The busyness of the Red Square had diminished in recent weeks. Autumn was shifting into winter soon, and the wind promised its imminent arrival. The tourists had decreased in numbers, but Moscovites remained aplenty. He set up shop near the entrance to St. Basil’s cathedral. A small table displayed holographic information about the location, hours, and times that Seekers were welcome to explore the Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame. The spire was only a few miles to the north, and while it was overwhelmingly tall, it could not be seen from present location.

Quillon wore his long purple robe, the collar high and curled around the back of his neck, with the symbol of the Veilwardens sewn upon the breast. Beneath were simple clothing, black trousers and a scoop-neck shirt. The robe kept him warm, but he was born and raised in Moscow, the temperature would need to plummet before needing adding a coat and scarf.

He began his oration, imploring to those passing to turn to the Ascendancy, a modern day god in flesh form, and of course, to join the Brotherhood in their acknowledgment of such a being. Several people stopped to scan their information, no too few because the current speaker was so intense about his oration.

After a short time, a Red Devil approached, one of the armed security who monitored the Red Square’s safety. Quillon frowned, saying as the Guard approached: “Now hold on, I have a permit to be here,” which he promptly showed. The Devil, in his orange, red and black uniform shook his head. “Permit is only good for coded areas. This isn’t one of them. You’ll have to move on.” He pointed.

Quillon guffawed, “Not according to your own damn website. This is perfectly legal.”

The Devil folded his arms, growing impatient. “Look, we’ve been lenient with the Brotherhood plenty of times in the past. Coded areas change frequently. Move on or you’ll be issued a citation. I hate to ban another one of you.”

Quillon begrudgingly packed up his stuff, casting a jealous look at the red walls of the Kremlin before ducking off toward a side street. Finally, he found a decent corner outside an artist’ gallery and began again.

Quillon Hawke grew up in the somber environment of his family’s funeral home. His parents taught him the basics of embalming and corpse care, and once old enough to help, Quillon found solace in the ritualistic nature of the work. The macabre surroundings, however, made him an outcast among his peers, who viewed his family’s profession with a mix of disturbance and disgust.

Quillon was neither obsessed with nor disturbed by corpses; he simply accepted death as a natural part of life. His pragmatic view of mortality led him to judge those who feared death as weak, a belief he held until his own brush with mortality as a young adult.

Diagnosed with bone marrow cancer, Quillon’s life took a drastic turn. During the search for a compatible donor, he discovered that the couple who raised him were not his biological parents. This revelation triggered a familial crisis, but his adoptive mother insisted that their bond was stronger than blood. Despite therapy and support, Quillon struggled with his identity and his impending death. He remained on a wait-list for a transplant for several years.

His condition was deteriorating despite the difficult treatments. One night, as he slept in his hospital bed, he was awoken by mysterious man dressed entirely in white, with a white mask obscuring his face, visiting him. The stranger offered to pray for Quillon, promising healing through the blessing of God. Trusting the man felt natural, and Quillon agreed. Miraculously, his cancer was cured then and there. In the moments that followed, he begged to know the stranger’s identity, but the man revealed only that he was a messenger of the Ascendancy.

The next day, driven by gratitude and a newfound sense of purpose, Quillon visited the Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame and pledged himself to the Brotherhood of Ascension. His family and many acquaintances soon followed, becoming Embers, the Brotherhood’s devoted followers.

Soon after, Quillon held the level of Novam, the first stage of initiation, and he was a devout member. During a ritual at the Sanctuary where men and women, young and old gathered to unify themselves in song and chanting, he channeled for the first time, an event that always stirred great excitement among the Brotherhood. The stroke of flame was undeniable, and he was swiftly elevated to the level of Aethermancer.

Later that same day, the Ascendancy saved the city from a nuclear bomb, further solidifying Quillon’s obsession with the Brotherhood’s mission, and now he was driven to full worship of this being. He believed that the ultimate goal was to ascend closer to the Ascendancy and share in his secrets if deemed worthy, but he was not alone in this ambition. As an Aethermancer, Quillon witnessed the savage competition among leaders, especially those who could channel – few of them as there were. He realized that to achieve his ambition of becoming Luminar himself, he needed to pass the trial to become a Veilwarden, which required proving his channeling abilities against another person. This would take time and practice, but Quillon was determined.

