Desc: Ollie is of Irish descent; red-haired and pale-skinned. Her eyes are wide and heavily-lidded, a greyish hazel, one splashed with more green than the other. There is something haughty and aristocratic to her features that harks back to an older time, though ironically she looks much younger than she is (much to her chagrin). The soft lilt of her accent generally encourage others to underestimate her.

Personality: Ollie is wilful and arrogant, as one might expect of a child born to the Di Inferi. She places her cause above all else, quite prepared to sacrifice herself or others in the process. She considers both the Di Inferi and the Remnant a failing, too driven by selfish needs, though she would be unlikely to betray either sect to those she views as mundane.

Her life’s work is to collate and interpret the stirrings of prophecy, spurred by a sense of urgency she cannot quite place her finger to. Her extensive travels document the scraps of learning and sometimes people that glimpse of the future. Of late she searches for those who might be enough to turn the tide, should the worst come to pass.

History: Ollie’s life is a web of fiction and lies; forged ID papers and records.

She drank myths like nectar as a child. Books lined the walls of her father’s home, a cornucopia of the most esoteric trinkets of the ancient world. She grew up bookish, working alongside her father’s translation work. He lectured at the university to dwindling numbers, a throwback to a bygone time. Sometimes they had visitors in her youth, ones with interest in her father's oddest papers. "We are the splinter of a splinter, dear one," he would explain. Prophecy was his speciality, and usually it was scraps of information and artefact they brought to his door in seek of his expertise.

Until the time it was a creature delivered to their door instead.

She had never seen anything like it; skin smoothly scaled, hairless, its nose like slits. At her father's bidding she scribbled down all it said in its rasping voice -- words she recognised, and words she didn't. It was injured and leaking, blood as black as ink, and though it might not have been human she could feel its desperation, and its fear.

Their next visitors did not knock. They bore the mark of the ouroboros. 

The Remnant, she later learned; the splinter from which her father's people had broken away from. They came to kill the creature, and to sweep clean the cell that had fallen from the path. They burned the house. Only Ollie escaped.

Following her father's death she travelled to Moscow in search of her uncle, but a disagreement between them set her back into flight. 

Now she travels onward alone, a ghost.

[[Ollie is an NPC who Soren has an acquaintance with and spoke to here. She's Ephraim's niece and at one time was going to be a PC (she's actually a reborn god too, albeit a learner not a wilder, but unless she ever gets a promotion I've nixed that). Since Ephraim has dusted himself off now, she may show up again, so this is just a reference of who she is]]

[[edited to add the wiki link, with updated info (since the Haarts expanded since this was originally posted), and have changed Ollie from niece to sister (since I clearly misremembered it)]]

Leaving the Ascendancy's office was like a breath of relief.  He'd survived the most dangerous part.  And for the better.  Not only was the Ascendancy providing access to a new arm.  But he was going to get to learn from the man himself.  Fighting alongside someone spoke a lot about who a person was.  And Nox couldn't wait.  It was such a bad thing he had to wait.  He had to wait to heal enough they could actually fit an arm, and then there was the building of the arm.  There were so many options. Nox needed to talk to Sage about it all.

And then there was so much to plan.  So much to learn.  He'd gone to the doctor's lab and sat for scans.  He even insisted on giving blood.  Under strict instructions of never let anyone else touching it.  He'd out over it and his heart was still racing but he'd allowed it.  It wasn't for science, it was for the Atharim when he got her to go see Dr. Weston.  It wasn't what the Ascendancy had asked, but Nox wanted the Atharim to understand it. What if others were doing this too?  Moscow wasn't the only city with nefarious scientists.  It sure didn't hold a monopoly on bad guys.

But Nox was anxious and he sat on a bench in the Red Square and sent a message to Raffe.

@"Raffe"
I made it out of Ascendancy's office with my life.  Going for a very visible walk now and will end up in a park somewhere. I'd ask you to join me, but I don't want them to hurt you. But I wouldn't say no if you found me." 

It was a subtle hint that he wanted Raffe to come, but Raffe had his own life and it didn't revolve around Nox.  He knew that but he also liked his company and otherwise, he might be a little bored.

