A fine flurry of snow drifted down when Jaxen and Bode stepped out of the transit tunnel. Moscow in mid winter bore its cold proudly, but Jaxen didn’t seem to notice, moving through the flakes like an arrow. Despite the weather, a steady line of people moved toward the Sanctuary of Ascension.

Jaxen wasn’t built for obscurity, even when he meant to be invisible. His face was sharply defined: strong brows set over chocolate eyes that missed nothing, a neatly trimmed beard that suggested he cared about symmetry more than comfort, and a wide, expressive mouth that seemed to unconsciously telegraph disdain, amusement, or impatience all at once. His hair was dark and thick, deliberately tousled so it looked effortless. He cut a presence that was both interesting and predictable.

Most of the time.

Today, his clothes were a careful performance. Not flashy, but unmistakably chosen. He wore a dark, insulated winter coat in muted charcoal tones, the kind that read as practical at first glance but had subtle flourishes of leather trim and seams hinting at someone who chose function with at least a quiet eye for form. A well‑worn scarf wrapped around his neck, knotted snugly against the cold rather than fashioned for effect, its deep navy threads just visible beneath the coat’s collar. Denim pants were dark and solid, and his boots were practical with a faint polish. He blended in without sacrificing too much style.

He should have felt out of place among the crowd shuffling toward the Sanctuary, but he didn’t. Part of Jaxen was carved from that rare stone called presence, an instinct for stepping into any scene he wanted and appearing integral to it. He studied the procession of devotees and curious onlookers, scanned faces starting at the snow‑dappled plaza and stretching back into the line, and cataloged their rhythms as if they were cues in a ballet he was meant to anticipate.

The Sanctuary’s tower loomed ahead. He had researched the space as much as possible, but this was the first time on site. Even the falling snowflakes seemed to gather near the doors in reverence. People in thick coats and scarves leaned into each other, chatter soft behind gloved hands. Some carried tiny drones that darted and hovered, capturing this moment of ritual and anticipation like digital fireflies as they filed indoors.

Inside him, a different kind of current hummed. Not the chill of snow, but the constant undertow of the Emissary’s presence. It throbbed at the edges of his thoughts, insistent and repetitive: Get the Key. Get the Key. Yet he mostly ignored the Emissary's insistence like a buzzing in his ear and navigated the queue. They weren't here to worship. His eyebrows flicked at the screens above the entrance broadcasting sweeping visuals of rejuvenation and miracle testimonies as they approached the entrance, but he wasn’t immune to the spectacle either. The world of the Brotherhood was one of showmanship as much as belief, but Jaxen respected a stage when he saw one.

He tugged at his scarf, a habit rather than necessity, and exhaled a plume of warmth that mingled with the snow. He didn’t just want to get inside; he wanted to see what made this place tick. And once he saw, he would know more how to adjust their plan for the moment.

Nearby Bode matched his quiet stride.

What was forecast as a severe winter storm has become a historic disaster.

In the early hours of January 12, 2047, Moscow was struck by an unprecedented snowfall. Over the course of six hours, 15–20 meters of snow fell across the city and surrounding regions. Not gradually. Not predictably. It came down fast, heavy, and with destructive force.

By morning, entire apartment blocks were partially buried. Snow folded over rooftops, sealed windows, crushed balconies, and caused multiple structural collapses, particularly in older buildings. Streets vanished entirely. Courtyards and parks became deep white basins. Landmarks were reduced to barely visible shapes rising from the snow.

This was not a normal blizzard. Winds behaved erratically, carving the snow into towering walls and frozen waves. In some districts, accumulation was uneven and extreme, far beyond anything modern infrastructure was designed to withstand.

Timeline

• Day -2: Heavy snowstorm forecast. Emergency services placed on standby. Citizens advised to stay indoors.
  
• Day -1: Snowfall intensity exceeds all projections. Monitoring systems begin failing.
  
• Day 1: The majority of snowfall occurs. Visibility drops to near zero. Emergency response becomes severely limited.
  
• Days 2–3: Continued snowfall at reduced intensity. Temperatures plunge.
  
• Day 4: Snowfall stops. The damage remains.
  

• Infrastructure: Metro access sealed in several districts, widespread power and heating outages, roads fully impassable.
  
