For your general awareness, I filled in the information of the CCD Patrons. Their names can be found here.

I wanted to draw particular attention to the Patron of D-I, Myshelov Arkady Tarasovich. This individual is basically the autocratic ruler of D-I, including Moscow, and represents the Ascendancy as regional Patron.

The countryside was bright green. Fields angled toward sloping mountains all around. Kiyohito stood in the middle of a village. Most of the buildings were single or two-story wooden structures. It looked like any generic countryside, although he could not recall ever visiting it before. 

He began to walk along a crushed gravel path. As he reached the closest house, fog curled off the mountains, sweeping around his feet. He hurried inside just as the fog crept to the door and locked it out behind him. 

Within, he found a dark interior. The furniture was sparse. Mats were rolled in the corner. An iron stove was cold in another. 

There was an empty cup on the table. When next he looked, the cup was filled with a golden light. Curious, he picked it up and peered inside. When he upturned the cup, out poured gold coins. They clattered loud on the floor, pooling around his feet. Their light shone upward from the floor.

He knelt to scoop one up, studying the strange markings when a shadow appeared. The figure rushed him, and the gold coins were kicked in the scuffle. A knife flashed and burns erupted on his throat.

He fell to his knees, looking up at the assailant as blood poured out, glimpsing the attacker's face as he did.

Hi!

Long-time lurker first-time poster. I'm a newbie and am dropping you a line to say hello! 

I've posted my bio and also my first post!  (I hope I did all of this correctly - thank you for the helpful welcome message from the Ascendancy.) 

I look forward to meeting you and getting involved in some fun.  

Or as my character might say, "Go fuck yourself." and then punch you in the face. (b/c he's a jaded fighter and all...) Good thing I'm not my character.  *wink* 

“Fuck. What have I done.”  Abraham said under his breath. Known in the ring as Alistair Bishop, his real name was Abraham James.

Those words slipped under his breath as he exited a subway station, looking up to see central Moscow.  A boy from Columbus, Ohio, a boy from nothing, was standing near the center of power in the world. The opulence, architecture, and speed at which the city was moving around him overwhelmed him and left him feeling frozen, unable to move. 

He stood there, looking up, swallowed up by inner-city Moscow.  Alistair slowly pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with an address—time to go. Like how any journey begins, he took a step forward, the city engulfing him as he walked to his apartment.

Abraham’s living arrangements were all pre-arranged. He had been recruited to join an underground fighting league across several clubs. According to rumors he had heard, this league was the minor league for Almaz.  If you do well for your patron, you will be rewarded by “graduating” to Almaz. 

He arrived at his apartment and scanned in with a keycard given to him at the door. 

His living quarters were humble. Located in a 10-story high-rise on the sixth floor, his apartment was modest.  It was a one-bedroom, tiny bonus room, fully furnished with an open floor plan. 

As he entered his room, he dropped his leather duffle on the floor and noticed an on-the-island a white envelope that said only his name, Alistair.  Inside the envelope was a thick stack of cash and a small card. 

Written on the card: 

Concerned neighbors contacted their local CCDPD when they noticed their neighbor's car hadn't moved in days.  The detectives on the scene had nothing to initially report, but news has leaked that the CCDPD has lost one of their own.

Yun Kao, well known Police Detective and philanthropist among those less fortunate was found dead in her home.  Cause of death has yet to be revealed, the police suspect a burglary gone wrong.  Several of Yun's friends claim much had gone missing from the premise, but nothing could be ascertained definitely.

Kao's local community cite she will be greatly missed.  Her fellow department associates have not made comments on her demise steeling behind 'open investigation'.  But the rumors leaking from the CCDPD claim the case is closed and there is no further investigation.

Sheng Lo was easier to ambush as Yun Kao. There was no way the old man would have had warning someone from the Singapore Syndicate was coming until the accounts who paid Sheng’s guards suddenly paid them double to walk out. They walked away from their boss, and Zixin walked right in.