His plan was to be very visible in front of every camera he knew about from here to Dorian's estate to see Ana and Christian.  And then he'd walk to Sterling's house passing as many cameras as he could, and end up back in Red Square on a bench facing the monument the Ascencandy made out of Lennon's Mausoleum.   He sent the route to Raffe with a tracking program so Raffe would know where he was.  Another of Sage's creations he'd hijacked for his purposes.  But put it in the hands of someone else who might care he was gone.

With his heart at a normal pace again, Nox started his walk.  He waved at the first camera and started walking to the Vega Estate.  There was no reason to hide today, he had every intention of the Atharim finding him.

Malik stalked the quiet fake streets. The normal lights of the park were off. No ferris wheel spun with piping music, no screams of entertained and terrified children. The cold breeze blew against his ears despite the black hoodie.

His prey was there among the jumbled shadows of building, stands, and rides now deathly quiet. A slow smile formed on his lips, white teeth seeming fangs glistening. Out there, hiding, heart beating in fear. He could smell him.

It had been so long. So very long. The one he sought there, somewhere. Finally.

As if on cue, lights came on, rides came to life, ghostly patrons mingled and ran and laughed. The chaos of music and life, squeals and screams. He was here...somewhere.

The colors alternated, bright and vibrant, sounds loud and clear; light dark and shifting, sound warped and shifting in tempo. Demonic. His hands opened and he felt power at his finger tips. Gore would drip from the heavens when he was done, his prey exposed and eviscerated.

His nostrils flared and eyes flashed red.

Darth Malik had come....

The first thing he noticed was a pounding in his head. It throbbed like the blood was bursting from within, the worst headache of his life. When he tried to move, it was to roll over and choke on the ash washing the air black.
“Elise?” he called out, but no answer was returned. He tried again. “Johan? Karl?” The crackling pops of tinder was the only answer as he crawled from the building.

+++

Squat in a puddle of snowmelt, he stared blankly ahead. Blue and red lights flickered his brow with sickening flashes. The banshee-wail of sirens still hung on the air. He was wrapped in a fire blanket thrust upon him by first responders but was otherwise unhurt. The lodge that he and his friends shared was rendered a charred skeleton by now. The stream of water used to douse the flames made a river pouring down the street. Only the mountain remained untouched.

“I don’t know how it started,” he told the investigator interviewing him. “One moment I was in the kitchen with Elise and Karl. There was a noise. I think one of the appliances? The next thing I knew I woke up in smoke. I looked for them but couldn’t find anyone.” He wasn’t lying, not exactly, but he was self-preserving enough to avoid speaking to unfounded suspicions.

+++

More investigators came the following days. Apparently, the spark of the fire did not align with the story relayed by the sole survivor. Six new graves were dug in his homeland of former Sweden, far from the site of the alpine tragedy that ruined a ski town’s reputation. He attended each and every celebration of life, shared hugs and grieved with fresh tears for each. These were his friends that were buried, and if his suspicions were correct, he was to blame for the accident.  At the conclusion of Johan’s life celebration, he encountered yet another fire investigator of the CCD. Now that the formalities of respecting life were behind him, the heat was intensified. He did not enjoy the interrogations, but he honored the process. Government and families deserved answers, and it panged him to not be able to soothe those gaping holes with rational explanation.

Though still dressed from the funeral, his tie was loosened at the neck. It was while speaking with the investigator in the precinct station when he first felt unwell.
“I think I need some water,” he said at first. They supplied it to him. When the flush took his cheeks, he laid his head on the table. He was sent home to rest, but strongly urged not to leave the city. Some thought his nature to be too delicate to endure so much, but this had nothing to do with an overwrought mind succumbing to shock. He was sick in a way that worried him greatly.

+++

Afterward, his family’s lawyers denied the investigators further access to his person. The truth tempted him to release the guilt that weighed his mind, and it was his mother who finally heard the confession.