The Hall of Stars was a sight to behold, its dome adorned with celestial murals that glowed softly in the dim light. The air buzzed with anticipation as the Novams, including Quillon, gathered for the evening’s ritual. Quillon stood among his peers, his heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and excitement. The Luminar, cloaked in deep charcoal robes, raised his hands to silence the murmurs. “Tonight, we seek the blessings of the Ascendancy. We invite his divine energy to flow through us, to guide us, and to reveal those chosen to guard the veil between man and mortal.”

The ritual began with a low, resonant chant, the voices of the Novams and Aethermancers blending into a harmonious hum. Quillon closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm of the chants and the pulsating energy that seemed to emanate from the very walls of the Sanctuary.


As the chanting intensified, the  Luminar stepped forward, his voice echoing through the Hall. “Who among you shall channel the divine energy tonight?”

Quillon felt a surge of power within him, a force that demanded release. He raised his hand, stepping into the center of the circle. The Luminar nodded, his eyes filled with curiosity and anticipation. The Brotherhood had gathered for this purpose.

“Focus, Quillon. May the Ascendancy guide you.” the Luminar instructed.

Across from him was Veilwarden Loric, a seasoned channeler about four years older than him. He felt the energy building, and suddenly it rushed into his body like a chasm of fire. With a final, deep breath, he raised his hands, and a beam of bright red light shot outward.

Gasps filled the hall as the radiant energy was unfurled, illuminating the room with a hellish glow. The power was overwhelming yet exhilarating, and he felt a deep connection to something far greater than himself. He channeled the energy with precision.

Loric wasted no time. With a swift motion, he summoned a wave of dark energy, canceling Quillon’s beam. In turn, Quillon summoned his twin shadowy blades of death, slicing through the incoming energy with precision.

Loric’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly regained his composure, launching another barrage of dark energy. Quillon deftly deflected the attacks with his blades, moving ever closer to Loric with each swipe.

Quillon knew he needed to end the trial quickly. Channeling his energy, he transformed his dual blades into a single, massive scythe. The weapon hummed with power, its edge sharp enough to cut through anything in its path. In a final move, Quillon swept the scythe low, catching Loric off balance and knocking him to the ground. Loric landed with a thud, his breath knocked out of him. Breathing heavily, Quillon stood over his fallen opponent, his heart pounding in his chest.

The Luminar hurried into the floor, his face a mix of awe and respect, and with a voice ringing through the chamber, he declared: “You are worthy to guard the veil between man and mortal. Rise, Veilwarden Quillon Hawke, for you are one step closer to ascension.”

As the light faded, the hall erupted in applause and chants of praise. Quillon turned in a circle, feeling a profound sense of accomplishment and clarity. He knew this was just the beginning, but it was a significant step toward his ultimate goal. The scythe disappeared, and as he assisted Loric to his feet, the defeated Veilwarden was aghast with fear before hurrying out of the arena. The crowd began to disperse, and the Luminar approached Quillon, placing a hand on his shoulder. Though the gesture was meant to be congratulatory, there was a lingering shock in the Luminar’s eyes. He leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Your power is overflowing with darkness, Quillon. Be mindful of how you use it. There are those who will see you as a threat now.” His voice lingered and Quillon had the sudden impression that the Luminar was one such person. The warning echoed in his mind as he left the arena, knowing that the Luminar’s instincts were absolutely correct.

About

Quillon Hawke is a son of Nikolai Brandon, whom was ignorant of his conception. For several years peripheral to the formation of the CCD, a member of the Memento Mori altered Nikolai’s contraception, rendering it ineffective. Conceptions were monitored and when one occurred, the child was ushered elsewhere. Quillon was one such child. His birth-mother is long gone, and the Memento Mori still track his whereabouts from afar as they track others.