• Buildings: Older residential blocks collapse in multiple areas; newer high-rises remain standing but are partially engulfed.
  
• People: Thousands are trapped in homes with limited heat and supplies. Evacuations are slow, dangerous, and incomplete.
  

Anna was bundled up in a fluffy coat, thick gloves, and a hat. A wool scarf was draped around her neck. She didn’t like the cold. It was more fierce here than it had been in Chicago. Maybe they was why she was beginning to actually acclimate herself to it. It wasn’t that she liked the cold. She was just beginning to find it more tolerable. 

Elyse was doing well - even more so after going to Denmark to find some closure. It had also been a fun trip after Elyse had done what she had needed to do. It had been the first time Anna had seen a castle. She smiled at the memory. 

But her mind wandered back to Cade. It did quite often. They had remained in contact of course. Anna never pushed her crush, with the exception of an occasional flirty text. She was a little impatient even as she felt guilty for feeling that way. They hadn’t known each other that long, and she understood why it wasn’t moving farther. She knew he liked her too though, and that was sometimes enough to make the thoughts appear. 

Anna had decided to come to the carnival today, and maybe her thoughts about Cade were the reason why. Today she had come alone. Maybe that was a little sad to others, but she didn’t mind. As social as she was, she did enjoy time alone. She passed by the tarot booth and smiled. When she had come here with Cade, she had gone there to ask the woman advice about Cade. It reminded her of her patience. That was enough reason to come here. 

Anna pulled out the map of the carnival, thinking about what she could do here today. There was a magic show, a strong man, a haunted exhibit, some games of chance - all of which seemed fun.  Of course the scent of carnival food was around. She would definitley have a snack. For now she turned and began to walk aimlessly. She would see what struck her fancy in the moment.

The Brotherhood grounds lay hushed beneath winter. Snow pressed everything into gentler shapes: hedges softened to pale humps, bare branches etched like charcoal against a washed-out sky, stone paths reduced to suggestion. Somewhere beyond the walls, the modern world continued – traffic, signals, the electric thrum of a city that never truly slept – but here it was held at bay, muffled by cold and ritual and distance. Cali sat on the ground near the edge of the Celestial Gardens, a thick cushion beneath her, her boots tucked awkwardly beneath the hem of her coat. A knitted hat was pulled down over her ears, pale hair escaping in soft, disobedient wisps. Her breath fogged in front of her face, blooming and fading like a thought she hadn’t decided to keep.

She closed her eyes and hummed. It wasn’t a song with words, more a wandering melody, the kind her aunt used to murmur while turning the pages of her books. The sound vibrated low in Cali’s chest, steadying her breathing. The note shifted instinctively, adjusting to the space, to the cold, to the living things beneath the snow. She felt them instinctively. Not with her hands, though her fingers rested lightly on her knees, numb despite her gloves, but with something deeper, subtler. The plants slept, but sleep was not absence. Roots curled tight against frost, sap drawn inward, life banked like coals beneath ash. Shrubs along the garden’s edge leaned toward one another, sharing what warmth the earth would allow. Even the ancient trees, stripped bare, hummed faintly with patience.

Hello, she thought, fondly.

The response was not words. It never was. Just a sense of acknowledgment, a quiet rightness, as though her presence had been noted and accepted. She could help them if she wanted. The awareness came as easily as breath now. She could encourage the smallest stirrings, coax a whisper of green against the white, prove that the gift was real. That she was real. That she was chosen.

Her hum faltered.

No, she told them gently, the way one spoke to children who did not yet understand hunger or cold. Rest. Keep your strength. Spring will come.

The plants settled, content. Approval warmed her more than the coat ever could.

Cali exhaled slowly and turned inward, the way Seraphis had taught her. This was what she was supposed to be doing; why she was out here. The power was there, she knew that now. Vast and luminous and terrifying, like standing on the edge of the sea in a storm. You did not seize it. You did not command it. You opened yourself and let it take you, trusting it would not drown you. She tried to still her breath, to let herself outward, but instead distracted memory intruded. Moscow, grey with slush and exhaust. Her father’s voice, controlled and furious, when she said she was leaving university. Aunt Oleander’s laughter, bright and musical, and then the hollow absence where her name should have been. The box of books under her arm. Quillon’s smile. The Luminar’s gaze, heavy with purpose. The word Ascendancy, ringing like a bell she could never quite stop hearing.