“We were laughing, waging bets, and carrying on. They doubted, so, I showed them. I sparked the fire with the snap of my fingers, but without a match and without kindling. It got out of control,” he said. Shame hung his head, but his mother nodded like she understood him better than he did. The next day, the investigations fell dormant. The fire was ruled electrical in nature. Insurance was issued to the families involved. He was absolved of any suspicion. A family friend was introduced a short time later, but one that he had never met before. The gentleman was rather cold in nature, but despite the granite exterior, he issued the kind of teaching that saved lives. It saved his.

The power within was controlled after that. He could summon it at will most of the time and create interesting outcomes, but the experimentation was conducted in safer circumstances. He left Sweden to pursue purpose to this existence under the guise of family interests. They were connected to a tapestry of mysterious figures throughout all of Europe. When one inquired of the right knots within the pattern, more channels opened, but with them poured more questions. He read the runes as they were taught to him, though he did not prefer to call them that. He was no librarian, though sometimes his queries forced him into such fortresses of knowledge. He preferred active investigation and at times, risky experimentation. He never angled to use his worldly status in the CCD to progress in his ambitions, calling instead into the void of that spindly network laced throughout the world. He found he had a way of findings things unseen to the naked eye. After he halted the sale of royal jewels that were supposedly claimed to once belong to the fallen dynasties of eastern Europe, he earned some recognition for himself in the field. He used his powers of course, delving beneath surface grime to delineate the old from new at a spectral level undetected by scans and expert eyes. The network placed him in institutions aligned with acquisition of antiquities, for either the purchase or selling of various heirlooms to identify the forgeries or counterfeit masterpieces. He found the work amusing and did so more for curiosity and connection than payment. He owed a debt to the network that reached out to save him. He gave back without hesitation, and thoroughly enjoyed himself doing so.

By twenty-eight years old, nine-years following the tragedy that sparked this strange life, he found himself called to a new sort of endeavor. This institution was different from the others. Paragon was steeped in the modern cut of a foreboding future, but he was cautiously optimistic. It was his first time in Moscow, although he’d frequented the great cities of many regions these past few years. Rumor said that many interesting persons possessing a great number of unusual artifacts infiltrated the populace. He would fit in well.

He approached a desk where a young lady looked up with a glint in her eye upon seeing him. She studied the fine suit he wore, the shine of his tie, an expensive timepiece on his wrist, and the family ring on his hand.
“Yes, sir?”
“I have an appointment with Mister Ephriam Haart,” he said, hands clasped patiently before him.
The young woman nodded, checking her systems. “And your name?”

“Seven,” he said.

She looked up, puzzled, but Seven was patient. “Like the number?” she asked.

He nodded. “That’s right. Like the number,” he said with a reassuring smile.

The Holy See issued a generic announcement after the press noticed the departure of the Papal transports. The Pope was to visit some churches in eastern Europe, nestled deep into the heart of the Custody darkness. Standing in the fuselage, he paused several steps from the plane exit. A cool air stretched into the cabin, carrying winds of freshness absent from Roman humidity. Before emerging, he lowered a veil to cover his face, and made quick passage from the stairs to a vehicle. A handful of delegates stood in attention for his arrival, but he didn’t bother skimming their faces. If anyone was important, they would surely find their way to an audience eventually. The windows were blacked out, so he was able to shove aside the veil while in private. As he glanced at his present company, a bishop, a Vatican staff member, and the driver, he casually studied the countryside as they passed into town.

The apartments of a priest were either within the grounds of the church or buried deep in the building itself. They were abdicated in favor of the Holy Father, who did not declare the duration of his visit to the otherwise sleepy town. The hills rolled with sylvan undulations. It was nothing like the fantastical landscape of prophetic dream, but he had to ponder at the scope of creation. Did such a place exist in the waking world? Was it hidden in these very woods? 

Upon arrival in town, the car toured him through notable places of significance to the townspeople. He listened vaguely, but primarily communed with his god rather than listen to the story of a union depot rebuilt after the second world war. The old town center was fixated on university grounds, a site of quite some prestige apparently. They rounded an ornate fountain and headed toward the church, but he noticed one odd statue placed new and shining among the old and historic. It was a monument to Nikolai Brandon. Waving on the air above fluttered a CCD flag of the district. Patricus’ study was wan derision. It was a good reminder of his current whereabouts.