Quillon is a Veilwarden in the Brotherhood of Ascension. He is 22 years old, and ever since he sparked the ability to channel, he has obsessively devoted his days and time to achieving the rank of Veilwarden. Now that he has achieved that milestone, he plans to use every connection he has to find the man in white, and then, the Ascendancy.

Quillon is the reborn soul of Anubis, Egyptian god of the dead.

There was an itch, a scratching at his head. The horde clawed at his mind.  They had been fueled and there had been no relief.  The violence was only a small factor. It had brought up memories. It had kick started old memories and then he'd found Sae in the bedroom dead. He needed to find Ori to take the edge off.  She sent a set of coordinates. He didn't expect much more.  And if she wasn't there he'd ask Sage to track her. Though he probably owed his friend quite a bit. He owed Ori.

And since he was taking public transportation around Moscow and she was likely riding around on her bike he could easily lose her. But if she found something to numb herself she'd stay put.  At least hopefully long enough till he caught up with her.

Nox arrived at the coordinates in a very seedy neighborhood.  The bar was some local hole in the wall, the neon flickering just enough to make things eire and creepy. He walked into the bar. It was just the sort of place Oriena liked.  He looked around for the leather clad woman he was looking for..

[[ I'll let you decide if Ori moved on or not ]]

So the party at Nox's house is welcome to anyone who might find a way to get the invitation. So far it hasn't gone viral like his Kallisti appearance but there is nottelling what will happen lol.

BUT if you'd like to come write and don't want to have an invite there is a list of hackers who could use a writer if you wanted to just come hang out.

https://thefirstage.org/wiki/mantinomian/

None of them are claimed, just names I wanted to used to convey jobs for the organization that Xander and anyone else who wants to use and doesn't want to think up names.

They are zealots of a sort so there is that in their personas. but anything else is totally free and open to anyone.  Or make up your own, and add them to the list of zealots they worship a monster called a dijiraq. https://thefirstage.org/wiki/dijiraq/

Anyone is welcome: https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-16...18900.html

Jaxen lounged on his couch, scrolling through his wallet absentmindedly. His fingers froze as a notification popped up, updating Nox's contact information. He blinked, barely believing his eyes. Nox had finally bought a house.

A slow grin spread across his face. “Well, well, Nox. You’ve finally settled down,” he murmured to himself. His mind whirred with possibilities, and an idea began to form, wicked and delightful. What better way to welcome Nox to his new home than by throwing a clandestine, invite-only party?

Jaxen hopped to his basement work station. In moments, Voxel Adams was online, contacting his network. Fingers flew over the keyboard, typing out the message:

Quote:**Subject: Exclusive Housewarming Party**

Greetings, phantoms,

Join me for an exclusive, masked housewarming party.

Date: This Saturday
Time: 11 PM
Address: [Nox's address]

Rules:
1. Arrive in full face mask.
2. Wear your MY NAME IS sticker.
3. Maintain anonymity—masks stay on at all times—even if everything else comes off.

See you in the shadows.

Voxel Adams

who and where do I need to post? And in what order do I owe? 

I'm a loaded cannon of words. Point me in the right direction.

I dunno, feels right to announce it.

https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-16...l#pid18873

After Jensen left it was a good bit before anyone actually stopped in to check on him.  Boredom set in and Nox drifted on the medication still entering his system through the IV. It wasn't a pleasant feeling and he wasn't enjoying lying there doing nothing.  Even his wallet wasn't entertaining -- he needed to do something.

Getting out of bed hurt like hell.  His body was healed but the scars that remained from the prior healings by the girl were still taunt and dense.  Everything about them was wrong, from the way they looked to the way they felt.  His side hurt.  His legs and arms hurt.  But not from the post healing.  Nox stretched each place realizing he was going to have to go back to the basics.  A lot more yoga, and strength training and a lot less of his other things -- except his mind was still sharp.  Though he was fading with the medication running through his veins still.