The warehouse was in an industrial stretch along the Moscow river. The cargo ship port was several miles upriver. The skyscrapers of downtown Moscow made for a nice backdrop to what was happening under the city’s nose. Cargo cranes loomed overhead like vulture wings ready to drop on their prey.

Zixin only left one body behind. That of old Sheng Lo. Two, technically. Sheng Lo had a lieutenant whose name Zixin couldn't remember. He made the men walk to the cargo ship and kneel down in the coal simply to keep the office from getting dirty. They died execution style, bullet to the brain meant another pair of gloves trashed afterward. The bodies were rolled into the river, churned to the bottom by the turbines of one of the thousands of massive ships chugging along in the darkness.

Over the next few days, a number of people associated with Yun Kao suddenly disappeared. A Russian cop named Slav being the highest profile. There were a few others on the CCDPD pay roll, but no one was particularly important among them. They were all thought to be on the down-low, and it was assumed one organization or another took them out.

Zixin’s first week in Moscow was busy. The bodies dropped like flies.

Singapore, 1604

The Kao family of Singapore were rich long before the CCD swallowed up Malaysia. They already owned ships back when the Dutch East Indies Company seized their first merchant carrack. Their ancestors weren’t dumb. They recognized when they were outpowered and outmanned. They followed the money, and for two-hundred years, Kao served to line the pockets of a whiter merchant: they captained the ships that ran between Jayakarta (modern Jakarta) in West Java all the way to China. When the Dutch company was driven from Southeast Asia, the Kao family continued to sail. Such was the beginning of what would become one of the great organized crime syndicates of southeast Asia four-hundred years later.

Singapore, 2024

The Kao family was one of the wealthiest in Singapore. Social media had grown by then, and with it, prestige and mystery, and a more than a little bit of danger. Just enough that their last name all but ruled a city that still bowed to a royal family. Their branches of power operated shipyards, shipping containers, and merchant trade, but the first tsunami of the 2020’s exacted irreparable damage that the Kao Clan and the Syndicate was determined to overcome. They invested in their roots, then, and the next ten years was transformative.

Organized crime was in their blood. Only rather than smuggle and ship product manufactured in the jungle, they turned to the people themselves. Indonesia and Vietnam were swollen with displaced refugees. Many of them hid on the very shipping containers that Kao navigated. Of course, once they landed, their fates were in Kao hands.

Human trafficking had already been a booming business. More than supplying laborers for dangerous jobs or filling the grueling factory positions, they hand picked those with potential for one of their many “Casinos” and “clubs” peppered around southeast Asia. These were little oases where the straight-laced wealth from classier, cleaner cities like Tokyo or Hong Kong flew for the weekend to get wasted, screw around, or generally dance with the devil. They fly home on Sunday night and none are the wiser come breakfast at a Monday morning conference table. The workers for those casinos had to come from somewhere, and Kao was in the business.

Ho Chi Mihn City, 2045

They met on what was deemed to be neutral territory. Ho Chi Mihn City was something of triangle landing pad of organized crime. There were Chinese Triads, Japanese Yakuza, and Singapore Syndicate all working together. Ho Chi MInh had even become something of a relay for American continental drugs. The CCD legal stuff was too expensive for the poorest parts of southeast Asia, and where demand lurked, supply would always show itself. Business had been stable for more than a decade. They had the CCD to thank for that. It was time to consider expansion, and the Ascedancy’s own words were famous. Sheep followed the grass…. Or in this case, the crime lords followed the money, and there was a new type of cargo coming into demand: those with powers out of their control. Exotic pets on leashes and mythical beasts in cages were one thing, but showing off your prized channeler raised the stakes. A wild one was incredible valuable.

There was no where richer than Moscow. The Kao’s had a distant cousin there. She was the granddaughter of their Patriarch’s younger brother, Yung Kao, a man who tried to get out, but never really got out. The family lore said that Yung split fifty years ago, but the falling out that happened between the two Kao brothers was never shared. He tried to make a straight life, and maybe he had. Apparently he had a family, and for one reason or another, yeye let him have the dream. Until the day came that the family needed something. That’s when the granddaughter came in. Her name was Yun Kao, and she worked as a detective, buried in Moscow up to her eyeballs in Russians and contacts and already connected to organized crime. Seemed it was in her blood.