And Samiel.

Her shoulders tensed. It all slipped away like water through clenched fingers.

She tried again. Let the thoughts pass. Do not push them away – accept them, release them. That was the trick. Surrender without losing yourself. Strength through yielding. Her hum returned, softer now, a single sustained note. She imagined roots, deep and dark and steady, drinking sparingly from frozen soil. The plants helped her then, lending their patience, their understanding of seasons. Of waiting without despair.

For a heartbeat – just one – she felt it.

A vast, serene presence brushed the edges of her awareness, cool and brilliant. The power did not rush her. It invited her. Wrapped her in the promise of endless motion held in perfect balance.

Her breath caught.

The world sharpened. Snowflakes seemed to hang, suspended. She could feel the shape of the garden, the slow turning of the earth beneath it, the sleeping green heart of the world.

Then excitement flared bright and unguarded – and the connection shattered.

Cali gasped, hands curling in her lap. The moment was gone. She laughed softly at herself, the sound misting into the cold air. “Soon,” she murmured, whether to the Power, the plants, or her own impatient heart. “I’ll learn. I promise.”

She closed her eyes and began again. The garden did not hurry her. Winter never did.

By Staff Correspondent

One of competitive archery’s most celebrated figures, Olivier de Volthström, is facing renewed scrutiny after a public accusation from rival archer Kael Vayron, who alleges that Volthström’s recent string of victories is less about skill and more about privileged access to high-end equipment.

Vayron, a perennial finalist on the international circuit, raised the allegation following last weekend’s Grand Meridian Open, where Volthström secured his fourth title of the season with a near-perfect score. Speaking to reporters outside the venue, Vayron said the playing field has tilted in favor of athletes backed by elite manufacturers and exclusive sponsorships.

“When one competitor shows up with prototype limbs and custom stabilizers that’s not just preparation—that’s an advantage,” Vayron said. “I respect Olivier’s talent, but tournaments are supposed to test archery, not access.”

The accusation has reignited debate across the sport, where technological innovation has long walked a fine line between progress and unfair advantage. Volthström’s bow setup, frequently highlighted during broadcasts, includes bespoke components that some competitors claim are unavailable to the wider field.
Tournament officials confirmed that Volthström’s equipment passed all required pre-competition inspections, a point emphasized by his camp in a swift response to the claims.

In a statement issued Monday, a spokesperson for Volthström dismissed the allegations as “baseless and disappointing.”

“Olivier de Volthström competes under the same regulations as every other archer,” the spokesperson said. “All equipment used has been approved by governing bodies and cleared by officials prior to competition. Suggesting otherwise undermines the integrity of the sport and the rigorous standards in place.”

The spokesperson added that Volthström’s success is “the result of years of disciplined training, technical mastery, and mental focus under pressure,” not technological shortcuts.

The International Archery Federation (IAF) declined to comment on individual athletes but reiterated that its equipment regulations are “designed to ensure fairness while allowing innovation within clearly defined limits.” An IAF representative confirmed that no formal complaint has been filed in connection with the Grand Meridian Open.

Reaction among fellow competitors has been divided. Some echoed Vayron’s concern that rising equipment costs could widen the gap between athletes, while others cautioned against equating sponsorship-driven innovation with cheating.

“Equipment can help, but it doesn’t shoot tens on its own,” said one veteran archer who requested anonymity. “At this level, consistency and composure still decide championships.”

Volthström remains scheduled to compete in the upcoming Moscow Winter Classic next month, where scrutiny is likely to follow every arrow he releases. Whether the controversy prompts tighter regulations or fades as another chapter in a heated rivalry may depend on what unfolds on the shooting line.

written by AI

Olivier found himself in Moscow before the new year. He had spent some time at the range, preparing for his tournament in January. He knew his talent, but he also knew practice was important. Olivier was also considering a proper move to Moscow. For what he was spending on rooms in the Radiance, he might as well find his own place. He looked over at his bow case and smiled. Archery was always something that brought him joy. He was both sad and not to be in Moscow instead of Zurich during the holidays. He guessed he could find his way back to Zurich if he needed to. If he did, it would be to see Elin. He hoped she was doing well, but despite loving his parents, he really wasn't in the mood to argue with them right now.