By the time a nurse finally came into check on him, Nox was seeing things in the shadows.  A pair of glowing eyes stared back at him and beckoned him to follow.  The nurse was in a flurry calling the doctor. "Doctor, the fever is gone.  The ultrasound is clear."

"Can I go now?" Nox interrupted.

They hushed him and started looking through his records, and such and spoke in hushed tones.  "At least stop the medication." Nox said, trying to get things situated.

They rushed out of the room disconnecting the IV from his arm. "Stay in bed, a little while longer." the nurse instructed Nox.

But he didn't listen.  The shadow beckoned him to follow when he was alone.  There were worse things to do.  He reached into the sticky slime of the horde and grabbed the power.  He at least had a weapon to protect himself from wherever this nightmare was taking him.  If he were seeing it at all.  Nightmares were hard to see, harder to kill and Nox had never been beckoned by a monster to follow it before.  Where was it taking him?

Nox had skipped town.  Avoided everything he had going while following him the past few months.  It was easy to stay on top of him.  Even if he wasn't exactly on top of him as he'd have liked.  But the kid was better at his job that Hayden gave him credit for. Maybe he had let down his guard and let Nox slip through his fingers.  But it didn't matter, he knew one thing he'd be heading back home.  Why?  Hayden had observed his behavior leading up to the disappearance.  Something was up -- and more so than him not wanting to do the job.

Hayden hopped the next flight to Moscow and waited for Nox and the girl to show up.  Hayden never saw Nox come back from his new apartment.  But he saw the girl through the windows often enough.  She only left once and it was enough to verify that she was there.

With a little bit of research and confirmation from his cousin, this was a new place for Nox.  He hadn't been there before.  Interesting...

It took a few days to prepare the poison.  Not because he didn't have the materials to do so, but it took a few days to find the trigger.  

This little godling that Nox referred to kill was allergic to shrimp.  Easy enough to trigger.  And Hayden had gotten the gift created and off to the Nox's apartment via courier.  Hayden watched from a nearby vantage point -- a safe house his father owned almost next door.  The irony.

The evening passed, and she kept a low profile; her usual proclivity. Neither was she idle. There were other seeds to begin planting tonight, and interactions to observe. She was amused to witness the Vasilievs had invited a wolf among them: the Syndicate leader Zixin Kao. Playing both sides as he did was a dangerous game, but Nesrin had a soft spot for the audacity.

She preferred serving in the game rooms, which offered privacy away from the music and dancing, and where ignorance was joined by loose lips. No one much noticed the servers weaving like ghosts among them so long as the drinks remained flowing. Between her shifts attending the various guests, visits to the kitchens provided a predictable and steady font for gossip. She pieced together who the English gentleman must have been because of the rumours surrounding the New York socialite in the beautiful dress, though Nesrin was more curious about her reasons for being in Moscow than the puppy trailing in her wake. In other circumstances she might have tugged on the threads of that drama, just because he’d been rude. As it was, she didn’t look for him again.

She did keep half a discrete eye on Brandon, more to watch him in his environment than anything else. To see who commandeered his time, who avoided his attention, and who watched him in turn.

And when the time came, for once Nesrin did exactly as she was told.

The suite she was directed to was extravagant, restored to what she presumed was its gaudy mid-18th century glory. When the door closed softly behind her she resisted the instinct to search out the available exits, though she doubted there were cameras watching her movements – not with the sort of privacy implied in a bedroom. She considered the frilly, canopied bed with half a raised brow and a silent smirk. Funnelling her into this room had been such a smooth and discrete operation she presumed it wasn’t an unusual request for Brandon’s people to accommodate. She wondered if he did this often; if it’s what her mother had been, an appetite of a moment, soon forgotten.

Though if that was the case, how many children might he really have? And why were none of them known?

Nerves itched her skin; a wary discomfort, for she did not like the sense of being at another’s mercy, even if it was necessary now. She banished the urge to pace the polished floors and instead found a chair in which to sit.

[[Occurs at some point during the Vasiliev ball. Continued from this post]]