Yun Kao fed them intel, movements of the competition, and felt out the prospects. With Yun’s presence, they were already positioned to make a move in the Custody capital. It was all related through an intermediary known as Sheng Lo, a Syndicate man through and through. The city was proudly white Moscovites and modern or not, Asians were still lesser-class citizens. The type of human powered- and nonpowered-cargo that Kao could supply this new venture would be overlooked. They just needed a landing pad. That’s where the Yakuza came in. The Japanese representatives flew south, landing in Ho Chi Minh City to make the deal with Kao. They were going to supply the clubs, Kao supplied the cargo.

Together, they could slice out a small piece of Moscow. There was plenty of money to go around. The problem was after a year of negotiations and planning, by 2046, the Edenokoji-gumi in Moscow were alienated. Tensions were tight as cords, and the first movement threatened to snap the deal on all of them. Which was why by summer, 2046, someone landed in Moscow to get things back on track.

Moscow, 2046

Zixin Kao was 31 years old when he was sent to Moscow. Heir to the Kao kingdom, so to say, his grandfather (yeye) was patriarch in Singapore and very much involved in the business. Of all his grandfather’s sons, only Zixin’s father was still alive. It was a dangerous business, after all, and with his uncles already dead, a line of aunties and cousins remained behind. His mother was a celebrity in the city, a modern day royal herself, and his younger sister was following in their mother’s footsteps, proudly circulating the social networks that kept Kao in the forefront of fashion and media. His little sister was a ruthless social assassin though. One sleight and she could destroy lives with an army of internet followers. Zixin was more serious in comparison. He was glad to not darken her glamorous life with the brutality he handled. The burden of upholding the entire family legacy was going to fall to him one day. His cousins were either playboys or middle men across the empire, but none of them had what it took to lead. He felt it was his duty to make sure the kingdom advanced into the next century, and if their future hinged on success in Moscow, he would do anything to make sure that happened. And prove that he was worthy of the role.

Moscow, current day

The jetway let him out at a private airport. Zixin was followed by mountainous carts stacked with Louis Vuitton luggage that had to be piled into a second truck to fit it all. He slipped into the back of a limousine and checked the time. Having slept, showered, shaved, changed and ate on the jet, he instructed the driver to take him to an apartment in some district that Zixin used the Wallet translator to pronounce. His Russian was atrocious, English language laws not with standing, the addresses were still in that awful alphabet, so he wasn’t going to bother twisting his tongue on it. The luggage would be delivered, and with any luck, be unpacked and stowed away in the hotel suite by the time he arrived. This shouldn’t take too long.

He told the driver to park down the street and wait.

He wore a khaki trench coat over his suit, buttoned up and tied at the waist. Black gloves were tucked tight on his hands. Sunglasses set on the bridge of his nose, the collar turned up around his neck. Zixin was handsome and he knew it. His hair styled slick and neat, jaw square and clean-shaven. He knocked on the door. It was about 6:30 in the morning. The sun had just risen.

Yun Kao opened it. If she recognized the man on her doorstep, it would only be because she followed the Kao’s social media accounts. Given their distant familial relations, he waited to see if a flicker of recognition crossed her face.

She was older in person than he expected. Older than himself, certainly, by a decade at least.

“Going to invite me in?” he asked in English.

She rolled her eyes and turned away, leaving the door open behind her.

He followed and made sure the door was latched behind him before he tucked the Ray-Bans into the pocket of the coat.

“You want a coffee?” she called from the next room.

“No,” he said, looking around. Her apartment was a shit hole, he thought, and retrieved a knife from a pocket as he walked. He was doing her a favor.