He pulled out his computer and began to browse the web. Olivier was looking for something new to do. His typical marks were fine and were already funding many projects. He couldn't explain it. There was something that just drew him to take what unethical wealthy corporations didn't need and give it to the ones they hurt. There was the thrill of risk added with the joy of helping those who truly needed it. Part of him disliked the anonymity, even as he understood it. 

It was mostly the same stuff. He noticed that Kael Vayron, an archery rival was throwing some shade at him in the public sphere.  He was saying his immense success was due to him being a Volthstrom. His PR team would take care of it. There was nothing to worry about there. He was just mad because he was going to lose in the upcoming tournament. But there was a post that caught his eye.  The poster had sent a few out.  It wasn't a name he was aware of.  Whoever it was was likely new. But the post spoke of bravery. He opened his messaging and sent a message to the poster, encrypting it of course.

Olivier de Volthstrom

Age: Mid 20’s

Origin: Zurich, Switzerland

Occupation: Professional Competitive Archer/Wealth “Redistributor”

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Psychological Description: Disciplined and calm, Olivier handles pressure well. He tends to be personable, but can retreat into himself at times. He prefers actions to words and enjoys a good prank. His humor is often dry and witty. He his observant and methodical.

Physical Description: 5’11” tall with dark hair and blue eyes.

Reborn God: Robin Hood

Hope everyone head a great Christmas and a wonderful New Year!

A cold snout shoving up urgently under her chin was what woke her. Tenzin groaned as Never’s excitement stamped all over her chest. Not that he wasn’t being careful, or as careful as he ever was. Shoving him off far enough to breathe, it took Tenzin a moment to unpick the dizzying train of his thoughts. He crouched close beside her, still wiggling amidst the blankets, tongue hot and lolling, and couldn’t resist the small nips of unrestrained joy and the demand to hurry! Hurry!

Sierra, and dream, and Wyldfyre all blurred together, but fortunately Tenzin understood enough.

“I go I go,” she groaned, resorting to just shielding her face now with an arm draped over it. “Stop jumping! Need a moment, pup.”

After the trials in Norway, His Holiness returned to Rome in solemn procession, though none but those closest to him would have called it retreat. Within the ancient stone of the Vatican, beneath gilded ceilings and the low murmur of sacred chants, Pope Patricus I found a season of stillness. It was Christmastide, and though the liturgical calendar ran on as ever it had, the weight upon his shoulders did not lift.

The memories of Norway and Siberia clung to him like incense after Mass. The Key of Cunning lay buried deep within the Apostolic Archives now, classified among relics whose natures were best left unquestioned. Yet it called to him. Not with words, not even with thought, but with the subtle allure of something unfinished. He resisted, as was expected of him and as was required. That such a temptation could arise at all was troubling. That he felt it was worse.

Armande had fallen into silence in the weeks that followed. The women who accompanied him spoke little as well, offering weariness as excuse and solitude as shield. Armande himself spoke often of patience, with all the gravity of a cardinal instructing a novice. Patience! To the Pope himself. One of the Fruits, he had called it. The absurdity of it sparked a glare had it not also rung true in some distant corner of Philip’s soul.

And yet, patience was no balm. The other keys remained hidden, scattered like seeds on unbroken ground, and Philip knew without evidence or reasoning that they must be found. That they must not fall into the wrong hands. Whether it was instinct or something more, he could not say. Only that the sense of purpose had not left him.

Rome swelled with celebration in those holy weeks. Chorales rang out beneath the dome of Saint Peter’s; pilgrims crowded the piazza like waves pressed against the shore. Then, as Epiphany gave way to Ordinary Time, the announcement came: the Pope would journey to Moscow.

Not a summons nor an obligation. A choice. It would be his first meeting with the Ascendancy; a public gathering, one announced with careful language and diplomatic tact. Many had asked for such a meeting before; all had been denied. Until now.

The Ascendancy could not know the truth behind the change. But Philip was ready.