Staff and clergy lined themselves upon the steps to the church. When Patricus emerged, it was without the veil. He cut a resplendent figure as a scarlet cape edged with fine gold filigree stitching along the hem. A time-honored Capello hat kept the sun from his eyes but was made of the same scarlet sheen as the cape. The white attire beneath was his casual day dress, but the sun reflected pink hues as he ascended the steps. He offered his hand, gloved in white and adorned by the ring of the fisherman, for an elderly priest that approached to kiss it reverently. The aged, stooped fellow he assumed to be Revane Ando, the priest in residence for some sixty-five years in Tartu. He seemed ready to meet his maker. Patricus assumed it was stubborn will that defied the tempting call homeward. If only all priests were so stubborn at the end.

There would be a time to inquire after the girl, but before he delved into gothic depths, he turned to scan the street behind. Several were watching the entourage. Many were on tip-toes, stretching themselves to catch a glimpse of the Holy Father’s passage. His jaw tensed as the scan passed. He did not recognize the girl he took to be Nimeda, but she would come. Without a doubt. She would come.

The holo in front of him was filled with pages and pages of thumbnails, all dutifully organized into categories. Alone in his office he smiled at the display, filled with happiness at what he saw. The machine learning AI was quick and had been able to organize the data rapidly despite the complexity of the submissions.

Row upon row of weaves sat before him, small descriptions underneath to indicate either what it did or what it was intended to do. Successes and promising lines of development; abandoned or failed experiments. Other users, those who were not admin level, saw only a subset of this. Open Source had revolutionized software development. Wikis had changed the way content was generated, harmonized and maintained. It was a relatively simple decision to combine the two for this.

When looked at longitudinally, it was a simple fact of history. Knowledge and technology exploded when collaboration was possible. Whether it was the universal common language of the ancient world, koine Greek and Roman roads or Father Marin Mersenne, "the post-box of Europe" of the 1600's who had connected scores of renaissance men and polymaths, sharing their research, collaboration led to rapid developments in science and technology. It was a wave that built up very quickly, as anyone could see when comparing life in the 1850s to life just a 100 years later. And that didn't begin to touch on the next 100 years, where computers and the internet led to advances not even dreamed of.

Just as neurons- single cells with no intent, carrying out basic functions based on its chemistry further based on the mathematical laws of physics- together became a consciousness of far more complexity, so too individuals working together constituted, in many ways, a super being of emergent intelligence. This was true for corporations or nations, as well as religions and communities.

So why not a channeler community? All of them sharing and researching and experimenting. Collaborating, modifying and experimenting. Some of the Rods of Dominion used his app. Sanjay had been happy to share. Others couldn't help but show off and the number of users had grown dramatically.

It surprised him at the types of weaves people were drawn to. Simple things, for many. Fire. Air. Combinations of earth. But then there those like Ilesha Fisher who were trying to use the power to work with metals, studying their effect as well as application in machinery. She was at the forefront, but her work was being looked at by other power users who also worked in metallurgy. Despite the difference in power, male and female, they could talk shop and brain storm.

Some of the Rods were using weaves developed in their military training. It was a useful tool for newer recruits, to demonstrate, so they could practice their formation. What was interesting was how surgical some of the weaves became. Some of that was his app, combining like Tau algebra terms in the same manner as Karnaugh Maps in digital logic. But some were...stylistic, was the best term he could come up with. There was an art to this. It was an interesting discovery and one he needed to think on. It was something he noticed in chip design as well. The laws were immutable. But there was still room for personality. He wondered if that could affect efficiency.

Those weaves were not available to the general users, though. Even the Rods or other users who developed weaves that were intricate, dangerous- and most of all, potentially useful to him- were segregated into small groups, though they didn't know this. While collaboration was fine and good, ultimately this had a purpose. All of it was to funnel through him. All of it was for him. His.

He felt an itch. Some of these he had played with. Only in a limited way, of course. He had not been hunting in a long time. Strangely, Malik seemed somewhat satiated at the moment. The intrigue, perhaps, of his position. The game. But the hunger was still there.

