. Perhaps the city would be more tolerable with Constantine’s company.

The next day she met the security arranged through Pervaya Liniya: a bespectacled British man Jia Xin did little more than glance at for now. He was formal, polite, and he fit into her schedule without fuss. She was not interested in making conversation.

After some quick deliberation over a lavish breakfast in her suite, she called home and asked Liyana to arrange a realtor to shortlist suitable properties. Her cousin exclaimed aghast down the phone, but Jia Xin only laughed and told her Moscow was not so bad as all that. Zixin might be content to slum it in a hotel, but Jia Xin was not so easily satisfied. Not that it wasn’t as beautiful as the man who owned it, but Zizi ought to be sending the message that he intended to stay – and that included a suitably impressive home for a Kao. Fortunately he had a dutiful sister to take care of such things. Afterwards she called her Yeye to ask his forgiveness – always an easier conversation than begging for permission. By the time Connie arrived, Jia Xin’s visit here would no longer be secret: the socials would be abuzz with rumour and speculation once they were within one another’s orbit. Better to tell her grandfather now that she intended to stay.

To fill her time she explored the city a little that day, and found the experience entirely novel. No one recognised her, which was in equal measures refreshing and disconcerting. Though she had to share the space with other tourists, something she decided she was less enamoured of. Navigating transport was unfamiliar too, but she found a use for Edwin Dean then, and to his credit he did not complain. Later, after a dinner dined alone in Radiance’s exquisite restaurant, Jia Xin dressed and readied herself for the business which had brought her to Moscow in the first place. A quiet thrill hummed in her stomach, a smile on the edge of her lips.

The sun set early this time of year, and the industrial district was not busy – or the part she had the car directed to, anyway. Jia Xin’s clothes were dark and serviceable, and she wore no jewellery or adornment, but somehow she still looked rich. She let Edwin open the car door, but did not pause to wait for him when she stepped out into the cold. A man stood by a warehouse door, tall, long hair smoothed back from his temples. He was not watching for her arrival; rather, he seemed to be thinking quietly, and yet his eyes found her anyway, swiped quickly to Edwin Dean, and then returned to her.

“Ms Kao?” he said. His voice was smooth, accented.

It has been months since he'd stumbled upon the doors of Paragon. Since he tried to find information on Raffe inside the walls. He'd met their primary IT security both in person and in the super information highways. The kid was good, if a little slow and highly distracted. It didn't take much to push him somewhere and keep him busy while he did other things.

But now he was here, sitting in a room waiting for his first day.  The snow was coming down, but he'd made it into the glass building. Aiden had asked him why? and Sage just shrugged. "I can't live off your good graces for all eternity." Which he wasn't but Aiden didn't need to know all his little secrets.  Though he kept nothing from the man he loved -- he just didn't share all the details.