He passed a dining table, approaching the sound of dishes rustling in the kitchen. The second he stepped over the threshold, a chef’s knife flashed in front of his face.

He ducked, throwing out one arm to block hers. She was a good fighter, and she was quick. She spun, thinking to kick his feet out from under him, but Zixin side stepped out of the way in time. They circled one another then. Both were clearly skilled. With every swing, both guarded their abdomens and kept their chests squared on the front. They stayed in a defensive stance, holding their free forearm out like a shield. Cuts there would hurt, but they were hardly deadly.

Circling each other in the kitchen, Zixin suddenly stepped in to swing a punch at her face, but it was a move to get her to lean back. The shift in balance forced her to take a step else fall on her ass, and the kitchen wasn’t that large. She did exactly that, and he swept her feet out as she did. A nasty swing dragged the knife along her inner thigh- down the femoral artery.

She screamed, balling up herself on the leg pouring red all over the floor. He kicked the knife from her hand, then, knowing her to be deadly until the moment she was really dead.

It only took a minute.

He wiped his shoes with paper towels to get the blood cleaned off. Then he grabbed a trash bag from a closet. He shrugged off his trench coat, wrapped both knives in it, along with the gloves, and balled it up in the trash bag.

He carried the bag out with him when he left, depositing it in the front seat with the driver of the car, then climbed in the back.

The Ray-Bans were broken, so he immediately ordered a new pair then he sent a message home that the deed was done.

Priorities.

He was dropped at the hotel an hour later.



A reborn soul of serpents, dragons and monsters

Zixin has a latent channeler ability but would only qualify as a learner, and a weaker one at that in the present life. It won’t be something he pursues. As a soul, he is strongly inclined toward evil, and his legends are usually retold as the deeds of some sort of serpent, dragon or demon.

2nd Age - He would have been a contributor to the Collapse, the hundred years prior to the War of Shadow broke when society became sick and twisted. He ran the gladiatorial rings that saw people fight to the death, usually profiting off the money earned. If he survives long enough, he would have joined the Shadow in the war.

3rd Age - A darkfriend loyal to the Dreadlord Arikan who survived the persecution of Arikan’s followers after the defeat at Tar Valon.

4th Age - This would be the rebirth in which he is at his most powerful. A channeler serving the Emperor of Seanchan, his name goes down in legend as a demon that inspires future Hebrew mythologies of the following Ages. He was depicted with a lion's head and a serpentine body with eagle wings.

5th Age -  Aži Dahāka (Persian), depicted as a three-headed dragon with a body filled with lizards and snakes that could infect the world when released, and wings that can darken the skies when fully spread. He was a servant of Ahriman, the father of lies and personification of evil in Persian mythology.

6th Age - Jörmungandr (Norse), the monstrous son of Loki depicted in myth as the world-serpent, whose travels circumvented the globe carrying destruction, mayhem, carnage and terror along the way. 

7th Age - Beowulf’s Bane (Germanic). He is the final enemy of the hero, Beowulf and described as a nocturnal, treasure-hoarding, inquisitive, vengeful, fire-breathing creature that mortally wounds Beowulf just before being slain himself.

The rooftop bar was drenched with a purple sky seasoned with dusk. Round white tables dotted the patio. Transparent sheets of plexiglass gave the illusion they were floating above the city.

Adrian was shown to the only remaining table in the place. He folded himself into one of the chairs, decorated with white leather, thinking it to be a brazen move for outdoor furniture.

He ordered a scotch and soda, but it was mostly for show, and left it untouched on the table as he scrolled work from the screens of a wallet. He wore a navy suit tonight. The crisp white shirt open at the neck and wrapped with a waist coat. There was no tie, but the sharp line of a pocket square broke across the chest. An expensive watch decorated his wrist. Hair styled neat. He fit in well.

Yasmine was yet to be seen, and as soon as the time passed that she was committed to arriving, he sent her an irritated message inquiring about her whereabouts.