A hunt could be good. He'd have to use the disguising weave he'd learned from Oakland. His face, while not very well known, was still identifiable, both to those who might happen to recognize him, and- more importantly- facial recognition software.

Malik seemed to stir at the consideration, a coiled snake lifting its head lazily, a dragon, one eye opening in interest.

The weaves before him beckoned, asking to be played with.

... there is hope for treasure.

((Continued from Machiavellanism.))


They landed in Belfast, Ireland. Aiden would be right at home. At least it wasn’t Dublin. Jaxen had enough of that city, and it was fucking hard to order a drink there. Apparently accents didn’t translate well from Russian to Irish.

The trip was quick and comfortable enough given Aiden’s modern jet. Along the way, he regaled them the story of being captured by devils.  He elaborated in visceral detail the part where the other girl – Earless – got her name, but the main point of the story was the elaborate escape. His prowess and parkour, nay, his godlike strength helped him slither to his freedom. He fought his way out and then killed the bitches just for good measure. He conveniently left out the part where an Atharim gang played a role. They were minor roles, anyway. Jaxen was the star. Why else would cannibals want to devour his gloriously delicious flesh?

After Belfast, they all cleaned up, ate, and did a little scouting of the plans. Their first destination was to the Giants Causeway.  The site was supposedly the location of a great battle between the Tuatha de’Danaan and the giants of Scotland across the narrow sea. As they disembarked upon their destination, Jaxen was trying to look serious, but even so, he was smiling at the corners of his mouth. It was not a reassuring smile.

Story from a couple days ago on Screenrant. I just find it cool that WoT is getting publicity on a mainstream site like SR.

https://screenrant.com/wheel-time-show-a...es-reason/

For now he left Nina to dig for information on Morven. Days had passed without communication, and he did not make any effort to seek her out. Silence was as good as failure, and in the meanwhile circumstance conspired to force his hand. One of Nimeda’s wardings had failed; worse, he had discovered the blame etched into her own palm when he discovered her in the dream. She was too frivolous a creature to expect loyalty, but the theft stung, stoking the ashes of a temper he did not often suffer the heat of. Thalia Milton had never seen his face, though he had supported her career for years now. He knew what she was.

And he would retrieve what she had stolen.

But he couldn’t leave Moscow, not while the headaches descended on swift and unpredictable wings, crippling him at inopportune moments. His legs dangled off the edge of the consultation bed, fingers curled over the edge. Ephraim had offered use of his doctors numerous times since the fundraiser, but though Paragon had planted the tech, he considered it a last resort. Morven would have been preferable, if the damn woman had not seen fit to disappear.

“Mr. Hart, sir?”

Sören’s gaze rose as the attendant spoke, then narrowed on the open door and unexpected arrival of Ephraim himself. The man’s smile was all sharp amusement barely concealed. He tugged at the sleeves of his jacket.

“I didn’t believe it was really you,” he said lightly. Sören only offered a grunt of dismissal. Ephraim chuckled and with the instruction of a gesture the attendant frowned, placed down his datapad, and left. “Still troubling you then?”

“Obviously.”

The man wanted something, that was clear. Sören’s mild-eyed stare could be enduring as a mountain, though. Life conspired, and there were fires within, frustrated and angry at the impotence, but he sensed Ephraim was needling him with intent. He wouldn’t bite.

“Run the numbers again. This time I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“The numbers?”

“The error code, Sören. Run it again.” He came closer. His hands were pushed casually in his pockets, but there was a light in his eyes Sören recognised. He’d seen it as recently as at the fundraiser, when the man had pushed through the crowds to witness the girl’s possession; that hunger, a little feverish. It’s twin had been glimpsed in his own mirror enough times, one of the reasons he had counted Ephraim as an ally to court when he’d become aware of him through the Network. But though such passion could be conducive, it could burn too. One of the reasons they had never fully trusted each other either.

Sören straightened, hands resting on his knees. The granite of his expression had not changed, but his insides flooded cold. His eyes narrowed. He’d barely used the eye since it had begun malfunctioning in earnest, which appeared to alleviate the symptom if not the source. Ephraim offered answers, but at the cost of admitting ignorance. He did not like the loss of control, but as the moment stretched on in stony silence he was forced to concede.

He felt the tech activate like a hum inside his head, widening his vision; acutely aware, now, of Ephraim watching him. Red text scrawled. The numbers he had seen while Nina had continued to bother him, and had written hastily on his arm amidst her distraction.

The 7 began to flicker and pulse, until it formed the letter P.

His stomach tightened. Ephraim smiled.

U followed. N. I. S. H.

“What did you do?” He snarled; slipped down from the table, towering over the smaller man, temper scalding. His fist clenched and the runes danced into a frenzy, spiking his vision dangerously.

Ephraim took half a step back, a little pale.

And then the only spike was the one driven hard into Sören's skull, buckling the back of his knees with the sudden and excruciating force of it. An arm whipped out to soften his fall against the table, but he still fell, driving his fingers into his face and roaring. The runes scattered like chaff to the wind.

When he could see again, blurred and painful, what he saw was the edge of Ephraim’s shoe. Hunched, breathing hard, Sören growled. Words passed overhead. He grasped for the power but it howled away, a storm too insubstantial to tame.

“--too much, maybe? Shit, man, you aren’t supposed to kill him.” 

“Sir, perhaps you ought to--”

Ephraim crouched in front of him. He was vaguely aware of distant beeping. “Hey,” the man was saying. A finger snapped in front of his face, and had the runes deigned to respond, those fingers might have snapped clean off. “Hey, are you still with us? A little too much bite for a first try, but you rather looked like you might try to kill me.”

“I. Still. Might.”

“You won’t.” Ephraim smiled. He leaned in, and the slim silver necklace he wore was visible through the slit of his shirt collar. The hourglass. “We’re friends, Sören. I gave you your sight back, and a lot more besides, and in return I get data. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find viable specimens? It’s a commendable service to the cause.”

“I’ll gouge it out.”

“Wouldn’t make a difference. To me, I mean. Not so pleasant for you, I’d wager. Look, just think of it as an insurance policy. The world changes, and men like me, we need to change with it.” His wrist flashed as he checked a vintage timepiece, and then he stood and rose dizzyingly from view. The pain faded, but Sören could barely focus. His fingers clenched against the tiles on the floor. “Move him to recovery, would you. He should be fine. Couple hours maybe. Better make it the luxury suite, eh? And keep me posted.”

Nox woke in pain.  But Dorian's people had been in and left instructions - a lot of them.  But most importantly they'd left drugs.  Nox looked at the bottle and frowned at it before setting it back on the table still closed.  Maybe later.  

Nox knew he could find Raffe for help.  He knew he could ask and the other man would ask, but Nox didn't like asking.  He knew if Raffe helped him they wouldn't be getting done anytime soon.  Sharing a bed had been platonic, but it had only been exhaustion keeping Nox from more.  He was afraid of the things he might have implied in their conversation as he set the lotus plant in the window so it could get the light.  It looked better than it hand.  Nox smiled happily at it.  It was permancney.  He was home.  It wasn't a mansion, and it wasn't even a house, but this room was his - and Raffe was here.  That meant home more than anything else.  

He sighed as he used the power to help himself get dressed. Alone in his room it seemed stupid that he hadn't thought of it earlier.  The power was his other hand now.  The pain and the darkness drifted on the edge of the power.  It was empty once he had reached past the sludge.  Nothing affected him.  But this was no way to live.  Aria had lived like this - in the void of nothingness and she had gone crazy.

Nox dropped the power and the pain and hunger flooded his system.  It was good Raffe was not there as Nox left.  But he did take the time to drawl out a simple note to Raffe and leave it tented on his bed.

Quote:I'm off to meet with the Ascendancy's people. Then to the Vega estate to visit Christian and Ana then to the park via all the public paths and maybe I'll get to see the hunter who tried to kill us.  I have a card he won't be expecting.  I hope to be home before you start working maybe with a bite to eat.   Nox