When she didn’t reply right away, he grumbled to himself and finally looked around the space to see who else was there. Which was when he spied a blonde at the next table. Her hair cascaded in waves down her back, and he at first wondered if it was Natalie until he caught a glimpse of her profile.

When she caught him looking, he nodded acknowledgement. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”




@"Colette Moreau"

Occupation:  Wrestler/bare-knuckle boxer/fighter
Legal name:  Abraham James  
Stage name:  Alistair Bishop
 
Psychological description 
In the ring, he is serious, treating the business as if it was real.  Though the outcomes are fixed, you’d never know from the way he works. He wrestles to survive as if every move is a real fight. As a technical wrestler, he is detail-oriented, though a moment can shift into an all-out brawl, which he rolls with whenever it happens.  This reflects his mindset, which is also quietly erratic and shifts on a dime. If he had come from a place where they checked for things like that, he might have been diagnosed with ADHD. Suppose we’ll never know.
 
Outside of the ring and outside of the character, he tries to blend in. He is quiet, serious, and pensive, but you’re never quite sure if he intends to pick a fight or not. You feel it when he walks into a room, and when he leaves a room, the tension is released. It’s almost impossible to tell where the stage character of Alistair ends and the athlete that is Abraham begins. Maybe that’s why he’s so committed. The line is pretty blurred. 
 
Physical description 
With his shirt on, you may not know it, but he is built.  When his shirt is off, you can see every ripple of every muscle.  He has spent years doing manual labor and passed countless hours in the gym, and he is relentless. He is always ring-ready, meaning his diet is incredibly strict, and he keeps himself in a vein-throbbing state of body fat. It’s his profession, after all. Together, Alistair’s physique is gritty, intense, and full of testosterone.  
 
Supernatural Powers 
None
 
Biography 
Alistair is from lower-class Columbus, Ohio. Alistair’s mom raised him by herself, and his dad was gone at an early age, and she worked most of the time, leaving Alistair alone.  At times in his childhood, he raised himself. His only significant parental role model was his high school wrestling coach.  
 
Alistair was an outstanding D1 wrestler.  The main issue was that there were no college programs like in the past.  Long dead were the days of NIL deals or powerhouse programs.  The world was falling apart in America, with Ohio at the center. After high school, Alistair traveled the US for seven years, trying to make it as a professional wrestler.  The sport grew more popular as the economy tanked, probably reflecting the lower-class blue-collar roots from where it originated. Oversight of the sport returned to regional territory promotions as different leagues popped up.   
 
The big promotions still existed, but you had to pay your dues to get up the ranks.  The industry grew very competitive, and it was run by shady promoters often backed by organized crime—the payoff to making it big made an effort worth it.  If you were part of “the show,” you were a made man or woman, and your life would be set until you stopped drawing a crowd.  
 
Alistair was striking out in the industry.  He would camp out in a territory for months, never catching the attention of big-time promoters.  Sometimes he was called in to “do a job” for a “dark match.”  Dark matches were local, non-televised events. The big promotions ran between their more significant televised/telestreamed programs.  It was a time to entertain locals, and rehab athletes, let guys and girls who had been out getting more ring time to knock off the rust, and sell tickets or merch.  In every town, they’d recruit locals to “do jobs”; be a human punching bag for a made star. Essentially, be a professional loser. Alistair did several such gigs that never went anywhere.  
 
Alistair was a loner, but that was only because of his vast geographic travel schedule. He’d never admit to being lonely, but many nights following the fight, he’d find himself with someone, often a wrestling groupie.  They call them “rats” in the industry.  These women purely come to the fight to go home with a wrestler.  These rats kept the boys busy, mainly by keeping them out of trouble. Sometimes even fixed fights went awry after the crowd departed. Lots of testosterone and hurt pride could leave a mark. One incorrectly thrown elbow might land someone actually hurt, and if it meant someone was off the job while they recovered, that cut into paychecks. Rats were looked down upon but were a crucial part of the industry. 
 
Sometimes he’d leave more than one rat at a time or occasionally be approached by a rat with a kinky, superfan husband who was drawn to the mystery, intrigue, and drama and wanted to touch a piece of the industry for themselves.  There weren’t many perks of a hard job on the road, and Alistair had a stage reputation to live up to, and when life and stage blurred, well, he didn’t mind. And frankly, could use the money. 
 
Alistair’s personal life illustrated that he lived by a moral code - unique as it was to him.  Many times he would deliver “gifts” between territories for shady promoters.  He was told to keep his mouth shut, don’t ask questions, and for that, extra compensation in his weekly white envelope of pay. Again, he could use the money. All in all, he got by. Barely. But the dream was just out of reach. Unlike someone traveling a long journey, he could not see the end in sight.  He was growing tired of a career going nowhere.  Every mile on his odometer, every new town or hole-in-the-wall bar was closer to moving on. He was beginning to wonder if it would ever happen. 
 
If he was ever going to make it. 
 
Then one day, he got a call.
 
He was working a show in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His opponent was Vlad the Impaler.  When he saw the name on the booking sheet, he rolled his eyes at the title but with some expletives under his breath. “ It’s a fucking paycheck.”  He grimaced, taping his hands, which hurt from a bare-knuckle fight the night before.  
 
As customary, the two met in the locker room one hour before the first bell. They’d have a mid-card match, 15 minutes bell-to-bell. It was supposed to be a clean fight, not to upstage the main event but keep the fans interested.  He was booked to lose after Vlad's elbow dropped him from the top rope—Cut and dry.  
 
Alistair waited, squat in a gorilla position to come out of from the back. It was his signature pose when the curtain was drawn, though nobody seemed to ever comment on it.  Some visualizations crossed his mind while he waited. Curtain opens, walk to the ring, music blares, throw his usual “F-you” look at the crowd. He’d be disinterested in their entertainment. They’d hurl down boos and hisses as he walked.  Should be pretty standard.
 
But right before he walked, a hand touched his arm.  Often someone would say hello he’d not seen in a while, even at the most inopportune times. He figured it was something like that, but a genuine frown touched his brow when a foreign voice spoke from the shadows. “Meet me after. I have a gift.” He couldn’t quite make out the face, and there wasn’t time to figure it out either. The curtain opened and Alistair left for the ring, not thinking much more on it. He’d been “given gifts” plenty of times before. Weirdo just tried to be dramatic about it. So in his mind, that is what he heard. 
 
The show went as planned. Alistair swallowed his pride again, took the fall, and that was it: one, two, three. 
 
Alistair went on his way.  He changed his clothes, got his things, and was out of there.  Ready to bury himself in a beer and a broad.  He had completely forgotten about the mystery man by then.
  
He climbed in his car and, as if in a movie, looked up to see a face in his rearview mirror. Dark curly hair, dark eyes. Same as before the match. He tensed, blood pressure spiking, and he reached for the glove compartment, going for a pistol. 
 
That hand grabbed his arm, “Hold a moment, Alistair,” he said, Russian accent heavy as a crowbar.  “I won’t hurt you,” he added. He didn’t seem worried, but hearing this from weird men before, he pulled the pistol in a second. Had it aimed on the asshole.
 
“I want you to hire you. To wrestle. In the Custody.”  Alistair froze. “Understand, yes?” he added.  He’d heard rumors about a growing underworld full of big-money fights over there, but the CCD was full of rumors like that. 
 
“Who are you?” he asked, voice tense. Deep.
 
The man went on to tell Alistair about his ‘gift,’ which was a word Alistair eventually believed was supposed to mean opportunity but for the mistranslation. The gift was a chance to fly to the Custody and work in a vast network of clubs.  He’d be a professional fighter.  The man made it sound like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be set for life.  No longer would he have to worry about making it big in America; it was crumbling anyway. It was a kind of freedom only money could give.  No longer would he need to “do jobs” for asshole wrestlers who were half the fighter he was.  No longer would have to run to small bars for bare-knuckle fights.  This was his shot. 
 
He took it.